“25 albums that changed your life” (5×5 Part 9):
The Jimi Hendrix Experience Live at Winterland
- This was Number 9 (‘…number 9…number 9…’) on a chronologicalish list of ’25 albums that changed your life’. THAT was a thread some people were doing on Facebook “back in the day”.
- A full explanation of all this is submerged elsewhere in the Mortal Bath.
- If you get bored or disagree, substitute the word ‘arse’ for a word of your choice in the album title.
This piece has been kicking around for ages in search of a theme, if any theme other than the cosmic awesomeness of Jimi Hendrix is necessary. Then Jo Greenway at 10 minutes hate read my mind as usual and posted about the assault on the intellect that libraries have been undergoing in the UK, and it all came together.
The things we discover when we believe we are looking for something else entirely are often the most valuable.
This needs no further amplification. It is all about riffing (whatever “it” is, as Faith No More suggested), as far as I am concerned, and I am at my happiest digressing (no shit!). Riffing on what has gone before is essential for people to develop whatever happened, have fun with it, come up with something new.
Right, so, this Jimi Hendrix live album. Around the same sort of time that I was into Iron Maiden, Guns n Roses, etc, the medium of maximum profit for record companies was CDs. Lord how “they” miss it, as I type, attempting to convince digital natives, using electronic beads, that there is a better value proposition than free. I might as well note now that in typing CDs I had a sudden flash of future – possibly present day – readers of this rushing to a glossary, in the way that readers of Shakespeare have for at least three hundred years. There was a great joke about someone ‘of a certain age’ mentioning to a child that “Prince has released his new CD free with a newspaper,” to receive the response “Who did what with a what?”
CDs, anyway, had only been around a few years and were (as they remain) quite pricey. In the days prior to everything being available virtually immediately, if you didn’t want to buy something we had TV shows, radio, dial-a-song services, copied tapes and that was it. But what lovely it! Personal contact, whispered secrets, did-you-see?s, slow voices on waves of phase, hand-drawn packages passed from person to person in class, in the schoolyard, from siblings, teachers, mates.
In addition, there were the communal joys of the public library. I got into a fair number of bands through the library in Harrogate, where I grew up, and which at that time had a very well stocked record/CD library. Books as well, of course, but it was a great place to seek out new sounds, new civilisations. With my library card and at 80p per item, I got to take home and listen to (and tape at home, thus killing music) luminaries such as Pixies’ Surfer-Rosa-and-Come-On-Pilgrim, Pink Floyd, Prefab Sprout, Syd Barrett, The Kinks, Roxy Music, Led Zep… and this CD by The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Live at Winterland.
You do still get CDs and you do still get libraries, and they are often found together, but it is a matter of sadness, or, fuck knows what it is, nostalgia, bio-sentimentalism, sehnsucht, that the corporeality seems to be dwindling. This rush to GET RID of half the books in favour of computer terminals, no music and a fucking coffee bar, because that’s what will SAVE MONEY; stupid, needless cuts in the name of faith-based economics, one market under God… There is also the factor of a vogueish rush to have everything clickably instant and monetised into an app and flattened out into neat lines of 1s and 0s. Uncle Ray Kurzweil and all that immanentizing the e-schaton rag. Do we wish our physical lives away? Probably not really, not yet. I mean, I quite like many of the biological aspects of existence. Yeah, yeah, though, 2083, a merman I should turn to be, exploring strange new forms, all that, would be good. Don’t get me wrong! However, this keenness to digitise and mediate, spectacular and cosmically Arthur C Clarkeishly indistinguishable from magic though it is, is dependent on a food/air/power supply deal we have not yet fully worked out. Well, read yer Asimov.
Back in ‘consensual reality’ (that place with all the trees and birds)… As any geocacher might tell you, there’s something to be said for trove finding. Actually finding a magic lamp, or even just something hidden under a rock. Time and memory mix up the exact sequence of events through which I discovered James Marshall Hendrix. I thought it might have been through a CD from the library called The Marquee: 30 Legendary Years. This had Purple Haze on it, among other standards of the guitar rock canon. Bands I came to love, like T. Rex, Thin Lizzy, The Who… all the Ts… That is also perhaps an album that could be on a Top 25 list, but – alas! – it has Genesis’s Turn it on again on it, and I’ve never understood their work. Too artsy, too intellectual.
Also, according to AllMusic, the Marquee CD came out in 1993, which is too late for the timeline in my head. Considering this crucial and vexed issue further, I am pretty much sure that First Contact with Jimi was made through the BBC Arena documentary on Heavy Metal, which first broadcast in 1989. Thanks to the super Real Gone blog and the other super blog Heavy rock – the playlist I have been able to confirm this. And thanks to Sir Tim Berners-Lee. The internet has replaced virtually all of this wearying, hand-tooled, questing on foot, Well-at-the-World’s-End-styled organic education. Bah, now I’m conflicted. It’s a double-edged thing. Not a sword, Ralph! Some sort of tool, certainly. I mean, now that knowledge is more selective and not a cultural imposition from state broadcasters… but, there’s my issue with why old-school libraries are ace and the modern experience is a little… sterile. My school has a tiny, understocked reading room and a huge ‘ILC’, which makes my English teacher heart thud a little forlornly. Half the interweb is blocked off for ‘safe searching’ reasons, which seems kind of counter the point somehow. And, consider my Year 10s. Actually, I could just start a blog called that, writing about the culture gap between a late-30-something teacher and his Year 10 (~15 years old) class. We were doing The Clown Punk, a poem by Simon Armitage about… well, here, read this:
The Clown Punk
Driving home through the shonky side of town,
three times out of ten you’ll see the town clown,
like a basket of washing that got up
and walked, towing a dog on a rope. But
don’t laugh: every pixel of that man’s skin
is shot through with indelible ink:
as he steps out at the traffic lights,
think what he’ll look like in thirty years’ time –
the deflated face and shrunken scalp
still daubed with the sad tattoos of high punk.
