There is nothing more relaxing than the open pages of a good book accompanied by the slow and steady drizzle of a warm summer rain. Especially when the sound and smell of the rain reaches in through the dripping screens of an open window and envelops you where you sit with your book. I love that combination because there’s nothing you can do but accept the imposition of the weather outside and surrender yourself to the story in your hands as the rain gurgles down the throat of the gutters, plinks off cars in the driveway, and steams off the hot sidewalks and streets as the low rumble of thunder punctuates the performance. It is the perfect confluence of weather, words and sounds.
Summer rain evokes another moment in time for me: June 1971...
Summer rain evokes another moment in time for me: June 1971...
I spent seven summers from ’67-’73 at Gilmour Day Camp; a warm-up, of sorts, for four years of high school on the same campus from ’74 to ’78. The architectural highlight of Gilmour Academy’s campus at the time, was a grand, Tudor-styled house with an ornate sunken garden where I would eventually receive my high school diploma. Tudor House was also home to some of the Holy Cross Brothers who taught at the school or got roped into staffing the summer camp as counselors (Brother Leonardo), archery instructors (Brother Thaddeus), or bus drivers (Brother Casper). Perhaps because of Tudor House, the school's mascot—a knight on horseback holding a spear—also adorned the required t-shirts, and the camp itself was loosely organized around a quasi-mediaeval theme that grouped me with other boys in squads that ascended by age alphabetically from Archers to Monarchs. In between I was also a Cavalier, Earl, Fowler, Herald, and Knight — but never a Bowman, Dragoon, Guard, Imperial, Jester or Lancer (thanks for the memory check, Chip!).
There was even a weekly newsletter called the Inklings, but that’s where the knights-in-shining-armor associations ended. Sure, there was archery (I was even awarded a bow one year for my marksmanship), but things like nature studies and horseback riding were long gone by the time I was a Cavalier, and for the next five summers Gilmour was essentially a sports camp that offered intra and inter squad competition in soccer, baseball, tennis, track, basketball and floor hockey. Multiple fields, courts, diamonds and ranges without a single sliver of shade hosted the outdoor activities, and a musty high school gymnasium housed the indoor sports. There was an Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool for Red Cross certified lessons, and an all-too short unstructured “free swim” that quickly came to an end at the first sign of any horseplay. And there was always horseplay — especially on days when it rained and all the squads were subjected to a “double period” of swimming.
When the weather disrupted our outdoor schedule, the pool struggled to contain the chaos of twice the normal number of campers. The cacophony of canon balls and “Marco Polo” calls was deafening as the water roiled like chow-time on Amity Island beach. Brother Richard managed the pool with a patient and pleasant disposition. But I doubt even St. Adjutor (the patron saint of swimmers, boaters and drowning victims) could have kept his cool in the face of rain day double-swim. With the aquatic hi-jinx at a fever pitch, Brother Richard would inch his way out onto the diving board and there, with hobbit-like toes gripping the edge of the gently bobbing board, blow his whistle with such force the entire natatorium would instantly fall silent before the shrill sound finished echoing round the dripping rafters. “Everybody Out of the Poooooool,” Brother Richard would bellow his signature command as the board dipped precariously toward the water and looked like it might snap in half. Within seconds we'd evacuate the pool and scramble into the stands where we'd sit shivering in damp towels. Depending on the severity of the infractions or amount of blood clouding the pool water, time-out could last five minutes or it could last the rest of the double period.
Gilmour’s campus in the 70s consisted of an odd warren of buildings unsure of what they were becoming and what they had been. There were older structures like the “upper gym” that functioned as the cafeteria, but doubled as a sweat lodge where ice cream sandwiches and popsicles didn’t stand a dessert’s chance in hell after lunch. There were also cleverly repurposed buildings like the “Art Barn” that once housed the horses I rode as an Archer, but had long since replaced hay bales with paint easels. The Art Barn offered a tranquil, air-conditioned respite and athletic-free oasis staffed by cute high school girls who clearly enjoyed their unique status presiding over a horde of macho knuckleheads who were as inept with their attempts to charm members of the opposite sex as they were with a potter’s wheel or a kiln.
