The Doors
– Waiting for the Sun
The Doors were slipping into something more frayed, more fractured, and a little more sunstroked. Waiting for the Sun isn’t the jolt of the debut or the dark ritual of Strange Days—it’s a band sounding out the edges of its own myth. Jim Morrison, by this point, was either teetering on the edge of poetic revelation or just plain teetering. Either way, the album captures that wobble: lush one minute, listless the next, like a hallucination that won’t commit.
Best of…
What makes this album stick isn’t cohesion—it’s tension. The Doors are half in the studio, half in some smog-choked L.A. dreamscape, grasping at revolution, lust, and burnout in equal measure. Ray Manzarek’s keys swirl and shimmer, Robby Krieger’s guitar slithers with more subtlety than bite, and John Densmore keeps things surprisingly grounded. Morrison? He’s part crooner, part chaos prophet, purring on one track, howling on the next, and always threatening to combust.
Waiting for the Sun may lack the grand narrative of its predecessors, but it has its moments—some strange, some sublime. It’s a document of a band in flux, trying on new skins, ditching old tricks, and still managing to find moments of odd beauty in the shuffle. It isn’t their most iconic, but it’s their most human—equal parts swagger and stumbles.
Choice Tracks
Hello, I Love You
A pop song wrapped in garage sleaze. It’s bubblegum if the gum was laced with something hallucinogenic. Morrison half-plays the lovestruck narrator, half-mocks him. It’s catchy, creepy, and knowingly hollow.
Not to Touch the Earth
This is the orphaned shard of Morrison’s abandoned epic Celebration of the Lizard, and it sounds like it. Paranoid, theatrical, and full of snakes and nightmares. The music churns in tight spirals while Morrison rants like a shaman with a head wound.
Summer’s Almost Gone
Melancholy without melodrama. Morrison’s croon is weary, and the organ lines feel like slow sunset bleed. It’s less psychedelic and more sepia-toned—a love letter to time slipping through your fingers.
The Unknown Soldier
Over-the-top? Absolutely. Effective? Weirdly, yes. The drama is all here—gunshots, military drums, whispered propaganda. It’s The Doors doing protest rock with theatrical flair, and while it borders on absurd, the performance sells it.
Spanish Caravan
Krieger finally lets his flamenco chops show. It’s a slow burn—elegant, eerie, and full of desert mirage vibes. Morrison follows like a troubadour who’s seen too much sun and too few absolutions.
Five to One
Swagger in slow motion. Morrison lays down one of his most infamous vocal performances—snarling, slurring, all attitude. The band backs him with a molasses-thick groove that feels like a drunken march. It’s the sound of decay dressed as defiance.