Garrett Reisman Interview written for New Jersey Monthly, 2012
I spent the summer of 2011 at Kennedy Space Center, chronicling the STS-135 mission of Atlantis, the final space shuttle flight. While there I ran into Garrett Reisman, a popular NASA astronaut who'd moved into the private sector with SpaceX. SpaceX is the spaceflight venture founded by Elon Musk that is shaping up to play a major role in our future in space. Reisman's task at SpaceX? Overseeing development of the entity's first manned vehicle, one big task.
*** Click here to read this article...
I spent the summer of 2011 at Kennedy Space Center, chronicling the STS-135 mission of Atlantis, the final space shuttle flight. While there I ran into Garrett Reisman, a popular NASA astronaut who'd moved into the private sector with SpaceX. SpaceX is the spaceflight venture founded by Elon Musk that is shaping up to play a major role in our future in space. Reisman's task at SpaceX? Overseeing development of the entity's first manned vehicle, one big task.
*** Click here to read this article...
Freddy Koella profile written for Vintage Guitar Magazine, 2005
Which songwriter has had the greatest impact on American culture? Many would answer that question with the name "Bob Dylan." As a guitarist myself, I always wondered what it would be like to play with Dylan, a man with hundreds of songs that are constantly in the process of being reinvented. To get the real story, I talked to Freddy Koella, the French guitarist who brought a bold and fearless approach with him when he took on the role of lead guitarist with Bob Dylan.
*** Click here to read this article...
Which songwriter has had the greatest impact on American culture? Many would answer that question with the name "Bob Dylan." As a guitarist myself, I always wondered what it would be like to play with Dylan, a man with hundreds of songs that are constantly in the process of being reinvented. To get the real story, I talked to Freddy Koella, the French guitarist who brought a bold and fearless approach with him when he took on the role of lead guitarist with Bob Dylan.
*** Click here to read this article...
Lonnie Youngblood on Jimi Hendrix written for UniVibes: The International Jimi Hendrix Magazine, 1996
There isn't much doubt that Jimi Hendrix will be recorded in history as a great musical genius, one whose influence is far-reaching. I've often imagined that classical music historians would love to be able to interview associates of Beethoven; right now, while Jimi's friends and colleagues are still with us, we have the chance to record facts about Jimi from such firsthand interviews. Some of Jimi's very first recorded sessions took place with saxophonist/vocalist Lonnie Youngblood, but in the mid-1990s not much was known for certain about the sessions. Then, in 1996, a lengthy pre-Google search paid off when I was able to track down Lonnie in Harlem. Over the following weeks of conversation Lonnie filled in details of his own fascinating career in the glory days of the Harlem R&B scene and offered his recollections of the historic Hendrix sessions.
*** Click here to read this article...
There isn't much doubt that Jimi Hendrix will be recorded in history as a great musical genius, one whose influence is far-reaching. I've often imagined that classical music historians would love to be able to interview associates of Beethoven; right now, while Jimi's friends and colleagues are still with us, we have the chance to record facts about Jimi from such firsthand interviews. Some of Jimi's very first recorded sessions took place with saxophonist/vocalist Lonnie Youngblood, but in the mid-1990s not much was known for certain about the sessions. Then, in 1996, a lengthy pre-Google search paid off when I was able to track down Lonnie in Harlem. Over the following weeks of conversation Lonnie filled in details of his own fascinating career in the glory days of the Harlem R&B scene and offered his recollections of the historic Hendrix sessions.
*** Click here to read this article...
Cream in Concert, London 2005 written for Vintage Guitar Magazine, August 2005
Over the years, my appreciation for the brilliant aggregation of the late bassist Jack Bruce, drummer Ginger Baker, and guitarist Eric Clapton only grew with the discovery of each new unofficial recording that leaked out, every one further contributing to the legend of the trio's brief-but-incendiary alliance in the 1960s. When Eric Clapton announced that a once unimaginable reformation would take place with four shows at London's Royal Albert Hall in May, 2005, there was a sense of anxiety among Cream fans. Could the band even begin to approach the imposing sonic heights they'd once attained? There was only one way to find out, and my wife Leigh Anne and I had long ago made a vow that if they played, we would be there, wherever "there" turned out to be. So, it was off to London...
*** Click here to read this article...
Over the years, my appreciation for the brilliant aggregation of the late bassist Jack Bruce, drummer Ginger Baker, and guitarist Eric Clapton only grew with the discovery of each new unofficial recording that leaked out, every one further contributing to the legend of the trio's brief-but-incendiary alliance in the 1960s. When Eric Clapton announced that a once unimaginable reformation would take place with four shows at London's Royal Albert Hall in May, 2005, there was a sense of anxiety among Cream fans. Could the band even begin to approach the imposing sonic heights they'd once attained? There was only one way to find out, and my wife Leigh Anne and I had long ago made a vow that if they played, we would be there, wherever "there" turned out to be. So, it was off to London...
*** Click here to read this article...
Jimi Hendrix Plays the Spectrum written for UniVibes: The International Jimi Hendrix Magazine, 1992
Every show that Jimi Hendrix played is significant, but for me none carries more significance than the Jimi Hendrix Experience show that took place at the Spectrum in Philadelphia on April 23, 1969 - the night I "got experienced" at the age of 13. Seeing Jimi Hendrix, as you might expect, was a turning point in my life. In fact, it wasn't until 25 years after I saw the concert in April, 1969, that I finally saw color photographs of the performance. So deeply were the memories of Jimi burned into my memory that what I recalled of Jimi's appearance matched perfectly with the photos. In addition to the original publication of this account and personal recollection, portions of it have since been used in two books about Hendrix: the wonderful Eyewitness: The Illustrated Jimi Hendrix Concerts 1969-1970 (Up From the Skies Unlimited, 1997) by respected Hendrix historian Ben Valkhoff, and Johnny Black's Jimi Hendrix: The Ultimate Experience (Thunder's Mouth Press, 1999).
*** Click here to read this article...
Every show that Jimi Hendrix played is significant, but for me none carries more significance than the Jimi Hendrix Experience show that took place at the Spectrum in Philadelphia on April 23, 1969 - the night I "got experienced" at the age of 13. Seeing Jimi Hendrix, as you might expect, was a turning point in my life. In fact, it wasn't until 25 years after I saw the concert in April, 1969, that I finally saw color photographs of the performance. So deeply were the memories of Jimi burned into my memory that what I recalled of Jimi's appearance matched perfectly with the photos. In addition to the original publication of this account and personal recollection, portions of it have since been used in two books about Hendrix: the wonderful Eyewitness: The Illustrated Jimi Hendrix Concerts 1969-1970 (Up From the Skies Unlimited, 1997) by respected Hendrix historian Ben Valkhoff, and Johnny Black's Jimi Hendrix: The Ultimate Experience (Thunder's Mouth Press, 1999).
*** Click here to read this article...
Slayer's Kerry King Interview written for Guitar Player Magazine, 1998
Musical respect can be hard to come by when you play the heaviest of metal. Regardless, Slayer is one of my favorite bands ever. I can't imagine anyone being unable to appreciate the daring stop-start rhythms, the intricate song construction, and - most of all - the pure power of Slayer. Witnessing this band is like standing in the face of a force of nature. At a time when so much of what passes for "rock music" is so weak, there has never been a greater need for the counterbalance provided by Slayer.
*** Click here to read this article...
Musical respect can be hard to come by when you play the heaviest of metal. Regardless, Slayer is one of my favorite bands ever. I can't imagine anyone being unable to appreciate the daring stop-start rhythms, the intricate song construction, and - most of all - the pure power of Slayer. Witnessing this band is like standing in the face of a force of nature. At a time when so much of what passes for "rock music" is so weak, there has never been a greater need for the counterbalance provided by Slayer.
*** Click here to read this article...
Riding with Elmo Langley written for Circle Track Magazine, 1996
Before the big NASCAR marketing push in the 2000s, there was a time when the sport was full of colorful characters - some of whom worked for the sanctioning body itself. One of these was Elmo Langley, who'd raced in the 1960s and, after joining NASCAR, became its long-time pace car driver. Rarely was anyone allowed to ride to Elmo, but one hot Saturday at Pocono International Raceway I said to Langley, "Hey, Elmo - how about if I go out with you at some point tomorrow?" I expected a gruff, "No way." Instead, I got, "Sure - y'all come find me about noon, and I'll take you out to start the race..." Ironically, Elmo died behind the wheel of the pace car at a NASCAR exhibition race in Japan on November 21, 1996.
*** Click here to read this article...
Before the big NASCAR marketing push in the 2000s, there was a time when the sport was full of colorful characters - some of whom worked for the sanctioning body itself. One of these was Elmo Langley, who'd raced in the 1960s and, after joining NASCAR, became its long-time pace car driver. Rarely was anyone allowed to ride to Elmo, but one hot Saturday at Pocono International Raceway I said to Langley, "Hey, Elmo - how about if I go out with you at some point tomorrow?" I expected a gruff, "No way." Instead, I got, "Sure - y'all come find me about noon, and I'll take you out to start the race..." Ironically, Elmo died behind the wheel of the pace car at a NASCAR exhibition race in Japan on November 21, 1996.
*** Click here to read this article...
Why Go to Space? written for Philadelphia Daily News, 1990
I firmly believe that the need to discover is an important part of what it means to be human. Fulfilling that need is just one of many reasons that a vital national space program is essential. The opportunity to significantly shape the future of mankind is ours, but often the long-range vision to make a commitment to space exploration is in short supply. Perhaps the commercial space ventures taking their first steps will one day focus on exploration; for now, NASA says its goals are in the deep beyond - if funding is available. Unfortunately, we all know the expression, "that's a mighty big 'if.'" My editorial rebuttal here was written soon after I witnessed the Hubble Space Telescope carried into space by Discovery. I feel more strongly about the words I wrote now in light of the decades of stunning and fundamental discoveries made possible by that "gizmo that doesn't work," the Hubble Space Telescope.
*** Click here to read this article...
I firmly believe that the need to discover is an important part of what it means to be human. Fulfilling that need is just one of many reasons that a vital national space program is essential. The opportunity to significantly shape the future of mankind is ours, but often the long-range vision to make a commitment to space exploration is in short supply. Perhaps the commercial space ventures taking their first steps will one day focus on exploration; for now, NASA says its goals are in the deep beyond - if funding is available. Unfortunately, we all know the expression, "that's a mighty big 'if.'" My editorial rebuttal here was written soon after I witnessed the Hubble Space Telescope carried into space by Discovery. I feel more strongly about the words I wrote now in light of the decades of stunning and fundamental discoveries made possible by that "gizmo that doesn't work," the Hubble Space Telescope.
*** Click here to read this article...
Punk Calling written for Philadelphia City Paper, October 2002
And finally, a bit from me about me. In 2002, the Philadelphia City Paper - where I'd earlier been rock music columnist for more than a decade under my guitar-and-band alias Frank Blank - asked me to write about my own musical activities within the context of the Philadelphia punk and underground music scene, for a special Music Issue edition. Take a look back with me at a most interesting period of time...
*** Click here to read this article...
And finally, a bit from me about me. In 2002, the Philadelphia City Paper - where I'd earlier been rock music columnist for more than a decade under my guitar-and-band alias Frank Blank - asked me to write about my own musical activities within the context of the Philadelphia punk and underground music scene, for a special Music Issue edition. Take a look back with me at a most interesting period of time...
*** Click here to read this article...
Garrett Reisman Interview written for New Jersey Monthly, 2012
With the space shuttle program in the history books, NASA intends to focus on deep space exploration while delegating manned low earth orbit operations - including support for the International Space Station - to private ventures. The challenge for these entrants in a new kind space race? Create vehicles that are safe for manned flight. Dr. Garrett Reisman, 43, is up to that task. Born in Morristown and raised in Parsippany, Reisman flew aboard all three surviving shuttle orbiters and logged three months living in space aboard the ISS before leaving NASA earlier this year to join SpaceX, the aerospace firm established by PayPal founder Elon Musk. Reisman's daunting charge is to make SpaceX's manned spaceflight ambitions a reality.
The glory of Apollo was just a memory when you grew up, so what drew a kid from New Jersey to a career in space?
Flying and aviation was always something I was interested in. I remember at Lake Hiawatha Elementary School in Parsippany going and taking out every book they had on airplanes - reading about turn and bank indicators when I was in third grade. I used to watch films of the Apollo flights - we had a Super 8 movie of Apollo 11 that I watched over and over, so many times that the film kept breaking and I'd have to patch it back together with scotch tape. The weight of the tape on the reel was probably greater than the weight of the movie! So I was inspired by all that, and what NASA had done. I never thought, "Hey, astronaut is a career that I can pursue" because I just didn't think it was within the realm of possibility. It wasn't until later, near the end of my time as an undergraduate, that I began to think that maybe it was possible.
You flew on the space shuttle several times. How will you remember it?
Given everything that it was required to do, it was a brilliant design. But it was hamstrung by what it was required to. The fact that it had to have such a big payload bay to carry out Dept of Defense missions meant you had to put it on the side of the rocket, you couldn't put it on the top, and that meant that foam could fall off the rocket and blow a whole in the wing and that's what happened with Columbia, and we lost seven of my friends because of that. But given the technology - remember, this was designed in the 1970s - given the technology of the time, and given all the things it was made to do, it is a magnificent craft, and it will be remembered that way. It was a fantastic machine and I loved flying in it, and I consider myself very lucky to have had that chance.
How will the manned spaceflight efforts of SpaceX compare with those of the shuttle program?
We already have a rocket and a spacecraft that brings cargo to the space station and my job is to convert that and get it ready to carry people so we can get our astronauts back to the space station. And part of that is safety. I'm very confident that we're going to develop a spacecraft and a whole transportation system, including the rocket, that's going to be an order of magnitude safer than the space shuttle. We're concentrating on transporting people; we're not concentrating on doing spacewalks, or having a robotic arm, or demonstrating these technologies where we can land like an airplane. When you do something that complicated, you operate closer to the edges of what is safe. So, if you look at what we're doing with the Dragon spacecraft and the Falcon 9, you'll see that out of simplicity and elegance of design comes a lot of safety. The fewer things that have to go right for you to be safe, the better.
What makes SpaceX development different?
We're leveraging private investment, putting private money up as matching funds to the government investment and we're achieving some tremendous results that way. So, for example, it cost us a total of $300 million to develop the Falcon 9 rocket, from a blank sheet of paper - no manufacturing capability, no launch pad, nothing at all - to the first flight of this rocket. Of that $300 million, roughly half of it came from NASA and half of it from private investment, our venture capitalists who have invested in SpaceX. So for $300 million, only half of which was government funds, we developed and flew this rocket. Now NASA and the air force have a cost model, where they estimate what it would cost to develop a rocket like the Falcon 9, and when they ran that model putting in all the data that represents the Falcon 9, they came up with a cost estimate of $4 billion to do that. And that is not a surprise - that is what it's cost in the past. The old way of doing things has got to change. We don't have the luxury of throwing that kind of money away any more - not when every single aspect of the federal budget's being gone through with a fine-toothed comb.
With so much focus on local issues, can a national space vision re-emerge?
There will always remain desires as long as we remain human beings, inherent desires to explore and go further and further. No matter how much the local news is talking about fights with the teacher union versus local politicians or whatever the issue might be, there will still be a kid in the back yard looking up at the stars. That's never going to change.
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
With the space shuttle program in the history books, NASA intends to focus on deep space exploration while delegating manned low earth orbit operations - including support for the International Space Station - to private ventures. The challenge for these entrants in a new kind space race? Create vehicles that are safe for manned flight. Dr. Garrett Reisman, 43, is up to that task. Born in Morristown and raised in Parsippany, Reisman flew aboard all three surviving shuttle orbiters and logged three months living in space aboard the ISS before leaving NASA earlier this year to join SpaceX, the aerospace firm established by PayPal founder Elon Musk. Reisman's daunting charge is to make SpaceX's manned spaceflight ambitions a reality.
The glory of Apollo was just a memory when you grew up, so what drew a kid from New Jersey to a career in space?
Flying and aviation was always something I was interested in. I remember at Lake Hiawatha Elementary School in Parsippany going and taking out every book they had on airplanes - reading about turn and bank indicators when I was in third grade. I used to watch films of the Apollo flights - we had a Super 8 movie of Apollo 11 that I watched over and over, so many times that the film kept breaking and I'd have to patch it back together with scotch tape. The weight of the tape on the reel was probably greater than the weight of the movie! So I was inspired by all that, and what NASA had done. I never thought, "Hey, astronaut is a career that I can pursue" because I just didn't think it was within the realm of possibility. It wasn't until later, near the end of my time as an undergraduate, that I began to think that maybe it was possible.
You flew on the space shuttle several times. How will you remember it?
Given everything that it was required to do, it was a brilliant design. But it was hamstrung by what it was required to. The fact that it had to have such a big payload bay to carry out Dept of Defense missions meant you had to put it on the side of the rocket, you couldn't put it on the top, and that meant that foam could fall off the rocket and blow a whole in the wing and that's what happened with Columbia, and we lost seven of my friends because of that. But given the technology - remember, this was designed in the 1970s - given the technology of the time, and given all the things it was made to do, it is a magnificent craft, and it will be remembered that way. It was a fantastic machine and I loved flying in it, and I consider myself very lucky to have had that chance.
How will the manned spaceflight efforts of SpaceX compare with those of the shuttle program?
We already have a rocket and a spacecraft that brings cargo to the space station and my job is to convert that and get it ready to carry people so we can get our astronauts back to the space station. And part of that is safety. I'm very confident that we're going to develop a spacecraft and a whole transportation system, including the rocket, that's going to be an order of magnitude safer than the space shuttle. We're concentrating on transporting people; we're not concentrating on doing spacewalks, or having a robotic arm, or demonstrating these technologies where we can land like an airplane. When you do something that complicated, you operate closer to the edges of what is safe. So, if you look at what we're doing with the Dragon spacecraft and the Falcon 9, you'll see that out of simplicity and elegance of design comes a lot of safety. The fewer things that have to go right for you to be safe, the better.
What makes SpaceX development different?
We're leveraging private investment, putting private money up as matching funds to the government investment and we're achieving some tremendous results that way. So, for example, it cost us a total of $300 million to develop the Falcon 9 rocket, from a blank sheet of paper - no manufacturing capability, no launch pad, nothing at all - to the first flight of this rocket. Of that $300 million, roughly half of it came from NASA and half of it from private investment, our venture capitalists who have invested in SpaceX. So for $300 million, only half of which was government funds, we developed and flew this rocket. Now NASA and the air force have a cost model, where they estimate what it would cost to develop a rocket like the Falcon 9, and when they ran that model putting in all the data that represents the Falcon 9, they came up with a cost estimate of $4 billion to do that. And that is not a surprise - that is what it's cost in the past. The old way of doing things has got to change. We don't have the luxury of throwing that kind of money away any more - not when every single aspect of the federal budget's being gone through with a fine-toothed comb.
With so much focus on local issues, can a national space vision re-emerge?
There will always remain desires as long as we remain human beings, inherent desires to explore and go further and further. No matter how much the local news is talking about fights with the teacher union versus local politicians or whatever the issue might be, there will still be a kid in the back yard looking up at the stars. That's never going to change.
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Freddy Koella profile written for Vintage Guitar Magazine, 2005
For any guitarist, joining the band of a well-known artist can be an intimidating experience. But when your new employer is Bob Dylan, the definition of the word "pressure" should be rewritten.
In 2003 Freddy Koella, a native of Mulhouse, France, found himself taking the place of recently-departed Charlie Sexton in Dylan's band. Koella quickly meshed with co-guitarist Larry Campbell, and the duo was soon churning Dylan songs like "Honest With Me" and "Summer Days" into furious deep-blues maelstroms further roiled by Freddy's incendiary solos.
It's a long way from the east of France to Bob Dylan's side, and Koella recently talked about the journey, his career, and his new solo CD, Minimal (Minimal Records, www.freddykoella.com).
"My dad is a Bach fanatic. He is a very eclectic classical music lover, so I was hearing this music all the time," Koella recalls of his childhood. "And my mom played a little bit of piano. So that is what I was listening to when I was younger. But when I was 14, my sister brought home some blues records - and that was the end for me!"
Still, Freddy's affection was divided between guitar and violin, splitting his efforts between classical and blues. Not surprisingly, Koella's parents voiced their preference about their son's choice of music.
"My parents did not like when I played the blues. I was living in a small town in the east of France, so there was absolutely no connection there with the blues social phenomena. So for them, it was very bizarre."
While the sounds of Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, and Jimmy Page resonated with Freddy, the fathers of the blues were his greatest influence. Young Koella soon had a close encounter with one of these originators, despite living thousands of miles from the US.
"When I was 16, the first gig I ever did in front of an audience was blues rock, and we opened for Memphis Slim in a very small place in my area. So that was stressing! And very exciting. I was just playing with a drummer - and watching Slim emptying a bottle of cognac!" laughs Koella.
Soon though, Koella crossed the ocean. In 1983, at the age of 23, he played for a year with Cajun musician Zachary Richard, then returned to the States for good in 1990.
"You know, for me it was logical that I would move to America because I was hooked on this music," Koella acknowledges. "In France it was just a copy - I had to see what was here, to try to find a connection with this music, and my future... It's like how you would do if you were into Russian music - you would go to Russia. So I was so possessed that I didn't really think, I just went!
"The first time, it wasn't difficult at all, when I was younger. When I came in 1990 it was more difficult - I was 32 then, and it was tougher. But I had to do it because I couldn't see any future in France for me."
After first musically reuniting with Richard, Freddy met singer Willy DeVille, who first rose to prominence in New York's CBGB scene in 1977 with the band Mink DeVille. Ironically, the meeting came about thanks to a fellow French expatriate who would play a large role in Freddy's life, highly-regarded guitar builder James Trussart.
