Road Tales - Rode Hard - Hats Off To Larry

I've had many thrilling adventures in this long career, none as fulfilling as my time with Charley Westover - better known as Del Shannon of Runaway fame.

Happy Birthday, old friend.

Hats Off

Some tales have to be told from beginning to end in a single chapter in order for them to make sense. Like the story of my connection to Charles Westover.

Sergeant Major Blackwater met Private Westover in Germany in 1955. Charles had been drafted into the Army the previous year and wound up in Sgt. Blackwater’s platoon. It wasn’t long before the Private learned that Sunshine Blackwater knew several rising Country & Western stars and had actually saved the life of Grandpa Jones of Grand Ole Opry fame. An aspiring guitarist and singer, Charley was eager to talk to the veteran sergeant but felt intimidated by the difference in age and rank, plus the rumours of Dad’s exploits in World War II. The six-foot Indian struck an impressive profile to the young troops in his charge. Dad didn’t take shit from privates.

Sgt. Blackwater was a battle-hardened veteran of Omaha Beach, the Battle of the Bulge, and the liberation of Death Camp survivors. Those experiences toughened Dad and caused him to be tough on the troops in his command. He could be a very disquieting force in those days. He did everything he could to ensure that his men were equipped mentally and physically to deal with the types of horrors that he experienced at the tender age of 19. He watched too many of his comrades be blown apart beside him. Allowing his troops to be lax or undertrained would doom them. He wasn’t about to have that on his conscience. They would be trained. They would be ready. Being soft on them was tantamount to signing their death warrant.

A tense distance existed between Private and Sergeant until one night when Sunshine discovered that Charles Westover was playing and singing in a band named The Cool Flames at a German Biergarten. The problem was that Charley had not informed his platoon sergeant (my Dad) or sought his permission, a serious transgression. He could face significant disciplinary action all the way up to courts martial. Charley’s fate was in my Dad’s hands.

Charles Westover was blessed with a great voice. He grew up listening to the greats of country and western music. His set list included all the greats that Dad loved. Years later, Dad confirmed that it was Charley’s performance of So Lonesome I Could Cry that saved the Private’s ass. Dad loved Hank Williams. The kid’s fate changed with that song from stockade resident (jail) to “house mouse” (most favoured status in military terms – I don’t get the term either). Private Westover’s remaining term in the Army became an extended German holiday after that night. Dad could always recognize a future star when he saw one.

I knew none of this as I was two years old at the time. I was shipped off to live on the Red Cliff reservation with Granny Blackwater during Dad’s two-year-long remote assignment. All I remember is snow and big silvery dogs that Granny called wolves.

Eleven years later found me playing with Kenny Black at an outdoor show at the Pabst Theater in Milwaukee for St. Patrick’s Day. We were the warm up band to a series of featured acts. The Pabst was one of those grand old time theaters built for live plays and musical events before the advent of moving picture shows. Vaudeville, opera, plays, concerts, and polka festivals had all been hosted in the Pabst.

Bedecked with red velvet featuring silver and gold accents, with a giant maroon curtain made of the heaviest cloth on earth, the Pabst was referred to as the “Grand Olde Lady.”

“Fucking Rachmaninoff played on this stage, Armond,” said Kenny Black – as if I wasn’t intimidated enough by the grandeur of the entertainment palace. “Sir Lawrence Olivier performed Shakespeare on this stage.”

Ok, now I was really freaking out. What business did I have being there? Stage fright began to settle in, paranoia, neurosis, and panic. It was sink or swim time again, but this was more like being dropped in the middle of the Pacific than Cranberry Lake. In Dad’s military terms I wasn’t sure if I should shit or go blind.

The bands that preceded us weren’t very good, which helped my nerves a little. Kenny Black detected my state and offered sage advice, “Just act like you’ve been here before.”

“You’re not nervous?” I inquired.

“I’m more nervous,” Ken paused as he recalled the military cliché, “Than a dog shitting razorblades. Think about it.”

What the hell did that even mean? Even the dumbest dog that lived wouldn’t eat razorblades. Why would he be shitting them? Freakishly, his words comforted me.

Our set came and I was still nervous. I was late on a couple of chord changes and muffed a transitional riff or two, but settled down after a couple of songs. The Hammond covered most of my mistakes. I loved my Hammond. It always makes me sound way better than I actually am.

In the crowd I saw Dad talking to this young, very handsome guy in front of the stage. I didn’t recognize him as any of Dad’s recent troops but the military relationship between the two was unmistakable. They clinked Pabst Blue Ribbon cans several times while occasionally pointing at me.

Loading Zone covered popular tunes in our own way. During the set we played Runaway, a song that I really liked because it featured me on organ playing a solo that was hot for the day. I worked non-stop to perfect the ride and nailed it that day – note for note.

After our set, Dad brought the cat backstage to meet the band and his son. “This is Charley Westover, an old friend,” said Dad.

“Great sound, guys. Call me Del,” he said as he shook our hands. “Super job on Runaway, guys. It gave me chills. Armond, you played Max’s part perfectly.”

What the fuck is this guy talking about? I thought Max? There are times when I am really slow catching on. This was one of them.

Kenny Black broke the mystery, “You’re Del Shannon.” Kenny snapped his head back and forth rapidly and stuck out his meaty hand for a shake. I finally put it together. This was the cat that wrote and recorded Runaway.  Wow.

