Jimi Hendrix was furious. No one had ever seen him like this. He usually was as laid back as a clam. Mellow. Calm in any storm.
But tonight he was freaking out. The band was backstage at the University of Birmingham. It had all the charm of a men’s locker room (because that’s what it was.) The stage gear was laid out on the benches. Noel, like most bass players, carried his own instrument (a rare 8-stringed bass) in a soft case. Jimi had wanted to carry his guitar, but Gerry Stickells had insisted he would be in charge of the gear – and Jimi shouldn’t worry.
Jimi was worried.
Jimi was freaking out.
Jimi couldn’t find his guitar.
The Experience’s kits had red markings on them to distinguish them from the Animals’ gear. They were playing through the same amps and outboard sound system. Eric had 2 additional vocal monitors, but the basic stage set-up was the same.
The Animals were a six piece band and had a lot more gear. Vic Briggs (recently recruited from Brian Auger) and John Weider each had guitars and John also played an electric violin (a first for a rock band.) Tom Parker had a Hammond B3 and a Wurlitzer amp and their stage rider stipulated a piano (baby grand preferred) be provided by the venue.
The stage was already set for the Experience. They were five minutes away from ‘show time.’
And Jimi Hendrix could not find his guitar.
He started going through the Animals gear, to the amusement of the band.
“Where’s my fucking guitar? God damn it.”
Just then road manger Gerry Stickells came through the gym doors – Fender Stratocaster in hand.
Jimi snatched it from him. “Jesus man. I had it locked in the cab of the truck. I know how you feel about this axe.”
Jimi took the beautiful white guitar and polished it with a chamois cloth.
Eric Burdon had watched the whole charade. He couldn’t help smiling.
“What is it with you and that guitar?”
Jimi looked up and returned the smile.
“It’s magic man. It’s a magic guitar.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“Before I got this guitar I was Jimmy James. I was nobody. Then I got this axe and I became Jimi Hendrix.”
Eric looked at the guitar. It was cut away above and below the neck, like a horn. The volume and controls were placed close to the bridge – so the player could easily adjust them while playing. (Gibson and even Telecaster assumed that the player would adjust the sound and leave it.) Jimi, being left-handed, had attached his strap so he could play it upside-down.
It was, Eric thought, a fine guitar. Still…
“It’s just a guitar, man. You – you’re the magic.”
Jimi continued to smile and polish the sleek white instrument.
“No man. It’s the guitar. I just play her.”
Eric returned the smile and left the happy couple. “Whatever.”
Chas appeared and announced in his most professional voice: “Show time, boys.”
London. May 1967.
Nicky and Sal Buffalino, the Italian ‘mobsters’ sent by Sid Gannet to bring ‘his boy’ Jimi Hendrix back to New York were in their Grandmother’s parlor. At least that’s what it looked like. Actually they were in the lobby of their hotel opposite Victoria Station.
“What’s that shit?”
“It’s tea.”
“Nicky. I’ve been up for eighteen fucking hours. I need some God damned coffee.”
“I don’t think they have any. Here, have a crumpet. ”
“Crumpet? What’s a fucking crumpet?”
“It’s like a doughnut. Only it’s got no hole.”
“I like the hole. Makes me feel like I’m watching my weight.”
“Yeah? Well fuck you. Eat your crumpet. Drink your tea, and shut the fuck up.”
Sal and Nicky were still in a state of ‘culture shock.’ Their cab (all black – not a spot of yellow) made a little ‘rickety tickety’ sound all the way from the airport. It dropped them off at the hotel that Sid had pre-booked. It was one of hundreds aligned around the train station. Its white columns allowed barely enough room for Nicky to drag his Samsonite bag up onto the porch. Their room was on the fifth floor.
“No elevator?” Sal was afraid he knew the answer.
The Indian bellboy shook his head. He led the way up a Victorian stairwell (the Samsonite barely cleared the banisters) to a room that barely classified as a room.
Yes – it had two beds. Two beds a Boy Scout would be ashamed of.
Yes – it had a sink. And a window. But that was it.
“Hey Rajah – where’s the toilet?”