"He is a very old friend of mine, because he is from the east of France, too," Koella notes. "He told me that Willy DeVille is looking for a guitarist. So James gave me Willy's number, and I called him and met him."
That call led to a fifteen-year alliance with DeVille that continues to this day. But Trussart would play musical match-maker once again. In 2003, both Trussart and Koella had migrated separately to Los Angeles.
"I was at James' workshop in LA, and Tony Garnier, the bass player (with Bob Dylan), came in because he was playing one of James' guitars," Freddy recalls. "We started to talk about how they were rehearsing in Santa Monica, and that they were rehearsing with a guitarist and it wasn't very exciting, apparently. James said to Tony, 'You know, you should try Freddy...' So he told Bob about that, and Bob knows Willy. So Tony said, 'Would you like to try this guy?' And Bob said, 'Sure, bring him in.'"
Soon Koella was sparking new life in Dylan's timeless songs - and occasionally sparking ire from Bob's more conservative fans. Freddy shut out feedback, both the bad and the good.
"I did a blockage when I was playing with him. I didn't want to know anything," he admits. "My wife or my dad, they wanted to make me read all those fan mails and stuff, but I completely refused. I just wanted to be on the moment, and play with him like he would be anybody else, and enjoy it. So, of course when you are in a position like that, you can not make everybody happy - it is impossible. And I was aware of that. But it didn't bother me."
Bringing adventurous exploration to Dylan's music felt right to Koella.
"I've been playing this music for so long, I have to break the mold," Koella says. "I have to go somewhere else. To do the same stuff, like improvising in the same mode, the same style - to me after a certain time it's getting boring. So I'm just trying to stretch a little bit further. I listen to lots of ethnic music and different stuff - I really like that. I'm not a blues fanatic. I used to be, but now it's just my vocabulary and that's it.
"I really love Thelonious Monk. To me it's his musical language, the way he expresses himself. It talks to me. And it's funny, because when I jammed the first time with Bob, the way he played the piano reminded me of him. Very... I don't know in English... Crazy! What can I say? Not a pattern, but he could go anywhere. So I felt very good about that."
Koella found his on-stage position immediately to Dylan's left to be a source of inspiration.
"I really like to improvise, and that was ideal for me. Especially being on Bob's side, you can feel him and you can do the connection, you know. It was great."
Health problems in 2004 brought the association with Dylan to an unexpected close. After a troubling period of months being unable to play, Koella turned to the creation of his beautifully atmospheric instrumental CD, Minimal. The disc was recorded direct to stereo, just the sound of a guitarist and his instrument.
"That was done right after I felt that I was back on my feet," he explains. "What can I do to express myself, and to do it quickly? I thought, let's see what I can do with just one instrument in my hands."
Koella borrowed the album's main voice, "an old double-O 28 Martin from 1895, and I did most of the songs on that. And then I have a J-45 from 1947, and I have a National Tricone reissue. I played also a Gibson 125 from 1957."
Koella also plays one of Trussart's metal Telecaster-based instruments. But his oldest companion is a 1963 Stratocaster - bought in France - that has been at his side since he was 21.
"A friend of mine in my home town had a music store, and one day told me to come in, that he had a guitar I should see," Koella remembers. "He had traded an organ, a cheesy organ, for this guitar. So he sold me this guitar at the time for about $400.00! But you know, at the time it wasn't completely crazy with the vintage stuff."
Koella hopes to promote Minimal, as he did with a festival solo show in an ancient French church in May. But he will also be touring with Willy DeVille, and hopes to forge similar musical alliances in the future.
"You know, I'm a shy guy," Koella explains. "I like vocalists, and I guess being behind someone fits me well."
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
For any guitarist, joining the band of a well-known artist can be an intimidating experience. But when your new employer is Bob Dylan, the definition of the word "pressure" should be rewritten.
In 2003 Freddy Koella, a native of Mulhouse, France, found himself taking the place of recently-departed Charlie Sexton in Dylan's band. Koella quickly meshed with co-guitarist Larry Campbell, and the duo was soon churning Dylan songs like "Honest With Me" and "Summer Days" into furious deep-blues maelstroms further roiled by Freddy's incendiary solos.
It's a long way from the east of France to Bob Dylan's side, and Koella recently talked about the journey, his career, and his new solo CD, Minimal (Minimal Records, www.freddykoella.com).
"My dad is a Bach fanatic. He is a very eclectic classical music lover, so I was hearing this music all the time," Koella recalls of his childhood. "And my mom played a little bit of piano. So that is what I was listening to when I was younger. But when I was 14, my sister brought home some blues records - and that was the end for me!"
Still, Freddy's affection was divided between guitar and violin, splitting his efforts between classical and blues. Not surprisingly, Koella's parents voiced their preference about their son's choice of music.
"My parents did not like when I played the blues. I was living in a small town in the east of France, so there was absolutely no connection there with the blues social phenomena. So for them, it was very bizarre."
While the sounds of Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, and Jimmy Page resonated with Freddy, the fathers of the blues were his greatest influence. Young Koella soon had a close encounter with one of these originators, despite living thousands of miles from the US.
"When I was 16, the first gig I ever did in front of an audience was blues rock, and we opened for Memphis Slim in a very small place in my area. So that was stressing! And very exciting. I was just playing with a drummer - and watching Slim emptying a bottle of cognac!" laughs Koella.
Soon though, Koella crossed the ocean. In 1983, at the age of 23, he played for a year with Cajun musician Zachary Richard, then returned to the States for good in 1990.
"You know, for me it was logical that I would move to America because I was hooked on this music," Koella acknowledges. "In France it was just a copy - I had to see what was here, to try to find a connection with this music, and my future... It's like how you would do if you were into Russian music - you would go to Russia. So I was so possessed that I didn't really think, I just went!
"The first time, it wasn't difficult at all, when I was younger. When I came in 1990 it was more difficult - I was 32 then, and it was tougher. But I had to do it because I couldn't see any future in France for me."
After first musically reuniting with Richard, Freddy met singer Willy DeVille, who first rose to prominence in New York's CBGB scene in 1977 with the band Mink DeVille. Ironically, the meeting came about thanks to a fellow French expatriate who would play a large role in Freddy's life, highly-regarded guitar builder James Trussart.
"He is a very old friend of mine, because he is from the east of France, too," Koella notes. "He told me that Willy DeVille is looking for a guitarist. So James gave me Willy's number, and I called him and met him."
That call led to a fifteen-year alliance with DeVille that continues to this day. But Trussart would play musical match-maker once again. In 2003, both Trussart and Koella had migrated separately to Los Angeles.
"I was at James' workshop in LA, and Tony Garnier, the bass player (with Bob Dylan), came in because he was playing one of James' guitars," Freddy recalls. "We started to talk about how they were rehearsing in Santa Monica, and that they were rehearsing with a guitarist and it wasn't very exciting, apparently. James said to Tony, 'You know, you should try Freddy...' So he told Bob about that, and Bob knows Willy. So Tony said, 'Would you like to try this guy?' And Bob said, 'Sure, bring him in.'"
Soon Koella was sparking new life in Dylan's timeless songs - and occasionally sparking ire from Bob's more conservative fans. Freddy shut out feedback, both the bad and the good.
"I did a blockage when I was playing with him. I didn't want to know anything," he admits. "My wife or my dad, they wanted to make me read all those fan mails and stuff, but I completely refused. I just wanted to be on the moment, and play with him like he would be anybody else, and enjoy it. So, of course when you are in a position like that, you can not make everybody happy - it is impossible. And I was aware of that. But it didn't bother me."
Bringing adventurous exploration to Dylan's music felt right to Koella.
"I've been playing this music for so long, I have to break the mold," Koella says. "I have to go somewhere else. To do the same stuff, like improvising in the same mode, the same style - to me after a certain time it's getting boring. So I'm just trying to stretch a little bit further. I listen to lots of ethnic music and different stuff - I really like that. I'm not a blues fanatic. I used to be, but now it's just my vocabulary and that's it.
"I really love Thelonious Monk. To me it's his musical language, the way he expresses himself. It talks to me. And it's funny, because when I jammed the first time with Bob, the way he played the piano reminded me of him. Very... I don't know in English... Crazy! What can I say? Not a pattern, but he could go anywhere. So I felt very good about that."
Koella found his on-stage position immediately to Dylan's left to be a source of inspiration.
"I really like to improvise, and that was ideal for me. Especially being on Bob's side, you can feel him and you can do the connection, you know. It was great."
Health problems in 2004 brought the association with Dylan to an unexpected close. After a troubling period of months being unable to play, Koella turned to the creation of his beautifully atmospheric instrumental CD, Minimal. The disc was recorded direct to stereo, just the sound of a guitarist and his instrument.
"That was done right after I felt that I was back on my feet," he explains. "What can I do to express myself, and to do it quickly? I thought, let's see what I can do with just one instrument in my hands."
Koella borrowed the album's main voice, "an old double-O 28 Martin from 1895, and I did most of the songs on that. And then I have a J-45 from 1947, and I have a National Tricone reissue. I played also a Gibson 125 from 1957."
Koella also plays one of Trussart's metal Telecaster-based instruments. But his oldest companion is a 1963 Stratocaster - bought in France - that has been at his side since he was 21.
"A friend of mine in my home town had a music store, and one day told me to come in, that he had a guitar I should see," Koella remembers. "He had traded an organ, a cheesy organ, for this guitar. So he sold me this guitar at the time for about $400.00! But you know, at the time it wasn't completely crazy with the vintage stuff."
Koella hopes to promote Minimal, as he did with a festival solo show in an ancient French church in May. But he will also be touring with Willy DeVille, and hopes to forge similar musical alliances in the future.
"You know, I'm a shy guy," Koella explains. "I like vocalists, and I guess being behind someone fits me well."
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Lonnie Youngblood on Jimi Hendrix written for UniVibes: The International Jimi Hendrix Magazine, 1996
Fans of Jimi Hendrix are no doubt familiar with the name Lonnie Youngblood. In fact, the odds are good that most of Jimi's followers have several albums or CDs in their collections containing material from Hendrix's first professional recording sessions - sessions spent backing sax player/vocalist Youngblood in the recording of thirteen rhythm and blues tracks.
The fact that the sessions took place late in 1963 is generally accepted, but beyond that little else has been revealed about Jimi's time with Youngblood or the professional career of Lonnie himself. The fact that Youngblood has not been interviewed in depth about this period has doubtlessly contributed to the haze of mystery that cloaks one of the significant events in the history of rock - Jimi Hendrix's recorded debut.
In the summer of 1996, I had the opportunity to speak at length with Lonnie Youngblood. Youngblood was performing at a restaurant - the well-known soul food establishment Sylvia's - at 126th and Lennox Avenues in Harlem. After I traveled to Harlem for an initial meeting, Lonnie was kind enough to meet with me in person and speak on the telephone several times during August, September, and October.
Personable and a very youthful 55 years of age, Lonnie Youngblood looked back on his days with Jimi Hendrix - then known as Jimmy James - and on his own fascinating rhythm and blues career that has spanned over four decades.
Youngblood was born on August 3, 1941, in southern Georgia. As he grew up, Lonnie soon realized he had an attraction to the saxophone - thanks to the music of the one of the greatest stars of the 1940's.
"My mother was a serious fan of Louis Jordan, and she just loved that man so much!" Youngblood says. "And I loved her so much, so whatever I thought would be pleasing to her was what I was trying to do. She really loved Louis Jordan, so I told her I wanted to get a saxophone and be like Louis Jordan, which I really did. For some reason, watching her just made me want to be a saxophone player.
"It took a long time to get that horn - that was the hardest thing I ever tried to do in my life! It took me over a year. I got an alto like Louis Jordan had, and an alto was a hundred twenty dollars and thirty-six cents. And boy, my father really didn't want to go that route!" Lonnie laughs. "He didn't want that because he thought I was going to change my mind, you know? And plus it was like, my father made about twelve dollars a week. You know, it wasn't easy, and that was one of the hardest things I've had to accomplish in my life, that was. But we got it, and I started taking lessons. I played in the high school band, and I had my own little band."
The investment in the saxophone soon paid off professionally, as the young Lonnie moved to the Newark area in 1959 to join the Paul Farano Trio and singer Pearl Reeves.
"My mother came up north, and she came to New Jersey to my aunt's house," Youngblood recalls. "My aunt went to this club every Sunday night called Woody's Corner in Newark, and my mother had the privilege of meeting this lady who had a band. Her name was Pearl Reeves. The Pearl Reeves and Paul Farano Trio - Paul Farano was the drummer and he was Pearl's husband. He was in charge of the band.
"So they were having trouble with the saxophone player - he was leaving and they were trying to replace him," Lonnie continues. "My aunt had introduced Pearl to my mother, because my aunt and Pearl were good friends. Pearl said, 'Oh, we're having so much trouble with our saxophone player.' And my mother said, 'Well, why don't you hire my son?' You know how mothers can do that? Mothers can get you in more trouble!
"But anyway, when she talked to my mother, she said, 'I'm going to send for your son.' My mother told her how good I was, that I played with many bands, that I was in talent shows, and that I'd won first place - my mother went on for I don't know how long! But she convinced her."
Youngblood's mother had a harder time convincing Lonnie that Pearl Reeves would really call on him to travel north from Georgia to join her popular band.
"My mother came back home, and she said, 'Guess what? You're going to New Jersey!'" Lonnie says. "I said, 'Oh, please! That lady isn't going to call me! She's got thousands of saxophone players and she's going to call all the way to Georgia for me?!?' And she said, 'You watch - you're going to New Jersey.'
"And would you believe that two minutes later this woman called me! It was Pearl Reeves from New Jersey, and she wanted to send me money to take the train up to New Jersey. Then I said to myself, 'Well, it's either fear or I'm going to New Jersey.' So I got rid of the fear and I came up. And I started playing and I started making $15.00 a night."
Youngblood learned about the competitive world of r&b showmanship while backing Reeves, paying his dues in the North at the same time that Jimi Hendrix was doing the same down South.
"I was with Pearl for a while, and I was becoming the hottest thing in Newark, New Jersey," Youngblood says. "See, people were already coming to see Pearl - they were the number one band. And then when they put me in the band - oh, we used to walk the bar, do everything! It was an exciting show, and it was only a four piece band. She played guitar and sang, and she was really fine - she really looked great."
Lonnie's first recording was an instrumental version of the r&b song "Heartbreak." It became a regional hit when it was released on a small record label called Earth Records, and the success encouraged Lonnie to leave Pearl Reeves' band behind.
Youngblood began to land prestigious spots as a band leader. His first such gig was with legendary singer Faye "Atomic" Adams, whose songs "Shake a Hand," "I'll Be True," and "Hurts Me to My Heart" had all been number one r&b hits. From Adams, Youngblood moved on to lead the band of another r&b legend, Buster Brown.
"Buster Brown was an older man, and a blues singer," Lonnie notes. "He recorded a song called 'Fannie Mae.' Man, now I was really getting to the big time because this guy had the number one r&b record in the country. So he had a big orchestra - Buster Brown and His Fannie Mae Orchestra. We were going all over the South, and you never saw so many people lined up at the door and going crazy over an artist like this. And this guy, he was phenomenal.
"Anyway, with Buster Brown I traveled all over the country, and then I joined up with Baby Washington," Youngblood continues. Washington was well known for her r&b hit "The Time" in 1959. "I became her band leader, and I traveled all over the country with her. But my next big break came when I came back and started up my own band all over again and became really big in the Ivy League colleges."
Lonnie Youngblood became so popular doing college dates throughout the Northeast that he was christened "The Ivy League King."
"I became the number one rhythm and blues band working these places," Youngblood notes. "I mean, I was working three or four nights of the week and on the weekends I was doing doubles on Saturdays, doubles on Sundays. And they would take me any time they could get me.
"I used to go into the town of Dartmouth, and they would have a sign across the road, 'Welcome to Dartmouth Lonnie Youngblood and the Bloodhounds' or 'Lonnie Youngblood and the Red Jackets,'" Lonnie says with a laugh. "Oh, we had so many names for this band back in those days!"
While Jimi Hendrix worked with Little Richard, Youngblood's growing success put him in position to be teamed with another rock and roll pioneer - one who taught him a valuable lesson in humility.
"They needed a band to back up Chuck Berry," Lonnie remembers. "So I said, "I'll back up Chuck Berry!" And I was excited, because I love Chuck."
Youngblood's portion of the show was going great - until Chuck decided he wasn't about to be upstaged by his opening act.
"I was turning the place out," Lonnie says. "So Chuck got sick of that. The people were screaming, and then they were screaming real loud, then they went crazy - I mean they went really crazy! So they were screaming and I was saying to myself, 'I'm killing them! I'm killing them!'
"But you know what happened? Chuck Berry had come out of the dressing room and was on the stage behind me, hooking up his guitar into the amplifier!
"I'll never forget that as long as I live!" Youngblood says with a laugh. "And Chuck turned them out. I thought I was throwing it out there - killing them, really burning the house. Well, when Chuck finished with them, I knew the difference. Because Chuck Berry turned them to ashes - smoldering ashes. You could just forget about it. It was all over."
But the success that Lonnie had as "The Ivy League King" soon played out to the saddest of refrains for a musician - he was being "robbed blind" by his agent, a man he trusted fully. So Youngblood traded in his college name for a new title - "The Prince of Harlem."
"I worked every club that ever existed in Harlem," Lonnie says. "At one time I had over 35 clubs in Harlem! I wouldn't go out of Harlem - I loved Harlem. I still love Harlem."
Lonnie worked every gig he could find in the famed New York community en route to earning the "Prince of Harlem" title.
"Now what caused that to be was that I worked every conceivable type of situation in Harlem," Youngblood explains. "I'm talking about funerals - I can't count the number of funerals I've worked! As a solo act I'd play either 'Precious Lord,' or 'My Way,' or 'Amazing Grace.' And I started working block parties. I can't tell you to this day - if I had to tell you today - how many block parties I worked. I could not tell you - I couldn't even try. I couldn't tell you how many birthday parties I have worked. I can't really tell you how many clubs I've worked, because they go and come. I've worked at one club maybe ten times and it's always been under a different name!"
Stylistically Youngblood patterned himself after one the greatest sax players ever, and a man who hired Jimi Hendrix to play in his band in 1966.
"I used to do the King Curtis licks, that was my thing," Youngblood notes. "I loved King Curtis, too - we became the best of friends. We were rivals, but we were great friends. I feel like today that I have not even gotten to the point where he was when he died."
With his reputation cemented in the Harlem community, a brief period in the army after being drafted came to an end with Lonnie being welcomed back into Harlem's musical community in 1963. And there he found Jimi Hendrix, who had finished his own military service the summer before.
"After I came back I met Jimi Hendrix. He came on into New York, and he was working with a group," Lonnie explains. "I had been drafted into the Army; I came out of the Army and I was looking for something. So I met these guys who I knew before I went into the Army. They said, 'Come on and join us, Lonnie - we've got this great guitar player.' So, I said, 'OK, man, I'll come and hear you,' to see what I liked or what I could do about it, you know? And I went, and that's where Jimi Hendrix was, playing with this band."
And who was leading this band?
"At the time, it was Curtis Knight," Lonnie answers. "Curtis was the band leader, and he was playing rhythm guitar. But he couldn't really... He wasn't a very good musician at the time. He was more or less a hindrance to the band. After a while he sort of split the scene, so it was an opportunity for me to front my situation. So I just enticed the guys to go on with me."
The possibility of an early, brief association between Curtis Knight and Jimi Hendrix late in 1963 has not been raised before, although Knight did write in his 1974 biography Jimi: An Intimate Biography of Jimi Hendrix that Knight arrived in New York early in 1963 and immediately began working at breaking into the music scene. Although Knight has claimed that he first met Hendrix in 1964 outside a recording studio in a New York hotel lobby, if an early Knight band was taken over by Youngblood in 1963 perhaps Knight would not be enthusiastic about bringing up unpleasant memories.
"That band had problems - and you know how bands have problems," Lonnie continues. "So they didn't want to break up, but they wanted somebody to lead them. And I said, 'Well, I ain't got no money so I can't lead no band.' Jimi said, 'Man, I don't care, I just want to play.' So I said, 'Well, OK then...' So I got us a couple of jobs. A couple of jobs, and that became the Lonnie Youngblood thing all over again."
Now leading the band, Youngblood was accompanied by Jimi at gigs on the r&b circuit in New York and Philadelphia.
"We used to work the Cheetah (in New York), and we used to work Philadelphia down there on South Street. And the Uptown Theater," Lonnie recalls, referring to Philadelphia's equivalent to New York's famed Apollo Theater. But next on the Youngblood/Hendrix agenda were the famed recording sessions that resulted in sales of over two million copies of the handful of songs in all their varied release formats.
Lonnie Youngblood had signed a record deal with Fairmount Records, a subsidiary of Philadelphia's Cameo-Parkway label. A friendship with Philadelphia club owner Buddy Caldwell led to Youngblood signing with label boss Bernie Lowe's company, a company that had scored with big pop hits like Chubby Checker's "The Twist" and Dee Dee Sharp's "Mashed Potato Time."
The natural assumption, based on the strong Philadelphia connection that Youngblood had, would be that these first ever recording sessions played on by Jimi Hendrix took place in Philadelphia.
"No, see, that isn't true," Lonnie corrects. "It was in New York, and it was done on eight track at Abtone, Abtone Studio. It was on Broadway, between 55th and 56th, on the second floor.
