A Flickering Flame (February 2010)

I woke up in the ambulance. My vision was blurred like I was drunk. There was a throbbing pain in my chest, one I'd never felt before. I thought my heart would burst out into the open air at any moment. At that time, that would probably be the best thing that could happen to me. The previous day, I'd read about the start of "The Troubles" in Northern Ireland. But this heart attack was the culmination of my own troubles, living everyday like it was my last. A part of me wanted to take its last breath, but another part of me wanted to keep fighting. It was a crossroads I had no choice in. Only God could choose if I still had something to offer. It was a sign that something had to change. I had to figure it out.

I was reading the Los Angeles Daily newspaper when I got the call. "Mr Morrison, your son has suffered a heart attack backstage after his concert at the Staples Center. He's in the emergency room at the Memorial Hospital". This was a shock to the system. I knew that John loved living on the edge, but now he was on the verge of falling off that edge. Even though we hadn't spoken in five years, I still loved him. He was my son and nothing can ever break that connection. I grabbed my black leather jacket off the sofa and ran out to the garage. I had just bought a new Ford Mustang. Even in circumstances like these, it was a chance to test it out and, at the same time, see how fast she could get to the hospital.

I had a turbulent childhood. My parents divorced when I was only eight years old. My mom deserted the family and moved in with her aunt in New York. My father was an inspiration growing up. It was he who first noticed my interest in music. He had played with a local band called The Beat. They never really took off and split up after a few years. He bought me my first electric guitar for a modest $200. From the age of twelve onward, I dedicated all my free time to it. He encouraged me to play some local gigs so I got some playing time at bars and cafes. I made a lot of friends along the way and, with a few of the best, applied for some competitions. I got my big break at the age of nineteen in the 1960 Rock Block. I won the competition and earned my first record deal. I knew this was the start of something. I'd just have to go with the flow and see what happened.

My first record was released in July 1962, simply entitled "John Morrison". It was a big commercial success and earned me quite a lot of money. I think the fame and fortune went to my head. I became brash and cocky. I didn't care about anyone but myself. My family tried talking some sense into me but to no avail. My father, who for so long had been my inspiration, turned into a hate figure. We fought constantly and eventually, he forced me to move out. I had lots of money to finding a place to crash was no challenge. I moved into a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. I hired a maid and a chef because I loved myself too much to do work or cooking. I lost all the remaining contact I had with my older sister and brother. It stayed the same for the next seven years.

My second record, called "Rock and Load", was released in March 1964. Unfortunately, it didn't live up to the hype. The critics called it "changing my traditional sound to please record label bosses". By this stage, I was too messed up to even care. My one true love became alcohol, not performing. When I did perform, I was drunk out of my mind. My fans lambasted my performances, saying that I was "out of tune and out of touch". But yet again, I didn't care. I was living the rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Drinking until the early hours of most mornings, living on cocktails of cocaine and heroine, I was a mess. The women flowed like sparkling wine in France. I was a player, taking my pick whenever I felt like it. There were no stable relationships, only casual sex and one-night-stands. It would be this "live life in the fast lane" approach that ultimately caught up with me.

My third record, called "Light My Fire", was released in August 1967. It became my biggest success to date. The critics called it "a return to the glory days". Each song became a huge hit on both sides of the Atlantic. I was unsurprisingly delighted and the alcohol and drugs addiction became even worse. I was losing a lot of weight in a short amount of time. My bosses became worried but I promised them that I was fine. Deep down inside, I knew I wasn't. I embarked on a huge, three-hundred date worldwide tour. This would last two years so I knew I'd be staying in hotels. I put my Hollywood Hills mansion up for rent, knowing that while I was away, I might as well make some extra money. This tour would only make my alcohol and drug habits worse. Yet, it didn't bother me. I felt invincible, like nothing could stop the John Morrison juggernaut. But this time, I was stopped in my tracks, and this was nearly for good.

It was my last date of the world tour. I was playing the Staples Center in Los Angeles. Like every other night of my tour, it was a sellout, and like every other night of my tour, I was performing in a drunk and drugged up state. The band members knew this but we always carried on as normal. We were playing the last song of the night, "Light My Fire". How ironic that, that night, my fire was almost extinguished for good. After the song ended, we lapped up the usual mass applause and took our bows. But when I walked off stage, something didn't feel right. There was a sudden agonizing pain in my chest. I treated it was nothing and carried on walking to the dressing room. But then, the pain was there again, even worse than the initial pain. This time I collapsed to the ground. I fell into deep unconsciousness, my eyes slowly shutting.

When I finally woke up, I was in unfamiliar surroundings. There I was, lying in a hospital bed. My vision was blurry so it was hard to distinguish anything. A doctor saw that I was awake and rushed over. "John, you're lucky to be alive. We carried out a life-saving operation so you should be fine in a couple of weeks". At least I wasn't dead. I couldn't remember anything and, for once in my life, I was sober. They must have pumped all the drink and drugs out of my system. Then, a nurse came over. "John, there's somebody here to see you". It was a sight I could scarcely believe. There was my father, walking towards my bed. "John, I'm sorry for everything that's happened", he said, trying his utmost to fight back the tears. "I'm sorry too Dad, I promise I'll change from now on". I was sincere when I said that. Fame wasn't worth it if there was a risk of death. Later in the night, my brother and sister arrived. It was amazing to finally have the family back together again. Now I knew the true value of family. They were definitely more important than any career. For the first time, I was evaluating my career. I could either clean up my act and my image, or quit the music business altogether. It was a tough decision but ultimately, it would be worth it.

A week after leaving hospital, I felt perfect. There was no alcohol or drugs in my system. I was clean as a whistle, and it felt pretty darn good. The media were dying to know what my next step would be. Rumors of retirement were circling like vultures. I called a press conference for October 4th 1969. At this press conference, I announced the unthinkable. At the age of only twenty-eight, I was to retire from performing. The thought of retirement was unbelievable but was something that I had been considering ever since my near-fatal heart attack. Living life in the fast lane had taken its toll on me. Although I retained my good looks, I was mentally and physically shattered. If I had continued living the way I had been, then I wouldn't have lived for much longer. I sold my mansion in the Hollywood Hills and moved into my old home. To this day, I still live with my elderly father. After retirement, I became a writer for Rolling Stone magazine. I am teetotal ever since the heart attack.
There's a saying which goes like this: "it's better to burn out than fade away". That wasn't the case with me. It was best to quit while I had the chance, while I still had something to give. Thanks to a good decision and even better outcome, life is better than before. The fire of my music career may have been extinguished, but at least I still live on.