Starting At Zero

by Jimi Hendrix

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION BY PETER NEAL

  CHAPTER ONE: VOODOO CHILD

  (NOVEMBER 1942–JULY 1962)

  CHAPTER TWO: HIGHWAY CHILE

  (JULY 1962–SEPTEMBER 1966)

  CHAPTER THREE: ARE YOU EXPERIENCED?

  (SEPTEMBER 1966–JUNE 1967)

  CHAPTER FOUR: BOLD AS LOVE

  (JUNE 1967–AUGUST 1967)

  CHAPTER FIVE: EZY RIDER

  (AUGUST 1967–JANUARY 1968)

  CHAPTER SIX: STONE FREE

  (FEBRUARY 1968–DECEMBER 1968)

  CHAPTER SEVEN: ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

  (JANUARY 1969–JUNE 1969)

  CHAPTER EIGHT: EARTH BLUES

  (JULY 1969–JANUARY 1970)

  CHAPTER NINE: NINE TO THE UNIVERSE

  (FEBRUARY 1970–SEPTEMBER 1970)

  CREDITS AND PICTURE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  SOURCES LINK

  INTRODUCTION

  TO ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES THIS BOOK HAS BEEN WRITTEN BY JIMI HENDRIX. But since it has been compiled posthumously, it seems only fair to offer an explanation as to how the final text was arrived at.

  In a way, even the idea for the book came from Jimi himself. It evolved out of a film biography of him I was working on with Alan Douglas. Not wishing to put words into Jimi’s mouth, we began experimenting with dialogue culled from records of things he had actually said. An enormous dossier was compiled from all sources that could be definitively authenticated. There was a superabundance of material, since during his four years in the spotlight, he was constantly giving interviews. He was also a compulsive writer, using hotel stationery, scraps of paper, cigarette cartons, napkins – anything that came to hand.

  Although extracts from some of these interviews and writings have been published before, they have all too often been commandeered to support other people’s ideas about his life and music. Yet on reading through all the available material, it is clear that Jimi left behind his own remarkable and comprehensive account of himself, albeit in a fragmented and somewhat elliptical manner. We felt it imperative that, amongst the plethora of myths and half-truths, Jimi should be allowed to offer his own personal version of his life and music.

  Starting At Zero is the result of reorganizing this material into a narrative order. As a filmmaker, it seemed only natural to go about the task as if I were editing documentary film footage. The fact that Jimi’s speech patterns are so rhythmic and his turns of phrase so visually rich served to enhance this approach. In a remarkable and haunting way, the book took on a life of its own. It began to develop of its own free will, so much so that I began to wonder, if this is “ghost writing,” exactly which one of us is the ghost? In saying that, I suppose what I’m really doing is paying tribute to the extraordinary power of Jimi’s presence through his words.

  In fact, he told his story so well that I had to take very few liberties. Apart from eliminating repetitions, I have very occasionally combined sentences or changed grammar where it seemed necessary to clarify the meaning. Also, because the source material was not originally intended to be used in this way, I have added brief notes to give essential background information and assist the continuity of events. Lyrics are included not simply because they are referred to in the text, but also because the body of Jimi’s songs are in themselves autobiographical. He always claimed that for him, life and music were inseparable. In the absence of his music, which is the one true testimony, they constitute an essential poetic dimension.

  Jimi’s memories of the first twenty-three years of his life fell easily into a narrative order. For obvious reasons he never gave a clear and consecutive account of the last four years. He did, however, speak at length of the ideas that were forming in his mind and of the changes of perception and consciousness he was experiencing. Accordingly, as the book progresses, it becomes less an account of external events and more an exploration of an internal journey. This internal journey is the crux of the book – most appropriately, since the crossing of boundaries is at the heart of Jimi’s story.

  Up to some point the working title for this book was Letter To A Room Full Of Mirrors. The mirror was an image Jimi became obsessed with during the last years of his life. It can be seen as a symbol – or the threshold of the most important crossing of all. According to Native American traditions, the mirror of self-reflection represents our normal state of humanity, a state of self-imprisonment in which we view the world from a conditioned, repetitive and therefore non-creative standpoint. In these terms, to break the mirror of self-reflection means to reach beyond this limited world view to the infinite possibilities of the creative source itself.