As detailed in the Caesar Glebbeek/Harry Shapiro "Electric Gypsy" discography - and not taking into account the mono/stereo mix variations, overdubs, and length discrepancies that characterize the multitude of releases that contain the Hendrix-Youngblood material - the two musicians collaborated on thirteen tracks over the course of a handful of sessions: "Go Go Shoes," its continuation, "Go Go Place," "Soul Food (That's What I Like)," "Goodbye Bessie Mae," "Sweet Thang," "Groovemaker," "Fox," and three takes each of "Wipe the Sweat" and "Under the Table."'Go Go Shoes' DJ copy
About the recording sessions that yielded the famed tracks, Lonnie recalls, "It was a blast. But that was all it was going to be because we weren't making any money! But I always paid Jimi, even if it was only $25 or $30."
As we have seen in the years since those sessions, a multitude of people were well aware that the name "Hendrix" could be cashed in on using the tapes of the Youngblood sessions. But how did the tapes get into distribution?
"You see, Fairmount just had a distribution deal - they never had the tapes," Youngblood reveals. "The tapes were at the studio. Once I'd mixed them down and mastered them, I always left my tapes at the studio because at that time that was the thing to do. When everybody recorded, they left the mother tape at the studio.
"These people, they knew where the tapes I had recorded were," Lonnie continues. "Johnny Brantley was a producer out of New York, and he had a lot of access to a lot of different companies. Like if you cut something and wanted to get it in the door somewhere, maybe Johnny could take it in for you. But he's a liar and a... What's the lowest name you can call somebody? The reason I feel this way is because when they took this tape, Johnny Brantley and Joe Robinson, they made a deal with this big company in Chicago, GRP. They went and bribed the guy who owned the studio, and actually went and took my tapes away. And they gave them about $100,000 for this tape. And they took all the money and didn't give me any of the money. That was my stuff!
"And then these companies started to put the shit out and didn't even put my name on it. They would say it was Jimi Hendrix singing, without my name on it - so many lies, man. The stuff that came out on that album called Two Great Experiences Together! - what happened with that, one company took that and tried to doctor it up to make it have more Hendrix activity. See Hendrix is more or less just backing me up. The companies wanted to say they had a little more activity by Hendrix, so they found some Hendrix wannabees and they put them on the tracks. And what they really did was they messed the tracks up with the overdubs.
"The stuff I went through, I wouldn't wish it on nobody," Youngblood says. "I was a strange kind of guy - I didn't think anybody would do that kind of thing to somebody. Which is the dumbest way to be looking at anything, because people will do anything in the world for the sake of a buck. That's the thing that shocked me more than anything, when I came to the reality of what I was dealing with. It may sound strange to you, but when you talk about the type of people that they were - they were of that caliber, and they were only deceiving the public."
Early in 1964, Youngblood and Hendrix officially parted musical company, but remained friends. Jimi went on to spend much of the year with the Isley Brothers, and then joined up with Little Richard before returning to New York in 1965 and working with Curtis Knight.
Meanwhile Lonnie Youngblood was back on the road, opening shows or playing with some of the top manes in soul music. Joe Simon, Sam and Dave, James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Joe Tex, Ben E. King - Youngblood worked with more great acts than he can remember.
But the paths of Hendrix and Youngblood continued to cross in the tight New York/Harlem musician scene of the mid-1960s.
"When I started recording again, and Jimi Hendrix was on those recordings, he was my guitar player," Youngblood explains. "But see at the time it wasn't like that - it may have appeared to be that, because it was my sessions, so I was paying him, and it was my stuff, and the gigs was my jobs and I was paying him.
"But, see, everybody was having sessions. As a matter of fact, we were all session musicians. So it wasn't like recording with a band. Even while I was recording for myself, I was recording solos for other people."
Comments such as this at least bring up the possibility that the lines marking phases of Jimi's very early New York career may not be as clearly defined as has been accepted. Youngblood even confirms that he himself did some sessions at this time with Curtis Knight for PPX Enterprises at Studio 76 at 1650 Broadway.
By June of 1966, though, Jimi had started his own band - Jimmy James and the Blue Flames - and was deeply immersed in the Greenwich Village scene. As the Village was an alien environment compared to the relatively conservative Harlem, it should be no surprise that Lonnie quickly noticed big changes in Jimi when Hendrix paid him a visit.
"Jimi knew he wanted to do something different," Lonnie states emphatically. "He could see where he wanted to go with a new kind of music. He tried to explain it to me and get me to come with him but I couldn't see what he meant.
"See, Jimi had taken and met some friends, and so they were like hippies and stuff, and they liked Jimi," Lonnie continues. "And Jimi loved to be loved - that was a thing about Jimi. Jimi loved to be loved for being Jimi - he didn't want you to love him and change him. Because Jimi wasn't about to change - Jimi wanted to be himself. That's the way he always was. He may have made a few adjustments from then, but that's what Jimi was all about.
"See, what had happened was that Jimi had tried LSD. Now if he hadn't done that I might have went with him. He said, 'Man, we got to try this tab of LSD.' I said, 'Damn...' I was petrified of LSD. I mean, not scared - petrified! Because I heard that LSD would come back on you. So I was scared to death of that stuff, but he was cool.
"But he started getting weird, he started talking about different kinds of crazy songs," Youngblood recalls. "Like 'The Wind Called Mary' - he had some other titles at the time, not that one, but they came out on his first or second album. 'Third Stone From the Sun.' Anyway, I didn't go down to the Village with Jimi. Jimi went to the Village and from that Eric Burdon and the Animals flew into the States and were walking around in the Village - because the Village was famous - so they saw Jimi and they were amazed. Because Jimi was awesome - Jimi played a right handed guitar upside down and didn't miss a note. This guy was unbelievable. So they took Jimi to England. And this guy was adventurous enough to go to England and play - he didn't give a damn! He was a free spirit, and that's what I loved about him."
While Lonnie Youngblood labored away at a respectable career, further establishing his reputation in the Harlem scene, Jimi Hendrix began his ascent to stardom. One day in 1967, Lonnie made a shocking discovery.
"Jimi was on the charts, and somebody saw his record and came to me and said, 'That's your guy!'" Lonnie remembers. He saw the spelling of the name J-I-M-I and didn't believe it - until he saw the cover of Are You Experienced? Then Youngblood knew it was true. The guitarist who had once backed him was well on his way to revolutionizing rock music and the realm of the electric guitar.
But Jimi stayed in contact with Lonnie, occasionally visiting him in Harlem whenever he was in New York. In fact, it's quite possible that it was one of those visits that Jimi's friend, Arthur Allen, was referring to when he was quoted in Electric Gypsy saying the following:
"Some band was playing and Jimi sat in, but the way he sat in, like he was afraid, like he was wondering if his hat was alright. He really wanted to make a good impression in front of this audience of no more than forty people. But Jimi was very, very self-conscious. And he came in and said, 'How's my hat, man, how does my hat look?' So we said, 'Your hat looks alright, man.' 'Do you think they'll mind if...?' Always wondering what we, what other black people thought about his music and him... so he wound up jamming and blowing everybody's freaking mind out... every time I seen him play uptown, he played better than I have ever seen him play in my life."
In UniVibes Issue 12 Allen further elaborated Hendrix on that same night by stating, "We went to Small's one night and he had just bought this guitar, the Flying V..."
The club that Allen was speaking of was Small's Paradise, in Harlem at 138th Street. Small's was one of Lonnie Youngblood's main haunts - "It was my headquarters," he says - and there is a well known photograph of Jimi wearing a hat while playing a Gibson Flying V with Lonnie in 1968.
"That's how we had that very famous picture of me and him on stage together at Small's Paradise," Lonnie states. "That's where I was working."
Based on Jimi's hat, the presence of the Flying V, and the venue, it's quite likely that this photo was taken on the very night that Arthur Allen recalled so well.
But Jimi's continuing musical relationship with Youngblood wasn't limited to jams in clubs.
"We hung around for three days down at the Record Plant," Youngblood recalls. "We recorded for three days - we did not go out of the studio for three days! We were sending out for food, we did everything. We cut enough material for at least two albums."
So what happened to the tapes of this second Hendrix/Youngblood collaboration?
"Who knows?" Lonnie reflects. "First of all, he didn't label the tapes 'Lonnie Youngblood' or anything like that. But it was there. And if anybody hears it, I'm doing the singing."
Just before he left America for the last time, Hendrix paid his old friend a final visit - and confided in him the troubles that were on his mind so much of 1970.
"He said, 'Youngblood, there's a lot of trouble going on. There's a lot of problems going on and there's going to be a lot of heads rolling. So when I come back...' He was getting ready to start a gospel, pop, blues, and jazz band as a side thing for him that would reach into my situation. He came back for me.
"I told him, 'Jimi, man, if something's not being done to your own vision, maybe you shouldn't be too vocal about that until you build up your case and have some legitimacy legally.' And he said, 'Man, I'm going to straighten it out.' And I never saw him again - never saw him alive again."
After Jimi's death, Lonnie went on doing what he had always done - backing other musicians and leading his own band. And there were new recording sessions such as the ones that yielded single titles like "Super Cool" b/w "Black Is So Bad" and his 1981 Radio/Atlantic Records release Lonnie Youngblood, an album that featured a number of songs written by George Kerr - a name often seen on the myriad of Hendrix/Youngblood releases.
Those releases have been a source of mixed feelings for Youngblood. Naturally he is proud of the fact that he was in on the beginning of Hendrix's historic professional career, but Lonnie also knows that he was taken advantage of financially during a time when it was common for musicians to lose the rights to their own material.
"A lot of people that put out that album," Youngblood reflects. "It came out as Jimi Hendrix and they had Jimi Hendrix on there as the vocalist and some of those albums never exposed me completely, and it was all my stuff! CBS did a big story on that about how they exploited me, and I sued Columbia, and I sued a lot of people.
"But they all took advantage of me," Lonnie continues. "All of them. Nobody paid me. Ohhhh, that's a whole 'nother story. That's heavy. That will bring your anger up because of the way they treated me. You see, I was just a victim of the system and the way things work sometimes, and that's what happened with that. I don't run around saying I'm angry about that or anything else, really, because I'm grateful to be alive."
That Youngblood has such an attitude is partially due to the fact that he survived a difficult period of drug abuse. But unlike many musicians who become crippled by their problems, Youngblood became determined to straighten himself out.
"I had a problem for about ten years," Youngblood states frankly. "I got so screwed around with the industry - and I'm not making an excuse for it - that I didn't give a damn one way or the other. I drugged, man - the only time I felt good was when I drugged, man, because then I didn't think about it no more.
"So about eight or nine years ago I went into Bergen Pines Hospital on rehab," Lonnie continues. "I got myself together and I never looked back. But that doesn't mean that just because I'm sober everything's supposed to just fall into place. Life still goes on - ups and downs and problems and stuff.
"But I'll tell you right now, I've had a great career. I've worked with every conceivable name, I've been to Japan - I've gone to Japan twice a year, I've worked in Italy, Germany, all of these places I've been to on my own. And when I travel with another artist like Ben E. King, we go to different places as well."
Aside from playing with his good friend King - the man whose "Stand By Me" is one of the enduring pop hits of all time - Lonnie Youngblood continues to work hard to take his own career even further. For now, that means recording a blues CD - one track at a time, as finances permit.
"There's so much that's part of my career," Lonnie notes. "My career is 45 years - four and one half decades! And you want to hear something funny - it's still going strong! My blues band is six pieces, the one I'm putting together now. We're recording and putting the band together - we're in business.
"And naturally there's financial problems - we're cutting it piece by piece," Youngblood explains. "You take a dollar from here and steal a dollar from there. We've got about three songs we've got now, but it's long and painstaking."
Youngblood is well aware of the differences between the recording industry of the past and the modern day entertainment media machinery.
"Back then all they knew was the finished product," Youngblood says of the 1960's. "This is a new day. The rude awakening for me was the fact that you're not marketable over thirty in the new market. But see, then I discovered that there is a market, and my market is jazz and blues. So I said let me go over to do the jazz and blues thing, so that's where I'm at.
"The blues band is going to be my salvation - you watch and see what I tell you," Youngblood insists. "See, I should have gone and jumped on the blues before but I didn't want to be one dimensional. I wanted to do the whole damn thing, I wanted to do pop, I wanted to work on everything. But the blues band is going to bring me into where I'm trying to go. And I know it, because everything's happening right. Everything is positive and things are happening."Lonnie Youngblood at Slyvia's, Harlem, 1996
While waiting to complete his blues project, Youngblood plays in clubs and at private functions. Backed by a drummer and keyboard player, Youngblood plays standards like "Take the A Train" and "Mack the Knife" during his sets at Sylvia's. Standing outside the Harlem landmark, Lonnie notes, "What I'm doing in there I'm doing with just two pieces, and I'm doing it at minimal volume, and I still got to rock them and I got to get their attention."
And "The Prince of Harlem" still has his subjects, as a number of people come up to say hello during a brief photo session on Lennox Avenue outside Sylvia's.
Looking back after more than thirty years have passed, Lonnie remembers fondly the experience of working with Hendrix.
"I bought Jimi his amplifier, I bought him one of his first amplifiers in New York," Youngblood reveals. "Me and my wife spent that money and bought him a Fender amp. He wouldn't buy an amp - he didn't give a damn! If you wanted to play with him, you had to buy him an amp! He was that good. Jimi was a light traveler. He didn't give a damn about no amp - he might have been here today and gone tomorrow! He was like..."
Lonnie pauses and laughs, remembering the name Jimi Hendrix worked under in his early New York days.
"Jimmy James - he was like a vagabond, man. He was one of the greatest guys I ever had the pleasure of working with."
The legend of Jimi Hendrix will be forever linked with the name Lonnie Youngblood - and with those historic recording sessions in New York in 1963, when the guitar artistry of Jimi Hendrix was first recorded and released on record.
With a smile, Lonnie Youngblood sums up his feelings about it all.
"I've sold over two million copies of that Jimi Hendrix album. So, I didn't get any finances from it - but I'm always known."
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Fans of Jimi Hendrix are no doubt familiar with the name Lonnie Youngblood. In fact, the odds are good that most of Jimi's followers have several albums or CDs in their collections containing material from Hendrix's first professional recording sessions - sessions spent backing sax player/vocalist Youngblood in the recording of thirteen rhythm and blues tracks.
The fact that the sessions took place late in 1963 is generally accepted, but beyond that little else has been revealed about Jimi's time with Youngblood or the professional career of Lonnie himself. The fact that Youngblood has not been interviewed in depth about this period has doubtlessly contributed to the haze of mystery that cloaks one of the significant events in the history of rock - Jimi Hendrix's recorded debut.
In the summer of 1996, I had the opportunity to speak at length with Lonnie Youngblood. Youngblood was performing at a restaurant - the well-known soul food establishment Sylvia's - at 126th and Lennox Avenues in Harlem. After I traveled to Harlem for an initial meeting, Lonnie was kind enough to meet with me in person and speak on the telephone several times during August, September, and October.
Personable and a very youthful 55 years of age, Lonnie Youngblood looked back on his days with Jimi Hendrix - then known as Jimmy James - and on his own fascinating rhythm and blues career that has spanned over four decades.
Youngblood was born on August 3, 1941, in southern Georgia. As he grew up, Lonnie soon realized he had an attraction to the saxophone - thanks to the music of the one of the greatest stars of the 1940's.
"My mother was a serious fan of Louis Jordan, and she just loved that man so much!" Youngblood says. "And I loved her so much, so whatever I thought would be pleasing to her was what I was trying to do. She really loved Louis Jordan, so I told her I wanted to get a saxophone and be like Louis Jordan, which I really did. For some reason, watching her just made me want to be a saxophone player.
"It took a long time to get that horn - that was the hardest thing I ever tried to do in my life! It took me over a year. I got an alto like Louis Jordan had, and an alto was a hundred twenty dollars and thirty-six cents. And boy, my father really didn't want to go that route!" Lonnie laughs. "He didn't want that because he thought I was going to change my mind, you know? And plus it was like, my father made about twelve dollars a week. You know, it wasn't easy, and that was one of the hardest things I've had to accomplish in my life, that was. But we got it, and I started taking lessons. I played in the high school band, and I had my own little band."
The investment in the saxophone soon paid off professionally, as the young Lonnie moved to the Newark area in 1959 to join the Paul Farano Trio and singer Pearl Reeves.
"My mother came up north, and she came to New Jersey to my aunt's house," Youngblood recalls. "My aunt went to this club every Sunday night called Woody's Corner in Newark, and my mother had the privilege of meeting this lady who had a band. Her name was Pearl Reeves. The Pearl Reeves and Paul Farano Trio - Paul Farano was the drummer and he was Pearl's husband. He was in charge of the band.
"So they were having trouble with the saxophone player - he was leaving and they were trying to replace him," Lonnie continues. "My aunt had introduced Pearl to my mother, because my aunt and Pearl were good friends. Pearl said, 'Oh, we're having so much trouble with our saxophone player.' And my mother said, 'Well, why don't you hire my son?' You know how mothers can do that? Mothers can get you in more trouble!
"But anyway, when she talked to my mother, she said, 'I'm going to send for your son.' My mother told her how good I was, that I played with many bands, that I was in talent shows, and that I'd won first place - my mother went on for I don't know how long! But she convinced her."
Youngblood's mother had a harder time convincing Lonnie that Pearl Reeves would really call on him to travel north from Georgia to join her popular band.
"My mother came back home, and she said, 'Guess what? You're going to New Jersey!'" Lonnie says. "I said, 'Oh, please! That lady isn't going to call me! She's got thousands of saxophone players and she's going to call all the way to Georgia for me?!?' And she said, 'You watch - you're going to New Jersey.'
"And would you believe that two minutes later this woman called me! It was Pearl Reeves from New Jersey, and she wanted to send me money to take the train up to New Jersey. Then I said to myself, 'Well, it's either fear or I'm going to New Jersey.' So I got rid of the fear and I came up. And I started playing and I started making $15.00 a night."
Youngblood learned about the competitive world of r&b showmanship while backing Reeves, paying his dues in the North at the same time that Jimi Hendrix was doing the same down South.
"I was with Pearl for a while, and I was becoming the hottest thing in Newark, New Jersey," Youngblood says. "See, people were already coming to see Pearl - they were the number one band. And then when they put me in the band - oh, we used to walk the bar, do everything! It was an exciting show, and it was only a four piece band. She played guitar and sang, and she was really fine - she really looked great."
Lonnie's first recording was an instrumental version of the r&b song "Heartbreak." It became a regional hit when it was released on a small record label called Earth Records, and the success encouraged Lonnie to leave Pearl Reeves' band behind.
Youngblood began to land prestigious spots as a band leader. His first such gig was with legendary singer Faye "Atomic" Adams, whose songs "Shake a Hand," "I'll Be True," and "Hurts Me to My Heart" had all been number one r&b hits. From Adams, Youngblood moved on to lead the band of another r&b legend, Buster Brown.
"Buster Brown was an older man, and a blues singer," Lonnie notes. "He recorded a song called 'Fannie Mae.' Man, now I was really getting to the big time because this guy had the number one r&b record in the country. So he had a big orchestra - Buster Brown and His Fannie Mae Orchestra. We were going all over the South, and you never saw so many people lined up at the door and going crazy over an artist like this. And this guy, he was phenomenal.
"Anyway, with Buster Brown I traveled all over the country, and then I joined up with Baby Washington," Youngblood continues. Washington was well known for her r&b hit "The Time" in 1959. "I became her band leader, and I traveled all over the country with her. But my next big break came when I came back and started up my own band all over again and became really big in the Ivy League colleges."
Lonnie Youngblood became so popular doing college dates throughout the Northeast that he was christened "The Ivy League King."
"I became the number one rhythm and blues band working these places," Youngblood notes. "I mean, I was working three or four nights of the week and on the weekends I was doing doubles on Saturdays, doubles on Sundays. And they would take me any time they could get me.
"I used to go into the town of Dartmouth, and they would have a sign across the road, 'Welcome to Dartmouth Lonnie Youngblood and the Bloodhounds' or 'Lonnie Youngblood and the Red Jackets,'" Lonnie says with a laugh. "Oh, we had so many names for this band back in those days!"
While Jimi Hendrix worked with Little Richard, Youngblood's growing success put him in position to be teamed with another rock and roll pioneer - one who taught him a valuable lesson in humility.
"They needed a band to back up Chuck Berry," Lonnie remembers. "So I said, "I'll back up Chuck Berry!" And I was excited, because I love Chuck."
Youngblood's portion of the show was going great - until Chuck decided he wasn't about to be upstaged by his opening act.
"I was turning the place out," Lonnie says. "So Chuck got sick of that. The people were screaming, and then they were screaming real loud, then they went crazy - I mean they went really crazy! So they were screaming and I was saying to myself, 'I'm killing them! I'm killing them!'
"But you know what happened? Chuck Berry had come out of the dressing room and was on the stage behind me, hooking up his guitar into the amplifier!
"I'll never forget that as long as I live!" Youngblood says with a laugh. "And Chuck turned them out. I thought I was throwing it out there - killing them, really burning the house. Well, when Chuck finished with them, I knew the difference. Because Chuck Berry turned them to ashes - smoldering ashes. You could just forget about it. It was all over."
But the success that Lonnie had as "The Ivy League King" soon played out to the saddest of refrains for a musician - he was being "robbed blind" by his agent, a man he trusted fully. So Youngblood traded in his college name for a new title - "The Prince of Harlem."
"I worked every club that ever existed in Harlem," Lonnie says. "At one time I had over 35 clubs in Harlem! I wouldn't go out of Harlem - I loved Harlem. I still love Harlem."
Lonnie worked every gig he could find in the famed New York community en route to earning the "Prince of Harlem" title.
