Sunset, 1966. The sun beats down on my new jersey dress. My white Pilgrim pumps shafe in the afternoon heat but I wear them anyway, as they make me feel worldly and experienced, like Brigitte Bardot in “Two Weeks in September.” On my lunch break I steal away and walk in the direction of the Whisky, at some pretense to visit a drugstore or run an errand, but I slip into the small darkness of the club instead. The houseband is setting up on stage as I hide away in the shadows, nervously looking at my watch, hoping for a glance from the slinky dark singer at the microphone. In the evening I return as a moon maiden in my sliver boots and neon earrings, worshipping the lizard king on stage who holds the audience in a hypnotic grip of sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. Or that’s what I would’ve done had I been, well, alive. Five short years later Jim Morrison was dead and I was making sand patty cakes on stranger shores. Whilst remastering tracks for the 40th anniversary release of The Doors landmark album L.A.Woman, producer Bruce Botnick stumbled upon a long forgotten bluesy session track, that has now been released as a single. It is raw, the quality rough, but Morrison is as wild as ever. For those of us who wish we had been there, this is as close to a time machine we get.