"I've been imitated so well I've heard people copy my mistakes."
Jimi Hendrix
In the history of recorded music, there may have been a debut album that was more influential and more dazzling than Jimi Hendrix's "Are You Experienced" — but I don't know what it was.
And from that relatively limited subset, fewer still could be said to have altered the popular music landscape, but "Are You Experienced" did.
"Are You Experienced" hit music stores 50 years ago today. Its most recognizable track, by far, has to be "Purple Haze," which Rolling Stone said possessed "one of the unforgettable opening riffs in rock: a ferocious, stomping guitar march, scarred with fuzz and built around the dissonant 'devil's interval' of the tritone. And it launched not one but two revolutions: late–'60s psychedelia and the unprecedented genius of Jimi Hendrix."
But the influence of "Are You Experienced" went far beyond a single song and continues today. In addition to "Purple Haze," three other songs from the album — "Foxey Lady," "Hey Joe" and "The Wind Cries Mary" — made Rolling Stone's list of the top 500 songs of all time.
In rating "Are You Experienced" No. 15 in its Top 500 albums of all time, Rolling Stone wrote that "Hendrix made soul music for inner space."
"Are You Experienced" was one of the earliest albums in my collection, and I still listen to it from time to time. Lately, in anticipation of this milestone anniversary, I've been listening to it a lot more, and a question keeps popping into my head:
How can an album that is now half a century old still sound as cutting edge, as visionary as "Are You Experienced" does?
I guess that was the special genius of Jimi Hendrix.
And by the way, unlike some modern artists (i.e., Kanye West) Hendrix never would have called himself a genius.
"I don't consider myself to be the best," he said, "and I don't like compliments. They distract me."
Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star–spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
Two centuries ago today, Francis Scott Key wrote the words to "The Star–Spangled Banner."
It was a poem, written as Key, a 35–year–old lawyer and poet, watched the Americans turn back the British at Fort McHenry in Baltimore during the War of 1812. Key wasn't primarily a writer, but he had some of the writer's soul within him. I think I know how he must have felt; I, too, have been inspired by sights or sounds or smells or tastes, and felt compelled to write.
That is a big part of what writing is about — an attempt to describe an experience, and inspiration can come in many forms. I feel inspired, for example, to write about my grandmother whenever I taste biscuits or cookies that taste like the ones she made. My mother was a big fan of Simon & Garfunkel and John Denver; when I hear a song by either, I think of her, and sometimes I am inspired to write about my memories of her. Other things remind me of people and places, too — sunsets, the sound of gentle rain falling early on a Saturday morning, the smell of burgers cooking on the grill. The smell of honeysuckle in the summer evening air always reminds me of my first serious girlfriend.
Key's senses must have been on overload 200 years ago today. He could see the smoke of battle and, as it cleared, the red, white and blue of the American flag still waving in the breeze. He could smell the smoke. He could hear the guns being fired. I'll bet he could practically taste the gunpowder.
Of course he wrote about it. He was powerless to do otherwise. He was moved by what he had witnessed that day.
Now, I know, from a lifetime of writing, that people don't always read what you write. It may be emotionally and intellectually satisfying to put your thoughts on paper, but every writer has to accept the fact that he/she will write some things — perhaps many things — that others will not read. Two centuries ago today, Key may have wondered if anyone would ever read what he wrote. It goes with the territory, but still a writer writes, anyway.
And sometimes you may write songs that people sing or books that people read and quote long after you have died. Sometimes — if you're lucky as well as good — you create something that outlives you.
In Key's case, he wrote a song that became his nation's anthem. I have known no other national anthem in my life. That said, though, there is not really a long tradition of the song as the official national anthem, certainly not the kind of history that should make folks misty upon hearing it — and yet they do. It really is a fascinating phenomenon.
You know the old story about how Key's lyrics were set to the music of a British drinking song? Well, that isn't entirely true. The music did come from Britain, but it was written for a men's social club. Characterizing the members of the club as drunks needlessly demeaned them.
Anyway, the song had four stanzas. Most Americans know at least part of the first stanza — but almost no one, drunk or sober, knows the other stanzas.
Many folks may only know "The Star–Spangled Banner" from hearing it being played before the start of ball games and whenever Americans have won gold medals at the Olympics.
I recall once, in an episode of All in the Family, a Puerto Rican gentleman began singing the national anthem in Spanish to prove to Archie that he was a legitimate American citizen, and Archie stopped him, admonishing him that the song should only be sung the way it was written (in English) and "only on patriotic occasions — like ball games and that."
I guess there was no official national anthem prior to 1931. "Hail, Columbia" was one of several songs that were regarded as unofficial national anthems. "My Country, 'Tis of Thee" was another.
