Starting At Zero

by Jimi Hendrix

  You wouldn’t think this sort of thing happens till it happens to you. But I can tell you it’s real scary when it does. Around the southern states they have scenes like that. I saw it. If I see it happen or if I feel it happen, then I believe it. A person gives off certain electric shocks anyway, so if the vibrations are strong enough to get these charms working, they can actually do it.

  THEN I WENT TO NEW YORK and won first place in the Apollo amateur contest, you know, twenty-five dollars. I dig playing at the Apollo Theater. So I stayed up there, starved up there for two or three weeks. I’d get a gig once every twelfth of never. I lived in very miserable circumstances. Sleeping among the garbage cans between them tall tenements was hell. Rats runnin’ all across your chest, cockroaches stealin’ your last candy bar from your very pockets. I even tried to eat orange peel and tomato paste.

  People would say, “If you don’t get a job you’ll just starve to death.” But I didn’t want to take a job outside music. I tried a few, including car delivery, but I always quit after a week or two. I’d worry a bit about not having any money but not enough to go out and rob a bank.

  Then one of the Isley Brothers heard me playing in a club and said he had a job open. So I played with the Isley Brothers for a while, and they used to make me do my thing (play with my teeth, etc.), because it made them more bucks or something. Most groups I was with didn’t let me do my own thing.

  But it wasn’t so groovy after all. I had to sleep in the clubs where they were playing, and there were a lot of cockroaches and rats. The bastard animals were all over you during the night! I quit the Isley Brothers in Nashville. I got tired of playing in the key of F all the time, so I turned in my white mohair silk suit and patent leather shoes and began playing on the street corners again.

  After a couple of months there was a soul package coming into town with Sam Cooke, Solomon Burke, Jackie Wilson, Hank Ballard, B.B. King and Chuck Jackson, and I got a little job playing in the backup band. I learned an awful lot of guitar picking behind all those names every night.

  Then I got stranded in Kansas City, Missouri, because I missed the bus and didn’t have any money. This group came up and brought me back to Atlanta, Georgia, where I met Little Richard. I had to do an audition with him and he liked me, so I started playing with him for a while. But I got the feeling that I couldn’t really develop under his influence.

  He wouldn’t let me wear frilly shirts on stage. Once, me and Glen Willings got fancy shirts because we were tired of wearing the uniform. After the show Little Richard said,

  “Brothers, we’ve got to have a meeting.

  and I’m the only one who’s going to look pretty on stage.

  Glen and Jimmy, will you please turn in those shirts

  or else you will have to suffer the consequences of a fine.”

  He had another meeting over my hairstyle. I said I wasn’t going to cut my hair for nobody.

  “That’ll be a five dollar fine for you.”

  If our shoelaces were two different types we’d get fined five dollars.

  Everybody on the tour was brainwashed.

  I guess I played with Little Richard for about five or six months. I worked with him all over America, finally landing in Los Angeles where I had enough of Richard. I quit because of a money misunderstanding. He didn’t pay us for five and a half weeks. You can’t live on promises when you’re on the road, so I had to cut that mess loose.

  I WENT BACK TO NEW YORK and played with this little rhythm and blues group named Curtis Knight and the Squires. I made a few records and arranged a few songs for him. I also played with King Curtis and Joey Dee. I played Cleveland Arena with Joey Dee and the Starliters, in some rhythm and blues show that had Chubby Checker in it.

  Mind you, I jumped from the frying pan into the fire when I joined with Joey Dee and the Starliters. This is an outasight group – but! Nobody talked to me. I was just another Negro guitarist. So after sucking on a “Peppermint Twist” salary I had to quit and began playing with a jukebox band. I finally quit that too.

  I had nothing but a “wish sandwich” – two pieces of bread, wishing I had some meat between.

  LETTER HOME FROM NEW YORK, AUGUST 1965:

  I just want to let you know I’m still here, trying to make it. Although I don’t eat every day, everything’s going alright for me. I still have my guitar and amp, and as long as I have that, no fool can keep me from living.

  There’s a few record companies I visited that I probably can record for. I think I’ll start working toward that line because when you’re playing behind other people you’re still not making a big name for yourself, as you would if you were working for yourself. But I went on the road with other people to get exposed to the public and see how business is taken care of, and mainly just to see what’s what. After I put a record out, there’ll be a few people who know me already and who can help with the sale of the record. Nowadays people don’t want you to sing good. They want you to sing sloppy and have a good beat to your songs. That’s what angle I’m going to shoot for. That’s where the money is. So just in case about three or four months from now you might hear a record by me which sounds terrible, don’t feel ashamed, just wait until the money rolls in, because every day people are singing worse and worse on purpose and the public buys more and more records.

  It could be worse than this, but I’m going to keep hustling and scuffling until I get things to happening like they’re supposed to for me. Tell everyone I said hello. Leon, Grandma, Ben, Ernie, Frank, Mary, Barbara and so forth. Please write soon. It’s pretty lonely out here by myself. Best luck and happiness in the future.