  Such a one’s vision, ideas and inspirations come pristine from the primary springs of human life and thought. Hence they are eloquent, not of the present, disintegrating society and psyche, but of the unquenched source through which society is reborn. The hero has died as a modern man; but as eternal man – perfected, unspecific, universal man – he has been reborn. [JOSEPH CAMPBELL]

  If this book works at all, it is because Jimi was willing to speak about himself with such sensitivity, candor and humor. In this respect we must give special thanks to the many journalists who interviewed Jimi and to the collectors who recorded and preserved the material from which the book has been compiled. I would particularly like to thank Michael Fairchild for his tireless efforts in locating and authenticating the source material and also for his boundless enthusiasm and creative input; Christopher Mould for his invaluable support and participation during the difficult period of the genesis of the book; and Kevin Stein for his patience and sensitivity in helping me to finalize the last draft. Finally, I am eternally grateful to Alan Douglas for giving me the opportunity to work on such a deeply rewarding project. His knowledge and advice have throughout provided invaluable guidelines, and it is his foresight and dedication that have made it possible to produce this book.

  PETER NEAL

  I was born in Seattle,

  Washington,

  USA,

  on November 27th,

  1942

  at the age of

  ZERO.

  I REMEMBER A NURSE PUTTING A DIAPER ON ME and almost sticking me. I must have been in the hospital sick about something, because I remember I didn’t feel so good. Then she took me out of this crib and held me up to the window, and she was showing me something up against the sky. It was fireworks – so it must have been the Fourth of July. That nurse turned me on, being high on penicillin she probably gave me, and I was looking up and the sky was just …

  S s s c h u u s s s S c h u s h

  Our first trip there!

  I also remember when I was small enough to fit into a clothes basket. And I remember when I was only four and I wet my pants, and I stayed out in the rain for hours so I would get wet all over and my mom wouldn’t know. She knew though.

  Dad was very strict and levelheaded, but my mother used to like dressing up and having a good time. She used to drink a lot and didn’t take care of herself, but she was a groovy mother. There were family troubles between my mother and father. They used to break up all the time, and my brother and I used to go to different homes. I stayed mostly at my aunt’s and grandmother’s. I always had to be ready to go tippy-toeing off to Canada.

  My grandmother’s Indian. She’s part Cherokee. There’s a lot of people in Seattle that have Indian mixed in them. It’s just another part of our family, that’s all.

  I used to spend a lot of time on her reservation in Vancouver, British Columbia. There’s a lot of them on the reservation, man, and it was really terrible. Every single house is the same, and it’s not even a house, it’s like a hut. It’s just a really bad scene. Half of them are down on skid row, drinking and really
completely out of their minds. And they’re not doing anything. I used to get so mad that I just … just didn’t pay too much attention when the teacher told us that Indians are bad! I mean, in other words, “All Indians are bad because they’ve got the clap!”

  Now my grandma lives in a groovy apartment building in Vancouver. She has a television and a radio and stuff like that. She still has her long silvery hair though.

  When I was little she used to tell me beautiful Indian stories, and the kids at school would laugh when I wore the shawls and poncho things she made. You know, the regular sob story. She gave me a little Mexican jacket with tassels. It was real good, and I wore it to school every day in spite of what people might have thought, just because I liked it. I liked to be different.

  [AL AND LUCILLE HENDRIX DIVORCED IN DECEMBER OF 1950. JIMMY AND HIS YOUNGER BROTHER LEON REMAINED WITH THEIR FATHER. JIMMY SAW HIS MOTHER FOR THE LAST TIME IN JANUARY OF 1958. SHE DIED THE FOLLOWING MONTH.]

  There’s a dream I had when I was real little about my mother being carried away on these camels. It was a big caravan, and you could see the shadows of the leaf patterns across her face. You know how the sun shines through a tree? Well, these were green and yellow shadows. And she was saying to me, “Well, I won’t be seeing you too much anymore, you know, so I’ll see you.”

