For the latter half of that decade, The Doors were in the vanguard of rock. Morrison, along with keyboardist Ray Manzarek, guitarist Robby Krieger, and drummer John Densmore broadened the boundaries of popular music, scoring Top 40 hits like "Light My Fire," "People Are Strange," and "Hello I Love You" that broke on through to the other side both in terms of sound and subject matter (Ray's organ work and Jim's cathartic howl would go on to inspire hundreds of imitators).

Bright Midnight Records, a collaborative endeavor of The Doors and Rhino Handmade, offers fans a chance to hear previously unavailable interviews and performances from Morrison and the band. Several releases were recorded at The Aquarius Theatre on Sunset Blvd in Hollywood, CA where the group performed for two nights (and conducted a private rehearsal) in July of 1969. The Soft Parade would soon be racing up the charts, and that album's hit "Touch Me" is heard to fine effect in these shows, along with such other Doors originals as "The Crystal Ship" and such favored covers as "Gloria" and "Who Do You Love."

As the 1960s drew to a close, The Doors became a focal point for controversy due largely to Morrison's substance-fueled antics. The world of literature was very different from that of popular music, and its appeal for Jim began to extend far beyond penning song lyrics. Long a student of verse, Morrison published a book of poems in 1970, The Lords And The New Creatures, and recorded the spoken word performances that would later be heard on An American Prayer. Jim soon moved to Paris to pursue the literary muse, and it was there that he died.

Morrison's death (found unconscious in a bath tub, it was officially ruled a heart attack) has attracted an aura of mystery as well as a steady stream of fans to Pere Lachaise Cemetery where he was buried in the Poet's Corner along with Balzac, Moliere, and Oscar Wilde. Longtime Doors confidante (and author of the Morrison biography No One Here Gets Out Alive) recalls the time:

"I heard the news July 6th, when the rest of the world heard it. B. Mitchell Reed, a well-known radio personality for KMET (the definitive album-oriented rock station in L.A. at the time), broke the news: 'In case you haven't heard, Jim Morrison died in Paris three days ago. Bill Siddons, The Doors' manager...' I heard that and bolted to The Doors office where I was working as an assistant and in charge of the fan mail.

"In retrospect, Jim burnt himself out on whatever was available. You can look at photos of him at 22 when the band started and 27 when he died and he looked 56. What drug killed him? Determining what drug under what circumstances is simply trying to determine what caliber gun he held to his own head. He was playing Russian roulette with his life for five years, pushing the envelope ever forward. And on July 3rd, he pushed it too far.

"I consider Jim Morrison to be the equal to Rimbaud or Van Gogh: the tortured genius too sensitive and too smart to exist without some sort of distraction, usually chemical and destructive. I think Jim regarded himself in this lineage/tradition although he never said so. He saw himself more as a shaman with the psychedelics and rhythm and the whole Sixties tribal feeling. The beautiful thing about The Doors is the music and lyrics are timeless. This was conscious on their part when they wrote the songs, to strive to write about universal elements -- the sun, the moon, earth, fire, water, sex, death. They succeeded. Jim's myth gets the band attention, but it's the music and lyrics that keeps the band as relevant as ever."