"Now what caused that to be was that I worked every conceivable type of situation in Harlem," Youngblood explains. "I'm talking about funerals - I can't count the number of funerals I've worked! As a solo act I'd play either 'Precious Lord,' or 'My Way,' or 'Amazing Grace.' And I started working block parties. I can't tell you to this day - if I had to tell you today - how many block parties I worked. I could not tell you - I couldn't even try. I couldn't tell you how many birthday parties I have worked. I can't really tell you how many clubs I've worked, because they go and come. I've worked at one club maybe ten times and it's always been under a different name!"
Stylistically Youngblood patterned himself after one the greatest sax players ever, and a man who hired Jimi Hendrix to play in his band in 1966.
"I used to do the King Curtis licks, that was my thing," Youngblood notes. "I loved King Curtis, too - we became the best of friends. We were rivals, but we were great friends. I feel like today that I have not even gotten to the point where he was when he died."
With his reputation cemented in the Harlem community, a brief period in the army after being drafted came to an end with Lonnie being welcomed back into Harlem's musical community in 1963. And there he found Jimi Hendrix, who had finished his own military service the summer before.
"After I came back I met Jimi Hendrix. He came on into New York, and he was working with a group," Lonnie explains. "I had been drafted into the Army; I came out of the Army and I was looking for something. So I met these guys who I knew before I went into the Army. They said, 'Come on and join us, Lonnie - we've got this great guitar player.' So, I said, 'OK, man, I'll come and hear you,' to see what I liked or what I could do about it, you know? And I went, and that's where Jimi Hendrix was, playing with this band."
And who was leading this band?
"At the time, it was Curtis Knight," Lonnie answers. "Curtis was the band leader, and he was playing rhythm guitar. But he couldn't really... He wasn't a very good musician at the time. He was more or less a hindrance to the band. After a while he sort of split the scene, so it was an opportunity for me to front my situation. So I just enticed the guys to go on with me."
The possibility of an early, brief association between Curtis Knight and Jimi Hendrix late in 1963 has not been raised before, although Knight did write in his 1974 biography Jimi: An Intimate Biography of Jimi Hendrix that Knight arrived in New York early in 1963 and immediately began working at breaking into the music scene. Although Knight has claimed that he first met Hendrix in 1964 outside a recording studio in a New York hotel lobby, if an early Knight band was taken over by Youngblood in 1963 perhaps Knight would not be enthusiastic about bringing up unpleasant memories.
"That band had problems - and you know how bands have problems," Lonnie continues. "So they didn't want to break up, but they wanted somebody to lead them. And I said, 'Well, I ain't got no money so I can't lead no band.' Jimi said, 'Man, I don't care, I just want to play.' So I said, 'Well, OK then...' So I got us a couple of jobs. A couple of jobs, and that became the Lonnie Youngblood thing all over again."
Now leading the band, Youngblood was accompanied by Jimi at gigs on the r&b circuit in New York and Philadelphia.
"We used to work the Cheetah (in New York), and we used to work Philadelphia down there on South Street. And the Uptown Theater," Lonnie recalls, referring to Philadelphia's equivalent to New York's famed Apollo Theater. But next on the Youngblood/Hendrix agenda were the famed recording sessions that resulted in sales of over two million copies of the handful of songs in all their varied release formats.
Lonnie Youngblood had signed a record deal with Fairmount Records, a subsidiary of Philadelphia's Cameo-Parkway label. A friendship with Philadelphia club owner Buddy Caldwell led to Youngblood signing with label boss Bernie Lowe's company, a company that had scored with big pop hits like Chubby Checker's "The Twist" and Dee Dee Sharp's "Mashed Potato Time."
The natural assumption, based on the strong Philadelphia connection that Youngblood had, would be that these first ever recording sessions played on by Jimi Hendrix took place in Philadelphia.
"No, see, that isn't true," Lonnie corrects. "It was in New York, and it was done on eight track at Abtone, Abtone Studio. It was on Broadway, between 55th and 56th, on the second floor.
As detailed in the Caesar Glebbeek/Harry Shapiro "Electric Gypsy" discography - and not taking into account the mono/stereo mix variations, overdubs, and length discrepancies that characterize the multitude of releases that contain the Hendrix-Youngblood material - the two musicians collaborated on thirteen tracks over the course of a handful of sessions: "Go Go Shoes," its continuation, "Go Go Place," "Soul Food (That's What I Like)," "Goodbye Bessie Mae," "Sweet Thang," "Groovemaker," "Fox," and three takes each of "Wipe the Sweat" and "Under the Table."'Go Go Shoes' DJ copy
About the recording sessions that yielded the famed tracks, Lonnie recalls, "It was a blast. But that was all it was going to be because we weren't making any money! But I always paid Jimi, even if it was only $25 or $30."
As we have seen in the years since those sessions, a multitude of people were well aware that the name "Hendrix" could be cashed in on using the tapes of the Youngblood sessions. But how did the tapes get into distribution?
"You see, Fairmount just had a distribution deal - they never had the tapes," Youngblood reveals. "The tapes were at the studio. Once I'd mixed them down and mastered them, I always left my tapes at the studio because at that time that was the thing to do. When everybody recorded, they left the mother tape at the studio.
"These people, they knew where the tapes I had recorded were," Lonnie continues. "Johnny Brantley was a producer out of New York, and he had a lot of access to a lot of different companies. Like if you cut something and wanted to get it in the door somewhere, maybe Johnny could take it in for you. But he's a liar and a... What's the lowest name you can call somebody? The reason I feel this way is because when they took this tape, Johnny Brantley and Joe Robinson, they made a deal with this big company in Chicago, GRP. They went and bribed the guy who owned the studio, and actually went and took my tapes away. And they gave them about $100,000 for this tape. And they took all the money and didn't give me any of the money. That was my stuff!
"And then these companies started to put the shit out and didn't even put my name on it. They would say it was Jimi Hendrix singing, without my name on it - so many lies, man. The stuff that came out on that album called Two Great Experiences Together! - what happened with that, one company took that and tried to doctor it up to make it have more Hendrix activity. See Hendrix is more or less just backing me up. The companies wanted to say they had a little more activity by Hendrix, so they found some Hendrix wannabees and they put them on the tracks. And what they really did was they messed the tracks up with the overdubs.
"The stuff I went through, I wouldn't wish it on nobody," Youngblood says. "I was a strange kind of guy - I didn't think anybody would do that kind of thing to somebody. Which is the dumbest way to be looking at anything, because people will do anything in the world for the sake of a buck. That's the thing that shocked me more than anything, when I came to the reality of what I was dealing with. It may sound strange to you, but when you talk about the type of people that they were - they were of that caliber, and they were only deceiving the public."
Early in 1964, Youngblood and Hendrix officially parted musical company, but remained friends. Jimi went on to spend much of the year with the Isley Brothers, and then joined up with Little Richard before returning to New York in 1965 and working with Curtis Knight.
Meanwhile Lonnie Youngblood was back on the road, opening shows or playing with some of the top manes in soul music. Joe Simon, Sam and Dave, James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Joe Tex, Ben E. King - Youngblood worked with more great acts than he can remember.
But the paths of Hendrix and Youngblood continued to cross in the tight New York/Harlem musician scene of the mid-1960s.
"When I started recording again, and Jimi Hendrix was on those recordings, he was my guitar player," Youngblood explains. "But see at the time it wasn't like that - it may have appeared to be that, because it was my sessions, so I was paying him, and it was my stuff, and the gigs was my jobs and I was paying him.
"But, see, everybody was having sessions. As a matter of fact, we were all session musicians. So it wasn't like recording with a band. Even while I was recording for myself, I was recording solos for other people."
Comments such as this at least bring up the possibility that the lines marking phases of Jimi's very early New York career may not be as clearly defined as has been accepted. Youngblood even confirms that he himself did some sessions at this time with Curtis Knight for PPX Enterprises at Studio 76 at 1650 Broadway.
By June of 1966, though, Jimi had started his own band - Jimmy James and the Blue Flames - and was deeply immersed in the Greenwich Village scene. As the Village was an alien environment compared to the relatively conservative Harlem, it should be no surprise that Lonnie quickly noticed big changes in Jimi when Hendrix paid him a visit.
"Jimi knew he wanted to do something different," Lonnie states emphatically. "He could see where he wanted to go with a new kind of music. He tried to explain it to me and get me to come with him but I couldn't see what he meant.
"See, Jimi had taken and met some friends, and so they were like hippies and stuff, and they liked Jimi," Lonnie continues. "And Jimi loved to be loved - that was a thing about Jimi. Jimi loved to be loved for being Jimi - he didn't want you to love him and change him. Because Jimi wasn't about to change - Jimi wanted to be himself. That's the way he always was. He may have made a few adjustments from then, but that's what Jimi was all about.
"See, what had happened was that Jimi had tried LSD. Now if he hadn't done that I might have went with him. He said, 'Man, we got to try this tab of LSD.' I said, 'Damn...' I was petrified of LSD. I mean, not scared - petrified! Because I heard that LSD would come back on you. So I was scared to death of that stuff, but he was cool.
"But he started getting weird, he started talking about different kinds of crazy songs," Youngblood recalls. "Like 'The Wind Called Mary' - he had some other titles at the time, not that one, but they came out on his first or second album. 'Third Stone From the Sun.' Anyway, I didn't go down to the Village with Jimi. Jimi went to the Village and from that Eric Burdon and the Animals flew into the States and were walking around in the Village - because the Village was famous - so they saw Jimi and they were amazed. Because Jimi was awesome - Jimi played a right handed guitar upside down and didn't miss a note. This guy was unbelievable. So they took Jimi to England. And this guy was adventurous enough to go to England and play - he didn't give a damn! He was a free spirit, and that's what I loved about him."
While Lonnie Youngblood labored away at a respectable career, further establishing his reputation in the Harlem scene, Jimi Hendrix began his ascent to stardom. One day in 1967, Lonnie made a shocking discovery.
"Jimi was on the charts, and somebody saw his record and came to me and said, 'That's your guy!'" Lonnie remembers. He saw the spelling of the name J-I-M-I and didn't believe it - until he saw the cover of Are You Experienced? Then Youngblood knew it was true. The guitarist who had once backed him was well on his way to revolutionizing rock music and the realm of the electric guitar.
But Jimi stayed in contact with Lonnie, occasionally visiting him in Harlem whenever he was in New York. In fact, it's quite possible that it was one of those visits that Jimi's friend, Arthur Allen, was referring to when he was quoted in Electric Gypsy saying the following:
"Some band was playing and Jimi sat in, but the way he sat in, like he was afraid, like he was wondering if his hat was alright. He really wanted to make a good impression in front of this audience of no more than forty people. But Jimi was very, very self-conscious. And he came in and said, 'How's my hat, man, how does my hat look?' So we said, 'Your hat looks alright, man.' 'Do you think they'll mind if...?' Always wondering what we, what other black people thought about his music and him... so he wound up jamming and blowing everybody's freaking mind out... every time I seen him play uptown, he played better than I have ever seen him play in my life."
In UniVibes Issue 12 Allen further elaborated Hendrix on that same night by stating, "We went to Small's one night and he had just bought this guitar, the Flying V..."
The club that Allen was speaking of was Small's Paradise, in Harlem at 138th Street. Small's was one of Lonnie Youngblood's main haunts - "It was my headquarters," he says - and there is a well known photograph of Jimi wearing a hat while playing a Gibson Flying V with Lonnie in 1968.
"That's how we had that very famous picture of me and him on stage together at Small's Paradise," Lonnie states. "That's where I was working."
Based on Jimi's hat, the presence of the Flying V, and the venue, it's quite likely that this photo was taken on the very night that Arthur Allen recalled so well.
But Jimi's continuing musical relationship with Youngblood wasn't limited to jams in clubs.
"We hung around for three days down at the Record Plant," Youngblood recalls. "We recorded for three days - we did not go out of the studio for three days! We were sending out for food, we did everything. We cut enough material for at least two albums."
So what happened to the tapes of this second Hendrix/Youngblood collaboration?
"Who knows?" Lonnie reflects. "First of all, he didn't label the tapes 'Lonnie Youngblood' or anything like that. But it was there. And if anybody hears it, I'm doing the singing."
Just before he left America for the last time, Hendrix paid his old friend a final visit - and confided in him the troubles that were on his mind so much of 1970.
"He said, 'Youngblood, there's a lot of trouble going on. There's a lot of problems going on and there's going to be a lot of heads rolling. So when I come back...' He was getting ready to start a gospel, pop, blues, and jazz band as a side thing for him that would reach into my situation. He came back for me.
"I told him, 'Jimi, man, if something's not being done to your own vision, maybe you shouldn't be too vocal about that until you build up your case and have some legitimacy legally.' And he said, 'Man, I'm going to straighten it out.' And I never saw him again - never saw him alive again."
After Jimi's death, Lonnie went on doing what he had always done - backing other musicians and leading his own band. And there were new recording sessions such as the ones that yielded single titles like "Super Cool" b/w "Black Is So Bad" and his 1981 Radio/Atlantic Records release Lonnie Youngblood, an album that featured a number of songs written by George Kerr - a name often seen on the myriad of Hendrix/Youngblood releases.
Those releases have been a source of mixed feelings for Youngblood. Naturally he is proud of the fact that he was in on the beginning of Hendrix's historic professional career, but Lonnie also knows that he was taken advantage of financially during a time when it was common for musicians to lose the rights to their own material.
"A lot of people that put out that album," Youngblood reflects. "It came out as Jimi Hendrix and they had Jimi Hendrix on there as the vocalist and some of those albums never exposed me completely, and it was all my stuff! CBS did a big story on that about how they exploited me, and I sued Columbia, and I sued a lot of people.
"But they all took advantage of me," Lonnie continues. "All of them. Nobody paid me. Ohhhh, that's a whole 'nother story. That's heavy. That will bring your anger up because of the way they treated me. You see, I was just a victim of the system and the way things work sometimes, and that's what happened with that. I don't run around saying I'm angry about that or anything else, really, because I'm grateful to be alive."
That Youngblood has such an attitude is partially due to the fact that he survived a difficult period of drug abuse. But unlike many musicians who become crippled by their problems, Youngblood became determined to straighten himself out.
"I had a problem for about ten years," Youngblood states frankly. "I got so screwed around with the industry - and I'm not making an excuse for it - that I didn't give a damn one way or the other. I drugged, man - the only time I felt good was when I drugged, man, because then I didn't think about it no more.
"So about eight or nine years ago I went into Bergen Pines Hospital on rehab," Lonnie continues. "I got myself together and I never looked back. But that doesn't mean that just because I'm sober everything's supposed to just fall into place. Life still goes on - ups and downs and problems and stuff.
"But I'll tell you right now, I've had a great career. I've worked with every conceivable name, I've been to Japan - I've gone to Japan twice a year, I've worked in Italy, Germany, all of these places I've been to on my own. And when I travel with another artist like Ben E. King, we go to different places as well."
Aside from playing with his good friend King - the man whose "Stand By Me" is one of the enduring pop hits of all time - Lonnie Youngblood continues to work hard to take his own career even further. For now, that means recording a blues CD - one track at a time, as finances permit.
"There's so much that's part of my career," Lonnie notes. "My career is 45 years - four and one half decades! And you want to hear something funny - it's still going strong! My blues band is six pieces, the one I'm putting together now. We're recording and putting the band together - we're in business.
"And naturally there's financial problems - we're cutting it piece by piece," Youngblood explains. "You take a dollar from here and steal a dollar from there. We've got about three songs we've got now, but it's long and painstaking."
Youngblood is well aware of the differences between the recording industry of the past and the modern day entertainment media machinery.
"Back then all they knew was the finished product," Youngblood says of the 1960's. "This is a new day. The rude awakening for me was the fact that you're not marketable over thirty in the new market. But see, then I discovered that there is a market, and my market is jazz and blues. So I said let me go over to do the jazz and blues thing, so that's where I'm at.
"The blues band is going to be my salvation - you watch and see what I tell you," Youngblood insists. "See, I should have gone and jumped on the blues before but I didn't want to be one dimensional. I wanted to do the whole damn thing, I wanted to do pop, I wanted to work on everything. But the blues band is going to bring me into where I'm trying to go. And I know it, because everything's happening right. Everything is positive and things are happening."Lonnie Youngblood at Slyvia's, Harlem, 1996
While waiting to complete his blues project, Youngblood plays in clubs and at private functions. Backed by a drummer and keyboard player, Youngblood plays standards like "Take the A Train" and "Mack the Knife" during his sets at Sylvia's. Standing outside the Harlem landmark, Lonnie notes, "What I'm doing in there I'm doing with just two pieces, and I'm doing it at minimal volume, and I still got to rock them and I got to get their attention."
And "The Prince of Harlem" still has his subjects, as a number of people come up to say hello during a brief photo session on Lennox Avenue outside Sylvia's.
Looking back after more than thirty years have passed, Lonnie remembers fondly the experience of working with Hendrix.
"I bought Jimi his amplifier, I bought him one of his first amplifiers in New York," Youngblood reveals. "Me and my wife spent that money and bought him a Fender amp. He wouldn't buy an amp - he didn't give a damn! If you wanted to play with him, you had to buy him an amp! He was that good. Jimi was a light traveler. He didn't give a damn about no amp - he might have been here today and gone tomorrow! He was like..."
Lonnie pauses and laughs, remembering the name Jimi Hendrix worked under in his early New York days.
"Jimmy James - he was like a vagabond, man. He was one of the greatest guys I ever had the pleasure of working with."
The legend of Jimi Hendrix will be forever linked with the name Lonnie Youngblood - and with those historic recording sessions in New York in 1963, when the guitar artistry of Jimi Hendrix was first recorded and released on record.
With a smile, Lonnie Youngblood sums up his feelings about it all.
"I've sold over two million copies of that Jimi Hendrix album. So, I didn't get any finances from it - but I'm always known."
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Cream in Concert, London 2005 written for Vintage Guitar Magazine, August 2005
Several days of brilliant, sun-drenched London skies? Warm temperatures kissing the colorful blossoms of Hyde Park's stunning flower gardens? And Cream across the street, in a four-show residency at the Royal Albert Hall? Surely, Mr. Beelzebub must have seen a few flurries float past his window...
Living up to the past can be quite the scary proposition, especially when your past has become the stuff of legend. But in the case of Cream - the short-lived but unimaginably influential rock supergroup - it's their very existence in the late-1960s that has become a musical legend. That existence was rooted in a high-profile formation and a brilliant body of work, followed by a swift, turbulent demise.
Usually, such legends remain firmly rooted in the past. When drummer Ginger Baker, bassist Jack Bruce, and guitarist Eric Clapton walked off the stage of London's Royal Albert Hall in November, 1968, they were closing the book on one of the most stunning improvisatory bands ever heard, and even Jimi Hendrix repeatedly lamented their passing. But when rumors began to swirl late in 2004 that Cream might once again walk the earth, it was easy to hear a clamor of spontaneously-generated, potentially crushing expectations. Could such a reunion do anything other than tarnish the band's storied history?
Shortly after eight in the evening on Monday May 2, 2005, the answer began to grow clear. At the same venue where Cream died, in the wake of nearly thirty-seven years of legend building, Baker, Bruce, and Clapton strode purposely back onto the Royal Albert Hall's stage and began writing a new chapter in Cream's history.
As peers like Roger Waters and an obviously-enthralled Brian May looked on, the opening notes of "I'm So Glad" once again rolled through the warm air of the historic old venue, and Cream was reborn.
The expectation and eagerness for the first show was nearly unbearable, with Clapton thanking the crowd "for waiting all these years... We didn't go on very long - the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune cut us down in our prime." To which Bruce quickly replied, "What do you mean? This is our prime!"
The band then played off the crowd's intensity leading into the bridge of "Badge." Ironically being played by Cream before a live audience for the first time, the song's pause leading to Clapton's Leslie-speaker-colored melodic phrase was left hanging in the air for sixteen long seconds, the crowd rising to its feet in cheering anticipation of one of rock's signature riffs.
Of course, with time comes change - these were not the same young men who spent just over two years together in musical combat, armed with huge stacks of amps and crushing volume. Clapton has become a guitar statesman, his incendiary talent restrained by spells at the top of charts. Baker, once a wildly-flailing mad man of percussion, has honed his art with a craftsman's appreciation of jazz drumming legends. And Bruce has survived a recent, nearly fatal encounter with the fragility of human life.
But in the course of a two-hour, nineteen-song set that ran the gamut from the defiant "N.S.U." to the moody "We're Going Wrong," the trio proved that change isn't necessarily a bad thing. The repeated standing ovations offered proof the audience was in agreement.
The playing of Clapton was perhaps the biggest revelation on the first night of the four shows. Eric pointedly moved away from the roar of Marshall stacks soon after Cream's first separation, and in the decades since he has toiled within the self-imposed restrictions of pop song formalities and twelve-bar blues structures. There is no arguing that his playing grew within those confines, but at Royal Albert Hall his full brilliance was unleashed in a free-form fury as he accepted the responsibility demanded of a power trio guitarist - a role largely defined by Clapton himself early in his career. His Stratocaster, running through two Fender 2x15s set up next to the Leslie rotating speaker, positively howled on songs like "White Room," then dropped sweetly to a moaning blues on "Sleepy Time Time." The complex cloud of Gibson-through-Marshall distortion voiced on Cream's four original albums was only missed in the most urgent songs like "Deserted Cities of the Heart."
Bruce was in fine vocal form, his voice remaining one of the most potent of all rock singers - but it's his bass playing that thunders at the heart of Cream. Armed with a Gibson EB-1 and two Warwick instruments, Bruce's Hartke amplification system broadcast the bassist's trademark alternation between long structural notes outlining chord progressions and stabbing runs that united with Clapton's forays into the unknown.
