So I’m in my kitchen doing kitcheny stuff, and my son, Luke, from the other room, starts banging out the drum part on the Jimi Hendrix gem “Crosstown Traffic,” on whatever version of Rock Band he’s wrapped up in today. And suddenly, there I am in my last angry years of high school, slumped down in the back of a rattletrap green Vega with friends now all absent, in one way or another, listening to Hendrix’s “Smash Hits,” over and over, on 8-track. It was either that or CCR or the Doobie Brothers. Those were pretty much the only choices.
For those of you who know this memory, he would have been 50 this year. And I don’t mean Hendrix, obviously.
It hits me still almost daily, after all this time, and all that water under all those bridges. The loss. The insurmountable loss.
Of Hendrix as well, to be sure. But that’s different. I never knew the man, even if I may have idolized him just the same.
Hendrix, too, didn’t drive no green Vega …
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