Jimi Hendrix would have been 70 years old next week. He was born on November 27, 1942. But, his was a face that would never be battered by
time.
As a youngster, I'd run away from high school and hang out in a club called The Elephant in Woodstock, New York, which is where I saw Jimi late one night. It had to be somewhere around 1967. He was magical like lightning, sparks flying from him this way and that. He had an aura all his own. It was beyond color.
I was at a table with a group of idiots who instantly recognized him, pointed, and called out his name. I turned my chair so that my back was facing them and, in that exact instant, Jimi moved away from the two suits who escorted him into the club. I folded my arms on my chest. He folded his arms on his chest, looked at me and we both started laughing. He could no more relate to the clowns with him than I could to the clowns at my table.
And, so it was that the spirit of Jimi Hendrix came through to me as it does today as one filled with laughter, and infinite light.
Rock on, Jimi. Death is just a spineless chickenshit next to you.
