FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY...JIMI HENDRIX
It was January 1967. I was seventeen and still living with my parents in my hometown of Fraserburgh. It was a grey place and smelled of fish - a bit like some of the lassies I subsequently got to know there. Now Fraserburgh 1967 was a bit like the Fraserburgh 1867 - except that there was a bingo hall, the Electric Palace; and that's where I worked. It wasn't much of a job reading out numbers to a hundred and fifty smoking and blethering women but compared to getting tossed about the freezing Atlantic by forty foot waves in your uncle's trawler, it had a certain appeal. When your number was up in the Electric Palace it generally meant good news.
One Saturday, as I wandered down near the docks, on one of my intersession walkabouts, the heavens opened up. Believe me a rainstorm in the north-east of Scotland soon makes a mockery of Man's attempt to be impervious to it. Umbrellas, anoraks, wax jackets all prove to be a poor first line of defence. So, I jumped into one of the warehouses for cover.
After a couple of seconds I realised I was not alone. I wheeled round to be taken aback by the sight of a tall black man holding a guitar case. Now, the nearest I'd ever been to a black man was a picture of Pele, up on my bedroom wall, but summoning up the courage, I asked him if he was alright. Through chattering teeth I'm sure I heard him say 'I'm sold for King Coal'. Must be a sales rep for a heating company I thought. Although not a very good advert for them by the looks of him. But I felt so sorry for him, that I invited him back to the bingo hall, to get dried out and heated up. He thanked me, held out his wet hand, and introduced himself as Jimi...Jimi Hendrix.
We ran back through the sheeting rain to the Electric Palace, and once inside, set about getting dried. Since he was soaked through I suggested he might want to strip off and I would try to dry his trousers and shirt by putting them over the boiler. He looked at me warily, and quite out of the blue, asked me if I had a girlfriend. When I replied 'nearly', he just grunted, peeled off his clothes and handed them to me.
As we got warmed up, he told me that he was a musician from New York staying in London. He explained that things were moving so fast; recording sessions, writing songs, appearances on radio and tv shows, live performances, more recordings, and so on, that he felt he just had to get away from it all. So he had jumped on the first train, then the first bus, then walked and walked, till he arrived here, in Fraserburgh.
I told him that nobody would bother with him here. Compared with London and New York, Fraserburgh was like a different planet. He smiled and said Fraserburgh was cool, but I could see in his eyes he meant freezing. He asked if I'd heard his record 'Hey Joe' on the radio but I had to tell him all we ever heard were the shipping forecasts and farming outlook. At this point, I thought I'd better go and check Jimi's clothes. I was horrified to find that the heat had metamorphosed his shirt into a little lump of plastic, and his trousers had shrunk about four sizes. He looked at them and started laughing until the tears were streaming down his face. Eventually, when he settled down, he told me that it was just as well he kept his shit in the guitar case. To the uninitiated, it seemed a strange place to do a jobby, but then again my Uncle Archie would occasionally pish in the wardrobe. I managed to find a spare blouse that one of the cleaners kept in her locker for accidents and emergencies. At first he seemed reluctant to put it on, and I didn't blame him. It was a size 16 with a bold paisley pattern in green and brown and was a bit of an abomination on a sixty year old Fraserburgh wifey, let alone a tall, slim, black American. However when someone opened the front door and let a blast of cold North Sea air in he buttoned it up readily, and then fought his way into his trousers. The gender confusion caused by his big girl's blouse was more than compensated for by his shrunken trousers. They were now so tight onto his body, that clearly, he would not be hiding his light under a bushel, more like two bushels and a giant redwood.
I explained to Jimi that there was no transport back to Aberdeen until the next morning, but that he was welcome to spend the night at my house. Momentarily, he gave me the same look, as when previously enquiring about my girlfriend status. The only drawback was, that he would have to stay through the bingo session and the ceilidh that followed, before getting a lift back, with my parents. My mum wasn't a bingo goer, but she and dad always attended the ceilidh, faithfully. They'd come down in our old battered Morris Traveller. Dad would drive there, in silence, and Mum would drive him home, singing his head off.
Like myself, Jimi was no stranger to centre stage. He stood beside me and operated the machine whilst I called out the numbers. Despite no one winning the jackpot, the women seemed impressed by his balls, and for once, there was no shortage of volunteers to clear away the seats for the ceilidh. In jig time, the hall was ready, and the men started to come in from the pubs in their dribs and drabs - beery and animated.