Indeed, it was when Cream settled into long, open instrumental passages on songs like "Sweet Wine" and "Spoonful" that the renewed potential and power of Cream was fully revealed, with all three band members traveling wherever the music pointed them. But this time they weren't fighting to the death as heard on the nearly-violent live material of Cream's first life; instead, they were on a shared journey, and 3000 enthralled listeners went with them each night.
By the fourth and final show on Friday, May 6, any signs of tentativeness and nerves were long gone, and Clapton's new Cream arsenal had grown to include the abandon of physically shaking his Strat's neck and unleashing a hail of pinch harmonics that would have had ZZ Top's Billy Gibbons in smiles. While Billy was not there, Friday's audience included luminaries like Paul McCartney and Jimmy Page, further demonstrating the imposing range of Cream's tremendous influence.
In the end, through all the shows, it was Ginger Baker who blessed Cream with a pointed stage personality. The cantankerous drummer traded warm smiles with Clapton and with Baker's supposed nemesis Bruce, while his now-refined approach to drumming drove the band onward with abundant firepower. Whether waving his sticks high overhead or mischievously singing the nonsensical "Pressed Rat and Warthog" - then noting the fictional shopkeepers referred to in the title were now back in business selling souvenir Cream merchandise in the lobby - Baker elicited numerous cheers from the delighted audiences. It seemed wholly appropriate that Ginger's show-stopping display of percussive prowess, "Toad," closed all four sets, silencing anyone who believed the talents of rock's greatest drummer had diminished with time.
London in the first week in May was full of enchanted Cream fans from around the world, though there were some grumbles among Cream's legion over the song selection, which remained static through all four nights. "I Feel Free" had been almost universally expected as the set opener but never appeared, and "Tales of Brave Ulysses" was sadly missing in action. The inclusion of "Stormy Monday" - a song with little significance in the Cream canon - was a curious one. But every such discussion was infused with full realization of just how unbelievable it was to actually be discussing a new Cream set list.
If anything was clear from this series of shows, it is that there is now an emerging means of appreciating rock's greatest musical talents. While Kiss and Aerosmith may still tromp the world's stages in an endless pursuit of youth and outrageousness long gone, Cream played with maturing grace and dignity while still building on and maintaining touch with the fires that heated their music three decades ago.
Not surprisingly, some reviewers of the shows took the lazy route, mocking the band in print with snide barbs about "gyrating geriatrics." But who would dare have laughed at Howlin' Wolf or Muddy Waters, even in their later years? At the hands of Baker, Bruce, and Clapton, Cream has bravely made a move to elevate the appreciation of rock music to same level as that of the elder statesmen of the blues - and never has there been a band so fully qualified on so many levels to drive such a bold and fundamental shift of perception.
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Several days of brilliant, sun-drenched London skies? Warm temperatures kissing the colorful blossoms of Hyde Park's stunning flower gardens? And Cream across the street, in a four-show residency at the Royal Albert Hall? Surely, Mr. Beelzebub must have seen a few flurries float past his window...
Living up to the past can be quite the scary proposition, especially when your past has become the stuff of legend. But in the case of Cream - the short-lived but unimaginably influential rock supergroup - it's their very existence in the late-1960s that has become a musical legend. That existence was rooted in a high-profile formation and a brilliant body of work, followed by a swift, turbulent demise.
Usually, such legends remain firmly rooted in the past. When drummer Ginger Baker, bassist Jack Bruce, and guitarist Eric Clapton walked off the stage of London's Royal Albert Hall in November, 1968, they were closing the book on one of the most stunning improvisatory bands ever heard, and even Jimi Hendrix repeatedly lamented their passing. But when rumors began to swirl late in 2004 that Cream might once again walk the earth, it was easy to hear a clamor of spontaneously-generated, potentially crushing expectations. Could such a reunion do anything other than tarnish the band's storied history?
Shortly after eight in the evening on Monday May 2, 2005, the answer began to grow clear. At the same venue where Cream died, in the wake of nearly thirty-seven years of legend building, Baker, Bruce, and Clapton strode purposely back onto the Royal Albert Hall's stage and began writing a new chapter in Cream's history.
As peers like Roger Waters and an obviously-enthralled Brian May looked on, the opening notes of "I'm So Glad" once again rolled through the warm air of the historic old venue, and Cream was reborn.
The expectation and eagerness for the first show was nearly unbearable, with Clapton thanking the crowd "for waiting all these years... We didn't go on very long - the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune cut us down in our prime." To which Bruce quickly replied, "What do you mean? This is our prime!"
The band then played off the crowd's intensity leading into the bridge of "Badge." Ironically being played by Cream before a live audience for the first time, the song's pause leading to Clapton's Leslie-speaker-colored melodic phrase was left hanging in the air for sixteen long seconds, the crowd rising to its feet in cheering anticipation of one of rock's signature riffs.
Of course, with time comes change - these were not the same young men who spent just over two years together in musical combat, armed with huge stacks of amps and crushing volume. Clapton has become a guitar statesman, his incendiary talent restrained by spells at the top of charts. Baker, once a wildly-flailing mad man of percussion, has honed his art with a craftsman's appreciation of jazz drumming legends. And Bruce has survived a recent, nearly fatal encounter with the fragility of human life.
But in the course of a two-hour, nineteen-song set that ran the gamut from the defiant "N.S.U." to the moody "We're Going Wrong," the trio proved that change isn't necessarily a bad thing. The repeated standing ovations offered proof the audience was in agreement.
The playing of Clapton was perhaps the biggest revelation on the first night of the four shows. Eric pointedly moved away from the roar of Marshall stacks soon after Cream's first separation, and in the decades since he has toiled within the self-imposed restrictions of pop song formalities and twelve-bar blues structures. There is no arguing that his playing grew within those confines, but at Royal Albert Hall his full brilliance was unleashed in a free-form fury as he accepted the responsibility demanded of a power trio guitarist - a role largely defined by Clapton himself early in his career. His Stratocaster, running through two Fender 2x15s set up next to the Leslie rotating speaker, positively howled on songs like "White Room," then dropped sweetly to a moaning blues on "Sleepy Time Time." The complex cloud of Gibson-through-Marshall distortion voiced on Cream's four original albums was only missed in the most urgent songs like "Deserted Cities of the Heart."
Bruce was in fine vocal form, his voice remaining one of the most potent of all rock singers - but it's his bass playing that thunders at the heart of Cream. Armed with a Gibson EB-1 and two Warwick instruments, Bruce's Hartke amplification system broadcast the bassist's trademark alternation between long structural notes outlining chord progressions and stabbing runs that united with Clapton's forays into the unknown.
Indeed, it was when Cream settled into long, open instrumental passages on songs like "Sweet Wine" and "Spoonful" that the renewed potential and power of Cream was fully revealed, with all three band members traveling wherever the music pointed them. But this time they weren't fighting to the death as heard on the nearly-violent live material of Cream's first life; instead, they were on a shared journey, and 3000 enthralled listeners went with them each night.
By the fourth and final show on Friday, May 6, any signs of tentativeness and nerves were long gone, and Clapton's new Cream arsenal had grown to include the abandon of physically shaking his Strat's neck and unleashing a hail of pinch harmonics that would have had ZZ Top's Billy Gibbons in smiles. While Billy was not there, Friday's audience included luminaries like Paul McCartney and Jimmy Page, further demonstrating the imposing range of Cream's tremendous influence.
In the end, through all the shows, it was Ginger Baker who blessed Cream with a pointed stage personality. The cantankerous drummer traded warm smiles with Clapton and with Baker's supposed nemesis Bruce, while his now-refined approach to drumming drove the band onward with abundant firepower. Whether waving his sticks high overhead or mischievously singing the nonsensical "Pressed Rat and Warthog" - then noting the fictional shopkeepers referred to in the title were now back in business selling souvenir Cream merchandise in the lobby - Baker elicited numerous cheers from the delighted audiences. It seemed wholly appropriate that Ginger's show-stopping display of percussive prowess, "Toad," closed all four sets, silencing anyone who believed the talents of rock's greatest drummer had diminished with time.
London in the first week in May was full of enchanted Cream fans from around the world, though there were some grumbles among Cream's legion over the song selection, which remained static through all four nights. "I Feel Free" had been almost universally expected as the set opener but never appeared, and "Tales of Brave Ulysses" was sadly missing in action. The inclusion of "Stormy Monday" - a song with little significance in the Cream canon - was a curious one. But every such discussion was infused with full realization of just how unbelievable it was to actually be discussing a new Cream set list.
If anything was clear from this series of shows, it is that there is now an emerging means of appreciating rock's greatest musical talents. While Kiss and Aerosmith may still tromp the world's stages in an endless pursuit of youth and outrageousness long gone, Cream played with maturing grace and dignity while still building on and maintaining touch with the fires that heated their music three decades ago.
Not surprisingly, some reviewers of the shows took the lazy route, mocking the band in print with snide barbs about "gyrating geriatrics." But who would dare have laughed at Howlin' Wolf or Muddy Waters, even in their later years? At the hands of Baker, Bruce, and Clapton, Cream has bravely made a move to elevate the appreciation of rock music to same level as that of the elder statesmen of the blues - and never has there been a band so fully qualified on so many levels to drive such a bold and fundamental shift of perception.
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Jimi Hendrix Plays the Spectrum written for UniVibes: The International Jimi Hendrix Magazine, 1992
As was the case in cities across America, the burgeoning hippie movement that could be found in Philadelphia in the late 1960s took root in coffeehouses during the middle of that decade. Always something of a conservative city -- and very much identified by its close-knit neighborhoods -- Philadelphia wasn't exactly a fertile ground for the emergence of the counter-culture. But a public park to the south and west of City Hall became Philadelphia's hip focal point as kids from across the area joined together to share in the joys of the rapidly evolving rock and roll scene.
Rittenhouse Square served as this de facto meeting ground, and narrow Samson Street just to the north became the commercial and cultural center for Philadelphia's hip kids. As the music shifted further and further from acoustic music to electric, coffeehouses like The Second Fret, the Artist's Hut, and the Gilded Cage yielded to venues more suitable to high-volume rock. The owner of The Second Fret, Manny Rubin, saw the changes coming and opened a new club called The Trauma. Philadelphia bands like Mandrake Memorial, Woody's Truck Stop (featuring young guitarist Todd Rundgren), and Elizabeth performed in the club located in the heart of the Samson Street hippie district. But soon after the opening of The Trauma, the rock and roll focus of the city turned to a tire warehouse several blocks north. There, several brothers in the Spivak family -- experienced in the bar business in the city -- took the empty space and converted it into the Electric Factory.
The Electric Factory, located at 2201 Arch Street, opened in February of 1968 with the Chambers Brothers headlining. Most shows in the club's early days were booked on weekends, but the quality of talent was high. The third week after the club was opened the headline act was the Jimi Hendrix Experience. Hendrix and the Experience performed two shows each night on February 21 and 22, supported by Rundgren and Woody's Truck Stop.
This was to be the first of four appearances by Jimi in Philadelphia. By the time Hendrix, Redding, and Mitchell returned to Philadelphia to play the Arena on March 31, 1968 with Soft Machine and Woody's Truck Stop, the Electric Factory was regularly booking shows on week nights as well. The Trauma had gone out of business, unable to compete with the Spivaks and their talent booker, Larry Magid. The coffeehouses had died out even earlier. But, as evidenced by the Experience's performance at the higher-capacity Arena, prime rock and roll acts were already drawing crowds too large for the confines of the Electric Factory.
Coinciding with the rise of the Electric Factory was the construction of a huge new entertainment facility in South Philadelphia. To be known as the Spectrum, the 17,000-seat, oval-shaped building was intended to be a multi-purpose arena capable of hosting events as varied as its name implied. It would be the home hockey rink of the National Hockey League Flyers, the home basketball court of the Philadelphia 76ers, as well as the site of major entertainment events.
Opening to much hoopla in September of 1967, the Spectrum went from being the pride of the city to a source of embarrassment on March 1, 1968. During a fierce late-winter storm, huge gusts of wind battered the facility and tore the roof right off the building. The inside of the Spectrum was exposed to the elements, and months worth of events had to postponed. Hasty repairs and reinforcements were mandated, and the Spectrum reclaimed its state-of-the-art status in time to host its first major rock concert in December of 1968: the Philadelphia stop of Cream's final tour.
Despite the growing popularity of the new forms of rock and roll, all was not well in the Philadelphia scene. Urban legend has it that John Cardinal Kroll, boss of the Philadelphia Catholic church, would pass by the Electric Factory on the way to his suburban mansion. Growing incensed at the freakish appearance of club patrons and the blatant use of such vices as marijuana, Kroll complained to his good friend, Frank Rizzo. Rizzo was commissioner of Philadelphia's police, a force with a growing reputation for violence and a tendency to ignore civil rights. Allegedly at Kroll's behest, Rizzo targeted the Electric Factory for heightened police attention. Rizzo made it clear that he thought the only product coming out of the Electric Factory was juvenile delinquency. Rizzo was determined to shut it down.
It was in this contentious atmosphere that word came of the Jimi Hendrix Experience's performance scheduled at the Spectrum on Saturday, April 12, 1969. Not that things were any less strained in the Hendrix camp.
Rumors of the breakup of the Experience were hot topics in 1969, and the rumors appeared to take on greater substance when Noel Redding announced his side project Fat Mattress. The fact that Fat Mattress was scheduled to be the opening act on the 1969 American tour appeared to be as much a concession to keep Noel in the fold as it was a musical decision.
Creative matters weren't the only difficulties troubling Jimi. His relationship with Mike Jeffery was growing strained, the Ed Chalpin/PPX lawsuit over the contract Jimi had signed in his days with Curtis Knight was a nagging problem, and the sheer pressure of rock stardom and its attendant demands were focused directly on Jimi.
Since playing the Royal Albert Hall in London on February 18 and 24, the Experience had not performed live until the night before the Philadelphia show, when the band performed at Dorton Arena in Raleigh, North Carolina. Flying into Philadelphia International Airport on April 12, the Experience were just getting into shape for the 25-date North American tour booked by Jeffery.
Of course, Jimi had one significant visit to Philadelphia long before the formation of the Experience. It was here that Hendrix had made his professional recording debut, backing Lonnie Youngblood on a studio date late in 1963 as Hendrix migrated toward New York from Tennessee.
On Saturday afternoon of the show at The Spectrum Jimi was interviewed in his room at the Holiday Inn at around 4 p.m. by writer John Lombardi. The story was published a week later in the now-defunct Philadelphia alternative newspaper Distant Drummer. Despite being tired, the ever-accommodating Hendrix submitted to yet another interrogation.
Jimi revealed a bit about his state of mind regarding this interview when he was asked if he would mind being photographed. "No," Hendrix replied, "the same shit happens every day, so fuck it."
Lombardi, who apparently was far from being an expert on Hendrix's music (as seen by his reference in print to the song "Let Me Stand Inside Your Fire"), started things off on a superficial note by remarking that Jimi's hair appeared shorter than in his publicity photos.
"My hair?" Jimi questioned. "I cut it short in protest. There are too many long- haired people running around whose heads aren't anywhere. But I think I'm gonna grow it again."
The interview continued to get off to a rocky start as the sore subject of the "nude" Electric Ladyland cover and Jimi's image was brought up.
"I don't consider myself a success. I haven't even started yet," Hendrix told Lombardi. "The scene puts you through a lot of changes... you get involved in images. I didn't have nothing to do with that stupid LP cover they released, and I don't even want to talk about it. It's mostly all bullshit."
Lombardi proceeded to remind Jimi about his stage act, referring to "setting the guitar on fire, going through the motions of intercourse." Not surprisingly at this stage of his career, the question served only to aggravate Jimi.
"We did those things mostly because they used to be fun," Jimi noted. "They just came out of us. But the music was still the main thing. Then what happened, the crowd started to want those things more than the music. Those little things that were just added on, like frosting, you know, became the most important. Things got changed around. We don't do that stuff as much anymore."
The next topic broached was the obscenity arrest of singer Jim Morrison following the disastrous performance by The Doors in Miami on March 1, 1969, when Jim allegedly exposed himself on stage.
"Well, if it happened, it is flipped out, but I've only heard reports," Jimi cautioned. "I guess you'd have to ask Morrison about that. I don't want to talk about it. You know, we used to try to defend against some of the publicity, but we don't anymore. They just ignore what you say anyway, and the people who know where you're at know without asking questions. They know from the music. I dig music.
"Listen," Jimi continued, "you want to talk about music? That's what I really know about. I don't want to say nothing about comparisons with other groups because if you do that puts you higher or lower than them, and that's just the same old cycle. Our music is in a very solid state now. Not technically, just in the sense that we can feel around the music and get into things better. We don't have any answers this time, but we'd love to turn everyone on to all we know... We know for instance that Jesus was starting to get it together quite nicely, but that ten commandments thing was a drag. The bogey man isn't going to come get you if you don't tie your shoe. You don't have to be afraid to make love to one of your boyfriend's wives. Brand-name religions like Bhuddism and Zen are just clashes. The Catholic church is spreading and vomiting over the earth. The Church of England is the biggest landowner in England. Your home isn't America, it's the earth, but things are precarious, man. America could start getting together and China or Russia could go and we'd all be even heavier slaves. You know my song, 'I don't live today, maybe tomorrow?' That's where it's at.
"But I want to talk about music," Jimi insisted. "Things were getting too pretentious, too complicated. 'Stone Free,' you know that? That's much simpler. That's blues and rock and whatever happens happens. People were singing about acid itself, man. Things start to rule you. Images. Drugs. Everybody forgets what happened to God.
"You know when you're young, most people have a little burning thing, but then you get your law degree and go into your little cellophane cage. You don't have to be an entertainer or anything to get it together. You can do the family thing. I've wanted to do that at times... I've wanted to go away to the hills sometimes, but I stayed. Some people are meant to stay and carry messages..."
"You think of yourself as a messenger?" asked Lombardi.
"No, man, nothing like that," answered the offended Hendrix, who paused before speaking again.
"I didn't want to do this interview because I was tired and I never get any time to myself. I wanted to relax, write a song. But how can you say that to someone?"
At this point Gerry Stickells, Experience road manager, arrived to tell Jimi it was time to get ready to leave for the show. Before ending the interview, Jimi made one more point.
"Listen, I'm tired but this is what I'm trying to say. If you prostitute your own thing... you can't do that. We was having a lot of fun with that stuff we used to do, but the more the press would play it up and the more the audience would want it, the more we'd shy away from it. Do you see where that all fits?
"When I'm on stage, playing the guitar, I don't think about sex. I can't make love when a beautiful record comes on. When I was in Hawaii, I seen a beautiful thing... a miracle. There were a lot of rings around the moon, and the rings were all women's faces."
Despite sitting in a room full of people, with an interviewer anxious to listen to anything Hendrix chose to say, Jimi chose to indirectly refer to his own isolation as a rock star.
"I wish I could tell somebody about it," Hendrix said to finish the interview.
Before leaving, Lombardi observed Jimi speaking with a pretty black girl who was trying to get Jimi to call her friend who was in the hospital. The hospitalized girl, a Hendrix fan named "Beefy," received a twenty minute call from Jimi before Hendrix and his entourage left for the performance.
At The Spectrum, a large crowd awaited Jimi's arrival. Ticket prices ranged from $3.50 to $6.50, and although the all-reserved-seat show was not a sell-out -- 14,489 was the official attendance -- the building was nearly full to capacity. In the next to the last row of the building was the author of this article, 13 years old and clutching an "Electric Church" concert program full of pictures of Jimi. For me, it was appropriate that this Experience tour was called "Electric Church." The church that my parents belonged to, in an attempt to connect with the younger generation, bought a group of tickets to the Experience show and chartered a bus for transportation. I couldn't believe it when I heard about it, but I knew that this would be my best chance to go see the musician who was the dominant interest of my young life.
I watched Noel Redding take the stage at the helm of Fat Mattress, and the band ran through material from their yet-to-be-released Fat Mattress debut album. The crowd received them well, although it was clear from the excitement in the air that the Fat Mattress set was simply a precursor to the night's main event.
As the stage was being set up for the Experience performance, an MC took to the stage to talk to the crowd about the police harassment that was now common at the Electric Factory. Police Commissioner Rizzo had gone so far as to hold a press conference in front of the Electric Factory, vowing to "turn this joint into a parking lot." With each new reference to "the man hassling us," the crowd's intensity went up a pitch, and the spiel ended with huge cheers as everyone optimistically vowed that the police would never succeed in closing the Electric Factory.
Soon thereafter the lights went down to a roar from the crowd as everyone scrambled on top of their seats to get a better view. I had abandoned my seat in the rafters, taking advantage of the fact that I was just a kid to work my way past security and toward the stage. I reached the sixth row, where a kindly girl let me stand on her seat so I could see.
Beneath the Spectrum seating Jimi emerged from the Philadelphia Flyers' locker room, carrying his white Stratocaster with maple neck. Escorted by police and security, Hendrix walked through the tunnel toward the arena and ran the gauntlet to the stage. As at most of the concerts presented at the Spectrum in its first years of operation, the stage this night was located in the middle of the arena floor. The circular platform would slowly revolve throughout the concert, giving everyone a constantly shifting point of view.
To a tremendous roar Jimi mounted the steps and walked onto the stage. I couldn't believe that Jimi Hendrix was now standing not thirty feet from me, but the figure bathed in the bright spotlights left no doubt that it was true. With a blue headband trailing down, Jimi was clad in an orange ruffled shirt and black vest and pants, a scarf tied around one leg. He smiled and greeted the crowd, and then Jimi and Noel began tuning and equipment checks. All was in readiness except for one thing -- where was Mitch Mitchell?
