On this date in 1970, Jimi Hendrix died.
But he’s been with me for the last 48 years. Frank sang “My Way” yet, for me, Jimi’s life spoke more powerfully to the notion of living on your own terms. Screw the naysayers. Just go for it.
Did I ever tell you my Jimi Hendrix story for Real New Yorkers? I thought not. Once upon a time, in the late 60s, my friends Larry and Billy decided to head down to Manny’s on music row in Manhattan, to buy some strings and drum sticks and, in the process, drool over gold top Les Pauls and sunburst Strats.
They asked me to come with them, but I was lazy, and said “nah, not this time.” I’d gone with them before, and we ended up spending most of our time standing on the sidewalk and ogling the go-go girls from behind the velvet rope of the Metropole, which was around the corner from Manny’s.
This time was different.
They walked to the Grand Concourse and took the IND downtown. Later that Saturday, they accosted me — in a fevered state — while I sat on the stoop.
Billy took a sales slip from Manny’s from his shirt pocket. “You really blew it, Kleinman!!!” they shouted.
They shoved the slip in front of my face. On it, in rococo ballpoint script, were these words:
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Be groovy
Jimi
I could not believe it. But they saw him. They spoke to him. And I missed the chance of a lifetime.
I tried to stay “groovy” — in my own way — all these years. I tried to “do it my way.” I really tried. And I’m going to keep trying, no matter what.
Thanks Jimi. Really, man. Thanks so much.
Alev Hasholem.
https://vimeo.com/244514890