Painted Black

by Greg Kihn

  So Big Brother and the Holding Company were brought back for a second time on the following afternoon, and Janis knocked them dead. But in the tension-filled minutes just before that second show, Janis was nervous. She knew what she had to do. That seemed so easy on stage at the Fillmore in front of her fans, but here in the bright sunshine in front of people she didn’t know, it was daunting.

  To see her now with Renee buzzing around her like a honeybee made Brian apprehensive.

  He was ready to leave without saying a word when the rest of the band spotted him.

  “Brian! Hey, man! Wanna smoke a joint?”

  Janis looked up. “Brian Jones? I heard he was around. I want to meet him.”

  “I’ll introduce you,” said Renee.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Renee pulled Janis Joplin over to Brian Jones and Janis blushed like a schoolgirl.

  “Janis Joplin meet Brian Jones. Brian Jones meet Janis Joplin.”

  Brian hugged Janis.

  “I’m such a Stones fan,” she said. “I love you guys.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Brian. “Good luck on your show. I’ll be watching.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  Brian looked at Renee and frowned.

  “Renee, what are you doing here bothering Janis right before her show?”

  “Oh, she’s not bothering me, she’s doing my hair and makeup,” Janis said innocently.

  “She’s trouble.”

  Janis giggled. “Trouble, eh? They said I was trouble, too.”

  “Just watch out for this one,” Brian said.

  He didn’t want to bring up the fact that he thought Renee was a narc right before the show. It was sure to distract Janis.

  Backstage and up close, Janis was not what the show biz types would call a knockout, but when she sang, she became beautiful.

  When Brian and Nico made it back to their seats, Big Brother and the Holding Company were just finishing their first song “Down on Me” with Janis belting out the vocals like her life depended on it. By the time she got to the final song, “Ball and Chain,” the audience was wrecked. She blew the lid off the place. In fact, “Ball and Chain” had so much impact that the film crew asked them to perform it a second time to make sure they had a complete version. Janis happily complied and the audience felt like they were in on the moviemaking. Janis just kept getting better.

  Brian was enchanted.

  Bobby and Clovis followed Brian past security into the performer’s area just in time to witness a backstage argument between Jimi Hendrix and Pete Townsend of the Who. The Who were known for destroying their instruments at the end of the set, and Hendrix had been doing much the same lately, but taking it one step further by setting his guitar on fire. The Who were scheduled to perform after Jimi Hendrix on Sunday, the final night of the festival. Pete was beseeching Jimi to let the Who go on first. A showdown was brewing.

  Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and Brian happened along at just the right time.

  Pete grabbed his idol, the famous Rolling Stone.

  “Brian! Who should go on first, the Who or Jimi? We can’t follow Jimi, you know that, nobody can. I’d rather not look like a fool.”

  Jimi said, “That’s not what you really mean. What you really mean is you don’t want me to go on first. You want to be first up there with the guitar smashing.”

  Pete took exception. “Jimi, I swear, that’s not what this is about.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why are you so sensitive about it?”

  The two musicians were used to getting their own way. Both were tenacious, some would say ruthless. Neither one would back down.

  Chas Chandler, Jimi’s manager and former member of the original Animals, spoke up.

  “Are the Who saying they won’t go on unless they go on before Jimi Hendrix?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” Pete said. “If anybody should go on last it should be Jimi, he leaves the audience completely drained.”

  “But the fact remains, the Who will be the first to smash their guitars and that’s what you’re asking.”

  Clovis laughed and broke the tension. “It’s like that old Abbott and Costello bit ‘Who’s On First?’”

  Brian and Pete looked at Clovis.

  “Who are Abbott and Costello?”

  Dust Bin Bob spoke up. “Hey, I’ve got an idea that’s completely fair. Why don’t we flip a coin? One coin toss, winner takes all.”

  Both parties agreed.

  “Pete, you call it in the air, okay?”

  Bobby got a quarter out of his pocket and showed it around.

  “George Washington is heads, and the eagle is tails. Gentlemen, here we go.”

  Bobby expertly flipped the quarter and caught it in midair and slapped it on his wrist.

  As soon as it left his hand, Pete called, “Heads!”

  Bobby withdrew his hand to show the quarter head’s up.