  Love, your son Jimmy

  I just got tired, man. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I can’t tell you the number of times it hurt me to play the same notes, the same beat. I was just a kind of shadowy figure up there, out of sight of the real meaning. I wanted my own scene, making my own music. I always wanted a lot, you know? I really, really did. I was starting to see that you could create a whole new world with an electric guitar, because there isn’t a sound like it in the whole world!

  I had these ideas and sounds in my brain, but I needed people to do it with and they were hard to find. I had friends with me in Harlem, and I’d say, “C’mon down to the Village so we can get something together.”

  But they were lazy, they were scared, plus they didn’t think they were going to get paid. I said, “Quite naturally you won’t get paid on the audition, because it’s us going down there and being aggressive, it’s us filtering down to them. So there’s a few things you have to give up in the beginning.” They didn’t want to do that, so I just went down to the Village and started playing like I wanted.

  IN GREENWICH VILLAGE people were more friendly than in Harlem, where it’s all cold and mean. I couldn’t stand it there because they talk about you worse than anyplace else! When I was staying in Harlem my hair was really long, and sometimes I might tie it up or do something with it. I’d be walking down the street, and all of a sudden the cats, or girls, old ladies – anybody! – would be just peekin’ out, sayin’,

  “Ough, what’s this supposed to be?

  Black Jesus?”

  or

  “What is this, the circus or something?”

  God! Even in your own section.

  Your own people hurt you more.

  The Village was groovy. I’d just lay around and play for about two dollars a night and then try to find a place to stay. You had to chat someone up real quick before you had a place to stay. I got a break playing guitar for John Hammond Jr. at the Cafe Au Go Go. That was great because the ceiling was really low and dusty. I’d stick the guitar right up into the ceiling. It was like war. You didn’t even need a smoke bomb!

  WHEN I WAS DOWN IN THE VILLAGE Bob Dylan was also starving down there. I saw him one time, but both of us were stoned out of our minds thanks to demon ale. It was at this place called the Kettle of Fish. I remember it vaguely. We were both stoned and just h
ung around laughing. Yeah, we just laughed.

  When I first heard Dylan I thought, you must admire the guy for having that much nerve to sing so out of key. But then I started listening to the words. That sold me.

  I used to get bored so quickly by anybody and everything. That’s why I went towards Dylan, because he offered me something completely new. He used to have a pad with him all the time to put down what he saw around him. He doesn’t have to be stoned when he writes, although he probably is. A cat like that just doesn’t have to be. I could never write the kind of words he does, but he’s helped me out in trying to write because I’ve got a thousand songs that will never be finished. I just lie around and write about two or three words, but now I have a little more confidence in trying to finish one.

  POSTCARD TO AL HENDRIX, 1966:

  Dear Dad.

  Well ... I’m just dropping in a few words to let you know everything’s so-so in this big raggedy city of New York. Everything’s happening bad here. I hope everyone at home is alright. Tell Leon I said hello. I’ll write you a letter real soon and will try to send you a decent picture. So until then I hope you’re doing alright. Tell Ben and Ernie I play the blues like they NEVER heard.

  Love always, Jimmy

  The first real group I got together on my own was with Randy California. That would be around the beginning of 1966, I guess. I changed my name to Jimmy James and called the group the Blue Flames. Not exactly original, was it?

  Almost immediately we got offers from Epic and CBS, but I didn’t feel we were completely ready then. Record companies had started to show a little interest in me when I was playing at the Cafe Au Go Go, and a year before Mick Jagger had tried to get me on a tour. But my big slice of luck came when a little English friend persuaded Chas Chandler, the bass player of the Animals, to come down where we were gigging and give an ear.

  The Animals were doing their last gig as a group in Central Park, you know, “mouth the words.” Chas came down and heard me and asked would I like to come over to England and start a group there. He seemed like a pretty sincere guy, and I’d never been to England before.

  I said, “I might as well go,” because that’s the way I live my life. I’d never been to Memphis, so I’d starve my way down there. I didn’t have any roots in the States that would hang me up, and it doesn’t matter which bit of the world I’m in as long as I’m living and putting things down. Plus, I thought I could play louder over there, I could really get myself together over there. There wouldn’t be so many hang-ups as there were in America, you know, mental hang-ups and things like that. I was getting all uptight with the American scene. The country wasn’t opening up the way England was.

  I only hope that the guys I left behind are all right. We were making something near three dollars a night, and we were starving. The way I left was kinda wrong. They all thought they were going, but it was easier for me to go alone. I felt kind of rotten about leaving just like that because we weren’t living too much, you dig?

  I always had a feeling that, if my mind was right, I’d get a break someday. It took a long time, knocking around and playing a lot of dates that didn’t pay very well, but I figure it was worth it. Oh, man! I don’t think I could have stood another year of playing behind people.

  I’m glad Chas rescued me.

  I’m in England, Dad.

  I met some people, and they’re going to make me a big star.

  We changed my name to …

  JIMI.

  That’s when I came to England. They kept me waiting at the airport for three or four hours because I didn’t have a work permit. At one point there was talk of sending me back to New York until it was all sorted out. They carried on like I was going to make all the money in England and take it back to the States!