As usual about ten o'clock, my parents appeared, and I introduced them to Jimi. I told them of his plight, and how I had suggested he stay overnight with us. Mum and Dad both looked at him, and then at each other, and then at me, and then at Jimi again. The world was moving too fast for them and it was starting to show. It seemed like an age before they agreed but when they did, I sighed with relief. Jimi slapped my dad on the back in appreciation, and called him a real brother, which I could see perplexed him, as he was an only child.
The band soon struck up, and with a magician's guile, people produced drink from their handbags, coat pockets and other orifices, and the ceilidh started in earnest. It went on for another three hours, and in that time Jimi learned the Strathspey, the Gay Gordons, Lord Elgin's Fancy, The Cock O' The North and Angus McKinnon's Hornpipe; the difference between a malt whisky and a grain whisky; between pale ale and export; rowies and baps; loons and quines, etc. While, everyone else learned that because his name was Jimi, it didn't mean he came from Glasgow.
As the place heated up, Jimi went to the kitchen to get some cold water to rinse his face. Suddenly, there was a blue flash, and an almighty bang. Jimi staggered out, with smoke coming from his head! He had inadvertently touched the ultra-violet fly killer light, mounted on the wall, and had sustained a nasty shock. Worse than that, it had turned his hair into something that resembled a giant brillo pad. It was one seriously tight perm. Despite protestations, Dad forced the best part of a half bottle of Glenlivet down Jimi's throat, assuring everyone it would help him; I think he was working on the kill or cure premise. Fortunately, the man came round, and a couple of cans of pale ale later, Jimi was stringing words together again. Not particularly nice words but enough to stop my Dad forcing the whisky bottle into his mouth.
As the night drew to a close, it was customary for the band to play the national anthem. So, I encouraged Jimi to go up with his guitar and join them. Fuelled by the drink, and probably still in a state of shock, he accepted. Now, these were the days of rudimentary knowledge of electrics. I mean, why have one 3-way adapter plugged into the mains when you can have half a dozen, all plugged into each other, to form an eighteen way adapter pyramid of death? And least, that's how the ceilidh band operated. Anyway, Jimi stepped up onto the stage, in his wee tight trousers, blouse, and burnt, frizzy hair, to great cheers. For many, the pantomime had come early. He plugged his guitar into a spare amp, and as the band, worse for wear themselves, started to play God Save The Queen, Jimi launched into The Star Spangled Banner. He played it with a style he was to become world renowned for, but in those remote times, and to our Andy Stewart ears, it was...well, different. To my horror, as I fought to catch the melody through the feedback, I could see smoke starting to come from his guitar. At first I thought it was a vestige from his previous accident. But no... Jimi soon saw it too, and wrestled his guitar to the ground; thumping it, sitting on it, blowing on it, to keep the flames from consuming his precious instrument. To those who had not observed the smoke, however, it just looked like a big, black American trying to shag his guitar. To their eternal credit the band played on, and as was traditional during the national anthem, the place quickly emptied of revellers.
When we got back to the house, mum retired for the night, while Dad, on his second wind, insisted we all have a wee half, as a nightcap.
The day had rained itself out, and left a cold clear night sky. So, fortified by the drink, we sat outside at the back door. Dad lit up his pipe, and Jimi set about rolling a cigarette. He was fairly generous with its composition. Paper rolled as big as that here, was normally used to start the coal fire. He lit his fag, took an enormous drag and held the smoke for what seemed like an eternity, before exhaling, grinning from ear to ear. Soon, a strange euphoria came over my Dad, and me and in no time at all, we were all grinning like a Buckie fishwife when the fleet's in - the American Seventh Fleet.
At that time of the year, atmospheric conditions can make the sky dance with colours: blues, indigos, lilacs, and purples. It is known to the world, as the Aurora Borealis, and to Scotland, the Northern Lights. But to Jimi, it was just 'a purple haze, man, a purple haze'. My Dad, who had gained a badge as a first-aider in the Boys Brigade, reckoned Jimi was still in shock, and insisted in showing him to his bed. Given my dad's drunken state, I should have helped, but it's always easy to be wise with the benefit of hindsight, so I left them both to it.
