The Brian Jones Experience
Ode To Brian


Places to Go, People to See


Poetry and writings about Brian


By Jim Morrison

I'm a resident of a city.
They've just picked me to play
the Prince of Denmark

Poor Ophelia

All those ghosts he never saw
Floating to doom
On an iron candle

Come back, brave warrior
Do the dive
On another channel

Hot buttered pool
Where's Marrakesh
Under the falls
the wild storm
where savages fell out
in late afternoon
monsters of rhythm

You've left your
to compete w/

I hope you went out
Like a child
Into the cool remnant
of a dream

The angel man
w/Serpents competing
for his palms
& fingers
Finally claimed
This benevolent


Leaves, sodden
in silk

mad stifled

The diving board, the plunge
The pool

You were a fighter
a damask musky muse

You were the bleached
for TV afternoon

maverick of a yellow spot

Look now to where it's got

in meat heaven
w/the cannibals
& jews

The gardener
The body, rampant, Floating
Lucky Stiff

What is this green pale stuff
You're made of

Poke holes in the goddess

Will he Stink
Carried heavenward
Thru the halls
of music

No chance.

Requiem for a heavy
That smile
That porky satyr's
has leaped upward

into the loam

A friend of mine
By Pete Townshend
Brian Jones was a friend of mine in the early Who years. We first met the Stones when we were still called The Detours, before Keith Moon joined the band. I spoke about Mick Jagger's effect on me in a VH1 plug-clip recently; he was quite beautiful and erotic, even to men I think.
Brian by contrast looked like a pretty sheepdog. His stage movements were confined to an urgent head-thrust like a strutting cockerel. But the Mod girls in the audience (pretending to like short-haired Mod style, but really wanting teady-bears in bed) screamed more at him than Mick.
He played very well I thought, and played harmonica, too, in a slightly more country style than Mick. On The Last Time it was his guitar that repeated the intoxicating riff-catch. He was musical, almost musicologist
in nature and loved to talk about music.
We hung out a lot from about 1964 to 1966. Part of the time he was seeing Anita Pallenburg. She was a stunning creature. I mean literally stunning. It was quite hard to maintain one's gaze. One time in Paris
I remember thay took some drug and were so sexually stimulated they could hardly wait for me to leave the room before starting to shag.
I felt Brian was living on a higher planet of decadence than anyone
I would ever meet.
Brian and I used too go to a club called Scotch Of St. James.
Everyone hung out there. We were together when we first heard I Got
You Babe.Brian was really excited and enthused by it. He loved pop music as well as R&B; that appealed to me. I hated snobbery, even though I'm sad to say I later became rather snobbish about pop versus rock.
Alongside the gems there was so much utter shit in the charts at the time, I wanted to make a distinction. We sat together there to watch Stevie Wonder's first UK show. Stevie was so excited he fell off the stage. Brian never offered me drugs. I didn't use them and he didn't press me. I was not seeing my girlfriend much at the time. Had I been, he may have hit on her and I would hate him, but in fact he was always very kind to me. Very encouraging of my writing. He loved my first Who song, Can't Explain.
When we palyed The Rolling Stones' Rock And Roll Circus I was very upset about Brian's condition. I was upset about Keith Richards' green complexion, too, but he seemed in good spirits. Brian was defeated. I took Mick and Keith aside and they were quite frank about it all, they said Brian had ceased to function, they were afraid he would slip away. They certainly were not hard-nosed about him. But they were determined not to let him drag them down, that was clear. Brian certainly sliped away that evening. He died soon after.
I was melodramatically upset when he died. He was the first friend of mine that had ever died. He was the first person I knew well in my business that died. It seemed to me to be a portent and thus it proved to be. I wrote a really crap song for him, Normal Day for Brian. He deserved better and one day he will get it.
I've become angry about a business in which people (especially the press) sneer is someone tries to save their skin by going into rehab after raising hell. This week my friend Oliver Reed died of raising hell.
We applaud, we wait, then we nod sagly when they burn out.
t's despicable. Oliver Reed should have been sacked every time he drank on the film set. Brian should have been sectioned into a mental hospital like a street drunk, not allowed to flounder about in a heated swiming pool taking fucking downers. If I'm honest, I suppose I was one of the friends who should have called the ambulance.
Keith Moon? Well I tried. I thought it would be best to get him back to London after his two-year binge in California and rented for him the London apartment in which he almost immediately died.
I had introduced him to Meg Patterson who later helped me.
I had found a friend of my father's from AA who watched Keith for a week and pronounced it was me who had the problem! So I know it isn't always possible to save the skin of someone whose number is up.
But let no one pretend it's part of the pop myth. I told Jim Morrison he was turning into a fat drunk in 1971. I could tell from his stunned expression that until then no-one had indicated they might even care.
A little while before he died Jimi Hendrix told me he owed me a lot. (He meant with respect to the guidence I gave him on what amplifiers to use when he first came to London, but perhaps too for my unadulterated support.)
These people were my friends. Brian was a pleasant and quite well-educated fellow. Really.
Copyright: Eel Pie Publishing