  I moved into a flat with Chas Chandler. It used to belong to Ringo. In fact, they only took the drums away the other day. There’s stereo all over the place and a very kinky bathroom with lots of mirrors. Immediately complaints started to pour in. We used to get complaints about loud, late parties when we were out of town! We’d come back next morning and hear all the complaints. Chas got real mad about it, but I didn’t let it bug me.

  THE FIRST TIME I PLAYED GUITAR in England I sat in with Cream. I like the way Eric Clapton plays. His solos sound just like Albert King. Eric is just too much. And Ginger Baker, he’s like an octopus, man. He’s a real natural drummer. When you see him working all you can see are arms and legs.

  I couldn’t work too much because I didn’t have a permit. If I was going to stay in England I had to get enough jobs to have a long permit. So what we had to do was line up a lot of gigs. Chas knows lots of telephone numbers. He helped me find my bassist and drummer and form the Jimi Hendrix Experience. It was very hard to find the right sidemen, people who were feeling the same as me.

  After a lot of tryouts we had a jam, and Noel Redding came ’round. He’d come to audition for the New Animals, and we happened to be in the same building. Noel likes nice gutsy rock and used to play lead guitar in a group named The Loving Kind. Chas asked him to try playing the bass, and I dug his hairstyle and it worked out perfect. Noel thinks lead when he plays bass. Almost every great bass player does that. I picked him because he could play ANYTHING on the bass.

  Mitch Mitchell was the best we heard out of about twenty drummers. He used to play with Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames, and he’d just quit the group about two days before. He’s more of a classic drummer, more of a funky R&B type drummer. Mitch is a jazz addict, and he keeps on about this cat Elvin Jones all the time. He played me a record once by Elvin Jones, and I said, “Damn, that’s you!”

  I was thinking of the smallest piece [group] possible with the hardest impact. If it had taken two or twenty or ten – but it came out as a trio, which is great. I figure that if you have a rhythm guitar player it’s going to slow down the whole thing, because you have to show him exactly what you want. If you want to do something, it’s best to do it yourself, right?

  We did try the organ for about fifteen minutes, and it didn’t work out. It made us sound like just anybody. With this trio lineup we are very flexible. We can still improvise quite a bit, which is lacking from too many other groups. If I’d had two blues men with me we would have gone straight into one bag, the blues, and that’s not for me. I mean, I love the blues, but I wouldn’t want to play it all night. There are some blues that just make me sick. I feel nothing from it. And we’re not going in for any of this Midnight Hour kick.

  No “Gotta, gotta, gotta,”

  because we don’t “have ta, have ta, have ta!”

  We don’t want to be classed in any category. My music isn’t pop. It’s ME. My guitar is my notes, our notes, regardless of where they came from.

  We’re trying to create our own personal sound, our own music and our own personal being. We are into our own personal history, what we are, until we have settled down inside of us.

  It’s a real foundation thing, like where you can imagine from.

  It’s very primitive thought, you know.

  That’s why I like us being called the EXPERIENCE.

  It’s right.

  {OCTOBER 13–18, 1966, JOHNNY HALLYDAY TOUR}

  Four days after we got together we were playing at the Paris Olympia with Johnny Hallyday, who is like the French Elvis. We got together with Midnight Hour, Land Of A Thousand Dances, Everyone Needs Someone To Love and Respect. I adore the audience at Olympia, it’s incredible. Paris Olympia is the biggest thing in Europe, and the kids there are like the kids at the Apollo in Harlem. I mean they really know what’s going on. You know if you’re no good you might die that night. That first time we played there they sat open-mouthed and didn’t know how to accept us. But they still listened. That’s one thing I really dug. It was beautiful.

  When we get on stage we click, and I guess that’s what really counts. Mitch and Noel are both excellent musicians in their own right, and they complement everything I do with taste a
nd imagination. When we’re jamming out there we try to listen to each other. We don’t compromise with each other very much. Like one guy thinks one thing, and he’s going to stick with that one thing. Sure, we don’t always totally agree on what our music will do, but somehow we combine what we know best, somehow we make a song.

  Part of the whole thing is seeing the reaction the group gets when we walk out onstage. We play really hard in the clubs. The club managers think we are an abomination, but the public thinks it’s awesome. One time, we played at the new London club the Upper Cut where we had about five thousand turn up. It scared me half to death when I saw all those people out there! But I just went on and did what I felt like, and everything worked out all right.

  At the Saville Theatre I had this gadget on the guitar that every time I hit a certain note the lights would go up. I would like to someday play a note and have it come out as a color with lights and film. That’ll be the total experience!

  The Beatles used to come and see us sometimes, like at the Saville Theatre, and Paul McCartney told me they were planning to do a film [Magical Mystery Tour], and he wanted us to be in this film. We weren’t known then and McCartney was trying to help us, but we got a nice break before they got the movie together.

  The Beatles and the Stones are all such beautiful cats off record, but it’s a family thing, such a family thing, that sometimes it all begins to sound alike. Sometimes you don’t want to be part of the family. I believe soon all the English records will sound alike, just like Motown all sound alike. That’s nice in a way, but what happens if you have your own thing going?