  About two years after that she died. I always will remember that one. I never did forget. There’s some dreams you NEVER forget.

  MOSTLY MY DAD TOOK CARE OF ME. He was religious, and I used to go to Sunday school. He taught me that I must respect my elders always. I couldn’t speak unless I was spoken to first by grown-ups. So I’ve always been very quiet. But I saw a lot of things. A fish wouldn’t get into trouble if he kept his mouth shut.

  My dad was a gardener, and he’d once been an electrician. We weren’t too rich! It got pretty bad in the winter when there wasn’t any grass to cut. He used to cut my hair like a skinned chicken, and all my friends used to call me “Slick Bean.”

  I used to be really lonely. I’d bring a stray dog home every night till my pa let me keep one. Then it was the ugliest of them all. It was really “Prince Hendrix,” but we just called it dawg! I used to have cats too. I love animals. Deer and horses are the prettiest. I used to see a lot of deer around Seattle. One time I saw this deer, and something went through me for one second, like I’d seen him before. I mean it was like I had some real close connection with that deer for one split second. I said, “Wait!” and then it just went away.

  I went to school in Seattle, then Vancouver, British Columbia, where my folks came from. Then back to Seattle, at Garfield High School. On the whole my school was pretty relaxed. We had Chinese, Japanese, Puerto Ricans, Filipinos … We won all the football games!

  At school I used to write poetry a lot, and then I was really happy. My poems were mostly about flowers and nature and people wearing robes. I wanted to be an actor or a painter. I particularly liked to paint scenes on other planets – Summer Afternoon On Venus, and stuff like that.

  The idea of space travel excited me more than anything. The teacher used to say, “Paint three scenes,” and I’d do abstract stuff, like Martian Sunset, no bull!

  She’d say, “How are you feeling?”

  and I’d say something kind of spacey like,

  “Well, that depends on how the people on Mars are feeling.”

  I just didn’t know what else to say to her.

  I got tired of saying, “Fine, thank you.”

  She told me, “Well, you go to the front for that.” So I’d go into the little cubbyhole, just like the Gestapo motorcycles – the driver sits on the motorcycle and the commander sits in the cubbyhole. I never could sit with everybody else. My teacher sat next to me in the third grade and said, “Now this is an example!” and at the same time she was touching my kneecaps under the table.

  They said I used to be late all the time, but I was getting A’s and B’s. The real reason was I had a girlfriend in the art class, and we used to hold hands all the time. The art teacher didn’t dig that at all. She was very prejudiced.

  She said, “Mr. Hendrix, I’ll see you in the cloakroom in three seconds please.” In the cloakroom she said, “What do you mean talking to that white woman like that?” I said, “What are you, jealous?” She started crying, and I got thrown out. I cry easy.

  [JIMMY DROPPED OUT OF GARFIELDHIGH SCHOOL IN OCTOBER 1960, AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN.]

  I REMBER WHEN

  THEY THREW ME GENTLY OUT OF SCHOOL.

  THEY SAID I DON’T MEAN NO GOOD …

  AND I FELT SO PROUD THAT I SCREAMED

  SO LOUD, “GO TO HELL,

  OUT OF STYLE SCHOOL!”

  YOU WAIT & WAIT, STILL NOTHING

  COMES TO SAVE YOU FROM THIS

  BORING FATE OF LIVING LIKE AN ANGEL.

  YOU’RE ALWAYS DOING RIGHT, NEVER HAVE

  TO FIGHT, NEVER GET AN APPETITE

  FOR TAKING YOUR FIRST STEP

  AROUND THE CORNER.

  I left school early. School was nothing for me. I wanted something to happen to me. My father told me to look for a job. So that’s what I did for a couple of weeks. I worked for my father. I had to work very hard. We had to carry stones and cement all day, and he pocketed the money. He didn’t pay me. He just kept all the money for himself. I didn’t want to work so hard for so little money, so I started bumming around with the kids.