  “Heads, it is. The Who go on first. That’s that.”

  Clovis, still wisecracking, said, “It really doesn’t matter does it? Years from now, all people will remember about this night is the Association.”

  “The Association? You mean ‘Along Comes Mary’?” They all cracked up. Clovis had managed to defuse the situation. Jimi Hendrix and the Who couldn’t be farther from the light pop of the Association.

  As showtime got closer for the Who, they seemed to be more than a little nervous. They had performed their equipment-smashing routine many times in the UK, but never in America. Pete Townsend wasn’t sure what kind of reaction they would get. The faces of the other musicians seemed to say “guitars are sacred; you don’t destroy them.” It takes most guitarists years to save up for their first professional model. And now the Who wants to destroy them over and over? What kind of madness was that?

  Who were the Who? And what was the message?

  Jimi, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. He would do anything he pleased.

  Filmmaker Dennis Hopper showed up backstage. Clovis and Bobby had been watching Brian like a hawk all day, but even then they couldn’t stop the secret exchange of STP that had taken place a few minutes earlier. More powerful than acid, it had the ability to seriously scramble your brains.

  Clovis said, “You didn’t drop acid, did you, Brian?”

  Brian grinned. “Nope. I dropped STP!”

  “Well, do me a favor, pardner. Don’t wander away from the wagon train, okay?”

  The Who stood ready on the side of the stage. They were introduced and ran out. They looked clean and stylish. Singer Roger Daltrey wore a silk cape and moved with professional vigor. He spun and dipped and strutted across the stage. The whole group dressed foppishly mod. Musically, they were interesting, yet somewhat tame among the shaggy hippie bands. Tunefully, somewhere between the Kinks and the Faces, their set was derived from their successful London shows. They started with “Substitute,” then Pete’s mini rock opera A Quick One While He’s Away. They followed quickly with “Happy Jack,” their current single. By the time they got to the last song, “My Generation,” the tension that had been building all night broke.

  Looking off to his left, Pete could see Hendrix watching him from the side of the stage with his arms crossed. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen next.

  Pete approached the microphone and said, “This is where it all”—he paused for a moment for dramatic effect—“ends.”

  They started “My Generation,” its two-chord intro as snotty an anthem as any teenage Frankenstein could dream. Pete windmilled his arms and struck upward on the strings, causing seismic ripples way out on Monterey Bay.

  Roger twirled the microphone like a lariat. He stuttered the lyrics on purpose, like a London mod on pills. Drummer Keith Moon never stopped soloing. It was one lo
ng drum fill from top to bottom. John Entwistle’s bass playing snarled against the high end of the guitar. He wasn’t actually playing bass lines, he was filling in the sound for half the band. The lower half.

  Pete’s windmilling grew more violent by the minute. At last, frustrated by just playing the guitar, he took the new Fender Stratocaster that he’s been using all set off his shoulder and started tossing it into the air. The first few times he caught it and spun it ever higher, then, shockingly, he let it crash to the stage, body first. The shock of watching a beautiful guitar being deliberately destroyed had incredible impact. Some people shouted, “No!” Others stood, ready to charge forward and save the guitar.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, it became chaos. The guitar’s neck broke leaving the guitar strings hanging. Pete still swung it over his head and pounded it down like he was chopping wood. Smoke bombs went off. Pete rammed the splintered neck of the guitar through his amplifier. The speakers howled and shrieked. Keith Moon kicked over his drums. Explosions went off.

  Many people in the audience, unable to make heads or tails of the Who’s destruction act, thought they’d gone insane. They stood and backed away from the stage, lest they be hit by flying shrapnel.

  Stagehands appeared and tried to save some of the microphones from certain destruction, but the Who were fanatical. John Entwistle stood stone still through the whole thing, calmly playing his bass, providing a fitting accompaniment to the shrieks and howls coming from Pete’s amplifier. Pete pushed over his 100-watt Marshall stack. It toppled like the walls of Jericho. Feedback began to double and triple and soon became earsplittingly loud. Pete and Roger wandered off the stage. Keith gave his drums a final kick and then he, too, was gone. Finally, John was the only one. He riffed for another minute, calmly removed his bass and gently handed it to a roadie.

  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.