To those who might be wondering why Ian Astbury leaned into his mike and inexplicably said the words "fat and wet" about a third of the way into "Break on Through (To the Other Side)"—he was referring to his dodgy monitor mix, and not how they found Jim Morrison's body. The former Cult singer's first few minutes on-stage last Monday did, nonetheless, resemble Jimbo's French bathtub period more than anything else. While the rest of the band struggled to find its groove, Astbury hid behind an oversize jacket and sunglasses as he rather indifferently shook some maracas, his rigid demeanour suggesting he was just too tired to move.

Things would improve dramatically as the evening wore on, but the start was inauspicious, especially given original Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek's shockingly sloppy intro, or the generally ludicrous nature of this whole enterprise. Manzarek and his old bandmate, guitarist Robby Krieger, are touring with Astbury and a relatively anonymous rhythm section (Ty Dennis on drums, Phil Chen on bass) as Riders on the Storm, having lost their previous name, the Doors of the 21st Century, to a legal paradiddle from original drummer John Densmore. Putting aside all questions of integrity, good taste, and honour, Manzarek and Krieger are savvy enough to milk their history for what it's worth, presenting something better than a tribute band, but probably not quite as good as being 17, listening to Strange Days, and getting wasted on half a can of Black Label.

For their troubles, the two old Doors got a packed Commodore. This was one weird crowd, though, from the generational spread—some audience members walked with canes; others were surely forced to present ID on the way in—to the chilling effect of seeing what the classic-rock-radio mob actually looks like. There was more feathered hair and fanny packs here tonight than at a Vanderhoof high-school reunion. Once Riders on the Storm really started to cook, around the time of "Peace Frog", the entire room was in an uproar of suburban-whitey dance madness. A raucous "Alabama Song" found the band and Astbury finally hitting their stride: he dropped the winter clothes and shades, and threw himself into the role with fresh gusto, graduating from Mr. Mojo Suckin' to a much more acceptable Crawling King Fake.

To Astbury's credit, he handled the audience with grace when they booed him, and it only juiced the rest of his performance. As for the two original Doors, Manzarek is a clown whose questionable handling of the band's legacy is mitigated by his talent. Mercifully, he came off as nothing more harmful than a yogic kook, the kind of levitating Napa Valley relic that used to be lampooned in Paul Mazursky movies. Krieger, on the other hand, casually stole the show with supple leads, unerring rhythm, and immaculate tone. His bent solo in "When the Music's Over" belonged to a better band than this one. After wrapping up "Touch Me", Astbury pointed to the diminutive guitarist and said with visible awe, "That little guy there wrote that fucking song." With that, he helped to redress some of the historical inequities that have consigned Krieger to the shadows of both Manzarek's grandstanding and the legendary antics of a drunk buffoon.

Georgia Straight, December 2005