The next morning, I woke up with a bit of a head and the great smell of cooked breakfast in the nostrils. Immediately, I threw up over the patchwork quilt, convinced that my mum would never notice. Years later however, she was to comment, that it never failed to intrigue her, how the pattern kept changing, on an almost weekly basis. When I eventually surfaced, I could see by the look on my parents' face that something was amiss. Jimi appeared to have gone. Stolen away during the night. In fact, he had not even slept in his bed.
We sat at the breakfast table, with only the sound of my Dad, slurping his tea, breaking the silence. Then suddenly, I heard a moaning noise, coming from the hall cupboard. My Dad picked up a poker from the fireplace, and led the three of us, out of the kitchen. Steeling himself against possible attack from a wild cat, or bloodthirsty assailant, he whipped the door open. There, lying sleeping on the cupboard floor, was Jimi. He was curled up in a ball, with my grandad's old army tunic on top of him, to keep out the cold. Gently, we woke him up, and took him creaking and groaning, into the heat of the kitchen, with the tunic still wrapped around his shoulders. He sat, zombie-like, and moaned for a black coffee. Mum declared that too much whisky had given him a hangover, and proceeded to bind his head with an old chiffon scarf, soaked in vinegar - a traditional remedy for sore heads. Jimi was too far gone to protest.
Several gallons of Camp coffee later, Jimi appeared to come to. So we carried him to the car, and set off for the bus station, where the one and only bus to Aberdeen, on the Sabbath, awaited him.
In the car Dad told Jimi that he could keep the military jacket he was wearing. He explained how his father had worn it at the Battle of the Somme, but that it had been dry-cleaned since then.
All too soon, we were at the bus station, and it was time for farewells. Jimi had come to Fraserburgh a confused and lonely young man, and he was going back the same - except that now he was also knackered. To be fair though, he had also acquired skin-tight trousers, a blouse, bandanna, military-style jacket, wild hairstyle, and a stage act to match.
Quite what effect this image would come to have on his career, when he arrived back in London, could not have been predicted. But certainly, the folk at the bus station that morning, seemed convinced that they were witnessing the birth of a new showbusiness legend, a natural, and a worthy successor, to the likes of Charlie Caroli. With their laughter ringing in my ears, I gave Jimi a farewell handshake and he climbed onto the coach. As he turned back to wave, I swallowed hard to clear my throat, to ask him how he had enjoyed Fraserburgh.
His answer will stay with me forever, "Man, It was an experience!"
One Saturday, as I wandered down near the docks, on one of my intersession walkabouts, the heavens opened up. Believe me a rainstorm in the north-east of Scotland soon makes a mockery of Man's attempt to be impervious to it. Umbrellas, anoraks, wax jackets all prove to be a poor first line of defence. So, I jumped into one of the warehouses for cover.
After a couple of seconds I realised I was not alone. I wheeled round to be taken aback by the sight of a tall black man holding a guitar case. Now, the nearest I'd ever been to a black man was a picture of Pele, up on my bedroom wall, but summoning up the courage, I asked him if he was alright. Through chattering teeth I'm sure I heard him say 'I'm sold for King Coal'. Must be a sales rep for a heating company I thought. Although not a very good advert for them by the looks of him. But I felt so sorry for him, that I invited him back to the bingo hall, to get dried out and heated up. He thanked me, held out his wet hand, and introduced himself as Jimi...Jimi Hendrix.
We ran back through the sheeting rain to the Electric Palace, and once inside, set about getting dried. Since he was soaked through I suggested he might want to strip off and I would try to dry his trousers and shirt by putting them over the boiler. He looked at me warily, and quite out of the blue, asked me if I had a girlfriend. When I replied 'nearly', he just grunted, peeled off his clothes and handed them to me.
As we got warmed up, he told me that he was a musician from New York staying in London. He explained that things were moving so fast; recording sessions, writing songs, appearances on radio and tv shows, live performances, more recordings, and so on, that he felt he just had to get away from it all. So he had jumped on the first train, then the first bus, then walked and walked, till he arrived here, in Fraserburgh.