The dark-skinned little man smiled and motioned to the door. “The facilities are down the hall. Shower – first door on the left. The ‘loo’ is on the right.”
“Lou? Who the fuck is Lou?” Nicky and Sal asked in unison.
“Yes sir. The loo is on the right.”
They both stared open-mouthed as the little Indian man bowed and backed out of the tiny room.
-f-
“Jesus Christ. That’s the second time I’ve saved you.”
Nicky jerked Sal back to the sidewalk. “Would you please look to your right when we cross the God damned street. They drive on the other side of the fucking road here.”
Sal spat a huge lugey on Carnaby Street.
They were smack in the middle of swinging London. They were surrounded by mini-cars and mini-skirts. Mop tops and mopeds, businessmen still in pinstripes and bowler hats, children in school uniforms, Indian refugees from Uganda, Saudis in white robes. Everything and everybody was ‘happening.’ It was a parade. A carnival. A circus. A cacophony of sound and color.
“What the fuck is this crap?”
Sal was staring transfixed into the window of the store ‘Granny Takes A Trip.’ Under a fifteen-foot-high painting of Sitting Bull and a sign ‘One Should Either Be A Work Of Art Or Wear A Work Of Art’ lace and Indian beads constituted the majority of the material stretched across the frames of several leggy mannequins. They wore pink cotton candy wigs and were posed provocatively. There were silver-dollar sized holes in ninety percent of the ‘fabric.’ A pink ribbon across the waist provided the only opaqueness to the material.
“Clothes, Sal. Those are clothes. That’s what the Mod Squad are wearing today.”
“Who?”
“Mods. Mods and Rockers.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Look you see those two guys?”
Nicky pointed at two young me with Prince Valiant haircuts and sporting lightweight suits and turtlenecks.
“They are mods.”
“Those are guys?” Sal scoffed. “Look like a couple of fagolas to me.”
“Whatever… And that –“ A Marlon Brando look-alike complete with black racing cap, leaned on his Triumph motorcycle and sneered at the passing parade. “That is a rocker.”
“Well I’m definitely a rocker. Fuck it.”
“Yeah. We’re the leather type.” In fact, both Nicky and Sal were sporting the unfashionable, inexpensive leather jackets that was worn by virtually all Italian men on their Brooklyn turf.
They looked in the window at Biba’s. A full array of leather gear occupied the front of the store. Sal waved a credit card at Nicky.
“Sid said use the card, Nicky.”
“That he did, Sal.”
They went in and tried on motorcycle jackets. They all had glittery slogans on the back like “Born To Ride” or “From Here To Hell.” The boys beat a hasty retreat – with disgusted looks on their faces.
Half an hour later they emerged from Regent’s Menswear on Oxford Street. Nicky wore snug grey three-piece tweed suit and Sal sported a black suit, black shirt and white tie. Sid had told them to ‘blend in’ and ‘What the fuck?’… he was paying
-f-
“Fuck you.” Sal grabbed the clipboard from the mop topped kid and scribbled two names –‘Nick & Sal Buffalino.’ “Now we’re on your God damned list.” He shoved the list back into the hands of the astonished doorman and pushed past him into the club.
They entered another world. Another planet.
Kids. Nicky thought: ‘They’re so fucking young.’
London, November 1966.
The tour went as well as was expected. All dates were sold out. Jimi, Noel and Mitch continued to bond. And Jimi came up and jammed with the Animals each night – to the crowd’s obvious delight.
The star-making machinery was shifting into second gear as Mike Jeffery secured a release date for ‘Hey Joe’ on Polydor that would fall just before the Christmas shopping season. Tracks Records wouldn’t be in operation until well in to the New Year and Jeffery didn’t want to wait. The heat was on Jimi Hendrix and he wanted the record out ASAP.