I don't think I'm especially choosy about who sings the national anthem — but I am sort of particular about how it is sung. Some singers feel compelled to jazz it up — or funk it up or whatever, to put their own personal stamp on it, depending upon what it is that performer does. That isn't necessary. If it was up to me, I would tell 'em all, Put your unique style out there on CDs or in concerts. Sing this song with the respect and reverence it deserves.
(I've always liked Jimi Hendrix's version of "The Star–Spangled Banner" from Woodstock, but it isn't generally appropriate for most audiences.)
In Baltimore, some people apparently expect a "Super Bowl–esque kind of crowd" for the anthem's bicentennial today. Lots of things are planned, as USA Today reports.
But you don't have to be in Baltimore to celebrate. Do you have an American flag? Even a small one? You can stick it in a flower pot or whatever you've got.
And maybe try to learn those other three stanzas. Here they are:
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the star–spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star–spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: 'In God is our trust.'
And the star–spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Speaking of All in the Family, I remember a hilarious exchange between Mike and Archie while they were watching the national anthem being performed before a ball game.
"That is one terrible song," Mike observed.
Frankly, I thought he said it strictly to get under Archie's skin. When Archie made a predictable defense of the song, Mike complained that it glorified war and that, as a song, "it stinks. No one can remember the words."
I guess that is a matter of opinion. Personally, I have never thought the words of the national anthem were any worse than most of the words to alma maters or college fight songs I have heard, and, nevertheless, those songs evoke strong emotional responses.
Mike may have been right about performers forgetting the words. I have witnessed a couple of those. But Steve Vogel writes in the Washington Post that it is a myth that the song glorifies war.
"Actually," Vogel writes, the song "is more a hymn of thanks by the devout Key, who feared that Baltimore would be destroyed."
Forty–five years ago today, the Woodstock music festival began in New York. I had planned to focus on that — and yet, all week, my thoughts have been on Robin Williams.
I wrote about the Woodstock anniversary extensively five years ago so I don't need to spend a lot of time on it this year — never intended to, really — except to note the anniversary.
But I've been thinking about Williams, who had just turned 18 and recently finished high school when the festival was held. Did he go to it? I doubt it. He lived in Chicago and Detroit when he was very young, but the family moved to California when he was 16, and I doubt that he went all the way across the country for a music festival — although he may have. Nearly half a million people showed up; it wouldn't surprise me if a few came from the West Coast.
Considering his age, I'm sure the movie and the three–record album were influences on him, as they were for just about everyone else in his age group, even if he wasn't there.
Swami Satchidananda Saraswati opened the festival with its keynote address (I guess you could call it that). That probably sounds odd, given that everyone who was there came to hear the music.
Probably 99% of the weekend — which stretched into the following Monday — was devoted to music from all sorts of performers (at least, when it wasn't raining) and the festival ended memorably, with Jimi Hendrix giving an amazing performance to a much–depleted audience.
But the festival began, before Saraswati's remarks, with Richie Havens.
His performance of "Freedom" still sends chills down my spine — and I have seen it countless times and heard it even more.
He played for a couple of hours late that August afternoon.
There are other memorable moments from the festival, too. I wrote about many of them five years ago.
Woodstock launched some careers, as Katie McLaughlin writes for CNN.com. It was the first public appearance for Santana and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.
It has been said by some that Woodstock was the last gasp of the '60s, and there may be some truth in that. Certainly it was the last gasp of the communal '60s when the emphasis was on peace and brotherhood.
Why was that? I have asked — and I have been told it was because virtually the only drugs being used that weekend were pot and acid, neither of which brings out the violent and aggressive sides in people like alcohol and cocaine.
Is that the reason? I don't know. At least one person was using heroin that weekend, and he overdosed. Another person died of a burst appendix, and still another was in a sleeping bag and was run over by a vehicle so the weekend did not pass without incident but there were no fights. Lots of sex, as McLaughlin writes, but no fights. Hundreds of thousands of kids, strangers to nearly everyone there, spent the weekend together in peace and harmony.
And then, of course, there was Jimi Hendrix, who closed out the show on Monday morning. About half the crowd had left by that time. The ones who left early missed what may have been the most memorable performance of all. Well, they released a double CD of his show 25 years after the fact.
It was an innocent time, but it was losing its innocence. Only a week earlier, the Manson family had committed seven horrific murders in two consecutive nights.
"A broom is drearily sweeping up The broken pieces of yesterday's life Somewhere a queen is weeping Somewhere a king has no wife And the wind, it cries Mary."
Jimi Hendrix The Wind Cries Mary
I guess you could say next month will be the 40th anniversary of the birth of the "27 Club."
