I am a Doors fan. Not a "steal a car and drive it to the desert" Doors fan, but as a musical being, the Doors have always been a soul burning out there in the darkness, filling me with a sense of familial belonging even generations removed.

I am kind of particular as a Doors fan, in that I love their late music more than their original ethereal incarnation. I can still listen to the first albums without skipping a track, and just lie on my back knowing that worthiness has traversed this plane. But nothing approaches the affecting exhaustion of their last album, the weathered result of years of tumultuous fame. The thin, wizardy voice that Jim Morrison started with had broadened into a bristling moan.

"L.A. Woman," off that last album (L.A. Woman) lets that mature voice moan, scream, bellow, buffoon. The instruments eventually slow to a crawl, enabling the guttural chant of the most definitive repeated phrase in rock, "Mr. Mojo Risin," which is an anagram for "Jim Morrison." It's inspired moments like this that addict people to music.

On the whole, I love the airy blues style, the vamping quality promising such fun to see Morrison and the rest expanding the song to its full theatrical potential live. The verse and chorus vocals are at once based in blues roots and accomplished pop melodies, singable all day and long into the night.

No songs these days would feature a tempo change as drastic as the one in "L.A. Woman" because it would mean the musicians would have to disengage their click tracks and actually perform off each other in the studio.

Our devices have isolated us.