Painted Black (17 page)

To say the members of the audience were in shock would have been an understatement. As soon as John Entwistle stopped playing and the feedback ended, people looked at one another in various stages of denial.
What just happened here?
The LA groups didn't understand it; in fact, they reacted with hostility. The San Francisco groups were freaked out by the violence. For the English groups, it was just another day at the office.

Brian and Bobby had heard about the Who and had witnessed their smash-up “no encore possible” performances around London. Brian was knocked out. How many times had he been tempted to do the same thing with the Stones? Except with his frustrations it wouldn't have been an act, it would have been real mayhem.

The stage was cleared and the next band, the Grateful Dead, began loading their equipment. Their roadies swarmed the stage.

The Dead were the exact opposite of the Who. Laid back and laconic, they exuded a stoned confidence that seemed to say,
Don't worry about the Who, follow us into the musical unknown
.

Clovis and Bobby watched the Dead set up. One of the roadies looked damn familiar. Clovis got closer so he could get a better look. It was Skully, who once claimed to have worked for Hendrix. Skully, who brought Silverman to Brian's house. Skully, who just happened to be at Redlands when Keith got busted. He'd grown a beard and his hair was longer, but there was no doubt about it. Clovis slid up next to Dead guitarist, Jerry Garcia, and pointed to Skully.

“Do you know that guy?”

Jerry looked surprised.

“Nope. Many of roadies are volunteers. Except for our core of equipment guys who go to every show.”

One of the people walking past handed Jerry a beautifully rolled joint. Jerry accepted it and took a huge toke.

“Look at this,” Jerry said. He held up the joint. “Did you ever see a more beautifully rolled nimrod?”

Clovis smiled. “You've got yourself a good one there, pardner.”

“We got a guy. That's all he does. His job is rolling joints for the band. He keeps 'em coming, and we do our best to smoke 'em all.”

Clovis realized he was talking to one very high musician. Jerry Garcia was a happy camper. He loved to get high and play music, and Monterey was his backyard.

“So, you've never seen him before?”

“Seen who?”

Clovis pointed to Skully who was moving some equipment across the stage. “That guy. His name is Skully.”

“Nope.”

“Did a guy named Acid King Leon Silverman visit you backstage?”

“How come you're asking so many questions. Are you a cop?”

“No, I'm with Brian Jones and Brian wanted me to check these guys out. He's looking for the snitch that set the Stones up in London.”

Jerry took another toke.

“Oh, yeah, Brian Jones from the Stones. Yeah, okay … You're looking for a snitch, eh? I hate snitches. I did see that guy Silverman, Acid King Leon, a little while ago. He had purple haze tabs. He offered them around. Nobody trusted him so we didn't take any. Besides, my guys all have their own special blend one hundred percent pure Owsley acid. We don't mess with unknown acid.”

“Did you know Silverman?”

“Never saw him before in my life.”

“Where would he get the purple haze if not from Owsley?”

Jerry lowered his voice.

“There was a bust a few months ago, and the cops raided one of his labs. They carted away several thousand hits of Owsley acid. Could've been from there.”

“Thanks, Jerry. I thank you and Brian thanks you. Have a great show.”

“Should I smash my guitar?”

Clovis laughed. “Then what would you use tomorrow?”

The Dead played a laid-back San Francisco set similar to what they'd been doing at the ballrooms like the Avalon and the Fillmore. The band had absolutely no pretensions. They were 100 percent pure San Francisco. Loose and jammy, they let songs go on forever.

It was right in the middle of the Dead's set when Monkee Peter Tork walked out onstage and crashed their performance. He grabbed a microphone and started making announcements over the music. Jerry looked at Phil Lesh and rolled his eyes.

Peter Tork shouted into Jerry's microphone.

“People! It's me again! Hey, I hate to be dumb like this, but there's a crowd of kids, and this is to whom I'm talking. They're trying to break down walls and kick down doors because they think the Beatles are here! And they're not!”

Phil Lesh looked Peter Tork in the eye and said, “Well, why don't you let 'em in?”

Peter Tork stuttered. He wasn't ready for that response.