Del invited us to join him in the VIP area behind the big stage. I was excited to meet Max Crook, the composer of the keyboard parts on Runaway and the rest of Del’s songs. Max wasn’t there. He didn’t like to tour. His thing was recording and inventing. The instrument playing the solo on Runaway was Max’s invention that he called the Musitron – an early music synthesizer.

“What you driving these days, Sunshine,” Del asked.             “1957 Pontiac Chiefton Wagon,” replied Dad, “How about you?”

“A Bonneville Convertible that I love and a Thunderbird and a Corvette and a few old classic trucks and a Woody.”

I marveled at the man talking about multiple vehicles whereas my Dad had trouble keeping one rusty car running. I was still years away from a driver’s license. This was all cool stuff to me at that age.        Del motioned to a cat that was approaching with a beer in one hand and a bowl of gumbo in the other. “Hey, Bob, I want to meet some friends of mine. This big guy was my First Shirt in Germany and this is his son, Armond.”

Bob shook our hands. The cat had a great feel, a genuine glad-to-meet-you aura. And I felt the connection to another keyboard player immediately. There is a way that we engage our fingers in a handshake that is unmistakable. Bob smiled as he realized it too.

“You play?” he asked. It wasn’t really a question.

I smiled and nodded in affirmation.

“Bob is filling in for Max. Max refuses to tour, loves Lansing,” Del said. “I talked him into a few gigs in Ohio, but he loathes travelling as far as Chicago.

“The problem is that Bob is leaving soon. Max is a great producer and is working with Bob on an album of his own.”

Bob was a pretty quiet dude, very humble, very sweet, genuine, yet quite engaging at the same time. I talked with him a bit while Del and Dad exchanged stories about their exploits in Germany.

“Wha-da-ya play,” asked Bob.

“Hammond A-105 with a 147 Leslie,” I responded.

“Sweet, man,” said Bob. “Stock Leslie?”

“She has a few modifications,” I confided. “The cat that owned it prior to me beefed her up. She really screams.”

“There’s nothing like the sound of a B through a Leslie,” Bob declared.

Then, Charley asked Dad if he could borrow me for a few upcoming gigs. Dad agreed without hesitation. Del gave me a stack of wax to take home and memorize. I subsequently spent hours learning the songs inside-out. Eventually, I wound up backing Del frequently for the next decade.

Del would pick me up if it was gig local to Superior or send someone to fetch me to the concert site. All the songs were very simple once I caught onto Max Crook’s style. The gigs were great fun and Del paid me $250 cash for each show. $250 for a show was huge money at the time. It was half of my father’s military pension. It provided funds for me to acquire more equipment and obtain guitar lessons.

Then, there were the perks of performing with a cat that was a major babe magnet. I didn’t mind handling the overflow, though I was at the bottom in pecking order (or peckering order, as it was). Even fifth in line wound up with a beautiful babe. They wanted to be close to Del. I’m not sure if they thought they could work their way up to the star by bedding his band or if they simply got off on being close enough. Either way, it worked well for me.

The cat I replaced, Bob Segar, had a big hit with his original Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man, produced by Max Crook in 1968, but then his career stalled. He quit the music business and went back to college. I’m not sure whatever became of him. I heard he went on to do commercials and such.

For the next several years I played keys for Del Shannon whenever schedules allowed. Del continued to write new material, looking for that next big hit.

Meanwhile, we toured playing Del’s old hits to crowds at county fairs, university mixers, and packed clubs throughout Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, and Michigan.

A few years ago while playing with Spade McQuade I met a cat who remembered me from the olden days. “Didn’t I see you playing with Del Shannon back in the mid-sixties?” inquired Michael Murphy. I remembered the wry smile and the twinkle in the eyes of this distinguished Irish gentleman.

“Yes, I did play with Del back then,” I replied wondering how the hell this guy remembered me from 40 years ago. He went on to describe the club, the show we did, and even what I was drinking at the time. I am still a sideman playing for a big star yet Murph’s remembrance caused me to realize that I do make a lasting impression on people as an entertainer. Murph was a bartender at the time and remembered me as a warm soul with great talent. I am always humbled when folks refer to me like that. I remember Murph as a great talker with wonderful stories that he shared freely. Oh, and that he didn’t mind serving minors in the least. Then again, this was the sixties.  

Del tried to promote his new songs even though the fickle American taste had moved on and Charles Westover was about as suited to the hippie generation as was my Dad. The slicked-back days of the greaser were over. Romantic nights necking in the front seat of gleaming Detroit convertible with rolled leather seats were lost to the napalm nightmare that was Viet Nam. Del didn’t have a protest song in him. He had nothing to protest. He had all that America could offer… for a time. He rode the wave while it was there, hanging ten all the way. But all waves reach shore eventually and either you step off the board or you crash. Del hung fast until the board hit unforgiving sand and he was thrown ass-over-tea-kettle onto the beach.

I saw a minor parallel between Del and my Dad. Del skyrocketed to fame with his songs. Sunshine Blackwater helped blow up the wall on Omaha Beach, Normandy, France, providing a breach that led to victory over the Nazi’s in France. Ok, so that is a bit of a stretch in comparison. My point is that each achieved a pinnacle of success that was impossible to top.

