by Thom Lukas
first published in Rock Beat, USA

Jimi Hendrix
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About a dozen of us were caught by the police while trying to sneak into Hunter College Auditorium where the Experience was scheduled to perform on March 2, 1968.

Back then, I was a high school sophomore and certified Hendrix freak. My copy of Are You Experienced? had almost worn thin from constant play. So when I found out that he'd be playing at Hunter College in New York City as part of a tour to coincide with the release of Axis Bold As Love, I made plans to be there and take pictures with my new camera.

Unfortunately, the show sold out before I could get a ticket; but I decided not to let that stop me.

Hunter College is in a huge building on East 68th Street along with Hunter High School, which takes up one square block. My high school (all boys) used to have dances with Hunter (all girls), so I was fairly familiar with the layout of the building.

When I arrived, it seemed as though half the New York Police Department was guarding the two-man entrances to the auditorium. I made my way around the block and found an alley where the garbage dumpsters were left. At the end of the alley was a door which just happened to be unlocked and unguarded.

Stealthily, I proceeded upstairs and began roaming the classroom corridors toward my destination. Even though the halls were well lit, it was eerie being in an empty school building. The hall clocks began to look like giant eyes that were monitoring my progress.

"Stop right there," the booming voice of a policeman demanded. I froze on the spot.

"Do you think they're gonna call our parents?" worried one of the kids in the classroom where we were being detained. "They've got our names and phone numbers," he reminded us.

"Hey, I think the dressing rooms must be right next door," someone else said after looking out into the hallway. "There's a bunch of cool looking people out there." I took a look for myself. Standing about 15 yards away, wearing a turtleneck shirt and blazer, was Chas Chandler, Jimi's manager.

Chandler, the original bassist for the Animals, had done for Jimi Hendrix what Brian Epstein did for The Beatles. He had taken Hendrix from obscurity, in just over 18 months. He had set Jimi up in London, investing nearly everything he had (at one point he even sold five of his six guitars to finance a lavish party introducing Hendrix to the British press), in order to make Jimi a star. Chas's gamble had worked nicely. Soon, the New York Times would call Hendrix "the black Elvis."

I couldn't pass up this chance to use my camera. When the other kids in the room saw me taking photos, they started to gather at the door as well. The next thing I knew, Noel Redding, Jimi's psychedelic, Beau Brummel-like bassist, was strolling toward us. His golden brocade jacket, frizzed shock of hair, and round, wire rimmed spectacles gave him a surreal appearance. Following closely behind, drummer Mitch Mitchell cut an equally electric image with a friendly grin under a floppy purple hat.

Then Hendrix himself, guitar in hand, approached my clicking camera. Stepping right off the fish-eyed, infrared Are You Experienced? record jacket, he looked amazing.

Pausing for a moment, he stared obligingly into my camera lens. The policeman reappeared at that moment and proceeded to close the door on the bunch of us. But before it shut I heard Hendrix ask the cop what we were doing in there. It wasn't more than a minute or so later when he and his sidemen came into the classroom and told us not to worry. Jimi announced that he wasn't going to go on stage until we were let go without any hassle. Was this really happening!?

Almost immediately we breathed a collective sigh of relief while moving forward to get autographs, or just to stand next to the star.

There were so few of us in that classroom/holding cell that getting close enough to ask a question was no problem. While all of the other kids were asking for autographs or looking on with dumbfounded expressions of disbelief, I made up my mind to ask Hendrix a question.

"Excuse me, but is it true that there's a feud going on between you and Little Richard?"

I'd read a magazine article about Jimi that sensationalized an incident that had happened while Hendrix was guitarist in Little Richard's band in 1963. The piece explained how one night after a performance Richard had fined Hendrix $20 for wearing a wild looking shirt.

Hendrix gave me a penetrating look—apparently to judge whether or not I was being serious - then he started to laugh. "Where did you ever get an idea like that?" he wanted to know. Now I was really on the spot, all eyes were focused in my direction. I answered that I'd read it in a fan magazine, and there was more laughter. So much for my debut as an investigative reporter.

But for me, in just that short space of time Jimi Hendrix went from being a rock superstar to a regular human being with a sweet personality and warm sense of humor. "You can't believe all that stuff you read," he cautioned in an ironic tone. "Richard and I are still friends."

I asked if I could hold his guitar, and it was passed into my admiring arms. It was a Gibson Flying V, the same type of guitar used by one of Hendrix' idols, blues great Albert King. After a few moments I handed the instrument back to Hendrix and asked if it was okay to take a few photos. "You better be quick, 'cause we've gotta go on soon," he answered. I managed to click off about half a dozen close ups of Jimi, Mitch and Noel before Chandler hustled them - with a reassurance that we'd be let go without any trouble.

Although I didn't get to see Hendrix perform live until a few months later, being behind the scenes at Hunter College that night left an indelible after-image. I remember it as if it had happened only yesterday.