He started again, saying the same thing and Phil shouted over him, “The Beatles aren't here, but come in anyway!”

With that, the Dead had made their statement. Peter Tork left the stage, never to return again that weekend. Some of the San Francisco bands thought it was incredibly rude of the Monkees, who weren't really even a band, but just a bunch of actors pretending to be a band, to interrupt a set by the Grateful Dead, a real San Francisco band. It was bad ballroom etiquette. But having never played the ballroom circuit, how would they know?

The excitement backstage built in anticipation of Hendrix. Nobody in the country had seen the Jimi Hendrix Experience.

Pete Townsend knew. Relieved that he didn't have to follow Hendrix, and thankful for the opportunity to be the first to do the guitar-smashing bit, he'd fulfilled his dream. He watched the Grateful Dead with mild interest as backstage in Jimi's tent, Hendrix dropped STP with Dennis Hopper and Brian Jones.

By the time the Grateful Dead were finished, the acid was coming on. The way the other members of Jimi's band looked, and with Jimi's LSD experience mushrooming, you could tell that something extraordinary was about to happen. Jimi looked like a Martian warrior with his sonic weapon around his neck. He was draped with scarves and lace. His hair was teased into a thick black tumbleweed.

As Jimi and Noel Redding plugged into their monolithic amps and Mitch Mitchell took his place behind the drums, a low-intensity feedback hum began somewhere in the monitors. It created an air of trepidation. Rather than try to kill the hum, Jimi played with it. It was all part of Jimi's sound. He used every sound a guitar could possibly make.

Brian Jones was introduced and emerged from the dark to stage center. His flowing robes and electric clothes lit up the stage. As soon as people heard his name, they sat up and took notice. The great Brian Jones was here!

They stood and applauded. Brian absorbed it all, his badly bruised ego healing nicely in the Mediterranean climate of Monterey Bay.

A professional voice made the announcement.

“And now … the next act … is one of the hottest bands from England … led by an American … Jimi Hendrix. Here to introduce him, all the way over from London, is Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones!”

Brian grinned.

“Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from England, Brian Jones!”

The crowd gave Brian a standing ovation. They cheered and clapped. Brian waited for it to pass.

Brian stepped up to the microphone. He wasted no time at all.

“I'd like to introduce you to a very good friend of mine. He's a brilliant performer and has the most exciting sound I've ever heard. The Jimi Hendrix Experience!”

A smattering of applause, more for Brian than for Jimi, trickled around the venue. No one had any idea who Jimi Hendrix was or what they were supposed to experience when he hit that stage.

And then the intro was over, and Jimi rolled his guitar's volume control from zero to ten in one easy motion, letting the feedback begin the introduction to the Muddy Waters classic “Killin' Floor Blues.”

Hendrix's set was short and sweet—nine songs in total. At first, people didn't know what to make of it. They did notice the guitar playing, though; that was hard to miss. The manic energy of Jimi's performance made the air crackle. Jimi chewed gum to work off excess energy, and his jaw moved so fast at times it looked like he was grinding his teeth. His patter between songs was nearly unintelligible, delivered in short bursts of hipster jive, like a psychedelic Lord Buckley.

“Hey, baby, what's happenin'? Dig, you know what? Let's get down to business. Yeah, I tell you, brother, it's outta sight here, didn't even rain, no buttons to push … I'd like to dedicate this song to everybody here with hearts, any kind of hearts, and ears …”

He slid into “Like a Rolling Stone” by Bob Dylan like a thief, starting up a riff that couldn't possibly be it, but then it was. He ran through the set list like a maniac, devouring each song, milking every minute. His guitar work was revolutionary. No one had ever heard anything like it before. Like Charlie Parker or Louis Armstrong, Hendrix was an American original, a true genius. Everyone at the fairgrounds realized it at the same time. Suddenly, it was all okay. They got it.

He won the audience over in one song and took them on a journey they would never forget. He played the Stratocaster behind his back, with his teeth, with his tongue, over his head, and every conceivable way to make a noise.

He blasted through his first single, “Hey Joe.” Then it was three Hendrix originals in row. “Can You See Me?” “The Wind Cries Mary.” “Purple Haze.”