I lost track of Del in the mid 70’s, having last played with him in late 1972 in Platteville, WI., thought of him often over the next decade, but wasn’t able to contact him.

I was stunned and shocked in 1990 when Dad called with the disturbing news that Del had committed suicide. 

December 29th, 1890

On December 29, 1890 the 6th Cavalry of the US Army rode toward the camp of Big Foot and his tribe of 350 Lakhota Sioux that were camped on the banks of Wounded Knee Creek.

The soldiers were of ignominious 7th Cavalry once commanded by the ego of

Colonel George Armstrong Custer.

The encampment was comprised of mostly children and elderly. Young braves were out hunting for game to feed the tribe. Below are actual photos of what they found on their return. 

The traditional life of the Sioux had been ripped from them. White devils had murdered all of the buffalo that the Sioux depended upon for physical and spiritual sustenance. 

The "Human Beings" were forced onto reservations by the Army soldiers and Indian agents. They were forced to survive on small patches of land and meager rations doled out by the government. 

Sitting Bull was murdered by the Army on the Standing Rock Reservation, December 15th. Chief Big Foot realized that he was next on their list. He surrendered to the Army on December 28th. Driving the Indians toward the Pine Ridge Reservation the Army forced them to camp on the banks of Wounded Knee Creek. While sitting smoking in council with Army officers a shot range out in the camp. This was the only excuse needed for the soldiers to open fire on the residents. As women and children ran for their lives, the Army opened up with a Hodgekiss (machine) Gun from the hill above the river. 

Over 300 Human Beings were slaughtered as the Army finally took revenge for Colonel Custer and his troop of murders. The soldiers were merciless, chasing women, children, and braves carrying elders away from the conflagration. Afterward, the soldiers dug a long, large hole and dumped the corpses into a mass unmarked grave. It was the end of the rights of natives to the land. 

Those rights have never been restored. 

More than 1,000 Lakota residents were murdered in the decade preceding the 1973 face off between members of the American Indian Movement and the FBI. To date, none of those murders have been solved. All cases list "person or persons unknown" as the perpetrators. 

A very sad chapter in the History of The United States of America.

Road Tales - Rode Hard first full chapter

Following two solid weeks of playing in Chicago, 18 gigs in 14 days, we returned to Superior to contemplate the future. I had been offered a gig with a mega-hot chick singer who had written a song that was bound to be a hit. I could live, record, "sleep with", and tour with her or I could finish my senior year of high school in that shitberg of a town.

The choice wasn't as easy as you might suspect.

Signs of Smoke

As we drove into the outskirts of Superior on the heels of two incredible weeks in Chicago the irony of the towns’ name did a Nagasaki in my brain. “Inferior in every possible way,” I declared to my sleepy band mates as I turned right onto Moccasin Mike Road. Complaints abounded; whines, grumbles, and bellyaches assailed my diversion of course. “Superior is the most ironically name town on the planet.”

“Where the fuck are you going?” asked whoever, maybe all.

“It is tradition to visit Gitche Goomee after a road trip,” I explained as patiently as possible.

We ran out of weed somewhere just before Black River Falls, Wisconsin, which turned out to be a good thing because we were pulled over around 3am by this Barney Fife of a local cop because one of my taillights was out. He took one look at me and started writing the ticket. In the middle of Chippewa tribal land I was pulled over by a glow-in-the-dark white cop who didn’t like Indians. Fortunately, the car smelled of cigarettes, unwashed musicians, and a molding sandwich lost deep under a bench seat so Deputy Dawg felt no compulsion to search the vehicle.  What if I hadn’t been accompanied by three Scandinavian kids? I sang Paranoid by Black Sabbath in my head.   

 Loud, incessant bitching brought me back to piloting the Pontiac and trailer past The City Dump ----- Are you seeing the irony of this town named Superior by now? Do you appreciate the depth of the irony? The town dump is on a sacred Ojibwa burial island ---- Why will these guys with me not shut the fuck up? My ancestors are talking to me. Can’t they hear them? Oh, right, these cats aren’t in tune. I could have beamed my thoughts toward Teamo and he’d have gotten it instantly. I was 17 and feeling so much older than the 16’s with me.

“Ok,” I said as I pulled the train over, “I get it. Y’all want to go home. So do I.” With that, I opened the door, slung my bag over my shoulder and started walking toward the lighthouse. They called to me. I waved them off several times. They called more. I ignored. They drove the car up to me. “Go home. I am home. Take the car. I will be fine.” They offered to drive me to the lighthouse. “My ancestors will carry me.”

I was all mystical about it with them at the time, but truthfully, they had no choice than to drive to the lighthouse. There was nowhere to turn around a ’57 Pontiac Wagon and U-Haul trailer once we had passed the dump. Stubbornly, I rode on the bumper to The Point where I knew I would find Ojibwa brothers with whiskey and weed. Jumping off the bumper I strode into the woods and turned to say darkly, “I’ll see you on the other side,” in my best Morrison voice.

I trod toward the lake breaking on through to the other side where my beloved awaited me. Once you fall in love with Lake Superior she has you for life and beyond. My brothers and sisters awaited me beside a fire (that I had seen from Hwy 2) with warm hugs, huge smiles, and smoke.