What's that? You don't know what the "27 Club" — or, as it is also known, the "Forever 27 Club" — is?
Well, it isn't really a club. To put it as succinctly as possible, it's a somewhat informal grouping of famous musicians who died at the tender age of 27.
It has been observed, when the subject of the "27 Club" has come up, that people can and do die at every possible age, but it is unusual, to say the least, for so many well–known people in any profession to die at such a young age.
I suppose the "club" began on July 3, 1969. On that day, I guess, much of the world was anticipating the historic flight of Apollo 11 that was only a few weeks away. But Brian Jones, one of the charter members of the Rolling Stones, drowned in his swimming pool on that occasion. He was 27 years old.
One isn't enough to form a club, though, which brings me to September 18, the 40th anniversary of the death of Jimi Hendrix in London.
Hendrix also was 27 years old when, on Sept. 18, 1970, he consumed alcohol and sleeping pills — and then choked on his own vomit. Over the years, I heard a lot of things. I heard it was suicide. I heard it was accidental, that Hendrix was unfamiliar with the medication's dosages in foreign countries.
Last year, a "roadie" for the 1960s pop group the Animals published a book in which he claimed that Hendrix's manager admitted killing Hendrix. But the plausibility of that claim came into question when it was revealed that his manager wasn't even in London on the day Hendrix died. Apparently, he was in Spain.
Well, whatever the truth was, Jimi Hendrix died on Sept. 18, 1970. And two famous popular musicians were dead at the age of 27 within 18 months.
I vaguely remember hearing news reports of Hendrix's death at the time. But I really have no memory of any mention of the "27 Club."
If there wasn't talk of a "27 Club" after Joplin died, it may have begun in earnest following the death on July 3, 1971, of the 27–year–old lead singer of the Doors, Jim Morrison. Morrison, too, may have been a victim of heroin, but he died in France, where medical examiners were not compelled at that time (French law may have changed in 39 years) to require autopsies if they found no evidence of foul play.
And, in fact, the medical examiner claimed that no such evidence was found at Morrison's death scene so no autopsy was performed. And the actual cause of his death has remained shrouded in mystery ever since.
(Ironically, following Jones' death, Morrison published a poem that was written for Jones, and Hendrix dedicated a song to him on American TV. Another of his contemporaries, Pete Townshend of the Who — who is still living — also wrote a poem for Jones.)
But, by that time — or, certainly, a short time later — people began speaking of the "27 Club." It has been reported that the sister of Nirvana's lead singer, Kurt Cobain, has said that her brother spoke, when he was a child, of wanting to join the "27 Club."
Cobain would have been a child in the 1970s. And, in April 1994, he did join the club, committing suicide a little more than a month after his 27th birthday.
Some people have resisted including Cobain since he deliberately took his own life, but the fact is that he died at the age of 27 and he was the lead singer of what may have been the most popular band in America at the time of his death. I have never heard any conditional circumstances mentioned for being included in the club other than the fact that a person must be a musician and must die while he/she is 27.
Actually, if we're going to be technical about this, the so–called "27 Club" appears to have begun more than three–quarters of a century before Jones and Hendrix died.
In 1892, a pioneering Brazilian composer named Alexandre Levy died at the age of 27. He merged classical music with Brazilian folk music. The cause of his death remains unknown.
And many other musicians — all, to a certain extent, famous although none as well known as the first five I mentioned — have died at the age of 27 since that time. Bluesman Robert Johnson, for example, died at 27 more than three decades before Brian Jones did.
Unofficially, I guess Johnson really was the first member of the club. He was a performer, after all, and there are recordings of his performances that still exist. Maybe he was overlooked because of the segregated world in which he lived.
"Pigpen" McKiernan, one of the founders of the Grateful Dead, was 27 when he died. So were Peter Ham, the leader of the group Badfinger; Gary Thain, Uriah Heep's ex–bassist; and many others.
It's a bigger club than you might have thought.
A much smaller club, however, is made up of those who, while they may have died young, left something significant behind (besides compositions and recordings) through which they could continue to influence future generations.
Less than a month before he died, Hendrix opened such a place that could mold and promote the performers of the future. As Ben Sisario reported today in the New York Times, Electric Lady Studios, which was founded by Hendrix on Aug. 26, 1970, still exists, even though most of New York's big–name studios have closed their doors for one reason or another.
And Sisario points out that, in addition to housing tapes from Hendrix's studio sessions there, Electric Lady has had many famous performers record there, including the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin and Stevie Wonder.
I'm inclined to believe that no one — and I suspect that includes Hendrix himself — thought Hendrix would be dead less than four weeks after Electric Lady opened.
But I think he would be pleased to know it has existed longer than he did.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
