Before He Was Jimi

The public image of Jimi Hendrix is often of the musician standing on the stage the Monday morning of Woodstock, playing the National Anthem to a crowd the one-tenth the size of weekend audience. But before he was known as the greatest guitarist of all time, he was James Hendrix, Butch to his friends. He didn’t even start playing electric guitar until he was fifteen years old. His first gig was in the fall of 1959 in, of all places, Temple De Hirsh Sinai in Seattle, Washington. By all accounts, the shy sixteen-year-old wasn’t that accomplished. Of course that sentiment could be because at the dawn of the rock and roll era, garage bands were expected to cover the popular songs of the day, and not show self-expression. The result was that Hendrix was fired after the first set because the teens at the party could not dance to his erratic playing.

As a way to avoid prison for a teenage indiscretion, in 1961 the impoverished Hendrix enlisted in the U.S. Army. He was assigned to the 101st Airborne division, where he was sent to jump school. An ankle injury incurred from a rough landing after a jump resulted in an honorable discharge.

By 1966, Jimi Hendrix would take London by storm. Little known in the U.S., Hendrix’s initial trip to England was aboard a Pan Am flight. A co-worker’s mother was a stewardess (aka flight attendant) on that flight, although she did not realize who he was at the time. Hendrix had written something on a piece of paper and handed it to her as deplaned. She hadn’t thought about it for years and had no recollection of where the paper had ended up.

After learning of her “brush with greatness,” I wrote the following short story about what may have happened to that page.

The Lost Poem of Jimi Hendrix

The tall, lanky man stood at the top of the jetway and stared at his ticket, his face wrinkled in doubt.

"May I help you, sir?" the stewardess asked.

"Yes 'ma’am," he said, holding out his ticket. The army had taught him to say yes, sir; yes, ma’am to anyone in uniform.

"Oh," she said, wishing she had not sounded so surprised. You're up here in first-class. The shock was not because of his race. Various races and ethnicity flew first-class, mostly businessmen, but Mary had never seen a hippie in first class. "Right this way, sir," she said, and showed him to a window seat in the second row. Mary stood back so he could maneuver his body over the aisle seat. "Can. I get you anything, sir?'

"Jim, you can call me Jim. No, thank you, ma’am,” he said and turned his head to the window. He watched two men loading luggage into the belly of the plane. He felt anxious. He rarely went anywhere without his guitar. Chris, his manager, had assured him it would arrive safely in London with the other equipment. He wished it was in the seat next to him. He wished he had something to ease his anxiety. Alcohol only made him more jittery.

It was Saturday morning. Only two other people were in first-class, by Saturday, most vacationers were at their destination, and most businessmen were home with their wives. A short man with thinning hair and horn-rimmed glasses who looked professorial in his tweed jacket with elbow patches was two rows in front. A tall stock guy, most likely a Texas oilman, handed the stewardess his Stetson to store and took the aisle seat two rows back on the opposite side of the plane. He stretched his long legs, feet adorned with the snakeskin boots, in the aisle. The stewardess brought him a scotch—neat.

Jim folded himself up like an origami crane; placed the blanket the stewardess had handed him over his head and melted into the leather seat.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he felt a hand on his shoulder. At first, he thought it was his mother trying to wake him up for school. "Jim, sir, we are preparing to land."

"Land? Where..?' he asked. He let the blanket fall from his face and looked up at the angel with the hazel eyes. "Heaven or earth?"

"London," she replied.

It took him a moment to comprehend what she meant. He reached for his absent guitar and then remembered where he was seated.

"Can I get you anything, Jim? Juice, coffee, something to eat?"

"A pencil...or a pen....and some paper...please, ma'am."

Mary returned with a pen and a piece of paper from a yellow tablet. When she hadn’t been able find anything in the galley for Jim to write on, she asked the oil man for a sheet of paper from the pad he had been scribbling notes on one for the past hour.

"Thank you, ma'am," Jim said when she presented the offering.

"We'll be landing soon," she said and made her way over to the professor.

Jim felt the plane descending and a knot formed in his stomach. He leaned the paper against the window and began to write, shaking the pen whenever gravity claimed the ink. The landing gear groaned as it came from the belly of the plane. The tires hit the runway with a hop, and the pen in Jim's and almost sliced the paper in two. He never looked at the words, He folded it in half, then in half again and again until it was a small square in the palm of his hand.

He stayed in his seat until all the other passengers had left. Finally, he rose and lumbered down the aisle.

"Have a nice visit in London," Mary said.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said. "This is for you." He offered the small square.

She took it, unsure what to do with it.

He turned and began to descend the stairs, his eyes focused on the men unloading the baggage from the belly of the plane; desperate to lay eyes on his guitar.

"Do you know who that is?" Emily, the stewardess who had been serving the coach passengers asked.

"He said his name is Jim," Mary said.

"You mean, Jimi. That's Jimi Hendrix…the musician."

Mary had heard the name but had never heard any of his songs. She slipped the paper in her blazer pocket and helped Emily secure the galley.

Mary was next to Emily in in the back of the black cab. She stepped from the taxi and reached in her pocket for her part of the fare. As she reached for the bills, a yellow slip of paper came out and was caught by the breeze. She never noticed it floating away. The gust died down and the piece of paper came to rest on the toe of a bobby. Adverse to litter, the policeman picked it up and put it in his pocket.

Weeks later, the attendant at the dry cleaner club, found the paper when he was checking the bobby’s pockets. He unfolded it and read the following words:

Falling through clouds

Again gravity battles for my soul

Black hole pulling up

Earth pulling down

Clouds morph to a sky of molten gray

Tanks roll by

The National Anthem blares from the belly of this beast

Black hole pulling up

Earth pulling down

An elephant emerges, trunk raised

Trumpets a response in Satchmo riffs

"Jump on my back"

I try as gravity battles for my soul

Black hole pulling up

Earth pulling down

It rains my mother's tears

It thunders my father's wrath

The elephant flaps his ears and flies away

I'm falling through clouds again

Black hole pulling up

Earth pulling down

Night ascends without the stars

A deafening silence fills my ears

I cannot see; I cannot hear

I reach for my absent guitar

As gravity battles for my soul

Black hole pulling up

Earth pulling down

I feel the sun's rays on my cheek

A murmur of voices fills my ears

The voices of heaven crawl over each other

Trying to be heard

“Hey man, move over man, I don’t have no room up here!”

I am mute as gravity battles for my soul

Black hole pulling up

Earth pulling down.