I regaled my brethren around the fire with my road tales while sharing smoke as our ancestors had for centuries. The larger the tale the more smoke, whiskey, and beer flowed my way. Storytellers are revered by the tribe as teachers, sages of the lessons passed down from the ancestors. I was a storyteller in training. My father was a storyteller and a great Chief. I believed that my destiny was to be the tribal shaman. Like so many times in my life, I was wrong. My destiny was that of storyteller and Chief. My sons would become the shaman, my daughter the medicine woman, and my grandchildren the custodians of the Earth. Yeah, the pot was that good.

Amid a third Leinenkugel’s I hallucinated a familiar figure walking over the dunes toward me. It was Rob Geschwind with that familiar smirk. I pulled a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red that Ben Boudreaux presented me as an emergency kit prior to our tour. Somehow, the bottle remained intact in my bag until that moment or else it magically refilled itself.

Rob still wouldn’t inhale but he did accept a beer and slug of JW Red. “So, what do you think we should do? What are we going to do? What do you want to do?”

Rob and I hadn’t had a chance to discuss the offer presented to us since we left Chicago. I had been around music biz long enough to know that everyone claimed that they had a recording deal and that the deals could mean nothing or everything, but usually nothing. But Laura Miles had such an incredibly great can’t miss hit song. And, she was incredibly passionate about life, music and art… and me.

“I think we should move to Chicago,” I stated.

“No way that my folks will agree to that,” Rob said. “So, it comes down to what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to move to Chicago, live with a hot singer, play the local clubs, get to know and jam with the legends of blues music, make a hit record and play the world. I’m going to open for The Doors, party with Jim Morrison while we have deep, intense discussions of poetry, literature, and sex. I’m going to tour Europe, maybe live there for a while… Maybe even hook up with Patty O’Leary.”

 “No, really, what are you going to do?”

“Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear me? Do you have an ear infucktion? I am accepting Laura’s offer and I’m moving to Chicago.”

“What about finishing high school, graduating?” Rob asked.

“I’ll fill that space on my wall with gold records.

“Holy shit,” I exclaimed as a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red plopped into my lap.

“Welcome back, brother,” boomed Ben Boudreaux. “How was the tour? I saw bass boy a few days after you left. He says you guys stranded him at the resort,” he said with a great, hearty, sincere laugh that is his trademark.

“Did that little fucker say that?” Rob asked. “He bailed on us. Called his mommy to come get him. Grant took over on bass. Why, that little fucker.”

“Grant?” Ben said. “I’m a better bass player than Grant and I don’t play bass. Hell, I can barely play guitar and I’m sure I’d be better than Grant.”

“It would be hard to be worse,” I agreed. “You could try to play worse, but you would probably fail.”

“Come on,” said Rob, “He wasn’t that bad.”

“We jammed with Mike Bloomfield,” I changed the subject.

“No shit,” said Ben. So, I regaled him with tales of our tour while Belinda hung on his shoulder, head atop two folded hands.

I went through the whole story of Chi, the blues jams, Bloomfield, and the offer from Laura Miles to join the Chicago Express. I spared the intimate nature of my relationship with Laura  because Belinda was there, but I ached to describe in minute detail to Ben every moan and groan. 

“It comes down to a decision that I have to make. Do I stay here in torture and graduate from loathsome high school or move to Chicago and pursue my destiny?”

“What are you going to do,” asked Ben.

The answer seemed incredibly obvious to me.

“I’m moving to Chicago,” I said, “Tomorrow.”

“No, really,” Ben asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Seriously,” I asked? “I haven’t a fucking clue.”

While we passed the Johnny Red back and forth Ben caught me up on local happenings. The most disturbing news was that Belinda’s recently divorced mother had become best buds with my mother. Shit, nothing good could come from that union.

“Do you realize how incredibly bat-shit crazy my mother is?” was my question.

“Yeah, my Mom is pretty crazy too,” said Belinda.