Back in London Jimi played Knuckles Club. In the crowd was Brian Jones, the ethereal, blond mop-topped rhythm guitarist for the world’s second most popular band – the Rolling Stones. They were promoted as the ‘Nasty Opposites of the Beatles’ with the catch phrase ‘would you let your daughter marry a Rolling Stone?’ From the beginning, it had been Brian’s band. He’d guided them on a string of successful singles, albums and tours. His adventurous musical tendencies and experimentations led to classics such as ‘Lady Jane,’ ‘I Am Waiting,’ ‘Under My Thumb’, and ‘Paint It Black.’ Very often it was Brian who was the first to record a musical instrument in Britain.
But by the winter of 1966 Brian’s drinking and drug abuse was so over the top, that it was rumored he was about be kicked out of his own band. It was common knowledge that Mick and Keith were threatening to give him the ‘boot’ if he didn’t clean up. After the gig Brian went backstage to meet Jimi. Jimi was impressed that a Rolling Stone was looking to meet him. At first he was worried that he might be after Keith’s guitar, but he soon realized he was being paranoid for no reason.
Brian lit a joint and Jimi eagerly took a toke.
“I dig your clothes man.”
Jimi was impressed again. This was no ordinary compliment. Brian was known as much for his sartorial presence as he was for being a Rolling Stone. He was dressed in a Tibetan suede jacket with llama fur tufting out of the cuffs and running along the collar.
Jimi had on a peach colored puffy pirate shirt and an embroidered silk vest. “You too man. Can I see your stick?”
Brian carried a walking stick. It was polished teak with a pearl oyster-shell knob on top. Brian flicked the head of the stick and a small latch popped open. From his pocket he withdrew a short gold tube. He inserted the tube into the opening and took a quick snort with each nostril.
He passed the tube to Jimi. Jimi hesitated, tube in hand.
Brian grinned from under his trademark pageboy bangs.
“It’s just coke, man.”
Jimi grinned back and took two healthy hits.
This was the beginning of a lifelong friendship – for two incredibly
short lives.
CHAPTER FIVE
London. November, 1966.
Mitch and Noel were pissed. They were also drunk. The Waterman’s Arms pub was alongside the Thames and there were boats slowly passing the outside tables on this unseasonably warm winter day.
“Wages? All we get is wages?”
Mitch Mitchell slammed his Guiness on the table with a crack that caused heads to turn their way. “Fuck you looking at cunt?” He snarled at the table next to them.
“Easy.” Noel countered.
The table next to them whispered something with the name ‘Hendrix’ and turned their backs on Noel and Mitch.
“We play on the records, we’re due performance royalties. Fucking Michael Jeffery cunt.”
“I agree. We should get performance royalties, but you and I both know they don’t really come to all that much.”
“Yeah. But that should be in addition to wages. And fuck wages – we should get a cut from the door. This contract pays us the same if we play for one hundred or ten thousand.”
Noel laughed. “Come on. It’s going to be a long time before we play for ten thousand.”
“We played for two thousand just two weeks ago in Manchester.”
“We opened for the Animals. It was their crowd.”
“Fuck. I thought we formed a band. You, me and Jimi. Now it seems like you and me just work for Jimi.”
“Seems like we all work for Mike Jeffery. I’ve heard Eric rant and rave about him. He’s a total cunt.”
“Don’t forget Chas. He goes along with this crap.”
“I don’t think Chas has much of a choice. But Chas signed Jimi and Jeffery signed Chas.”
“Leaving us blowing in the wind.”
“But... and this is a big ‘but.’ What were you doing before?”
Mitch looked into his drink. “I was working with Georgie Fame. He just broke up the Blue Flames before I ran into Chas.”
“What’d you get with Georgie?”
“Wages.”
“Exactly… Me? I was on the dole before I ran into Chas. Hadn’t worked in months. I’ll take wages over being on the dole again.”
-f-
“Jimi. You O.K.?”
Noel Redding had the famous rock star by the bandana around his curly hair.
“Shit. He’s fucked.”
Mitch grabbed his black leather legs. Together they managed to get him into the blue mini-van. They were on their way – or at least they were before they discovered Jimi’s state – to a gig at Ricky Ticky’s club in Hounslow. Chas had gone on ahead, as was customary, to meet the promoters and get the gear set up. Noel and Mitch had brought the van around to Chas’ apartment at 34 Montagu Square (sublet from one Ringo Starr) to pick up Jimi. They couldn’t get an answer when they rang the bell, so Noel had climbed through a rear window.