Jimi and Noel made small talk with 15,000 people until finally Mitch popped up behind his gold drum kit. It was a large set, a big snare joined by double rack tom- toms, two floor tom-toms, and two massive bass drums with one emblazoned in script "MITCH" and the other "MITCHELL" -- just in case anyone was uncertain as to who was providing the percussion.
Though Jimi had seemed so somber and introspective during his interview just hours before, now on stage his mood was bright. The band launched into "Fire," Hendrix working his effects and pushing his amps as he fed off of the crowd's energy. Jimi capped off the solo with some quick guitar gymnastics, finishing the song with the inevitable pitch bends and clouds of feedback. The huge sound of the Experience was rivalled only by the cheers of the audience.
The stage was sliced neatly in half by the stacks of amplification equipment, and from my floor level vantage point I saw the Experience half of the time and black speaker cabinets stencilled JH EXP the rest of the time. As Jimi, Noel, and Mitch slowly spun back into view Jimi chose to slow things down from the frantic opening with a long journey through "Red House." Hendrix put extra emphasis on the "Wait a minute, something's wrong" line and repeated it to dramatic effect before grabbing high, wailing bent notes as he worked the upper reaches of the guitar neck during the long solo. On this night "Red House" followed a similar structure to the San Diego version that was recorded just a month later and released on Stages.
Following the blues of "Red House" Jimi chose to make another radical shift in tempo, unleashing a long burst of feedback to usher in "Foxy Lady." As Noel and Mitch fell in Jimi dispensed a hail of hammered notes leading to the first verse. Jimi finished the song with a long solo improvisation unaccompanied by his rhythm section.
Jimi stepped to the microphone to introduce "I Don't Live Today" -- "We're just jamming, we haven't played in a long time" -- but the real introduction came via Mitch's lengthy and flashy drum solo before he fell into the familiar percussion pattern of the studio version. Jimi's lyrical delivery of the song was emotional, appropriately for a song that Hendrix often referred to in interviews as a reference point for his feelings. The guitar exploration in the song's middle section was a particularly intriguing sonic adventure, falling into a long section of eerie wails and then a sped-up reprise. "Nothing but existing, baby -- all you're doing is existing" commented Jimi before he brought the song to a close.
"We'd like to do a thing called 'Getting My Heart Back Together Again,'" Jimi next announced. Then, remembering his conversation earlier in the day at the Holiday Inn, Jimi added a dedication "to little Beefy, who's in the hospital now, and her little friend." Hendrix ran through many variations based on the familiar opening riff, before arriving at a melodic section that consisted of long sustained notes that sounded similar to the theme of "Midnight Lightning."
"Blues and rock and whatever happens happens" was how Jimi had described "Stone Free" earlier that day, and this song made one of its relatively infrequent appearances in an Experience set as the next song the band performed. But it was an exceptional performance that was energetic and passionate, showing the Experience were still a force to be reckoned with in spite of the rumors of dissension. The pace was fast, with a long solo by Jimi at the end yielding to a percussive improvisation among all three musicians. A brief drum break led to more improvising along a descending pattern followed by free-form jamming. Finally Jimi and company found their way back to the structure of "Stone Free" and brought the adventure to an end.
"Star Spangled Banner" began next, but a long pause after the "Oh say can you see..." notes left the crowd in doubt as to whether Jimi intended to do the whole song or was just teasing as he was known to do on occasion. But the anthem started up again, following a stately structure quite similar to the famed Woodstock version -- complete with dive bombs. A major difference was that Jimi used the tremolo bar heavily in this version for more vibrato on the verses throughout, and the short intro to "Taps" had yet to be added. But the ending was the same as Woodstock's, providing a gateway directly to "Purple Haze."
This night's driving rendition of one of Jimi's most popular smash hits was crowned by a crazed solo that leapt and dived before it dissolved into roars of feedback. On long bent notes of seemingly infinite sustain Jimi navigated back towards the song structure to meet up with Noel and Mitch for the finale.
Jimi stepped to the microphone and thanked us for coming, immediately crafting the introduction to "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)." Hendrix treated the song to the type of incendiary performance that he always seemed to reserve for this track, although this version was especially long.
In fact, the entire performance at the Spectrum had been characterized by lengthy versions of Jimi's songs. While the set list may have been shorter than at other shows on the 1969 tour, the Experience had more than made up for it by stretching out instrumentally to an even greater degree than usual.
Jimi left the stage and, surrounded by police once again, rushed through the barricades protecting him from the crowd as he fled towards the dressing rooms. I made my way out to the bus, with ringing ears and awed by what I had seen. Some of the others on the bus didn't seem to get it -- but I had definitely been experienced. The image that I will always carry in my memory is one of Jimi bathed in the hot glow of the spotlights, on his knees bent over backwards with the blue headband hanging down behind him and his Stratocaster held up toward the sky as an indescribable wave of volume poured off of the stage.
The show was reviewed on April 14 in the Evening Bulletin, one of the three major daily newspapers in Philadelphia. Writer Walter F. Naedele's review offers a glimpse at the kinds of weird, impressionistic journalism accepted in those days -- and shows that perhaps Mr. Naedele was writing as much from his libido as he was from his head.
"A black Apache backed by two silent Englishmen," Naedele wrote, "Jimi came on, blue silk headband flowing to his legs, scarves knotted at elbow and knee, a soft- spoken young man and his bad-mouth electric guitar.
"Different from B.B. King's Lucille, the guitar became a woman Hendrix was love-fighting all night.
"To his wailing, she would shimmer back her own sass. As she built toward her screams, Hendrix would stagger back from the effort to get that much fight out of her. Sinking to his knees, holding her at arm's length while she ran off at him, he would at last draw her around him, fondling her, kissing her into submission.
"All that, in ten minutes of 'Red House.'"
All that, in the first half of the review!
The Electric Factory eventually did close a year later, although it was as much due to business reasons as from police pressure. Larry Magid and the Spivaks formed Electric Factory Concerts, which has become one of the music world's key entertainment businesses, promoting concerts across the country and putting on events like the American half of the Live Aid show.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience splintered when Noel Redding left the band following the Denver stop of the 1969 tour just ten weeks later. Jimi would play Philadelphia only one more time, accompanied by Mitch Mitchell and Billy Cox. The May 16, 1970 show on the "Cry of Love Tour" took place on a rainy day at the open- air Temple Stadium.
The Spectrum is still Philadelphia's primary large concert site. The construction of the new Spectrum II to house Philadelphia's indoor sports teams promises that the original Spectrum will be free to host even more music, although it is doubtful that any of it will be as inventive and creative as the sounds that echoed within it on that April night in 1969.
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As was the case in cities across America, the burgeoning hippie movement that could be found in Philadelphia in the late 1960s took root in coffeehouses during the middle of that decade. Always something of a conservative city -- and very much identified by its close-knit neighborhoods -- Philadelphia wasn't exactly a fertile ground for the emergence of the counter-culture. But a public park to the south and west of City Hall became Philadelphia's hip focal point as kids from across the area joined together to share in the joys of the rapidly evolving rock and roll scene.
Rittenhouse Square served as this de facto meeting ground, and narrow Samson Street just to the north became the commercial and cultural center for Philadelphia's hip kids. As the music shifted further and further from acoustic music to electric, coffeehouses like The Second Fret, the Artist's Hut, and the Gilded Cage yielded to venues more suitable to high-volume rock. The owner of The Second Fret, Manny Rubin, saw the changes coming and opened a new club called The Trauma. Philadelphia bands like Mandrake Memorial, Woody's Truck Stop (featuring young guitarist Todd Rundgren), and Elizabeth performed in the club located in the heart of the Samson Street hippie district. But soon after the opening of The Trauma, the rock and roll focus of the city turned to a tire warehouse several blocks north. There, several brothers in the Spivak family -- experienced in the bar business in the city -- took the empty space and converted it into the Electric Factory.
The Electric Factory, located at 2201 Arch Street, opened in February of 1968 with the Chambers Brothers headlining. Most shows in the club's early days were booked on weekends, but the quality of talent was high. The third week after the club was opened the headline act was the Jimi Hendrix Experience. Hendrix and the Experience performed two shows each night on February 21 and 22, supported by Rundgren and Woody's Truck Stop.
This was to be the first of four appearances by Jimi in Philadelphia. By the time Hendrix, Redding, and Mitchell returned to Philadelphia to play the Arena on March 31, 1968 with Soft Machine and Woody's Truck Stop, the Electric Factory was regularly booking shows on week nights as well. The Trauma had gone out of business, unable to compete with the Spivaks and their talent booker, Larry Magid. The coffeehouses had died out even earlier. But, as evidenced by the Experience's performance at the higher-capacity Arena, prime rock and roll acts were already drawing crowds too large for the confines of the Electric Factory.
Coinciding with the rise of the Electric Factory was the construction of a huge new entertainment facility in South Philadelphia. To be known as the Spectrum, the 17,000-seat, oval-shaped building was intended to be a multi-purpose arena capable of hosting events as varied as its name implied. It would be the home hockey rink of the National Hockey League Flyers, the home basketball court of the Philadelphia 76ers, as well as the site of major entertainment events.
Opening to much hoopla in September of 1967, the Spectrum went from being the pride of the city to a source of embarrassment on March 1, 1968. During a fierce late-winter storm, huge gusts of wind battered the facility and tore the roof right off the building. The inside of the Spectrum was exposed to the elements, and months worth of events had to postponed. Hasty repairs and reinforcements were mandated, and the Spectrum reclaimed its state-of-the-art status in time to host its first major rock concert in December of 1968: the Philadelphia stop of Cream's final tour.
Despite the growing popularity of the new forms of rock and roll, all was not well in the Philadelphia scene. Urban legend has it that John Cardinal Kroll, boss of the Philadelphia Catholic church, would pass by the Electric Factory on the way to his suburban mansion. Growing incensed at the freakish appearance of club patrons and the blatant use of such vices as marijuana, Kroll complained to his good friend, Frank Rizzo. Rizzo was commissioner of Philadelphia's police, a force with a growing reputation for violence and a tendency to ignore civil rights. Allegedly at Kroll's behest, Rizzo targeted the Electric Factory for heightened police attention. Rizzo made it clear that he thought the only product coming out of the Electric Factory was juvenile delinquency. Rizzo was determined to shut it down.
It was in this contentious atmosphere that word came of the Jimi Hendrix Experience's performance scheduled at the Spectrum on Saturday, April 12, 1969. Not that things were any less strained in the Hendrix camp.
Rumors of the breakup of the Experience were hot topics in 1969, and the rumors appeared to take on greater substance when Noel Redding announced his side project Fat Mattress. The fact that Fat Mattress was scheduled to be the opening act on the 1969 American tour appeared to be as much a concession to keep Noel in the fold as it was a musical decision.
Creative matters weren't the only difficulties troubling Jimi. His relationship with Mike Jeffery was growing strained, the Ed Chalpin/PPX lawsuit over the contract Jimi had signed in his days with Curtis Knight was a nagging problem, and the sheer pressure of rock stardom and its attendant demands were focused directly on Jimi.
Since playing the Royal Albert Hall in London on February 18 and 24, the Experience had not performed live until the night before the Philadelphia show, when the band performed at Dorton Arena in Raleigh, North Carolina. Flying into Philadelphia International Airport on April 12, the Experience were just getting into shape for the 25-date North American tour booked by Jeffery.
Of course, Jimi had one significant visit to Philadelphia long before the formation of the Experience. It was here that Hendrix had made his professional recording debut, backing Lonnie Youngblood on a studio date late in 1963 as Hendrix migrated toward New York from Tennessee.
On Saturday afternoon of the show at The Spectrum Jimi was interviewed in his room at the Holiday Inn at around 4 p.m. by writer John Lombardi. The story was published a week later in the now-defunct Philadelphia alternative newspaper Distant Drummer. Despite being tired, the ever-accommodating Hendrix submitted to yet another interrogation.
Jimi revealed a bit about his state of mind regarding this interview when he was asked if he would mind being photographed. "No," Hendrix replied, "the same shit happens every day, so fuck it."
Lombardi, who apparently was far from being an expert on Hendrix's music (as seen by his reference in print to the song "Let Me Stand Inside Your Fire"), started things off on a superficial note by remarking that Jimi's hair appeared shorter than in his publicity photos.
"My hair?" Jimi questioned. "I cut it short in protest. There are too many long- haired people running around whose heads aren't anywhere. But I think I'm gonna grow it again."
The interview continued to get off to a rocky start as the sore subject of the "nude" Electric Ladyland cover and Jimi's image was brought up.
"I don't consider myself a success. I haven't even started yet," Hendrix told Lombardi. "The scene puts you through a lot of changes... you get involved in images. I didn't have nothing to do with that stupid LP cover they released, and I don't even want to talk about it. It's mostly all bullshit."
Lombardi proceeded to remind Jimi about his stage act, referring to "setting the guitar on fire, going through the motions of intercourse." Not surprisingly at this stage of his career, the question served only to aggravate Jimi.
"We did those things mostly because they used to be fun," Jimi noted. "They just came out of us. But the music was still the main thing. Then what happened, the crowd started to want those things more than the music. Those little things that were just added on, like frosting, you know, became the most important. Things got changed around. We don't do that stuff as much anymore."
The next topic broached was the obscenity arrest of singer Jim Morrison following the disastrous performance by The Doors in Miami on March 1, 1969, when Jim allegedly exposed himself on stage.
"Well, if it happened, it is flipped out, but I've only heard reports," Jimi cautioned. "I guess you'd have to ask Morrison about that. I don't want to talk about it. You know, we used to try to defend against some of the publicity, but we don't anymore. They just ignore what you say anyway, and the people who know where you're at know without asking questions. They know from the music. I dig music.
"Listen," Jimi continued, "you want to talk about music? That's what I really know about. I don't want to say nothing about comparisons with other groups because if you do that puts you higher or lower than them, and that's just the same old cycle. Our music is in a very solid state now. Not technically, just in the sense that we can feel around the music and get into things better. We don't have any answers this time, but we'd love to turn everyone on to all we know... We know for instance that Jesus was starting to get it together quite nicely, but that ten commandments thing was a drag. The bogey man isn't going to come get you if you don't tie your shoe. You don't have to be afraid to make love to one of your boyfriend's wives. Brand-name religions like Bhuddism and Zen are just clashes. The Catholic church is spreading and vomiting over the earth. The Church of England is the biggest landowner in England. Your home isn't America, it's the earth, but things are precarious, man. America could start getting together and China or Russia could go and we'd all be even heavier slaves. You know my song, 'I don't live today, maybe tomorrow?' That's where it's at.
"But I want to talk about music," Jimi insisted. "Things were getting too pretentious, too complicated. 'Stone Free,' you know that? That's much simpler. That's blues and rock and whatever happens happens. People were singing about acid itself, man. Things start to rule you. Images. Drugs. Everybody forgets what happened to God.
"You know when you're young, most people have a little burning thing, but then you get your law degree and go into your little cellophane cage. You don't have to be an entertainer or anything to get it together. You can do the family thing. I've wanted to do that at times... I've wanted to go away to the hills sometimes, but I stayed. Some people are meant to stay and carry messages..."
"You think of yourself as a messenger?" asked Lombardi.
"No, man, nothing like that," answered the offended Hendrix, who paused before speaking again.
"I didn't want to do this interview because I was tired and I never get any time to myself. I wanted to relax, write a song. But how can you say that to someone?"
At this point Gerry Stickells, Experience road manager, arrived to tell Jimi it was time to get ready to leave for the show. Before ending the interview, Jimi made one more point.
"Listen, I'm tired but this is what I'm trying to say. If you prostitute your own thing... you can't do that. We was having a lot of fun with that stuff we used to do, but the more the press would play it up and the more the audience would want it, the more we'd shy away from it. Do you see where that all fits?
"When I'm on stage, playing the guitar, I don't think about sex. I can't make love when a beautiful record comes on. When I was in Hawaii, I seen a beautiful thing... a miracle. There were a lot of rings around the moon, and the rings were all women's faces."
Despite sitting in a room full of people, with an interviewer anxious to listen to anything Hendrix chose to say, Jimi chose to indirectly refer to his own isolation as a rock star.
"I wish I could tell somebody about it," Hendrix said to finish the interview.
Before leaving, Lombardi observed Jimi speaking with a pretty black girl who was trying to get Jimi to call her friend who was in the hospital. The hospitalized girl, a Hendrix fan named "Beefy," received a twenty minute call from Jimi before Hendrix and his entourage left for the performance.
At The Spectrum, a large crowd awaited Jimi's arrival. Ticket prices ranged from $3.50 to $6.50, and although the all-reserved-seat show was not a sell-out -- 14,489 was the official attendance -- the building was nearly full to capacity. In the next to the last row of the building was the author of this article, 13 years old and clutching an "Electric Church" concert program full of pictures of Jimi. For me, it was appropriate that this Experience tour was called "Electric Church." The church that my parents belonged to, in an attempt to connect with the younger generation, bought a group of tickets to the Experience show and chartered a bus for transportation. I couldn't believe it when I heard about it, but I knew that this would be my best chance to go see the musician who was the dominant interest of my young life.
I watched Noel Redding take the stage at the helm of Fat Mattress, and the band ran through material from their yet-to-be-released Fat Mattress debut album. The crowd received them well, although it was clear from the excitement in the air that the Fat Mattress set was simply a precursor to the night's main event.
As the stage was being set up for the Experience performance, an MC took to the stage to talk to the crowd about the police harassment that was now common at the Electric Factory. Police Commissioner Rizzo had gone so far as to hold a press conference in front of the Electric Factory, vowing to "turn this joint into a parking lot." With each new reference to "the man hassling us," the crowd's intensity went up a pitch, and the spiel ended with huge cheers as everyone optimistically vowed that the police would never succeed in closing the Electric Factory.
Soon thereafter the lights went down to a roar from the crowd as everyone scrambled on top of their seats to get a better view. I had abandoned my seat in the rafters, taking advantage of the fact that I was just a kid to work my way past security and toward the stage. I reached the sixth row, where a kindly girl let me stand on her seat so I could see.
Beneath the Spectrum seating Jimi emerged from the Philadelphia Flyers' locker room, carrying his white Stratocaster with maple neck. Escorted by police and security, Hendrix walked through the tunnel toward the arena and ran the gauntlet to the stage. As at most of the concerts presented at the Spectrum in its first years of operation, the stage this night was located in the middle of the arena floor. The circular platform would slowly revolve throughout the concert, giving everyone a constantly shifting point of view.
To a tremendous roar Jimi mounted the steps and walked onto the stage. I couldn't believe that Jimi Hendrix was now standing not thirty feet from me, but the figure bathed in the bright spotlights left no doubt that it was true. With a blue headband trailing down, Jimi was clad in an orange ruffled shirt and black vest and pants, a scarf tied around one leg. He smiled and greeted the crowd, and then Jimi and Noel began tuning and equipment checks. All was in readiness except for one thing -- where was Mitch Mitchell?
Jimi and Noel made small talk with 15,000 people until finally Mitch popped up behind his gold drum kit. It was a large set, a big snare joined by double rack tom- toms, two floor tom-toms, and two massive bass drums with one emblazoned in script "MITCH" and the other "MITCHELL" -- just in case anyone was uncertain as to who was providing the percussion.
Though Jimi had seemed so somber and introspective during his interview just hours before, now on stage his mood was bright. The band launched into "Fire," Hendrix working his effects and pushing his amps as he fed off of the crowd's energy. Jimi capped off the solo with some quick guitar gymnastics, finishing the song with the inevitable pitch bends and clouds of feedback. The huge sound of the Experience was rivalled only by the cheers of the audience.
The stage was sliced neatly in half by the stacks of amplification equipment, and from my floor level vantage point I saw the Experience half of the time and black speaker cabinets stencilled JH EXP the rest of the time. As Jimi, Noel, and Mitch slowly spun back into view Jimi chose to slow things down from the frantic opening with a long journey through "Red House." Hendrix put extra emphasis on the "Wait a minute, something's wrong" line and repeated it to dramatic effect before grabbing high, wailing bent notes as he worked the upper reaches of the guitar neck during the long solo. On this night "Red House" followed a similar structure to the San Diego version that was recorded just a month later and released on Stages.
Following the blues of "Red House" Jimi chose to make another radical shift in tempo, unleashing a long burst of feedback to usher in "Foxy Lady." As Noel and Mitch fell in Jimi dispensed a hail of hammered notes leading to the first verse. Jimi finished the song with a long solo improvisation unaccompanied by his rhythm section.
Jimi stepped to the microphone to introduce "I Don't Live Today" -- "We're just jamming, we haven't played in a long time" -- but the real introduction came via Mitch's lengthy and flashy drum solo before he fell into the familiar percussion pattern of the studio version. Jimi's lyrical delivery of the song was emotional, appropriately for a song that Hendrix often referred to in interviews as a reference point for his feelings. The guitar exploration in the song's middle section was a particularly intriguing sonic adventure, falling into a long section of eerie wails and then a sped-up reprise. "Nothing but existing, baby -- all you're doing is existing" commented Jimi before he brought the song to a close.
"We'd like to do a thing called 'Getting My Heart Back Together Again,'" Jimi next announced. Then, remembering his conversation earlier in the day at the Holiday Inn, Jimi added a dedication "to little Beefy, who's in the hospital now, and her little friend." Hendrix ran through many variations based on the familiar opening riff, before arriving at a melodic section that consisted of long sustained notes that sounded similar to the theme of "Midnight Lightning."
"Blues and rock and whatever happens happens" was how Jimi had described "Stone Free" earlier that day, and this song made one of its relatively infrequent appearances in an Experience set as the next song the band performed. But it was an exceptional performance that was energetic and passionate, showing the Experience were still a force to be reckoned with in spite of the rumors of dissension. The pace was fast, with a long solo by Jimi at the end yielding to a percussive improvisation among all three musicians. A brief drum break led to more improvising along a descending pattern followed by free-form jamming. Finally Jimi and company found their way back to the structure of "Stone Free" and brought the adventure to an end.