            We launched into topping one another’s tales of crazy Mom until finally calling a truce. From what she related her mother might actually approach my mother’s level of crazy.

~~~

Eventually, Ben and Belinda drove Rob and me to my car. I dropped Rob off at his house and drove out to Granny Blackwater’s lodge. I shared tidbits of our tour – those events that I could speak of in front of my elders – over a beer with my dad while Granny prepared food, as was tribal tradition, and sipped Brandy, which was Granny B’s tradition.  

While we drank and talked I continued to contemplate how to broach the subject of moving to Chicago to live with a female blues singer and playing in her band. Dad had become a lot cooler since the stress of Mom was lifted from him, though he would harbor deep feelings of love for her until the day he died. We were becoming more like buddies. He had backed off from the Sergeant Major mode since his return to what he called the “Real World” and I call the “Land Beyond Reality”.

Sunshine had been spending more time with his local drinking buddies and lady friends. He was becoming himself again. Beer by beer, story after story, he shed the military skin and restored to his former self as a human being. He spent much time deep in the woods fishing, hunting, and living in the pines for days at a time. To his mind, a vacation would involve going off to engineer a project for a few months and then return to life in the woods, real life.

I felt tremendous relief seeing my father in this new light. The Sun was shining from him once again. Ok, how could I tell him that I want to move to Chicago – go there to live with a chick singer and write songs – and quit before graduating high school. His one request of me from my earliest days was that I graduate high school. “Don’t be a dummy like I was.” Dad quit school to fight in WWII. I wanted to quit school and shack up in Chi, not quite the equivalent.

I spoke of my remembrance of Grandpa Jones. Dad listed a cavalcade of musicians that had passed through our midst that I had forgotten. Cowboy Copus, the dude with the big white hat, and that scruffy guy named Boxcar Willie, and the big Irish guy named Dave Dudley. Musicians galore passed through our flat in New Orleans. Some of them became famous, most did not, but all were great.

Would the Packers win another Super Bowl? Absolutely, we toasted, whereupon Dad headed to the can. I sauntered out to see what Granny Blackwater was preparing only to discover a feast of venison, bear, walleye, wild rice, and cheese, lots of cheese. Wisconsin is the cheesiest state in the Union.

“Armond, Long Drink of Water, it is good that you are back. Your father and I have missed you. He talked about you the entire time that you were gone. He is proud of his son. He is proud of the man that you are becoming. I always knew that my grandson would turn into a fine man, a peaceful warrior.”

What the fuck do you say to that?

This wasn’t the time to tell them that I planned to shack up in a cold-water flat in Chicago with an aspiring songwriter, play in dingy clubs, smoke pot, drink, fuck-a-lot and, oh yeah, quit school.

Granny handed me a glass that contained 7-Up and a pinch of brandy, just like when I was a kid. My face betrayed my disappointment whereupon the wonderful lady laughed and handed me a glass of pure brandy.

“I love you, Armond Joy,” Granny Blackwater clutched my face and kissed my forehead.

She knew. Don’t ask me how she knew. She knew.

Sunshine knew too. He was a quick pisser. He lingered way too long. Sunshine knew too.

The difficulty of the decision increased manifold.  

Dad returned from the bathroom and announced, “I just took the shit of a lifetime,” he said that a lot. “Oh yeah, Charley Westover called. He wants to talk to you.”

Charley Westover called? That was way cool news. 

Songs - Linkages to a Romanticized Past

Songs frequently bring me back to a time and place in my past.

For some reason all the bad shit going on in my life at the time seems to have faded to black. All that I seem to remember are good feelings. I guess that's human nature. At the time I know that I was dealing with earth-shattering issues, life and death circumstances, and unrequited love from any female for whom I lusted.

The top concern of every boy approaching 18 was The Draft and Viet Nam. Nearly every one of us knew of someone killed in the "meat grinder" that was Viet Nam. The song that defined our fear was "For What It's Worth".

"Born To Be Wild" became our anthem. Particularly those of us that owned motorcycles. I studied Goldy McJohn's organ work intensely, learned it note for note as well as the syncopated beat of his percussive chords. Later, I filled in for Goldy in Steppenwolf, but I didn't replace him. No one could possibly match Goldy's style or flair onstage.

"Fortunate Son" accentuated the fact that common kids like me didn't have a chance of avoiding The Draft. I wasn't born with silver spoon in hand.

I fell in love the moment I saw Michelle Phillips singing "California Dreaming" with the Mama's and the Poppa's. I envied Poppa John Phillips at the time. My admiration changed to disdain when I learned that he was fucking their daughter McKenzie. The song is forever tarnished.

I remember nearly puking every time the radio played The Archie's song "Sugar Sugar". Bubble gum exploded in my face.

Loved all the legs in Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'". She couldn't sing like her daddy but man... those legs.

I hated the Tommy James song "Crystal Blue Persuasion" until we toured to San Francisco and a girl persuaded me with some Crystal Blue. What a fucking night, literally.

I didn't understand "White Rabbit", either. I kind of got the Alice in Wonderland reference, but the song's meaning was lost on me until, once again, a hot female demonstrated on me naked. Oh My! One pill did make me larger.

"Let's Dance" was begging for lurid lyrics. "Hey, baby, won't you take a chance. I left my rubbers in my other pants... So let's fuck. Let's fuck."

I remember opening for a Detroit group that I'd never heard of at a festival in Battle Creek. Once the Motor City 5 started with "Kick out the jams, motherfuckers," I was hooked.