I told him that nobody would bother with him here. Compared with London and New York, Fraserburgh was like a different planet. He smiled and said Fraserburgh was cool, but I could see in his eyes he meant freezing. He asked if I'd heard his record 'Hey Joe' on the radio but I had to tell him all we ever heard were the shipping forecasts and farming outlook. At this point, I thought I'd better go and check Jimi's clothes. I was horrified to find that the heat had metamorphosed his shirt into a little lump of plastic, and his trousers had shrunk about four sizes. He looked at them and started laughing until the tears were streaming down his face. Eventually, when he settled down, he told me that it was just as well he kept his shit in the guitar case. To the uninitiated, it seemed a strange place to do a jobby, but then again my Uncle Archie would occasionally pish in the wardrobe. I managed to find a spare blouse that one of the cleaners kept in her locker for accidents and emergencies. At first he seemed reluctant to put it on, and I didn't blame him. It was a size 16 with a bold paisley pattern in green and brown and was a bit of an abomination on a sixty year old Fraserburgh wifey, let alone a tall, slim, black American. However when someone opened the front door and let a blast of cold North Sea air in he buttoned it up readily, and then fought his way into his trousers. The gender confusion caused by his big girl's blouse was more than compensated for by his shrunken trousers. They were now so tight onto his body, that clearly, he would not be hiding his light under a bushel, more like two bushels and a giant redwood.
I explained to Jimi that there was no transport back to Aberdeen until the next morning, but that he was welcome to spend the night at my house. Momentarily, he gave me the same look, as when previously enquiring about my girlfriend status. The only drawback was, that he would have to stay through the bingo session and the ceilidh that followed, before getting a lift back, with my parents. My mum wasn't a bingo goer, but she and dad always attended the ceilidh, faithfully. They'd come down in our old battered Morris Traveller. Dad would drive there, in silence, and Mum would drive him home, singing his head off.
Like myself, Jimi was no stranger to centre stage. He stood beside me and operated the machine whilst I called out the numbers. Despite no one winning the jackpot, the women seemed impressed by his balls, and for once, there was no shortage of volunteers to clear away the seats for the ceilidh. In jig time, the hall was ready, and the men started to come in from the pubs in their dribs and drabs - beery and animated.
As usual about ten o'clock, my parents appeared, and I introduced them to Jimi. I told them of his plight, and how I had suggested he stay overnight with us. Mum and Dad both looked at him, and then at each other, and then at me, and then at Jimi again. The world was moving too fast for them and it was starting to show. It seemed like an age before they agreed but when they did, I sighed with relief. Jimi slapped my dad on the back in appreciation, and called him a real brother, which I could see perplexed him, as he was an only child.
The band soon struck up, and with a magician's guile, people produced drink from their handbags, coat pockets and other orifices, and the ceilidh started in earnest. It went on for another three hours, and in that time Jimi learned the Strathspey, the Gay Gordons, Lord Elgin's Fancy, The Cock O' The North and Angus McKinnon's Hornpipe; the difference between a malt whisky and a grain whisky; between pale ale and export; rowies and baps; loons and quines, etc. While, everyone else learned that because his name was Jimi, it didn't mean he came from Glasgow.
As the place heated up, Jimi went to the kitchen to get some cold water to rinse his face. Suddenly, there was a blue flash, and an almighty bang. Jimi staggered out, with smoke coming from his head! He had inadvertently touched the ultra-violet fly killer light, mounted on the wall, and had sustained a nasty shock. Worse than that, it had turned his hair into something that resembled a giant brillo pad. It was one seriously tight perm. Despite protestations, Dad forced the best part of a half bottle of Glenlivet down Jimi's throat, assuring everyone it would help him; I think he was working on the kill or cure premise. Fortunately, the man came round, and a couple of cans of pale ale later, Jimi was stringing words together again. Not particularly nice words but enough to stop my Dad forcing the whisky bottle into his mouth.
As the night drew to a close, it was customary for the band to play the national anthem. So, I encouraged Jimi to go up with his guitar and join them. Fuelled by the drink, and probably still in a state of shock, he accepted. Now, these were the days of rudimentary knowledge of electrics. I mean, why have one 3-way adapter plugged into the mains when you can have half a dozen, all plugged into each other, to form an eighteen way adapter pyramid of death? And least, that's how the ceilidh band operated. Anyway, Jimi stepped up onto the stage, in his wee tight trousers, blouse, and burnt, frizzy hair, to great cheers. For many, the pantomime had come early. He plugged his guitar into a spare amp, and as the band, worse for wear themselves, started to play God Save The Queen, Jimi launched into The Star Spangled Banner. He played it with a style he was to become world renowned for, but in those remote times, and to our Andy Stewart ears, it was...well, different. To my horror, as I fought to catch the melody through the feedback, I could see smoke starting to come from his guitar. At first I thought it was a vestige from his previous accident. But no... Jimi soon saw it too, and wrestled his guitar to the ground; thumping it, sitting on it, blowing on it, to keep the flames from consuming his precious instrument. To those who had not observed the smoke, however, it just looked like a big, black American trying to shag his guitar. To their eternal credit the band played on, and as was traditional during the national anthem, the place quickly emptied of revellers.
