Broken Hallelujah

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May 9, 1969. It was a few months before I'd turn 17. In my new red Buick convertible Bill Sherrod and I drove down to Charlotte that weekend to see the Hendrix concert. We smoked a little weed and had a few beers that we opened with a church key.



At the coliseum we saw cops in riot gear (helmets, chest shields, and various whacking and spraying apparati standing arms length apart in front of the stage facing the crowd), and a friendly sea of hippies, as we took our seats in the balcony. Jimi opened the set with Purple Haze, and I saw why the riot squad was there.



It was as if someone suddenly flipped a switch on. People were charging towards Jimi and diving off the balconies onto the floor below to get a closer look at our new guitar God. He played from his Are You Experienced album with his teeth, behind his head, and setting the guitar on fire and playing it between his legs. When we could get our bearing, our stoned selves ended up face to face with the stoned-face riot cops by the stage, which happened to be the best view in the house, while the crowd was still surging forward just to be as close as possible to the great and powerful Jimi.



Leaving Charlotte that night, I had much to think about. I knew I'd experienced something quite phenomenal; even sacred. In three short months, Max Yasgur's farm would be the venue of my epiphany-bound spirit. I had been inducted into a very special club inhabited in some sweet, sweet universe never to touch down.



Snipped from my impending tale of Memoirs. Ed.