Of course, Alan Price brought me a solo that I would turn into my signature piece with "House of the Rising Sun". Opened for Eric Burden years later. What a strange and whimsical cat.

And, of course, we all had to learn Inna Gadda Da Vita so our drummers could get their rocks off beating out a 90-minute solo. (At least it seemed that long) It was a good chance to take a piss, get another drink, bang a chick, and still make it back before he finally shot his wad.

So, if you were "Happy Together" on a "Monday, Monday" or you just "pulled into Nazareth feeling half-past dead" the songs were greater than you can "Imagine" at the time. You probably "Heard It Through The Grapevine" that your "American Woman" was no good for you. You found a new gal that would "Get It On" and bang your gong.

OK, enough of the extended song title bullshit. I do miss all of those songs and experiences, but "It's All Right Now! Baby, it's all right now..."

Beachhead References

"Write what you know about," was Dr. Christianson's advice. He was my advanced creative writing professor at the University of Wisconsin. He was a great supporter of my work. And his son, Jerry, became a good friend in later years.

I used that advice when I wrote the Road Tales series, an autobiographical novel of my experiences as a musician on the road. I used it again while writing Beachhead.

I began writing this story in 2007 after I'd met an eclectic group of weirdo's that lived on the barrier island of Jacksonville Beach. One was a golf pro, another a master chef, still another was a musician who would eventually ask me to join his band. I was the only writer in the wide-ranging collection of spirits. I somehow completed the set. And they provided me with the inspiration to write this murder mystery.

Beachhead is a thinly veiled synonym for the Atlantic Beach/Neptune Beach/Ponte Vedra Beach/St. Augustine stretch along the Atlantic Coast of Florida (although the locals consider themselves as belonging to Lower Georgia). It is commonly referred to as The Redneck Riviera as it sits across the Infra-coastal Waterway from Jacksonville.

John Mann, the first character murdered in the mystery, was drawn from several characters that I met in my early days. Chief among them is an affable cat named Jimmy Law, who isn't nearly as bad as the composite picture of John Mann.

Evil Dan was an actual roommate of Jimmy Law. The guy was SHADY to say the very least. He was a slick, slimy dude of the first magnitude. I counted my fingers after he shook my hand.

Sea Hag - I think her name was Mary. Not sure that I ever knew her last name. A widow with a large endowment from her dead husband. I never saw her when she wasn't fucked up. She was the kinda/sorta girlfriend of Jimmy Law. I'm not sure if they ever copulated. Whenever I saw them together they were both too drunk to achieve coitus.

Sugar's - modeled after Ginger's Bar on 3rd Street - Highway A1A in Jax Beach.

Windy Belcamp - loosely based on Ginger's granddaughter and every other female bartender I've ever encountered.

Misty - a close friend whose real name I won't divulge. But she knows who she is.

The Old Castle -- An homage to Modeste Mussorgsky, composer of Pictures At An Exhibition. The Old Castle was one of the expressionistic paintings in the gallery. Inspired by a castle house just north of St. Augustine.

Andy - based upon numerous go-getters that I've known. lives at The Old Castle

Tasha - a composite of strong women that I've known - Head Mistress of The Old Castle.

Ernie-From-Duluth - I couldn't have invented Ernie. He is one of a kind. His actual first name is Arnie. I have no idea what his last name is. Not sure I ever heard it. But the character is a fairly close description of the guy.

Arly Soaring Hawk - a thinly veiled reference to me. My dad's name was Carl and my birth certificate name is Lyle = Arly. We are Nakota Sioux Indians from North Dakota.

Duck-E & The Quackers - Woody & The Peckers
Duck-E Duck - Chuck E Saunders, guitarist, leader
Dino (dee-no) - Geno Phares, fucking drummer
Ted - Joey, lead singer
Jerry "Peeper" Parker - Woody, bass player, second murder victim
Lonnie McMurphy - fills in for Peeper on bass when he doesn't show

Jillian Williams - Reporter. Me if I were a woman and had it all to do over again. Jill is sassy, has a foul mouth that would make sailors blush. She takes no shit, though she does dish it out. Jill is tenacious, driven, and loves her alcohol. She once dated her professor at UF - after she took his class.

Don Janus - character from a porn series that my friend wrote back in the 90's. Janus is suave, cultured, and a born ladies man.

Amy Crewes - Photographer for the Beachhead Gazette. Another girl from my past. I dated her brains out for a while. Great photographer. Bitchy beyond belief. Deadhead. She danced to the beats of the Grateful Dead

Stacy O'Grady - a hitchhiker that I picked up on my way back from New Orleans one weekend. She lived with me for a short time in Tampa. The end came when I woke up to witness her peeing in the corner of my bedroom. She was witchy

That is a short description of the major characters in Beachhead, which I constantly hear is a great read. Good to hear about my first novel that isn't based solely on my life.

Reconnections

One of the greatest joys in life is reconnecting with friends that you haven't seen for years, or decades.

Musician friend, Chuck E - lead guitarist for Woody & The Peckers, works as the stage manager for the Springing the Blues Festival held annually at the Seawalk Pavilion about 500 feet from the Atlantic Ocean.

Chuck called me down to the Fest telling me that I had to see blues guitarist Michael Burks. "He's got a Hammond B3 player that's a real motherfucker... Not as good you," he added.

So, I headed down to the Fest getting there about a half hour before Burks was to begin his show. I saw Chuck onstage and a familiar body and face sitting at the Hammond.

Chuck hollered out, "Wayne, I've got somebody I want you to meet."

"Please tell me it ain't that tall Indian motherfucker!" Wayne exclaimed.

I walked onto the stage and stuck out my hand with a big grin on my face, "Wayne Sharp, how have you been, old friend?"

"Armond, is that really you. Holy fuck, it's been a few decades," said Wayne.

Chuck looked puzzled, "You guys know each other?"