Jimi was out cold.
A log. A lump. A fucking corpse.
But fortunately he was still breathing. So Noel and Mitch laid him on top of Chas’ Persian rug and rolled him up like a great big joint. They
dragged him down four flights of stairs and tried to stuff him in the van. The gig was in less than two hours and they had an eighty kilometer drive.
“This is really fucked” Noel pushed. Mitch pulled. They couldn’t get the five foot eleven American Negro into the van.
“All right. I’ve got an idea. Take his boots off.”
“What?” Noel stared at Mitch like he’d lost his mind.
“Take his boots off. His heels are getting hung up on the door. Come on man.”
Noel looked at the boa constrictor Tony Lamas and considered the task of pulling them off. He was about to tell Mitch to ‘fuck off’ when an angelic voice interrupted him.
“Hey boys. Problem?”
Brian Jones peered from under a huge foppish hat and grinned. Noel was the first to reply.
“Yeah. We can’t get our fucking superstar lead guitar player into the van.”
Brian launched into a giggly fit, ending in an asthmatic spasm – alternately coughing and laughing.
Mitch was not amused. “What’s so fucking funny?”
Brian’s eyes were outlined in black mascara. The eyes themselves
were red. Not bloodshot. But pure red. They gave him a ghoulish countenance – like a vampire.
“Just a second.” Brian fumbled in his bag. Festooned with coins and beads it came from his recent journey to Morocco. Its contents, however, were from the plateaus of Colombia.
“Ahh. Here. This’ll do it.” He pulled out a vial of white powder. He filled a small spoon attached to his keychain and held it under one of Jimi’s large nostrils.
“Jimi.”
No response.
Brian gently tapped Jimi on the side of his curly head.
“Jimi.”
Jimi moved.
And went back to sleep – snoring loudly.
“This is bullshit. We’re fucked.”
Brian grinned his loopy little grin.
“Jimi.” He said again. Gently, cautiously, he put his little spoon under Jimi’s nose again.
“Breathe. Just breathe.”
And then – just like a Hoover vacuum cleaner – Jimi Hendrix inhaled a mighty shot that cleared the white powder off the little spoon and caused his formerly rigid body to sit bolt upright.
“Whoa.” Jimi’s eyes popped open. He looked around the van.
Mitch and Noel were astonished. The dead had risen. Jimi shook his head – jerry curls flying.
Brian smiled his angelic smile. Jimi slowly focused. His attention went to Brian.
“Gimme another hit man.”
Brian obliged. “Sure baby.” He extended the spoon.
Mitch and Noel rubbed their eyes in disbelief.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Jimi snorted the coke and looked at the spoon. “Huh?”
“Jimi. We’ve got a gig in less than two hours. And we’ve got a two hour drive. You … you were fucking dead.”
Mitch didn’t know what else to say. Brian and Jimi just stared blankly.
Finally Jimi spoke.
“Well I ain’t dead now. I suggest you start driving.”
-f-
Brian insisted Jimi ride in his chauffer-driven purple Bentley. Mitch and Noel were reluctant to let Jimi out of their sight, but what could they do? He was the boss.
And so they caravanned to the gig.
They arrived with fifteen minutes until ‘showtime’ (very little leeway – the opening act was finished. They would go on within thirty minutes or forfeit their contract.) Jimi refused to get out of Brian’s Bentley until the last possible moment.
“And tell Gerry to bring me my fucking guitar.”
Jimi closed the door and retreated behind the heavily tinted windows. Twenty minutes later Jimi’s guitar was outside the car. But it wasn’t Gerry Stickells who carried it. It was Chas Chandler. And he was livid.
He rapped gently on the glass.
No response.
He rapped harder. Slowly the window lowered. A cloud of smoke tumbled from inside. Two red eyes and a maniacal grin appeared – like the Cheshire cat in Alice. It was Jimi.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Chas bellowed.
“Getting high.” Jimi replied.
This was met by maniacal laughter from inside the Bentley. Jimi suppressed it for a moment – and then he too burst out laughing.