  Sometimes, with a couple of friends we’d hit a cop, and we’d have a helluva fight a half hour later. Sometimes you’d end up in jail, but you’d eat very well. Most of the cops were bloody bastards, but there were also some very good ones. They were more personal – they wouldn’t hit you so hard, and you could eat better then. But it all got very boring after a while.

  Lots of kids have it tough. Jesus! I couldn’t stand it at home. I ran away a couple of times because I was so miserable. Once I ran away after a blazing row with my dad. He hit me in the face, and I ran away. When my dad found out I’d gone he went pretty mad with worry. But then I didn’t really care about other people’s feelings. I came home when I realized my dad was upset. Not that I cared but, well, he is my dad. I don’t think my dad ever thought I was going to make it. I was the kid who didn’t do the right thing.

  TEARS BURNING ME

  TEARS BURNING ME IN MY EYES

  WAY DOWN, WAY DOWN IN MY SOUL.

  TEARS BURNING ME IN MY SOUL …

  WELL, I GOTTA LEAVE THIS TOWN

  GONNA BE A VOODOO CHILE

  AND TRY TO BE A MAGIC BOY.

  COME BACK AND BUY THIS TOWN

  COME BACK AND BUY THIS TOWN

  AND PUT IT ALL IN MY SHOE

  MIGHT EVEN GIVE A PIECE TO YOU!

  When I was upstairs at home the grown-ups had parties, listening to Muddy Waters, Elmore James, Howlin’ Wolf and Ray Charles. That sound was really not evil, just a thick sound. I’d sneak down after and eat potato chips and smoke butts. The Grand Ol’ Opry used to come on, and I used to watch that. They used to have some heavy cats, heavy guitar players.

  The first guitarist I was aware of was Muddy Waters. I heard one of his records when I was a little boy, and it scared me to death because I heard all those sounds. Wow! What was all that about? It was great. I liked Muddy Waters when he had only two guitars, harmonica and bass drum. Things like Rollin’ And Tumblin’ were what I liked – that real primitive guitar sound.

  My dad danced and played the spoons. My first instrument was a harmonica, which I got when I was about four, I suppose. Next it was a violin. I always dug string instruments and pianos, but I wanted something I could take home or anywhere, and I couldn’t take home a piano.

  Then I started digging guitars. Everybody’s house you went into seemed to have one lying around. One night my dad’s friend was stoned, and he sold me his guitar for five dollars. I didn’t know that I would have to put the strings ’round the other way because I was left-handed, but it just didn’t feel right. I can remember thinking to myself, “Ther
e’s something wrong here.”

  I changed the strings ’round, but it was way out of tune when I’d finished. I didn’t know a thing about tuning, so I went down to the store and ran my fingers across the strings on a guitar they had there. After that I was able to tune my own.

  I was about fourteen or fifteen when I started playing guitar. I played in my backyard at home, and kids used to gather ’round and said it was cool. Then I got tired of the guitar and put it aside. But when I heard Chuck Berry it revived my interest.

  I learned all the riffs I could. I never had any lessons. I learned guitar from records and the radio. I loved my music, man. I’d go out to the back porch there in Seattle, because I didn’t want to stay in the house all the time, and I’d play guitar to a Muddy Waters record. You see, I wasn’t ever interested in any other things, just the music. I was trying to play like Chuck Berry and Muddy Waters. Trying to learn everything and anything.

  WHEN I WAS SEVENTEEN I FORMED THIS GROUP with some other guys, but they drowned me out. I didn’t know why at first, but after about three months I realized I’d have to get an electric guitar. My first was a Danelectro, which my dad bought for me. Must have busted him for a long time. But I had to show him I could play first. In those days I just liked rock and roll, I guess. We used to play stuff by people like the Coasters. Anyway, you all had to do the same things before you could join a band. You even had to do the same steps. I started looking around for places to play. I remember my first gig was at an armory, a National Guard place, and we earned thirty-five cents apiece and three hamburgers.

  It was so hard for me at first. I knew about three songs, and when it was time for us to play onstage I was all shaky, so I had to play behind the curtains. I just couldn’t get up in front. And then you get so very discouraged. You hear different bands playing around you, and the guitar player always seems like he’s so much better than you are.