"We played in competing bands on the Gulf Coast back in the 70's. I stole most of my best licks from Wayne."

"Yeah, right," Wayne deferred. "You were The Man! What are you doing these days?"

"I'm playing with Chuck E and an Irishman named Spade McQuade. I see that you're riding high, man."

"Yeah, I've been lucky." It was the same humble Wayne I remembered from our Biloxi/Gulfport days. He always belittled his talents.

Wayne and I grew up 70 miles apart, he in Gulfport and me in New Orleans. We shared the same influences. Had probably been to many of the same concerts. I know that we were both at the Mississippi John Hurt concert with our dad's shortly before the great blues man's death.

We had that traditional brothers-from-another-mother connection. And we both played the Chitlin' Circuit in the 70's.

"Have you seen Eddie or Joey lately," I asked.

"I saw Eddie Moody yesterday. We even talked about you. Wondering what happened to you."

"How about Joey Simonetti?"

"Sorry, man, he died a few years back," Wayne reported.

"That sucks," I responded. "And David. Still alive?"

"Yeah, but he's not doing well. Has cancer."

"Fuck, not him too?"

"Sad to say."

We caught up on all of our old buddies. Wayne came over that night to smoke, eat boiled shrimp, and reminisce. We've been in nearly constant contact ever since.

Christmas Past

My fondest Christmas memories revolve around our activities in my neighborhood in New Orleans. My father was the Sergeant Major of the Army Corp of Engineers. Keeping New Orleans underwater and dry was their moto. His troops built and tended to the levees that kept the seawater out of the below sea level city.

Each year in December my dad's troops would gather donations of broken toys, gather scrap wood and metal, and convert their machine shop to a veritable Santa's Workshop. I learned to build toy cars from two stats of wood and two thread spools. A bolt ran through the wood sides and through the spindle hole in the spool. An artist in the group guided me as I painted it to look like a real car. I loved doing it. I loved being a part of the Army troops. I loved working with my dad.

On Christmas Eve, we would load up a deuce-and-a-half truck (2-1/2 ton - big truck) with the fruits of our labor. The back of the truck was completely filled with the handmade toys. Another truck carried an Army field kitchen.

We set up in a vacant lot that served as a baseball field for us kids most of the year. Several troops broke out musical instruments, guitars, stand-up bass, trumpets, trombone, and saxophones. They played Christmas songs as the other troops and growing crowd sang along. The lines mounted quickly as folks came with their children to collect the only presents the kids would receive and nourishing meals that amounted to a feast for each family.

Every military wife had opened their kitchens and run their ovens starting at oh-dark-thirty. Turkeys, hams, potatoes, yams, cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, and stuffing, mountains of stuffing were offered up to the families of surrounding blocks.

Our community celebrated an Eve of joy and camaraderie that brought uncharacteristic tears to my father's eyes. Mine too. The feeling was overwhelming. Emotions flowed unbounded. We celebrated each other and our common struggle with an unforgiving world.

If only I could bring that feeling back into Christmas.

I love the rain

Cloudy day, shiny day, overcast day, beautiful day. I see them all as beautiful. I love rainy days. Great sleeping weather. Love walking out into the rain. Feeling the cool liquid showering my face.

I am always puzzled by people who say that it's a "crappy day out there" because clouds are bringing rain. "Yes, beautiful, isn't it?" is my general response.

It seems counter-intuitive to curse the rain. Rain is life. Without rain we would cease to exist in a very short time. As Bap Kennedy sings, "Shout all you want, it doesn't matter. Don't you know that I am mostly water."

It is a fact that 65% of our body is liquid. Blood, adrenal, spinal. Without water we die within a week to ten days. Dehydration kills.

Thus, cursing the rain amounts to wishing your own death.

Celebrate the rain. Enjoy the blessing of life that falls from above.

I do.

Road Tales - Emergence full chapter

A whimsical recollection of my birth.

Emergence

I

 floated in the Amniotic Sea at the darkest of midnights enjoying the banquet graciously passed down by my host. Andouille sausage, shrimp Creole, red beans and rice, chicken jambalaya, deep-fried catfish, washed down with sweet iced tea providing my nourishment.  Dixie beer and brandy had become my favorite calmatives. It always happened the same way. The music of a juke box would filter in, I would start dancing my tiny feet, and soon the alcohol would start flowing inducing immediate relaxation, peace, and dreams. I was certain that life couldn’t get any better.

I remembered the time before my spirit embraced the body I found myself in. For eons, I had bounced around the galaxy from crib to lecture hall to ballroom to bar room. I always felt most comfortable in the bar room.

 In the bar room, I met folks that I was most comfortable with, the cats I could stand to be around for more than a sentence. Poets, writers, musicians, novelists, circus performers, gymnasts, volleyball and soccer players, mathematicians, physicists, scientists, engineers, and even psychiatrists were in my closest orbit, comprising an eclectic collection of drunkards.

One night, I was drinking wine with this Dionysus chick at a bar in the Orion belt. We were contemplating the effect of a single fart in the ocean to all fish in the sea. We drank a shot of Absinthe and moved on to the farts effect on oceanic mammals. After a few more shots the conversation shifted to embryonic physiology. I have always loved hot chicks with a brain who liked to drink. I started to trip balls from the Absinthe, drank too much of her beauty, and lapsed into a warm coma. I awoke in a bag of fluid sucking a tiny thumb. Have you ever had a night like that?