When we got back to the house, mum retired for the night, while Dad, on his second wind, insisted we all have a wee half, as a nightcap.
The day had rained itself out, and left a cold clear night sky. So, fortified by the drink, we sat outside at the back door. Dad lit up his pipe, and Jimi set about rolling a cigarette. He was fairly generous with its composition. Paper rolled as big as that here, was normally used to start the coal fire. He lit his fag, took an enormous drag and held the smoke for what seemed like an eternity, before exhaling, grinning from ear to ear. Soon, a strange euphoria came over my Dad, and me and in no time at all, we were all grinning like a Buckie fishwife when the fleet's in - the American Seventh Fleet.
At that time of the year, atmospheric conditions can make the sky dance with colours: blues, indigos, lilacs, and purples. It is known to the world, as the Aurora Borealis, and to Scotland, the Northern Lights. But to Jimi, it was just 'a purple haze, man, a purple haze'. My Dad, who had gained a badge as a first-aider in the Boys Brigade, reckoned Jimi was still in shock, and insisted in showing him to his bed. Given my dad's drunken state, I should have helped, but it's always easy to be wise with the benefit of hindsight, so I left them both to it.
The next morning, I woke up with a bit of a head and the great smell of cooked breakfast in the nostrils. Immediately, I threw up over the patchwork quilt, convinced that my mum would never notice. Years later however, she was to comment, that it never failed to intrigue her, how the pattern kept changing, on an almost weekly basis. When I eventually surfaced, I could see by the look on my parents' face that something was amiss. Jimi appeared to have gone. Stolen away during the night. In fact, he had not even slept in his bed.
We sat at the breakfast table, with only the sound of my Dad, slurping his tea, breaking the silence. Then suddenly, I heard a moaning noise, coming from the hall cupboard. My Dad picked up a poker from the fireplace, and led the three of us, out of the kitchen. Steeling himself against possible attack from a wild cat, or bloodthirsty assailant, he whipped the door open. There, lying sleeping on the cupboard floor, was Jimi. He was curled up in a ball, with my grandad's old army tunic on top of him, to keep out the cold. Gently, we woke him up, and took him creaking and groaning, into the heat of the kitchen, with the tunic still wrapped around his shoulders. He sat, zombie-like, and moaned for a black coffee. Mum declared that too much whisky had given him a hangover, and proceeded to bind his head with an old chiffon scarf, soaked in vinegar - a traditional remedy for sore heads. Jimi was too far gone to protest.
Several gallons of Camp coffee later, Jimi appeared to come to. So we carried him to the car, and set off for the bus station, where the one and only bus to Aberdeen, on the Sabbath, awaited him.
In the car Dad told Jimi that he could keep the military jacket he was wearing. He explained how his father had worn it at the Battle of the Somme, but that it had been dry-cleaned since then.
All too soon, we were at the bus station, and it was time for farewells. Jimi had come to Fraserburgh a confused and lonely young man, and he was going back the same - except that now he was also knackered. To be fair though, he had also acquired skin-tight trousers, a blouse, bandanna, military-style jacket, wild hairstyle, and a stage act to match.
Quite what effect this image would come to have on his career, when he arrived back in London, could not have been predicted. But certainly, the folk at the bus station that morning, seemed convinced that they were witnessing the birth of a new showbusiness legend, a natural, and a worthy successor, to the likes of Charlie Caroli. With their laughter ringing in my ears, I gave Jimi a farewell handshake and he climbed onto the coach. As he turned back to wave, I swallowed hard to clear my throat, to ask him how he had enjoyed Fraserburgh.
His answer will stay with me forever, "Man, It was an experience!"
posted by wardperfect at 11:24 pm
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