By Angelina Liu

A man possessed, he bent to his guitar as wails of sonic ecstasy rippled through the theatre. His head shot towards heaven and sweat pooled above his brow. The Beatles marveled at the pure gall of the man on stage.


Jimi Hendrix, clad in crushed velvet pants, a flowery overshirt, and a multicolored scarf tied across his forehead, stormed into the dressing room of Saville Theatre in London with a copy of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club in his hand. The Beatles’ album had just been released three days prior, and Hendrix loaded the record into a portable machine he brought.

“We’ll open with this,” he said of the title track.

Mitch Mitchell and Noel Redding looked at each other and then at Hendrix, dumbfounded. The guitarist’ face held a look of steely determination as he began picking out the chords for the track. There was only thirty minutes before The Experience was set to perform, and Brian Epstein — the Beatles’ manager and owner of the theatre — along with Paul McCartney and George Harrison sat in box seats.

Met with thunderous applause, The Experience began playing a newly arranged version of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club” that dripped with supreme confidence and technical skill. Despite being haphazardly rehearsed in the dark dressing room a mere half hour ago, Hendrix’s hands wrapped around the neck of the guitar with ease, an extension of his mind and body.

A man possessed, wails and moans of sonic pleasure vibrated through the theatre. His head shot towards heaven and sweat pooled above his brow. The Beatles marveled at the pure gall of the man on stage.

Jimi — born to a 17-year-old Lucille Jeter Hendrix — grew up with holes on the backs of his favorite tennis shoes and rarely enough to eat. He spent most evenings gazing up at the moon, yearning for his mother who drank herself to death while the cool night breeze rustled through his thin clothing. Dirty dishes littered the rusted kitchen sink, and the shuffling caretakers of the home were not enough to fend away the familiar pitter patter of rodents and cockroaches.

Jimi and his younger brother Leon were inseparable, working summers picking berries in the fields and cooling off with a swim in Seattle’s crystal lakes. At night, they sat up late together and waited for their father, dreaming of hearty dinners and clean clothing. While their other younger siblings were forcibly taken away or given up, Jimi became a protector for Leon. He loved science-fiction novels and comic books, imagining his mother descending upon Earth on an alien spacecraft or himself an otherworldly being.

Jimi escaped through music. Introduced to the poignant guitar of Muddy Waters, he grabbed a yellow straw broom and wildly strummed until the straw shook loose and littered the wooden floor. He would surely be punished if his father saw him playing around instead of sweeping up, but the blues moved through him, faster and harder than any force he had ever known. The slow, yowling guitar transcended his girlfriend’s sandwiches he split with her at lunch because he couldn’t afford his own and, later on, the leftover fast food headed for the dumpster he gobbled down in front of the high school he flunked out of.

Dates with his first girlfriend often meant long walks in the neighborhood, their stomachs empty and silence filled with talks about their big dreams outside of Seattle. They fit together in this way; she never doubted his conviction for being a musician, and he revelled in her aspirations. He hid out in local clubs, asking the managers to let him play with the bands despite his cheap instrument. He stayed out late to spend time with his guitar, his father disapproving of his devoted relationship. He often tucked her away underneath an extra stage curtain backstage, leaving a lingering promise to return for her the next day.

Hendrix jilted his head upwards as a man possessed. The carefully arranged studio version of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club faded away. Hendrix made the guitar speak in tongues, six-strings wailing and moaning in pleasure and pain. He oozed supreme confidence and sexuality, donning a smirk worthy of seducing anyone he chose to direct it towards. A manhood so powerful that he made Cynthia Plaster Caster famous after she made a mold of his.

He continued the tirade, effortlessly shredding into the guitar. The Beatles were the world’s biggest band and could do anything that they wanted to, but Hendrix proved that he could too.

Jimi opted to join the army at nineteen to avoid serving time in juvenile detention. He kept up his exuberance for music, quickly falling into a three-piece band named The King Kasuals. Hendrix feigned all sorts of maladies at the hospital base camp to escape his 26 month sentence, claiming he suffered from intense heart palpitations to raging homosexuality. Feigning insanity, he sold his most prized possession to a squadmate and purposefully masturbated in the camp barracks to prove his madness and need to be released.

When Jimi first enlisted, he had listed his profession as “student.” When he left, he wrote “musician.”

He never forgot to write postcards to his father, homesickness rampant in each one. He let his father know where he was and where he planned on going, who was being nice and who wasn’t. Sometimes, he’d ask for a little bus fare, just enough to cover a journey home.

Hendrix hungered for the talents and quirks of the guitarists he met, cannibalizing their talents for his own arsenal. He practiced on the way to a gig, played for five hours during the show, and practiced while on the car ride home. He went to the movies with the six-stringed instrument, unable to let it go for even a second. He could play the guitar blindfolded, behind his head, and left or right handed.

With a full belly, he decided to challenge one of his musical mentors. Jimi showed off the relationship with his guitar, dazzling and flashing with his learned skills. It became clear, however, just how recycled his talents were. Rhythms stolen from the mind of B.B. King resulted in public humiliation for Hendrix.

Hungry to improve, he set off on the Chitlin’ Circuit, a route that snaked through Florida, Texas, and Virginia. For three years, he traveled with whoever he could find work with, suffering through the hardships of a divided South. He spent his nights shunned from the white communities, strumming softly as he slipped into unconsciousness and yearning for the opportunity to prove himself.

He kept sending his postcards to his father, writing about the anger and sadness he felt while on the circuit. He made more money than he knew in his childhood, but the nights on the bus were lonely and cold. He sent home money to his father and Leon, relishing in the idea that they might be enjoying a nice dinner on his account.

Slowly but surely, the time on the Chitlin’ Circuit hardened him. It morphed his sound into something wholly new. By the end of it, he no longer sounded like a Muddy Waters or B.B. King wannabe — he was Jimi Hendrix.

When he moved to London with promises of Chas Chandler and The Experience, the first person he phoned was his father. His father, although happy for him, chastised him for the expensive phone call overseas.

Hendrix’s shoes, once tattered and ridden with holes, were now polished and even considered stylish. He paired crushed velvet pants with a vintage British overcoat. He turned heads everywhere he went, a flash of flamboyant silhouette and color. He had grown into his features handsomely — his eyes sparkled with talent, and he’d become devastatingly charming and soft-spoken.

A culmination of his upbringing in Seattle, nights he went to bed starving, and the death of his mother left an indelible darkness in his life. He channeled the nights he laid awake in the barracks and the years he spent on the road playing for empty dive bars and patios into this performance.

He looked out into the dark theatre, the final chords slipping away. The Beatles were fearful to look him in the eye. He had become the supreme challenger, moving his way up the food chain until he was the apex predator.

He no longer was the boy who tried to emulate a blues legend; he had become one himself. ■