“When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.” Jimi Hendrix
1969 Woodstock, New York – It wasn’t long after the midnight blaze, loud thuds of headache bangs in my ears, my eyes blurring began fixating on a patch of blonde hair on my crotch belonging to this random chick passed out and the dusty air whirling around the sunlit curtains across the room penetrates the cigarette burns of the old cloth. I find my away across the creaking wood floors carefully negotiating the sleeping bodies around, I myself still figuring out how I ended up here, where was I exactly, whose house is this and where was my other pair of shoes? I stepped out onto the narrow corridor littered with beer cans, soda and books stacked on one another and I unmistakably heard the chime of an electric guitar, a down-note followed by a tune adjustment, then the same note again. I walked to the stairs and curiously popped my head over the edge while there were people appeared to be huddled around a corner I still couldn’t see the guitar player emanating possibly the most skillful notes I ever heard. Under the staircase by the living room sat relaxed on a couch, one leg over the arm rest with a plugged electric guitar on his lap, eyes almost closed at every string, a purple headband and white Indian jacket. It was him, I gasped a breath of astonishment that I am in the presence of this man and pinched myself to make sure I’m awake, it was Jimi Hendrix just a few feet from where I was standing.
I lost my footing on the last few steps and fell head first onto a tea table, needless to say I alerted everyone in the room, the beautiful music stopped and I bled all over the carpet as I opened up a gash on my forehead. I woke up maybe minutes later to the taste of alcohol in my lips, beautiful piercing green eyes of this girl staring down at me asking me if I was alright, finding myself on a large couch with my head resting on the woman’s laps I sat up adjusting I felt a headband around my flesh wound. There he was, Jimi Hendrix, on the couch, this time he would turn to look at me and ask if I was alright with that trademark blues voice of his while still playing the guitar – I only managed a nod and couldn’t say a word still in awe at the presence of his aura. He stood up and placed the Fender on the couch then walked to the kitchen across the room, I couldn’t help but barely stand up and follow him.
“Jimi I’m a… huge fan! I was taking photographs at the show, I have all of your records and I don’t know what to say… Your jams are amazing!”
Ever so smoothly without turning but at the same time giving me side attention before replying “I wish they’d had electric guitars in cotton fields back in the good old days. A whole lot of things would’ve been straightened out.” He replied as calmly as he sipped from his coffee mug. He turned and looked at me and continued “now if you’ll excuse me while I kiss the sky…” He then walked across the room grabbing his guitar on the way and walked out the front door, there was a surge of shockwaves of crowd roars overlooking a field, this spectacle was the foreground of a grand white stage situated on a farm, the vista absolutely formidable in memory and picturesque. I remember thinking to myself this must be the greatest music festival the world has ever witnessed… And here I am today still holding on to my Woodstock tickets.