"Star Spangled Banner" began next, but a long pause after the "Oh say can you see..." notes left the crowd in doubt as to whether Jimi intended to do the whole song or was just teasing as he was known to do on occasion. But the anthem started up again, following a stately structure quite similar to the famed Woodstock version -- complete with dive bombs. A major difference was that Jimi used the tremolo bar heavily in this version for more vibrato on the verses throughout, and the short intro to "Taps" had yet to be added. But the ending was the same as Woodstock's, providing a gateway directly to "Purple Haze."
This night's driving rendition of one of Jimi's most popular smash hits was crowned by a crazed solo that leapt and dived before it dissolved into roars of feedback. On long bent notes of seemingly infinite sustain Jimi navigated back towards the song structure to meet up with Noel and Mitch for the finale.
Jimi stepped to the microphone and thanked us for coming, immediately crafting the introduction to "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)." Hendrix treated the song to the type of incendiary performance that he always seemed to reserve for this track, although this version was especially long.
In fact, the entire performance at the Spectrum had been characterized by lengthy versions of Jimi's songs. While the set list may have been shorter than at other shows on the 1969 tour, the Experience had more than made up for it by stretching out instrumentally to an even greater degree than usual.
Jimi left the stage and, surrounded by police once again, rushed through the barricades protecting him from the crowd as he fled towards the dressing rooms. I made my way out to the bus, with ringing ears and awed by what I had seen. Some of the others on the bus didn't seem to get it -- but I had definitely been experienced. The image that I will always carry in my memory is one of Jimi bathed in the hot glow of the spotlights, on his knees bent over backwards with the blue headband hanging down behind him and his Stratocaster held up toward the sky as an indescribable wave of volume poured off of the stage.
The show was reviewed on April 14 in the Evening Bulletin, one of the three major daily newspapers in Philadelphia. Writer Walter F. Naedele's review offers a glimpse at the kinds of weird, impressionistic journalism accepted in those days -- and shows that perhaps Mr. Naedele was writing as much from his libido as he was from his head.
"A black Apache backed by two silent Englishmen," Naedele wrote, "Jimi came on, blue silk headband flowing to his legs, scarves knotted at elbow and knee, a soft- spoken young man and his bad-mouth electric guitar.
"Different from B.B. King's Lucille, the guitar became a woman Hendrix was love-fighting all night.
"To his wailing, she would shimmer back her own sass. As she built toward her screams, Hendrix would stagger back from the effort to get that much fight out of her. Sinking to his knees, holding her at arm's length while she ran off at him, he would at last draw her around him, fondling her, kissing her into submission.
"All that, in ten minutes of 'Red House.'"
All that, in the first half of the review!
The Electric Factory eventually did close a year later, although it was as much due to business reasons as from police pressure. Larry Magid and the Spivaks formed Electric Factory Concerts, which has become one of the music world's key entertainment businesses, promoting concerts across the country and putting on events like the American half of the Live Aid show.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience splintered when Noel Redding left the band following the Denver stop of the 1969 tour just ten weeks later. Jimi would play Philadelphia only one more time, accompanied by Mitch Mitchell and Billy Cox. The May 16, 1970 show on the "Cry of Love Tour" took place on a rainy day at the open- air Temple Stadium.
The Spectrum is still Philadelphia's primary large concert site. The construction of the new Spectrum II to house Philadelphia's indoor sports teams promises that the original Spectrum will be free to host even more music, although it is doubtful that any of it will be as inventive and creative as the sounds that echoed within it on that April night in 1969.
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Slayer's Kerry King Interview written for Guitar Player Magazine, 1998
Even members of Slayer get phone calls at awkward times. When Kerry King, guitarist for the mightiest of metal bands, is phoned and asked how he's doing on the morning of Slayer's 1998 American tour kickoff, King replies that his head still bears shaving cream from a pre-tour shaving touchup. But King is not one to let grooming get in the way of talking about Diabolus In Musica (American Recordings), Slayer's latest testimony to the power and glory of unrelenting heavy metal.
From the opening seconds of the dramatic "Bitter Peace," it's clear that Slayer's latest not only retains the fury characteristic of the band's catalog but also introduces a new element of sophistication in the song construction and performances. Slayer sophisticated? Those who dismiss the band's music as Neanderthal pounding might be surprised at what they'd discover if they actually listened to Slayer.
The process of recording a Slayer opus comes after months of intense rehearsal. By the time the band occupies the recording studio, the battle plans are well laid out.
"Musically, it is 99% done," King explains. "Sometimes we're lagging on the lyrics, but musically we're 9/10ths of the way there. The only thing that might change is if we get a cool lyric idea that might call for altering the riff."
With Diabolus in Musica safely recorded and in the stores, King is anxious to hit the road. Intricate riffs - hurtling back and forth between King and co-guitarist Jeff Hanneman - are a hallmark of the Slayer live sound. Launching these complex communiqués over the rumbling foundation built by bassist Tom Araya and drummer Paul Bostaph requires intensity and concentration.
"I think this is one of the coolest things you can do musically, because you have to be on it for the entire show," King notes. "From my perspective, as a guitarist, your average rock act only has to be on it come lead time. If you've got a lead coming, 'Well, I've got to be on it right here.' But in a sense, some of our songs are pretty much entirely lead-like."
Aside from the musical merits of Slayer, the aura that surrounds the band has spooked parents since their inception "at the dawn of time," as King jokes.
"In the beginning we were just the bad guys, more or less, and I think that just stuck with us over the years."
Though Diabolus in Musica song titles like "Death's Head" and "Perversions of Pain" betray no softening of Slayer's attitude, new competition has arrived. Now acts like Marilyn Manson occupy the nightmares of parents who seem to have forgotten that Alice Cooper played the same shtick two decades before.
"I think parents are going to be more worried about him than us when we're on tour, because we don't change the way their children look," King speculates. "He inspires kids so much they want to emulate him. And we've never really done that - we've just been part of a genre where it's about the music. I've got a bald head, the singer's got long hair - nobody ever wants to come out and just look like us, like they do him. So I think that's why he gets so much more flak than we do."
One of the first bands to rouse parental ire was Black Sabbath, and Slayer has joined the lineup of Sabbath vocalist Ozzy Osbourne's hugely successful Ozzfest. King feels that Ozzfest's congregation of hard music fans creates new opportunities for his band to present their music - especially for people who might find a typical Slayer gig a bit too intimidating.
"Oh yeah, any big festival like that would help," says King. "When you're playing to giant masses like that, they might have always secretly wanted to go check out Slayer, but they never could. When Ozzy's on the bill, or somebody more tame, they get the opportunity."
King feels that bringing new fans under Slayer's influence through high-profile shows like Ozzfest would be a positive development.
"I'm happy with my success, but for me the goal would be to get to another level," King admits. "I mean, we've been here forever, I've played everywhere I want to play. So if there is any goal for me to have, it would be maybe to get a platinum record instead of a gold record. But if I don't get it, I'm not going to dwell on it."
Regardless of whether the ranks of Slayer followers swell in the years to come, for King the sonic impact of his band remains his primary focus. And though Diabolus in Musica offers further proof that Slayer is one of the most inventive of metal bands, King feels that there are greater discoveries ahead for his band.
"Personally, if I wasn't in Slayer and I wasn't playing this kind of music, this is still what I'd be listening to. It's the kind of stuff that I really like. I think there are all sorts of opportunities that I haven't even touched yet in this stuff."
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Even members of Slayer get phone calls at awkward times. When Kerry King, guitarist for the mightiest of metal bands, is phoned and asked how he's doing on the morning of Slayer's 1998 American tour kickoff, King replies that his head still bears shaving cream from a pre-tour shaving touchup. But King is not one to let grooming get in the way of talking about Diabolus In Musica (American Recordings), Slayer's latest testimony to the power and glory of unrelenting heavy metal.
From the opening seconds of the dramatic "Bitter Peace," it's clear that Slayer's latest not only retains the fury characteristic of the band's catalog but also introduces a new element of sophistication in the song construction and performances. Slayer sophisticated? Those who dismiss the band's music as Neanderthal pounding might be surprised at what they'd discover if they actually listened to Slayer.
The process of recording a Slayer opus comes after months of intense rehearsal. By the time the band occupies the recording studio, the battle plans are well laid out.
"Musically, it is 99% done," King explains. "Sometimes we're lagging on the lyrics, but musically we're 9/10ths of the way there. The only thing that might change is if we get a cool lyric idea that might call for altering the riff."
With Diabolus in Musica safely recorded and in the stores, King is anxious to hit the road. Intricate riffs - hurtling back and forth between King and co-guitarist Jeff Hanneman - are a hallmark of the Slayer live sound. Launching these complex communiqués over the rumbling foundation built by bassist Tom Araya and drummer Paul Bostaph requires intensity and concentration.
"I think this is one of the coolest things you can do musically, because you have to be on it for the entire show," King notes. "From my perspective, as a guitarist, your average rock act only has to be on it come lead time. If you've got a lead coming, 'Well, I've got to be on it right here.' But in a sense, some of our songs are pretty much entirely lead-like."
Aside from the musical merits of Slayer, the aura that surrounds the band has spooked parents since their inception "at the dawn of time," as King jokes.
"In the beginning we were just the bad guys, more or less, and I think that just stuck with us over the years."
Though Diabolus in Musica song titles like "Death's Head" and "Perversions of Pain" betray no softening of Slayer's attitude, new competition has arrived. Now acts like Marilyn Manson occupy the nightmares of parents who seem to have forgotten that Alice Cooper played the same shtick two decades before.
"I think parents are going to be more worried about him than us when we're on tour, because we don't change the way their children look," King speculates. "He inspires kids so much they want to emulate him. And we've never really done that - we've just been part of a genre where it's about the music. I've got a bald head, the singer's got long hair - nobody ever wants to come out and just look like us, like they do him. So I think that's why he gets so much more flak than we do."
One of the first bands to rouse parental ire was Black Sabbath, and Slayer has joined the lineup of Sabbath vocalist Ozzy Osbourne's hugely successful Ozzfest. King feels that Ozzfest's congregation of hard music fans creates new opportunities for his band to present their music - especially for people who might find a typical Slayer gig a bit too intimidating.
"Oh yeah, any big festival like that would help," says King. "When you're playing to giant masses like that, they might have always secretly wanted to go check out Slayer, but they never could. When Ozzy's on the bill, or somebody more tame, they get the opportunity."
King feels that bringing new fans under Slayer's influence through high-profile shows like Ozzfest would be a positive development.
"I'm happy with my success, but for me the goal would be to get to another level," King admits. "I mean, we've been here forever, I've played everywhere I want to play. So if there is any goal for me to have, it would be maybe to get a platinum record instead of a gold record. But if I don't get it, I'm not going to dwell on it."
Regardless of whether the ranks of Slayer followers swell in the years to come, for King the sonic impact of his band remains his primary focus. And though Diabolus in Musica offers further proof that Slayer is one of the most inventive of metal bands, King feels that there are greater discoveries ahead for his band.
"Personally, if I wasn't in Slayer and I wasn't playing this kind of music, this is still what I'd be listening to. It's the kind of stuff that I really like. I think there are all sorts of opportunities that I haven't even touched yet in this stuff."
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Riding with Elmo Langley written for Circle Track Magazine, 1996
"Caution car, let's ease 'em off -- it'll be the third time by," radios Race Director David Hoots from the NASCAR control room. Hearing those words, NASCAR official Elmo Langley puts the Pocono International Raceway pace truck into gear and begins to roll forward -- and my inside look at Elmo's unique job begins.
With the first motion of the pace truck the crowd gathered for the UAW-GM Teamwork 500 roars its approval, a sound easily heard over the idling of the 40 Winston Cup engines behind us. As Elmo moves into the banking of turn one, the noise of the Winston Cup cars grows into an ominous crescendo as they close on our bumper. A look out the truck's back window reveals pole sitter Ken Schrader with Mark Martin alongside, both drivers wheeling their cars from side to side as they build heat in the tires. With each swerve the stock cars behind the front row swing in and out of view.
Langley paces the field at 65 mph, considerably less than the 100+ mph laps we turned while checking the track's condition earlier in the morning -- laps which gave Langley a chance to show off some of the talent picked up during a 30-year NASCAR driving career. But the goal of the pace truck now is to run at the pit road speed limit, letting the drivers check their tach readings at the legal speed so they'll avoid a penalty during the race.
A lap and a half later Langley is preparing to turn the racetrack over to the drivers. We pass under the flag stand, where starter Doyle Ford holds out one finger to notify the drivers the green flag will wave in one lap. At the same time, Langley reaches forward and turns off the flashing lights atop the truck.
Schrader and Martin have closed to within a few feet of our rear bumper as we zoom through turn one for the last time. The drivers -- resembling spacemen in their full-face helmets -- are clearly visible through their windshields as they prepare to race. Coming out of Pocono's "tunnel turn" we near Elmo's post during the race. Langley accelerates faster, putting some distance between ourselves and the Winston Cup cars.
"Hold on!" Elmo yells, and the pace truck brakes hard and makes a sudden left hand turn off the track. The forty stock cars flash by behind us, rumbling toward the start/finish line. Seconds later, the rumble turns to a roar, the green flag waves, and Elmo Langley has the satisfaction of another job well done.
For those new to NASCAR Winston Cup racing, Elmo Langley is known predominantly for his high-profile job -- pace car driver for America's premier racing series. But Langley and NASCAR go back a long way. In fact, you could safely describe Elmo Langley as one of the top first generation NASCAR competitors.
"I started racing in 1952 driving modifieds in Maryland and Virginia," Langley recollects. "Back then there were three divisions -- the short track division, the convertible division, and the Grand National division. Short track was anything of 1/3 mile or below, and the Grand Nationals were mostly 1/2 or 3/8 mile. I ran my first Grand National in 1952."
Following his first start in Grand National racing -- in the division that would one day become known as the Winston Cup Series -- Langley raced for a number of car owners for over ten years. NASCAR's top division was substantially different from what today's fans are used to.
"The first year I ran Darlington was in 1954 in an Oldsmobile that a guy named Sam Rice owned," Langley recalls. "He was one of the starters of Martinsville Speedway. We drove the car to Darlington, finished 11th, and then drove it home. It didn't even have a roll bar, just a piece of chain around the door post.
"They were basically stock cars -- you'd go to the showroom and buy a car and strip it," Langley continues. "You were allowed to take the back seat and upholstery out, and the back of the passenger seat. Everything else had to stay the same. All the suspension on it, the engines, everything had to be stock."
In 1965, Langley tired of driving for other car owners and decided to start his own team. That's a desire that many of today's drivers have, too, but in Langley's days of being an owner/driver success required a tremendous amount of hard work.
"We used to run 60 races in a year, and I did it with just me and a helper," Langley notes. "We'd tow the car to the racetrack, work on it, get it ready, qualify it, run the race with it, and then come back home that night. A lot of those 100-mile races only paid $1000 to win.
"The money falls out of the sky to these people now, the drivers and even the crew chiefs. Back then, a year fifth in points making $40,000 total in a year, well that was actually a pretty decent year. Now they make that in one race," Langley points out.
"Of course, we had no major sponsors or corporations involved in it back then. I was always hard-headed, the kind who wanted to do it on my own," Langley admits. "We used to have a garage or a restaurant or a parts house that would give you a little bit of money, but that was about all anybody had. Racing started to turn around when Winston got involved in it in the 1970s."
A look at the Grand National or Winston Cup points standings every season from the late-1960s through the mid-1970s reveals the name Elmo Langley solidly in the top ten year after year during this transitional period for NASCAR. Elmo also made trips to the Grand National victory lanes at Old Dominion Speedway in Virginia and Piedmont Interstate Fairgrounds in South Carolina, beating the likes of Bobby Allison, "Tiger Tom" Pistone, David Pearson, and Buddy Baker. Langley has witnessed first-hand the incredible growth of the sport of stock car racing.
"I don't guess anybody other than Bill France, Sr. ever envisioned what racing was going to come to. I know I never did," says Langley. "A lot of the tracks we'd run the 100-mile races at, if they had six or seven thousand people, that would be a big crowd. Now you get 100,000 people. It used to be a redneck sport, but now business people come to it and there's just about as many women as there are men who come to our races. It's just been a complete turnaround for us in the demographics of the fans."
It was in the midst of this turnaround that Elmo Langley's new career with NASCAR began. After retiring from driving in 1977, Langley continued to field his car in Winston Cup competition, with the driver's seat occupied by as many as 14 different racers in one season. Not surprisingly, Elmo remembers that as a difficult period.
"It was nerve-wracking," Langley states. "I finally decided that if I could find somebody to buy the team I'd get out of owning the car and go to work for somebody."
Langley stayed heavily involved in the sport even after selling his team in 1986. In 1987 Langley was running Cale Yarborough's team when NASCAR Winston Cup Director Dick Beaty offered him a job with the sanctioning body that would still keep him close to the race cars.
"You get burned out after 35 years of working on 'em, racing 'em, and managing teams," Langley says. "Those are 12-, 14-, 16-hour days, seven days a week. Dick Beaty approached me after I had said something about being burned out on the race cars. The opportunity came to do what I'm doing now, to work for NASCAR and drive the pace car. I just decided this would be a lot easier but keep me involved with what I've been doing for 35 or 40 years, so I took the job."
How hard is Langley's job pacing modern Winston Cup stock cars?
"Even drivers that have ridden in the pace car didn't know there was that much to it," Langley replies. "There's a lot of responsibility. You always have to know who the leader is. When they put it out (the yellow flag) you have to pick up that leader. It's my decision to look and make sure that, if there's been an accident, that everything is picked up. If there's an engine blown and oil was put down on the track, it's my decision when they go back to green and that the track is clear. There's a lot more responsibility than what somebody thinks."
When he's not driving the pace car, Elmo Langley helps inspect the stock cars to make sure they're as safe as possible. Elmo is proud of NASCAR's safety record, even if the search for safety has led to some ideas that didn't really work out. Take, for example, the use of two pace cars when NASCAR first tried to lower speeds along pit road in 1991.
"I knew that the two pace cars wasn't going to work when they started that, but they were searching then for a safer pit road," Langley notes. "When I first started driving the pace car, pit road was dangerous because I would pick up the field, and then at the entrance to pit road they would peel off and run full bore down pit road to their stalls. They'd change tires, and almost be exiting pit road by the time I got down there in the pace car on the racetrack.
"That was just a dangerous situation -- it was more dangerous on pit road than it ever was in a race car," Langley continues. "Now that they have cut down the pit road speed, and no one can pass the pace car, that's made pit road 100 per cent safer. Anytime there's anything NASCAR can do to make something safer they do it."
It somehow seems fitting that the man who now paces the field before each Winston Cup race should be someone who spent a large part of his life racing on those very same racetracks.
"There's not too many that are still here that were around when I started racing, but I've known the new ones that come along from when they first started driving up to what they are now," says Elmo Langley. "I enjoy what I'm doing now. It's the people I've been around and involved with all my life."
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
"Caution car, let's ease 'em off -- it'll be the third time by," radios Race Director David Hoots from the NASCAR control room. Hearing those words, NASCAR official Elmo Langley puts the Pocono International Raceway pace truck into gear and begins to roll forward -- and my inside look at Elmo's unique job begins.
With the first motion of the pace truck the crowd gathered for the UAW-GM Teamwork 500 roars its approval, a sound easily heard over the idling of the 40 Winston Cup engines behind us. As Elmo moves into the banking of turn one, the noise of the Winston Cup cars grows into an ominous crescendo as they close on our bumper. A look out the truck's back window reveals pole sitter Ken Schrader with Mark Martin alongside, both drivers wheeling their cars from side to side as they build heat in the tires. With each swerve the stock cars behind the front row swing in and out of view.
Langley paces the field at 65 mph, considerably less than the 100+ mph laps we turned while checking the track's condition earlier in the morning -- laps which gave Langley a chance to show off some of the talent picked up during a 30-year NASCAR driving career. But the goal of the pace truck now is to run at the pit road speed limit, letting the drivers check their tach readings at the legal speed so they'll avoid a penalty during the race.
A lap and a half later Langley is preparing to turn the racetrack over to the drivers. We pass under the flag stand, where starter Doyle Ford holds out one finger to notify the drivers the green flag will wave in one lap. At the same time, Langley reaches forward and turns off the flashing lights atop the truck.
Schrader and Martin have closed to within a few feet of our rear bumper as we zoom through turn one for the last time. The drivers -- resembling spacemen in their full-face helmets -- are clearly visible through their windshields as they prepare to race. Coming out of Pocono's "tunnel turn" we near Elmo's post during the race. Langley accelerates faster, putting some distance between ourselves and the Winston Cup cars.
"Hold on!" Elmo yells, and the pace truck brakes hard and makes a sudden left hand turn off the track. The forty stock cars flash by behind us, rumbling toward the start/finish line. Seconds later, the rumble turns to a roar, the green flag waves, and Elmo Langley has the satisfaction of another job well done.
For those new to NASCAR Winston Cup racing, Elmo Langley is known predominantly for his high-profile job -- pace car driver for America's premier racing series. But Langley and NASCAR go back a long way. In fact, you could safely describe Elmo Langley as one of the top first generation NASCAR competitors.
"I started racing in 1952 driving modifieds in Maryland and Virginia," Langley recollects. "Back then there were three divisions -- the short track division, the convertible division, and the Grand National division. Short track was anything of 1/3 mile or below, and the Grand Nationals were mostly 1/2 or 3/8 mile. I ran my first Grand National in 1952."