“High? Bollocks. You’re completely fucked. I should shove this guitar up your ass.”
Jimi tried to appear unconcerned, but he couldn’t help cracking up again.
“Jimi, this is an important gig. You’re headlining. There’s press here… Open the door.”
Chas had one hand on the handle – the other on the guitar.
“Open the fucking door.” He yanked at the handle but the door didn’t budge.
“Brian.” Chas spoke to the figure in the shadows. “Open the door. Jimi’s got a gig and he’s late.”
With a kerchunk the lock popped and the door opened.
Jimi Hendrix tumbled, unceremoniously, to the cobblestone tarmac. Laughing hysterically.
Chas bent down and with one hand holding the white Stratocaster he hoisted the rock star to his shaky legs.
Chas glanced back at Brian – still a shadow figure in the dark interior of the Bentley. But he held his breath and said nothing.
Road manager Gerry Stickells appeared and took the other side of Jimi and together they managed to get him to the stage door.
Chas’ tone turned from anger to parental as he helped Jimi through the door and backstage. Noel and Mitch were already on stage and the capacity crowd was already stomping their feet in a thundering demand for rock ‘n’ roll.
A purple spotlight hit Jimi and he came alive.
A voice came through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen …” Jimi, still in the wings, let loose a staccato burst of notes. “From Seattle Washington …” Jimi’s guitar roared again. “Kent England …” Bass riffs from Noel. “And London …” Drum roll. “We give you …” The guitar now exploded into a ripple of notes. “The Jimi Hendrix Eperience!”
Jimi walked onstage, the purple spotlight following him, one hand in the air – still playing with the other. When the crowd realized all this great guitar sound was being played one-handed, they went ballistic.
Chas breathed a huge sigh of relief.
In the back of the Bentley Brian Jones snorted two lines of coke and then floated inside to watch the gig.
It wasn’t Jimi’s best gig – but it wasn’t his worst.
Afterwards, in spite of Chas’ efforts to thwart it, Brian swept Jimi back to the Bentley and off to his Courtfield road flat. It was a good thing Jimi didn’t have any gigs for the rest of the week, as he didn’t resurface for four days. However, the next gig was their most important to date. They were booked to play the Bag O’Nails on the twenty-fifth and Chas knew the crowd would be full of celebrities. The legendary basement club that looked like something out of a Dickens novel, was an important gig and he needed his rockstar prodigy in champion form.
Chas was on the verge of calling the coppers, when Jimi walked in cool as a cucumber, his beloved Stratocaster slung over his shoulder.
Chas kept his rage bottled up. After all, it had been down time, but Chas had hoped to spend the week with Jimi working on material for the next recording session. Instead he had spent the week calling around looking for Jimi, when all the while he knew where he was. Brian and Jimi made a few forays outside Courtfield street. Jimi and Brian had jammed with Zoot Money at four in the morning in Zoot’s flat after a gig at the Bull’s Head. He’d also been seen with Brian and six Swedish beauties at Blaises. But Chas knew that the week had been spent doing drugs. Drugs of all kinds. Heinz 57 varieties. Brian Jones had found the rockstar drugging partner he’d looked for in Mick and Keith…
In Jimi.
Chas was worried. Afraid of how low Brian would drag Jimi.
Right when they were just taking off. Right when Jimi’s creative flame seemed to be burning brightest.
Chas wanted nothing to snuff out that flame. But he knew that Jimi would resist his prying into what Jimi would consider his private life. Chas could tell him from his own experience that soon he would have no private life. Soon everything he would do would be subject to public scrutiny.
“Hey man.”
Just like he’d just gone out for a pack of cigarettes, Jimi sat down. He plugged the Stratocaster into the little Vox amp and played the first chords of ‘Can You See Me.’
“What’s that?”
“Somethin’ new.” Jimi mumbled. Jimi proceeded to run through this and a second brand new song - ‘Remember.’ For ten minutes Jimi’s hands worked magic.
Chas relaxed. It seemed no matter how wasted he’d been, his prodigy was capable of writing amazing songs.