Next to the Art Barn was another structure of dubious design. I think it was called “The Pavilion,” and it was often used to handle overflow activities from the gym like a brutal variation of dodgeball the campers had appropriately renamed “Battleball.” Of course concussions didn’t exist in 1971, but if they had, Larry Ceizlak—a lanky, athletic camper who could throw a ball with lethal velocity—would have been responsible for administering them to half the camp. Battleball was dangerous enough in a full-sized gym. In the smaller confines of the cinder block Pavillion, it could be life-threatening. Starting from his back wall, Larry would lope toward the court’s center line, and with a windmill-like action resembling a cricket bowler, hurl the ball at his opponents who would scatter like bowling pins. This continued until one side of the Pavilion was empty…or Larry’s arm got tired.
When the day finally came to an end, we all lined up in Jonestown-like formation for our daily dose of “bug juice” — a lukewarm, Kool-Aid-like concoction ladled into soggy Dixie cups for us to grab as we boarded the bus for home. It created the perfect storm of sugar and acid; sloshing around inside the bouncing bellies of bellicose bus riders on the long, hot, noisy ride.
And that ride! Imagine a steamy greenhouse on wheels filled with an overpowering stench of adolescent B.O., chlorine, and a hint of vomit from some past catastrophe that never got completely cleaned up. To make matters worse, I was always the first camper picked up in the morning, and the last one dropped off in the afternoon; making me the lone rider for fifteen minutes at both ends of the route. I didn’t mind too much though because Brother Casper had a quirky habit I learned to appreciate. Every time someone stepped off the bus, he would increase the volume of the radio slightly. By the time I was the only one left on the bus, WIXY-1260 or CKLW were blasting full volume and all felt right with the world.
On one particular afternoon in June 1971, I wasn’t sure if the sounds I heard was the weather outside the bus or music coming from the radio inside the bus. I moved to the front row to get closer to the speakers. That’s when I heard what rain sounds like when it’s being played on a Fender Rhodes Mark I electric piano. The song had a jazzy, atmospheric quality unlike anything I had ever heard on AM pop radio. It also incorporated sound effects of rain and thunder to accentuate the eerie mood of the music. I leaned my head against the cool window and watched the racing water droplets zig-zag down the glass; distorting the world beyond them in a watery blur as Jim Morrison began to sing “Riders on the storm, Riders on the storm…”
“Riders on the Storm” followed “Lover Her Madly” into the Billboard Top Twenty as the second single from L.A.Woman; the Doors sixth, and final album with Morrison. It was, in fact, the last song recorded by all four members of the band as well as the last recorded song released in Morrison’s lifetime. The song’s haunting sound is created from a perfect mix of Ray Manzarek’s intricate keyboard playing, Robby Krieger’s fluid guitar work and a sinister underlying bass riff that reminds me of painted traffic lines rolling by on some David Lynch highway to hell. The song’s cinematic narrative is based on a screenplay Morrison wrote and hoped to film some day. It conjures up a tempest of emotions with lyrics that are creepy and poetic, but end with a strangely romantic and life-affirming plea for love—most likely to his girlfriend, Pam Courson. If you listen closely you can hear Morrison whispering a layer of lyrics over his vocal track to heighten the unsettling tone of the song even more.
The bus lurched to a stop in front of my house just as the song’s final tremolo-soaked piano notes crossfaded with more rain and thunder sound effects. Brother Casper’s hand rested on the lever that manually opened the bus doors. He seemed mesmerized by the music we had just heard. I stood at the top of the steps and waited for him to open the doors. He seemed to be thinking about how to acknowledge the shared experience—maybe provide some adult insight into the song. Then suddenly his arm jerked forward, the doors flapped open and he simply dispatched me from the bus with his usual “good evening camper! See you in the morning.”
I hopped off the bus. The warm summer rain had turned to a drizzle. The camp bus pulled away. I stood in our driveway with my bathing suit and towel in a tight roll tucked under my arm, and an unforgettable new song lodged in my head. It would still be years before I added all of the Doors albums to my record collection. My final purchase was indeed the original version of L.A. Woman that features an album cover with rounded corners, embossed text, and a cut-out window with clear acetate, on which the band’s photo is printed in black half-tone. The record sleeve provides the half-tone image with a yellow background when inserted. Later covers and CD’s merely emulate this design, with no die-cuts or rounded corners.
Some critics have said “Riders on the Storm” sounds like “pretentious cocktail music.” I disagree, and I will never forget the first time I heard it—which is why its the Happy Medium Song of the Day.
(Please use the comments box below to share your thoughts.)
(Please use the comments box below to share your thoughts.)