Love Her Madly

October 1, 2020

Debut author Cosgrave offers a glimpse into a period when his life intersected with that of Doors singer Jim Morrison. In 1963, Cosgrave left Canada at 16 for Florida, where he met Mary Werbelow and her boyfriend, the then unknown Morrison. Later, Cosgrave hooked up with them again, this time in L.A., and when Werbelow and Morrison broke up, Cosgrave and Morrison spent countless hours together, hanging out in Venice Beach and smoking marijuana, with Morrison writing the poetry that two years later would find its way into the Doors' songs. After Cosgrave left L.A., he lost track of Morrison until the two briefly connected again, but two years later, Morrison was dead. And what happened to Werbelow? Fast-forward 43 years, and Cosgrave finally tracked her down and was stunned by what he discovered. Though the author offers a look at 1960s L.A., his story is more about him and his obsession with Werbelow than it is about Morrison. It's a moment in time when a regular guy crossed paths with a soon-to-be famous person, but there isn't enough about Morrison for music fans and Cosgrave's narrative isn't compelling enough for memoir enthusiasts. VERDICT Die-hard Morrison fans might enjoy this, but it's a marginal addition for even the largest music or biography collection.--Rosellen Brewer, Sno-Isle Libs., Marysville, WA

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August 15, 2020
More than 50 years later, Cosgrave re-creates what is was like to know Jim Morrison before rock stardom. Few rock memoirs are based on a more tenuous connection. Now a successful travel entrepreneur, the author was a teenage vagabond from Canada when he went to Florida and connected with Morrison's girlfriend, Mary Warbelow, a "mesmerizing" beauty with a "Bardot pout" and "swanlike neck." She and her boyfriend then moved to Los Angeles, and Cosgrave joined them. The title refers to the Doors' hit song, but it mainly reflects how the bedazzled author felt about Mary. In these pages, he spends more time with Jim, getting stoned and drunk, talking about everything under the sun on Venice Beach. Chronicling an LSD trip with Morrison, Cosgrave writes, "I feel as if I'm chewing the music, feeling so certain that I have the answer. 'Hey, Jim, I've got it.' I'm excited. Earnest. 'It's all about love, man! That's it! It's that simple!' " Though some readers may question the author's ability to recall certain events, especially those cloaked in a haze of marijuana, he builds a convincing case that the Morrison he knew--a shy, bookish film fanatic who wrote in his notebooks obsessively--was a different person than the notorious rock god portrayed in the press. The author left LA before the Doors took off; a few years later, he was stunned to learn of their success. They reconnected, briefly, over the phone, before Morrison's death. Cosgrave was even more surprised at what happened with Mary, with whom he lost touch for 40 years. Her fate provides a certain amount of narrative tension, but the text is packed with filler that has little to do with either Jim or Mary. There is also some sex, more drugs, and very little rock and roll. For die-hard Morrison acolytes only.

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