Following his first start in Grand National racing -- in the division that would one day become known as the Winston Cup Series -- Langley raced for a number of car owners for over ten years. NASCAR's top division was substantially different from what today's fans are used to.
"The first year I ran Darlington was in 1954 in an Oldsmobile that a guy named Sam Rice owned," Langley recalls. "He was one of the starters of Martinsville Speedway. We drove the car to Darlington, finished 11th, and then drove it home. It didn't even have a roll bar, just a piece of chain around the door post.
"They were basically stock cars -- you'd go to the showroom and buy a car and strip it," Langley continues. "You were allowed to take the back seat and upholstery out, and the back of the passenger seat. Everything else had to stay the same. All the suspension on it, the engines, everything had to be stock."
In 1965, Langley tired of driving for other car owners and decided to start his own team. That's a desire that many of today's drivers have, too, but in Langley's days of being an owner/driver success required a tremendous amount of hard work.
"We used to run 60 races in a year, and I did it with just me and a helper," Langley notes. "We'd tow the car to the racetrack, work on it, get it ready, qualify it, run the race with it, and then come back home that night. A lot of those 100-mile races only paid $1000 to win.
"The money falls out of the sky to these people now, the drivers and even the crew chiefs. Back then, a year fifth in points making $40,000 total in a year, well that was actually a pretty decent year. Now they make that in one race," Langley points out.
"Of course, we had no major sponsors or corporations involved in it back then. I was always hard-headed, the kind who wanted to do it on my own," Langley admits. "We used to have a garage or a restaurant or a parts house that would give you a little bit of money, but that was about all anybody had. Racing started to turn around when Winston got involved in it in the 1970s."
A look at the Grand National or Winston Cup points standings every season from the late-1960s through the mid-1970s reveals the name Elmo Langley solidly in the top ten year after year during this transitional period for NASCAR. Elmo also made trips to the Grand National victory lanes at Old Dominion Speedway in Virginia and Piedmont Interstate Fairgrounds in South Carolina, beating the likes of Bobby Allison, "Tiger Tom" Pistone, David Pearson, and Buddy Baker. Langley has witnessed first-hand the incredible growth of the sport of stock car racing.
"I don't guess anybody other than Bill France, Sr. ever envisioned what racing was going to come to. I know I never did," says Langley. "A lot of the tracks we'd run the 100-mile races at, if they had six or seven thousand people, that would be a big crowd. Now you get 100,000 people. It used to be a redneck sport, but now business people come to it and there's just about as many women as there are men who come to our races. It's just been a complete turnaround for us in the demographics of the fans."
It was in the midst of this turnaround that Elmo Langley's new career with NASCAR began. After retiring from driving in 1977, Langley continued to field his car in Winston Cup competition, with the driver's seat occupied by as many as 14 different racers in one season. Not surprisingly, Elmo remembers that as a difficult period.
"It was nerve-wracking," Langley states. "I finally decided that if I could find somebody to buy the team I'd get out of owning the car and go to work for somebody."
Langley stayed heavily involved in the sport even after selling his team in 1986. In 1987 Langley was running Cale Yarborough's team when NASCAR Winston Cup Director Dick Beaty offered him a job with the sanctioning body that would still keep him close to the race cars.
"You get burned out after 35 years of working on 'em, racing 'em, and managing teams," Langley says. "Those are 12-, 14-, 16-hour days, seven days a week. Dick Beaty approached me after I had said something about being burned out on the race cars. The opportunity came to do what I'm doing now, to work for NASCAR and drive the pace car. I just decided this would be a lot easier but keep me involved with what I've been doing for 35 or 40 years, so I took the job."
How hard is Langley's job pacing modern Winston Cup stock cars?
"Even drivers that have ridden in the pace car didn't know there was that much to it," Langley replies. "There's a lot of responsibility. You always have to know who the leader is. When they put it out (the yellow flag) you have to pick up that leader. It's my decision to look and make sure that, if there's been an accident, that everything is picked up. If there's an engine blown and oil was put down on the track, it's my decision when they go back to green and that the track is clear. There's a lot more responsibility than what somebody thinks."
When he's not driving the pace car, Elmo Langley helps inspect the stock cars to make sure they're as safe as possible. Elmo is proud of NASCAR's safety record, even if the search for safety has led to some ideas that didn't really work out. Take, for example, the use of two pace cars when NASCAR first tried to lower speeds along pit road in 1991.
"I knew that the two pace cars wasn't going to work when they started that, but they were searching then for a safer pit road," Langley notes. "When I first started driving the pace car, pit road was dangerous because I would pick up the field, and then at the entrance to pit road they would peel off and run full bore down pit road to their stalls. They'd change tires, and almost be exiting pit road by the time I got down there in the pace car on the racetrack.
"That was just a dangerous situation -- it was more dangerous on pit road than it ever was in a race car," Langley continues. "Now that they have cut down the pit road speed, and no one can pass the pace car, that's made pit road 100 per cent safer. Anytime there's anything NASCAR can do to make something safer they do it."
It somehow seems fitting that the man who now paces the field before each Winston Cup race should be someone who spent a large part of his life racing on those very same racetracks.
"There's not too many that are still here that were around when I started racing, but I've known the new ones that come along from when they first started driving up to what they are now," says Elmo Langley. "I enjoy what I'm doing now. It's the people I've been around and involved with all my life."
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Why Go to Space? written for Philadelphia Daily News, 1990
Recent ill-informed columns by Elmer Smith and Jack McKinney, along with letters to the editor such as that from Richard Mackowsky in the October 31 Daily News, reflect an all too common problem confronting America today - ignorance of science in general and the space program in particular.
The summer of 1990 has seen NASA in the midst of a feeding frenzy of criticism - often for doing exactly what it is supposed to do. While the numerous delays to the shuttle program due to hydrogen leaks in two of the orbiters were unfortunate, these delays also showed that the system works. NASA was able to detect the difficulties, and would not launch the spacecraft until it was safe to do so. These decisions to wait for the sake of safety were certainly made all the more difficult by the barrage of negative stories which were published upon the announcement of each new delay, yet the space agency held firm in the face of this pressure to launch.
While columnist McKinney was quick to call the Hubble Space Telescope "a 1.6 billion gizmo that doesn't work" and lament that "for no more than $10 million" NASA could have conducted tests that would have caught the flaws in the telescope's mirror, what he fails to take into account is the howls of protest that would have risen up had NASA requested that additional funding for the project.
Fortunately time has shown that the Hubble flaw is not as severe as originally feared, and the telescope has already returned some breathtaking views of space. And seldom mentioned is the fact that there is a vast array of scientific instruments on board the Hubble that are in no way hampered by the mirror flaw - they will return untold amounts of valuable information between now and the planned mission which will correct the mirror difficulties.
The U.S. space program is caught in a predicament - we demand routine results but don't relish paying for them. Yet space flight is anything but routine. The shuttle is the most complex machine ever built by man, and to expect it to function without ever having any problems is unrealistic - and there will always be an element of danger any time man ventures into the harsh surroundings of space. But the current attitude of demanding more results in that environment with less funding simply will not work - that opens the door for mistakes.
We as a nation are now at a point where we have before us a unique opportunity. With the lessening of tensions with the Soviet Union and other countries, much concern has been raised over the effects of this on the American economy and its dependence on defense spending. Yet a strong American space program could offer the economic salvation we seek.
Exploration and settlement of the Moon and Mars can very easily be technical realities, not fantasy. But to bring this about would require a reawakening of the sense of purpose which made the Apollo program so successful. The Space Exploration Initiative could do just that. Here is a chance for the aerospace industry to aim towards a higher goal. The work required to make missions to the Moon and Mars a success would not be that far removed from the demands of defense work, yet the benefits would be almost immediate - thousands of new jobs and a new national focus for a project we as a nation could all be proud of.
The space program over the years has already provided us with countless new ideas, products, and discoveries - flame resistant materials, corrosion protection, aids to the blind and handicapped, studies of our atmosphere and planetary environment, power systems, medical advancements - the list goes on and on. What revolutionary findings await us is the whole point of furthering our exploration of space.
Mankind is by nature a species that thrives on peering into the unknown. While we as a nation hesitate, other countries press on. There are a multitude of problems facing America at this moment, but it is crucial for us to remember that the decisions we make now concerning our space program will determine how we are remembered in the future. Do we seize the opportunities for exploration as a revitalized nation, or will we allow those chances - and the economic and spiritual rewards that accompany those chances - to slip away on the spacecraft of other nations' programs?
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Recent ill-informed columns by Elmer Smith and Jack McKinney, along with letters to the editor such as that from Richard Mackowsky in the October 31 Daily News, reflect an all too common problem confronting America today - ignorance of science in general and the space program in particular.
The summer of 1990 has seen NASA in the midst of a feeding frenzy of criticism - often for doing exactly what it is supposed to do. While the numerous delays to the shuttle program due to hydrogen leaks in two of the orbiters were unfortunate, these delays also showed that the system works. NASA was able to detect the difficulties, and would not launch the spacecraft until it was safe to do so. These decisions to wait for the sake of safety were certainly made all the more difficult by the barrage of negative stories which were published upon the announcement of each new delay, yet the space agency held firm in the face of this pressure to launch.
While columnist McKinney was quick to call the Hubble Space Telescope "a 1.6 billion gizmo that doesn't work" and lament that "for no more than $10 million" NASA could have conducted tests that would have caught the flaws in the telescope's mirror, what he fails to take into account is the howls of protest that would have risen up had NASA requested that additional funding for the project.
Fortunately time has shown that the Hubble flaw is not as severe as originally feared, and the telescope has already returned some breathtaking views of space. And seldom mentioned is the fact that there is a vast array of scientific instruments on board the Hubble that are in no way hampered by the mirror flaw - they will return untold amounts of valuable information between now and the planned mission which will correct the mirror difficulties.
The U.S. space program is caught in a predicament - we demand routine results but don't relish paying for them. Yet space flight is anything but routine. The shuttle is the most complex machine ever built by man, and to expect it to function without ever having any problems is unrealistic - and there will always be an element of danger any time man ventures into the harsh surroundings of space. But the current attitude of demanding more results in that environment with less funding simply will not work - that opens the door for mistakes.
We as a nation are now at a point where we have before us a unique opportunity. With the lessening of tensions with the Soviet Union and other countries, much concern has been raised over the effects of this on the American economy and its dependence on defense spending. Yet a strong American space program could offer the economic salvation we seek.
Exploration and settlement of the Moon and Mars can very easily be technical realities, not fantasy. But to bring this about would require a reawakening of the sense of purpose which made the Apollo program so successful. The Space Exploration Initiative could do just that. Here is a chance for the aerospace industry to aim towards a higher goal. The work required to make missions to the Moon and Mars a success would not be that far removed from the demands of defense work, yet the benefits would be almost immediate - thousands of new jobs and a new national focus for a project we as a nation could all be proud of.
The space program over the years has already provided us with countless new ideas, products, and discoveries - flame resistant materials, corrosion protection, aids to the blind and handicapped, studies of our atmosphere and planetary environment, power systems, medical advancements - the list goes on and on. What revolutionary findings await us is the whole point of furthering our exploration of space.
Mankind is by nature a species that thrives on peering into the unknown. While we as a nation hesitate, other countries press on. There are a multitude of problems facing America at this moment, but it is crucial for us to remember that the decisions we make now concerning our space program will determine how we are remembered in the future. Do we seize the opportunities for exploration as a revitalized nation, or will we allow those chances - and the economic and spiritual rewards that accompany those chances - to slip away on the spacecraft of other nations' programs?
*** Click here to return to the articles index...
Punk Calling written for Philadelphia City Paper, October 2002
It was all Mick Jones' fault.
The Clash were playing the Walnut Street Theater in September 1979. At the time I thought -- still do think, actually -- they were about the coolest band around, so I moseyed on down to the Benjamin Franklin Hotel at Ninth and Chestnut to see what I could see. What I saw was The Clash, happily sitting around in the lobby and chatting with their fans. After getting my Give 'Em Enough Rope poster signed by all four band members, guitarist Jones and I had a wide-ranging conversation about rock. The topic of playing guitar came up, and I mentioned I'd always wanted to play, but since seeing Jimi Hendrix when I was 13 I had only watched with longing.
"Why don't you, then?" Jones asked. "I'm no better than you are."
A Beavis-like light bulb began buzzing in static over my head as the idea sank in. Hmm... Why don't I? The punk ethos in action!
Shamelessly copying Joe Strummer, I armed myself with a black Fender Telecaster from Eighth Street Music and set about establishing "A Big Career in Rock Music." Flash-forward several months, and we find my newly formed band, Informed Sources, on stage at the Elk's Center on 15th Street at the first Philadelphia Punk Rock Festival. It was also our first gig. In front of hundreds of frantic, nascent Philadelphia punks we launched into our big opener, "Change." Such a glorious noise we made -- until approximately 13 seconds later, when all those nice loud guitar sounds came to a startling halt. It turned out that the guitar cable, though appearing fully inserted, had worked its way just shy of completing the circuit into the amplifier. A problem easily fixed once found -- but in that 90 seconds or so I learned a new aspect of terror.
But survive I did, and -- along with Sadistic Exploits, Decontrol and Autistic Behavior -- Informed Sources began building the foundation of Philadelphia's contribution to the quickly evolving realm of punk rock.
Before playing I'd already been involved in the city's music scene, first as a member of the fan-organized booking concern The Swingerz, led by David Wildmann, and then running Omni's at Ninth and Walnut with Denise Herman and WXPN's Lee Paris, a figure worthy of his own book. In Omni's confines we presented bands ranging from Bauhaus to Dead Kennedys until the club burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. I still have a good number of albums with water-damaged covers, rescued from the rubble after Lee, our pal John Koo and I begged a cop to let us into the ruins to salvage what we could.
Informed Sources played throughout the region in the early 1980s, with X, Black Flag, Dead Kennedys, Flipper, The Replacements, Husker Du, Bad Brains and countless more. It was a thrilling time, sharing stages with bands that I was excited just to see live. And my apartment became an ad hoc motel. Jello Biafra camped under the stairwell one night, John Doe and Exene Cervenka of X another. That was probably the last era in rock history where you could read a feature about a band in Rolling Stone and find one of the members emerging from your bathroom the next morning.
When Informed Sources ground to a halt, I was invited to join my favorite band in Philadelphia, Bunnydrums. It gave the exploratory group a three-guitar lineup, with all three guitarists having totally different styles. It was a prescription for chaos, but somehow it worked, and some of the best shows I was fortunate enough to play with them still rank among the most powerful performances I've ever heard, regardless of my own participation.
During the Bunnydrums era, City Paper's Michael McGettigan approached me about writing a biweekly column for the newspaper. I hadn't written about rock since I was a teenager interrogating Robin Trower and Jethro Tull, but there were so many good bands that weren't getting any press at the time that it seemed like a good idea.
I quickly found out how many good bands there were who not only weren't getting any press but who would get really pissed off if you didn't show up at their gigs. I also found out how easy it is to make enemies when your words get printed, and how hard it can be to find something to say about some truly awful music created as a result of someone's best efforts.
I'm sure a lot of that still applies to all the poor souls trying to convert their love of music into words today. But in my eyes, the one thing that really differs in the Philadelphia scene of the late '70s and '80s versus today is the physical environments where the music is presented. Though the turgid confines of The Hot Club had character to spare, I loved seeing bands in bigger spaces. There was the narrow-but-long expanse of Filly's on Chestnut Street, the multifloor Rainbows/Kennel Club near 12th and Walnut, the subterranean big room of the East Side Club at 13th and Chestnut, the spacious Ripley Music Hall at Sixth and South, the balcony-equipped Love Club near Broad and South, and across the Delaware River, the former Latin Casino had undergone an astonishing metamorphosis into the cavernous new wave playground Emerald City.
Though Philadelphia now has a handful of influential small clubs, the bigger spaces with character to match have fallen by the wayside in a city often more obsessed with dance club culture than rocking out. But during a brief-but-glorious era those long-gone clubs hosted bands like Public Image Ltd., The Pretenders, Simple Minds, Wall of Voodoo, U2, The Ramones -- and they were big enough to hold the crowds that followed those groups while giving local bands some high-profile opening slots.
Ah yes, musical time has marched on, and not always for the better. But as bracing as a nice blast of modern Pantera or Meshuggah's math-metal can be, it is fun to dig back into one's roots. In fact, I still plan to remaster and release the works of Informed Sources on CD. There's just one problem: the studio multitrack master tapes manufactured by Ampex at the time have a flaw that necessitates baking them in an oven before they're copied lest they fall completely apart. Was that era really so long ago that time already demands preservative procedures? Horrors!
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It was all Mick Jones' fault.
The Clash were playing the Walnut Street Theater in September 1979. At the time I thought -- still do think, actually -- they were about the coolest band around, so I moseyed on down to the Benjamin Franklin Hotel at Ninth and Chestnut to see what I could see. What I saw was The Clash, happily sitting around in the lobby and chatting with their fans. After getting my Give 'Em Enough Rope poster signed by all four band members, guitarist Jones and I had a wide-ranging conversation about rock. The topic of playing guitar came up, and I mentioned I'd always wanted to play, but since seeing Jimi Hendrix when I was 13 I had only watched with longing.
"Why don't you, then?" Jones asked. "I'm no better than you are."
A Beavis-like light bulb began buzzing in static over my head as the idea sank in. Hmm... Why don't I? The punk ethos in action!
Shamelessly copying Joe Strummer, I armed myself with a black Fender Telecaster from Eighth Street Music and set about establishing "A Big Career in Rock Music." Flash-forward several months, and we find my newly formed band, Informed Sources, on stage at the Elk's Center on 15th Street at the first Philadelphia Punk Rock Festival. It was also our first gig. In front of hundreds of frantic, nascent Philadelphia punks we launched into our big opener, "Change." Such a glorious noise we made -- until approximately 13 seconds later, when all those nice loud guitar sounds came to a startling halt. It turned out that the guitar cable, though appearing fully inserted, had worked its way just shy of completing the circuit into the amplifier. A problem easily fixed once found -- but in that 90 seconds or so I learned a new aspect of terror.
But survive I did, and -- along with Sadistic Exploits, Decontrol and Autistic Behavior -- Informed Sources began building the foundation of Philadelphia's contribution to the quickly evolving realm of punk rock.
Before playing I'd already been involved in the city's music scene, first as a member of the fan-organized booking concern The Swingerz, led by David Wildmann, and then running Omni's at Ninth and Walnut with Denise Herman and WXPN's Lee Paris, a figure worthy of his own book. In Omni's confines we presented bands ranging from Bauhaus to Dead Kennedys until the club burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. I still have a good number of albums with water-damaged covers, rescued from the rubble after Lee, our pal John Koo and I begged a cop to let us into the ruins to salvage what we could.
Informed Sources played throughout the region in the early 1980s, with X, Black Flag, Dead Kennedys, Flipper, The Replacements, Husker Du, Bad Brains and countless more. It was a thrilling time, sharing stages with bands that I was excited just to see live. And my apartment became an ad hoc motel. Jello Biafra camped under the stairwell one night, John Doe and Exene Cervenka of X another. That was probably the last era in rock history where you could read a feature about a band in Rolling Stone and find one of the members emerging from your bathroom the next morning.
When Informed Sources ground to a halt, I was invited to join my favorite band in Philadelphia, Bunnydrums. It gave the exploratory group a three-guitar lineup, with all three guitarists having totally different styles. It was a prescription for chaos, but somehow it worked, and some of the best shows I was fortunate enough to play with them still rank among the most powerful performances I've ever heard, regardless of my own participation.
During the Bunnydrums era, City Paper's Michael McGettigan approached me about writing a biweekly column for the newspaper. I hadn't written about rock since I was a teenager interrogating Robin Trower and Jethro Tull, but there were so many good bands that weren't getting any press at the time that it seemed like a good idea.
I quickly found out how many good bands there were who not only weren't getting any press but who would get really pissed off if you didn't show up at their gigs. I also found out how easy it is to make enemies when your words get printed, and how hard it can be to find something to say about some truly awful music created as a result of someone's best efforts.
I'm sure a lot of that still applies to all the poor souls trying to convert their love of music into words today. But in my eyes, the one thing that really differs in the Philadelphia scene of the late '70s and '80s versus today is the physical environments where the music is presented. Though the turgid confines of The Hot Club had character to spare, I loved seeing bands in bigger spaces. There was the narrow-but-long expanse of Filly's on Chestnut Street, the multifloor Rainbows/Kennel Club near 12th and Walnut, the subterranean big room of the East Side Club at 13th and Chestnut, the spacious Ripley Music Hall at Sixth and South, the balcony-equipped Love Club near Broad and South, and across the Delaware River, the former Latin Casino had undergone an astonishing metamorphosis into the cavernous new wave playground Emerald City.
Though Philadelphia now has a handful of influential small clubs, the bigger spaces with character to match have fallen by the wayside in a city often more obsessed with dance club culture than rocking out. But during a brief-but-glorious era those long-gone clubs hosted bands like Public Image Ltd., The Pretenders, Simple Minds, Wall of Voodoo, U2, The Ramones -- and they were big enough to hold the crowds that followed those groups while giving local bands some high-profile opening slots.
Ah yes, musical time has marched on, and not always for the better. But as bracing as a nice blast of modern Pantera or Meshuggah's math-metal can be, it is fun to dig back into one's roots. In fact, I still plan to remaster and release the works of Informed Sources on CD. There's just one problem: the studio multitrack master tapes manufactured by Ampex at the time have a flaw that necessitates baking them in an oven before they're copied lest they fall completely apart. Was that era really so long ago that time already demands preservative procedures? Horrors!
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