There have been other pretenders to the throne. The late Michael Hutchence of INXS and Creed's Scott Stapp come to mind.

But only Astbury, who always came across onstage and in interviews as a reincarnated, hard rock version of the Lizard King, could have pulled off Sunday's gig at the Freeman Coliseum fronting the reformed Doors with keyboardist Ray Manzarek and guitarist Robby Krieger.

More than 30 years after Morrison died of a heart attack in Paris, this is as close as anyone will ever get to the mystical rock band that was (long before Aerosmith took the title) the American Rolling Stones.

There is an element of nostalgia that certainly attracted some 1,200 fans here, nothing much different from catching Robert Plant and Jimmy Page or the Rolling Stones or the Who or any other time ravaged legend missing an original member or two.

But equally important — and let's get this cleared up without any revisionism — The Doors: 21st Century absolutely rocked.

Forget the tripe about the Doors penchant for cheap poetry, waltz time lounge music and shaman swagger. The music was principally based on a hypnotic derivative of the electric blues. The other stuff was the icing.

Witness the sheer lascivious power of "Back Door Man," driven by Krieger's nasty guitar slurs, which can still send electrified chills, or the rollicking "L.A. Woman," which incited a joyous, quasi mosh pit of pogo dancers as Krieger and Manzarek exchanged riffs.

The Doors: 21st Century are not quaint.

Admittedly, it's not easy to pinpoint exactly what the fascination is. The audience included a large contingent of young people who couldn't have known the original '60s group.

"I like the sound, the organ and the keys, the way that Manzarek and Krieger play together," said 33-year-old David Sims of Houston.

When pressed for further explanation for coming to such a show, Sims added, "What does a door do? It opens and closes, just like life does."

Didn't see that one coming.

For teenage sisters Jenni and Jessica Covell, with parents sitting in tow, it was simply that the Doors bridge a musical generation gap.

"This is the only music we agree on," said Jenni Covell. "You're never too young to know the Doors." Both girls, fans of electronica, techno and Radiohead, further expressed a love of the Doors mysticism and Morrison's sexiness.

Their father, Patrick Covell, claimed he wasn't there for nostalgia.

"I'm anxious to see them live. It's not exactly everybody, but it's half of them," he said. Actually, Astbury, Manzarek and Krieger were supported by excellent musicians, drummer Ty Dennis and bassist Angelo Barbera, who likely generated a better sound onstage than the original lineup.

Astbury danced lightly on Morrison's grave, careful not to cross into parody. But the bellowing ex-frontman of the Cult can't help that he eerily invokes the young Morrison with his leather jacket strut, wrap-around shades and shoulder-length hair.

The opening song "Roadhouse Blues" set the tone that this was a rock show. Krieger, who looks these days like a Depression-era farmer with an electric guitar, plowed the blues with authority on his Gibson SG.

It was odd to see a close-cropped Manzarek stage left behind a skimpy, modern Alesis keyboard instead of the Vox Continental organ of yesteryear. But he still loses himself in the music.

Glassy slide guitar, hypnotic tom-tom and reedy raga organ fills fueled the brilliant "When the Music's Over," a haunted lounge dirge that still managed to enthrall.

"We want the world and we want it now," Astbury screamed. This was, after all, the original rage against the machine.

In the dark and on its feet, the excited audience undulated like the Woodstock generation. Manzarek was appreciative and cleverly made reference to an old Doors track.

"It's good to be with 'Texas Radio' people," Manzarek said. "You know what 'the Big Beat' is all about."

Krieger rewarded the fans with hammered trills on "Love Me Two Times" before taking off on a jazzy progression up the guitar neck.

A stinging "Moonlight Drive" offered little relief to the senses at a concert that featured psychedelic video montages behind the band.

Manzarek and Krieger played for the first time anywhere a new Doors song called "Cops Talk (What Do They Say)" arranged in the band's old style. A future album is promised, a prospect as scary as a Morrison autopsy.

Later, "Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)," a psychopathic waltz about whisky bars and little girls, and the staggering anti-war statement "Five to One" re-created the tongue-in-cheek drama that made the band famous and unique.

Perhaps best left buried was "Ghost Song" off the posthumous "American Prayer." Awash in mescaline and alcohol platitudes, the poem did provide a visual delight as two Pueblo Indians from New Mexico danced ritualistically around Astbury. It was an Oliver Stone moment.

If the obscure "Maggie M'Gill" induced euphoria, then the buildup to the set closer "Light My Fire" was off the charts. And judging from the smell of things in the old arena, a good part of this audience was "stoned immaculate."

"Light My Fire" offered a perfect snapshot of Morrison-style power, as Astbury vocally doubled (an F-word chant too rude to print) Krieger's signature guitar riffs back to the refrain.

Called back to the stage twice for long encores that included the songs "Riders on the Storm" and "Soul Kitchen," the band's ancient music conjured ominous danger and euphoric freedom.

And unlike at most oldies shows (and many new ones), The Doors: 21st Century had the audience on its feet all night, which is testament enough that they can still break on through to the other side — or is it that people are strange?

hsaldana@express-news.net