THE JIMI HENDRIX EXPERIENCE OF THE GOLD… AND IN THE BLUES OF OUR TIMES

Our surrealist writer ERIC LASTICK this week investigates a stringed and wired hero of our time…

JIMI OF WALLS AND BRIDGES: Seattle island urban three-storey high…builds of a red house over yonder. Jimi Hendrix stamped and owned on the exterior wall. Afro and moustache trademark a stellar vibe of his guitar. And as if to see it, and believe in the mighty power of electrified slides…chords to dazzle the highest of Rock Idols. The winds and cries of  Mary. The cutting groove of the notes to measures. Above what could be mentioned, then more! One can only try and imagine standing next-ed and by the fire. ”Let me stand. Oh let me try?”

The drug  addled culture spins…jams and upper octave climbs…all through the hours, until morning colors rave over the cool rain of this Seattle sky. Cool blues dilly dally the mellow return to the sober hours of 9 to 5. Crystal and candle set the scene of a lighter smoke clearing…see thru it all. Best known guitar player… a double-sided sword of excess and self serves. Deem of a Rock God in the forevermore. Wade upon a cloud and streamers of yesterday’s dies…dues on this damned kind of life. Room filled pot seeds scatter the cross-lane traffic of copiers, light on the fringe. Trips and reds all over. Studio sending another lower climb to the flatbed. Jimi, all of 27…as we sadly said our last goodbyes. Honest men see the light out of the dark and day…as the ultimate Jimi Hendrix experience lives on.

JIMI’S JAMS AND GROOVES WITH TEXAS BLUES GUITARIST, JOHNNY WINTER; 

 Salt shaker peppered blues…white lightening electric buzz…black latter rumbles—warp drives of 6 was 9. Flash curtains—humbles in the wisdoms of connective chords. Owners draw the next playback…shake the groove. Bumble rifts off center stage go the fallen of nearly anybody else’s guitar touch…riff scales, the corner bar of attempting supreme. Rudimentary blues be the puzzle that jets these 2 masters. Set in the salt and pepper shakers of every high bridge…draw straight up a musical echo…and lathe highway—too the writes of the skies! Girls search like bubble puppies—so too state…& prized! Aero lift never higher. Swell ladies raise skirted climbs tall as trees… and as right there, the acid heads wonder which one, flowers and blossoms to the sounds and combos of Hendrix; and of Texas Blues man Winter. Tuck-in you’re guitar strings like dances…white hairs under his hat. Paisley purple, ” wince worry” clear out of the fog. And so roll the band of Gypsy’s. The firewater applause, equal the pain of the abuser. Purple haze is a luxury—right before the jet engines spark loud of the next town. Salt and pepper know no reason to live a hundred years…buzzes in the seasons of the best grown herbs…finest brand whiskey and chaser at midnight. Army ladies of night-winds and carriers. ”I’ll bet lashes and silk stockings are the real curl…verses a phoney terrible establishment, centered in take-down…and in all its sinister greed. Salt shaker peppered blues enters of the heated lasted nights!” MISTER JIMI, WHEN THE MUSIC FAILS, HOLD BACK THE MOUNTAIN…MOUNTAINS OF DREAMS: Hendrix on the fires of amber forever blues. His Afros and curly spreads of creative crosstown minded eyes. 3rd strums of eyed requests. Nailed down the heavens…& it’s early arrives. Summit likes of fingers fretboard surreal. Color and comic, the science fiction—trucking—high fly of noted know-how for the earth’s below. Beggar dance, the band of Gypsy’s. Run and play…skipper claws, the cowers of the muse. The takes of industries. Jimi about to play by the Whiskey. Monterrey seems of so long—too a couple years stay. Well stone imaged of the glory of bonfire burning a guitar, held upside and reverse down. Sign it, and sing of a man finding his highest of highs—over the Waterfront of music man, in humble spades. Money only a toy to the willing. Music business a profit margin sum for one. Musician go back to play. Fury are the managers that say how and when you send. Money hungry old hogs in the pile of loot. Poor boy of only money wealth, is not rich at all! Jimi knew the mission only accomplishes by bettering the stakes. ‘For Christ sakes, it was his music. HIS art, in which to never surrender to the establishment, and it’s center core.” Only reachable bottom lines. Then, the music fails. Falsehood is no honor amongst thieves ; and of those in the watchtower. Dig me up a new theme of joy to our creator Jimi, the music you can. The music you really want to make, beyond the top 40 chart benders. Barrels aim of a stagnant end. No more reaches past the simple minds, when a bigger picture yearns, in all the burns of the creative process; that looms and consumes. High times is just short lived. Ample Ernie is in a hurry to the slag styles of curtain’s open draws. No slicks of hair dyed middle ages, done of centuries…depleted be of a nighttime  ritual glory faker