You kids in the back seat who wince and scream
when he slathers his daft mush on the windscreen,
remember the clown punk with his dyed brain,
then picture windscreen wipers, and let it rain.
Nice work, Armitage. Keep that brain undyed, and the inside of your head shaved. As part of My Year 10′s learning process I played them ‘God Save The Queen’, The Sex Pistols tune. You know, Jubilee, topical, relevant… There may have been some interest from about three of the class, but the rest were of the opinion that it was “just a noise”, “He’s just saying four words over and over,” “annoying…” Well, you know, yeah. To be expected in some ways, I suppose, but still, I was kind of appalled. They sounded like MY folks. This is generation ‘like’, or at least the children of it, and on many occasions it seems that anything troubling or challenging enough to require more analysis beyond closing off a tab is not worth the effort.
[/half term hols rant> Maybe it's just me, and there were always only about three people interested in granddad music. When I was growing up, as well as Arena, TV shows like The Rock n Roll Years provided a vital supplement to my education. Cultural context, innit? TRNRY was a seminal (spunky and original!) series, featuring historical clip montages, accompanied by music. A crucial detail from the Wikipedia entry on it: "no presenters or voice-overs". Definitely not one of the interminable sort of "100 Greatest Minutes of Rentaquote No-marks Being Facetious About Things They Didn't Really See At The Time And Don't Really Get". Rock n Roll Years provided an in-depth education about (pop) culture, which proved of great benefit in getting an A in my General Studies A-Level. Seriously, there was a question along the lines of "This image is the cover of which David Bowie album?" they'd removed the name, obviously, but still, get in!
Dragging ourselves back into the Arena, I don't think it was a case of watching the documentary and the scales falling from my eyes, because I'd got hold of a few Hendrix records, and had been sent a few Band of Gypsies tracks on an extensive compilation mailed in a sock by a repatriated American best mate from primary school. Yet, it definitely had a big effect. It was all the meta-context, if that's the right term. Seeing this exotic footage of Greenwich Village cafes, the British support cast - not only the Experience, but manager Chas Chandler, Alan Price, foils Clapton/Cream and The Who, etc... imagining the Beatles turning up to the hotly-ticketed gig and watching open mouthed as the Experience zip through a cheeky cover of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band the day after it came out...
…these little scenes captured on grainy film, like flashes off a gold plate on the side of a deep space probe, remnants of an age of exploration. I found it compelling and fascinating.
At that time, 1988-89ish, rock music was shoring itself up culturally against the encroaching tides of dance music, the continued growth of hip hop, etc. The advent of CDs was carrying all the young dudes’ youths back into their living rooms, remastered, digitally convenient, but also reaching a new audience of heritage seekers like me, whose parents had grown up with it. I’m sure there are hundreds of words to be written about cultural legitimation/confirmation processes.
I do still find it fascinating, despite the attempted ruination of a lot of rock culcha by what I like to call the Uncut Mojo tendency, with all the connotations of belligerent academic white maleness that title might summon. It was a vital, LSD-binge exploration time for some, of course, but a money’s too tight, time down t’pits for others. A country struggling to loose the tie and hat legacy of wartime austerity and do something for and with itself, yet constrained (as now) by all the spare money being pushed up the noses of pop stars. Although now pop stars are all old grey whistle clean, it goes into trust funds, and it seems like no one is trying to kiss this guy.
Just watch the whole Arena documentary, because we can… the minute or so from 15.30 fried my little brains. I was fascinated by the history of the “baby boomers”, born as the second world war ended and by the 1960s ready for excitement, colour, music, clothes. So alien. In later years, other associations come into play. There is the closing theme to the decade, Hendrix’s version of ‘All Along the Watchtower’, which needs to be seen with the wrecking ball clip from perhaps the ultimate ‘escape from the 1960s’ theatrical masque Withnail and I.
That would be followed most appropriately by the National Anthem. Jimi Hendrix playing the Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock is a performance about which millions of words have been written and muttered, none of which add anything.
However, I’ll take you back to the CD in hand, to the inappropriately sequenced end of track 2/start of track 3, ‘a kind of instrumental jam thing’, Sunshine of Your Love, by some real groovy cats, the Cream. Hendrix introduces the band again by detailing the equipment they’ve managed to destroy, with the fuzzy inexactitude of the has-to-be-just-a-teeny-bit baked, before uttering what is my favourite ever count-off, “And Mitch over here is on his third pair of arms… Fucking hell, I don’t give a damn,” and off they go.
In the absence of the Live at Winterland versh, here’s one off the Old Grey Whistle Test, noted for Hendrix’s comment as they abandon ‘Hey Joe’ that they are going to “stop playing this rubbish”… That and Sergeant Pepper and guitar music gone bonkers is what made me love Jimi Hendrix. Good new stuff is created when people have fun with old stuff.
And I would have maybe never come to it if wasn’t for our local library. Hands off the bibliotheques, you heathens, you’re getting in the way of some convoluted journeys of discovery.