There comes a time in every show when you know something is coming, but you don't know what it is. But you know it's out there, coming fast, and it's gonna hit you like a mystery asteroid. Clovis, Brian, and Dust Bin Bob felt that moment approaching. The hair on their arms stood up.

Their ears were ringing from the volume. A constant hum vibrated somewhere in the sound system. Jimi kept everything turned all the way up, all the faders and dials, the amp, treble, bass, and middle, master volume, distortion, all up to ten. His guitar ceased to be a guitar. It became a theremin, a foghorn, a freight train, a chorus of heavenly angels, a train wreck, and a garbage truck.

He's still chewing that same piece of gum
, Clovis thought.
That's remarkable staying power, I wonder if here's any flavor left?

Jimi began to talk. He rambled on in a stoned monologue.

“You know, I could sit up here and say thank you, thank you, thank you … But, I wish I could just grab you, man. … But dig, man, I just can't do that. So what I'm gonna do is sacrifice something that I really love.”

Just then Noel Redding thumped his bass to check the tuning. Jimi paused and looked at him.

“Thank you very much from Bob Dylan's grandmother.”

Noel stopped.

“So, anyway, I'm gonna sacrifice something that I really love, and don't think I'm silly, because I don't think I'm losing my mind, although last night … Ooh God … Wait! Wait! Anyway, I'm not losing my mind, but this is for everybody here, this is the only way I can do it. This is the English and American anthem combined. Don't get mad. I want everybody to join in, too.”

An extended free-form feedback solo the likes of which no one had ever heard before began. Jimi coaxed sounds out of the guitar that were almost human.

Now Hendrix was pointing to his ears. What did that mean? Was he signaling the monitor man to turn up his monitor? The monitor man had given up and had gone over to the beer concession long ago. Was he signaling to turn up the main house system? Who knew anymore?

Hendrix went through a simulation of sex with his guitar. He humped it, stroked it, pulled the most nasty sounds out of it. The night took on a strangeness that made it all seem overly psychedelic. It certainly was for Jimi, who was tripping like mad the entire time he was onstage.

How was that possible?

Then the moment came that swept them all away, the one that would be remembered as one of those defining moments in rock and roll history where time stands still and you're sucked into the black hole of genius.

Jimi humped his guitar into his amp. He violently smashed it into the speaker cabinet while wild shrieks of feedback howled. It was much more sexual that when Pete Townsend did it. Jimi made love to his guitar. Finally, he got on top of it and grabbed the whammy bar and rode the guitar like he'd rode Renee the night before. The feedback squealed like it was having an orgasm. The bump and grind of Jimi's hips were hard to misinterpret. For the first time onstage or anywhere, this was shrieking guitar sex.

Jimi fell to his knees. His guitar lay in front of him, and he bent over and kissed it. The lighter fluid came out of nowhere. He just seemed to have it in his hands all of a sudden. He squirted lighter fluid all over the guitar. Then he took an ordinary book of cardboard matches and struck one. It flared yellow and bright. Jimi held it for a moment, then tossed it onto the guitar.

The guitar went up like a signal fire. The body of the guitar burst into flames. The finish of the guitar began to crack and bubble. Jimi tossed the guitar high in the air and let it fall. The Stratocaster's neck snapped off. The guitar kept burning. He picked it up and swung it over his head bashing it into the ground. The burning pickups in the guitar body were still sending out a signal, and the guitar cried for mercy.

Bobby and Clovis took a look at Brian. He was rapt. His eyes were as big as saucers. He was completely sucked into the performance.

As Jimi's guitar died its final death, he tossed the severed neck to Clovis who was sitting in the front row. Brian was transfixed. His life had changed yet again. Julius Cheeks, Janis Joplin, Ravi Shankar, Otis Redding, the Who, and now Jimi Hendrix, it had been quite a ride. He would never be the same musically again. He had seen too much.

He looked at Bobby as Jimi left the stage. Tears were streaming down his face.

“That was amazing …”

The Mamas and the Papas were about go on next and close out the festival. But it had already been closed out. And, like Pete Townsend said, nobody could follow Hendrix. Not now, not ever.