Before the Doors set began, Jim Morrison wandered backstage and stumbled toward the light board I’d been operating. He sat beside me on the bench, awkwardly leaned on the keys, and jerked in surprise at the explosion of lights, staring in stoned wonderment at the swirling designs changing around him. He rose and stumbled into the light-show paraphernalia as he headed to the stage.

I turned the light master-board over to Billy so I could go down front to shoot.

Morrison, looking like a wasted angel with his shoulder-length dark curls and half-closed eyes, hung on the microphone stand as if it were the only thing keeping him vertical. Several times he nearly collapsed into the audience. A small group behind me took bets on whether this was the night Morrison would keel over and die. At the end of the set, his band-mates led him off stage.