Lawrence - Jimi hendrix: the true story of jimi hendrix

Johnny/Jimmy

Dont Look Back

Flying High

The Struggle

Thrilling Times

The Best Year of My Life

Experienced

All Along the Watchtower

The Trial

Drifting

Purple Haze

Inside the Danger Zone

19711989: The New Regime

19901999: A Series of Showdowns

20002004: Wealth, Power, and Reflected Glory

F EBRUARY 9, 1968

I observed the extravagant aureole of carefully teased black hair. The face, with its luminous brown eyes looking directly at me, was gentle. His handshake was firm. He smiled warmly, respectfully even, and said in a low, whispery voice, Thanks for coming out tonight.

So this was Jimi Hendrix. The exotic photographs Id seen in the English music papers offered a somewhat terrifying image. On this night, though, I met a shy, polite human being.

Sharon, Leslie Perrin had said on the telephone, Ive just arrived from London, and Id like to introduce you to Jimi Hendrix. Hes very special. And hes playing near Disneyland tonight!

For years Leslie Perrin had been a figure in London press and music circles, jovial but shrewd, a stout, chain-smoking, middle-aged public relations expert whose clients ranged from Frank Sinatra to the Rolling Stones. Now hed added the Jimi Hendrix Experience to his client roster. The motto inscribed on his letterhead read RING ME ANYTIME DAY OR NIGHT .

That would be nice, Les, but could we do it another time? Id love to see you, of course. Maybe for lunch tomorrow? Its been a tremendously busy week, and Im not at my best, and with all this rain this isnt a good night. I met and interviewed celebrities, particularly major film stars, every day in my job as a fledgling reporter in the Los Angeles bureau of United Press International, then a powerful news organization. Les sounded disappointed, and I felt ashamed of myself as I caught onPerrin was on unfamiliar turf in L.A., dismayed by the sudden downpour in sunny California, and he needed a ride. I was also remembering that Les was a great pal of numerous journalist friends of mine in London and that hed been kind and hospitable to me on a recent visit to England. Where shall I pick you up, Les?

This is how I met Hendrix, the hottest new star on the international music scene: because, grudgingly, I was doing a favor.

The tires of my blue Dodge Dart squealed on the slick, slippery freeways as we drove the thirty miles southeast from Los Angeles to Anaheim in a steady, gloomy rain. We smoked cigarettes as Les amusingly related the latest music news from Swinging London. Finally we zigzagged our way off the freeway and slowly turned in to the driveway of the Anaheim Convention Center. It held seventy-eight hundred people, and the parking lot was jammed as we maneuvered into a space near the backstage entrance.

I tentatively followed Perrin into the crowded dressing room, where he introduced me to drummer Mitch Mitchell and bassist Noel Redding, two quite adorable and gracious English boys. We talked about this latest round of the British Invasionthe tag given to the increasing number of English bands touring America in the sixties and the Experiences recent New York press reception on top of a midtown skyscraper. Everything they said made me laugh, down to the corny jokes about Thats what I call getting high!

Les took my arm and we stepped outside the door, and there was Jimi Hendrix, in a deep purple silk crepe shirt, velvet pants, and a black cut-velvet jacket; I had never before seen a pop musician dressed with such subtle elegance; Hendrix looked as if he should be invited to pose for the cover of Vogue . His face and his voice appeared shy. Ive just been tuning my guitar, he said.

Ten minutes later Les Perrin, whod gone off to chat with other musicians on the Invasion packagewhich included Eire Apparent, Soft Machine, Eric Burdon and the Animals with the Experience head-liningreturned to smile approvingly as he saw Hendrix and me in animated conversation. I told Jimi that I had already seen the Experience soon after the Monterey Pop Festival, when the trio opened for the Mamas and Papas at the Hollywood Bowl. I thought it was fabulous the way you came onto the stage playing Sgt. Pepper, I said. The perfect song to grab the crowd.

Jimis eyes lit up; he liked this compliment, and he seemed to understand that I was simply saying what I thought. I loved music, knew music, from Ella Fitzgerald to Tchaikovsky to Ray Charles and the Beatles; my earliest memories involved a home where the record player was alive with wondrous voices and captivating melodies, from Negro spirituals to Gershwin concertos. I had a boyfriend, Ron, a college student in New York and an avid record collector, who was crazy about the new pop music. People who didnt care about music usually didnt interest me.

My mother thought your group was terrific at the Bowl, I continued. She liked your songs and also your clothes. That boy has beautiful taste, she said. Mother loves fine fabrics.

His eyes opened wide. You took your mother to hear us?

In California, I explained, the Hollywood Bowl has always been a family place, where you bring a picnic dinner and hear music under the stars. Its a summer tradition.

Jimi nodded. Please tell her I appreciate fabrics, too.

I kept waiting for Hendrix to bring the conversation to a halt, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. So I went on, My mother collects material, edgings, trimmings; shes wonderful at sewing.

Jimi seemed delighted to hear this, saying, If I had a proper place, quite naturally, Id be collecting all that, too.

I only collect records, I said. Ive got hundreds of albums. I started buying them when I was ten, and now one of the best things about my job is that Im invited to see just about every movie made, and the record companies send me free records.

They all must like you a lot! he said.

No, I said. I think its more about wanting publicity. I quit college and did a bit of finagling to land my job. I was nave, I suppose, because I hadnt realized until recently that when people give you something free, they just about always want something.

Hendrix gave me a serious look. Isnt that the truth, he said.

Les rejoined us, glancing at his watch. James, he said, I think youre supposed to be onstage.

Hendrix smiled warmly at me. See you again!

As he hurried to the dressing room, there was Eric Burdon coming from the other direction. Id met him a couple of times before. Exuberantly, he grabbed my arm and said, Come on, lets go out front. Its always so excitin when Jimi plays.

Eric had just finished warming up seven thousand young people for the first of two shows that night. Most of the audience was on their feet eagerly waiting for the Experience. Undoubtedly quite a few of these kids had witnessed the riveting debut of the Jimi Hendrix Experience at Monterey Pop the previous summer.

The minute Hendrix made his entrance, the subdued fellow Id just met turned into the most lascivious, outrageous, spectacular performer Id ever seen. His Hollywood Bowl show seemed tame in retrospect. Now he was ravaging the guitar with his teeth, his tongue, playing it behind his back and on the floor, in a brilliant display of showmanship and sound. Although I had seen everyone from the Beatles to the Stones to Bob Dylan, I had never given much consideration to the guitar. Like many other fans at concerts, I tended to concentrate on the lead singer. But tonight a bold, brightly colored world of fresh rhythms and sound was emanating from this white Strato caster that Hendrix played so effortlessly it appeared to be part of his body. Yes, I thought, this is important. The mesmerized audience hardly seemed to notice that there were two other musicians onstage until an inspired bit of drumming from Mitch Mitchell grabbed them. For all the spotlight on Hendrix, this was a true ensemble; the Experiences playing was both tight and seemingly spontaneous, a rare and invigorating mix. Noel Redding and Mitch Mitchell were the all-important foundation for Jimi; the three of them together knew how to create magic. Continual ripples of applause now had escalated into exhilarating roars of approval. The crowd hung on every note, on the soulful, whispery singing voice, the quick, shy comments into the microphone. A teenage boy sitting behind me said to his friend, Hendrix is talking to us !