 Hey, I needed the rest. I had just spent a few millennia touring with a radical band. My ass and brain were tired. I suddenly found myself living in a tropical spa complete with a constant supply of food, nicotine, and fruity drinks shaded by umbrellas. I heard a voice from beyond singing, “Hey, hey good lookin’. Whatchya got cookin’. How’s about cookin’ sumthun up witch me?” Soon, Brandy flowed into me bringing on a nice calm. I mellowed down easy and went with the buzz. For some reason I felt the need to tumble gently. Wee, weightlessness was fun. It felt great. All the blood rushed to my head causing me to  trip and fantasize more. I quickly returned to my memory of the night with Dionysus. Man, what a dish.

            In the early hours of June 1^st, 1953, I awakened to a terrible pushing pressure on my butt. Earlier in the day I had stretched and rotated so that blood was rushing to my brain. It felt right at the time, but now there was this annoying downward pressure upon my posterior. I was being pushed toward a small round portal. I tried to hold back with my tiny arms but then the dam broke and I was washed downstream through a canal into a brilliantly lit room with the gaudiest aquamarine walls. Who decorated this fucking place? My tiny brain screamed.

I looked back toward the gate my head had just popped through. How did my enormous cranium squeeze through that tiny opening? My ass was being squeezed by some powerful force. Some guy with whiskey breath was yanking on my shoulders trying to wrest me from the grips of the cave. He smelled like that poet cat I’d met half a century before in one of the galactic bars I hung out in. What was his name? Oh yeah, Poe, Ed Poe. EP smoked a pipe with fragrant herbs. However, this strange masked cat had a nasty cigarette dangling from his lips. Ashes fell onto my face, smoke filled my tiny lungs. I coughed and choked spitting up the fluid I’d been drinking for months. Man, was this ever turning out to be a below average day.

My ears were assaulted by shrill screaming that corresponded to my ass being squeezed tighter as the drunkard pulled harder on my shoulders. The screaming got louder. Now, I could hear two voices screaming. Man, was it loud. Everything had been nicely muffled back in the cave. Out in the open air the sounds were painfully loud. I suddenly realized that one of the screaming voices was mine. Cool, I had a pretty good set of pipes. I shifted to a high harmony with the other voice. We were cooking, man. A sweet duet.

Arms flailing, legs thrusting, finally, my ass cleared whatever hurdle was blocking it and I popped all the way out. That’s when I caught first sight of my wee. Whoa, I’m a boy.  How cool was that? (I had a lot to learn.)

The air smelled foul and tasted worse. I noticed that the other screaming voice was coming from my host. The drunkard laid me on her belly and she started to calm down, but soon she was crying deliriously. Why? I really don’t know.

There was a white haired woman smiling down at me. She was saying something to me. Everybody else in the room was speaking English, but this lady was speaking a language that sounded familiar but that I couldn’t identify at first. What was that language? I knew I had heard it in my travels. The answer was on the tip of my tongue. Then, she said two magic words: Hoka Hey. She was speaking Assiniboine, a dialect of Stoney language. She must be a Sioux Indian. Cool. I started putting phrases together as best I could recall. She was greeting me into the world, “Híŋhaŋna”, (welcome in Sioux) she cooed. But, it was her expression that spoke volumes of how happy she was to see me. She repeated, “Hoka Hey.” She was instructing me to enjoy every day of my life, for I would never know which day was my last. Lesson understood.

Grandmother and I conversed via expressions for awhile until she guided my tiny mouth up to a generous fountain of nourishing milk. Wow, what was this? I glanced over while suckling to observe that there was another fountain nearby. Is this all for me? Cool.

Suddenly, I felt like we were gliding and the lights started blinking. I tried to look up but nothing was worth tearing me away from this tasty meal. This was some tasty stuff. They didn’t serve anything like this in any bar I’d ever frequented. All the good stuff I enjoyed while floating in the Amniotic Sea but now it had flavor. It wasn’t flowing directly into my belly. I actually got to taste this banquet. The new experience was wonderful. I sucked away despite being rolled into a room with puke coloured walls.

People were jabbering around me. “Hey, I’d appreciate a little consideration here, ok. Do y’all know what I’ve just been through?” They didn’t hear, didn’t care. I heard my grandmother say repeatedly, “Armond Joy! Armond Joy! Armond Joy!”

Years later I learned what really happened. It is Sioux tradition to celebrate birth with a feast. Granny Blackwater was starving and thought the nurses were asking her what she wanted to eat. She had seen a bowl of candy bars on our way to the room and asked for her favourite snack: Almond Joy.

Actually, the nurses were asking granny for my name. Mom was out cold. I was getting full and close to nodding off, too. The only person left awake was a Sioux woman with a limited English vocabulary and heavy accent. The nurses heard her repeat “Armond Joy” several times and wrote that down as my name:

Armond Joy Blackwater, male, born June 1, 1953, weight 7 pounds 5 ounces, length 39 inches. Really, 39 inches? What can I say, I’m a male. I started misstating length on my very first day.

I dozed for awhile. When I awoke, a big Indian guy was sitting next to the bed smoking and reading a paper. I blinked several times to clear the focus of my eyes. He was a handsome young buck. I sensed immediately that he was my father. I was happy to see that he was a reader. We would have much to talk about when I figured out human speech. What a great turn of events this was.

Then, I caught the headline of the newspaper. In large point font it heralded the coronation of some chick they called Queen Elizabeth. I was outraged. The bitch had bumped my birth off the front page. Who did she think she was? Actually, I didn’t really care. I was just parroting the thoughts of my buddy Oscar Wilde. He hated The Royals. So, let her have the day.  My father was the Chief of the Blackwater Tribe.

I gurgled and laughed at my father. He put down the paper and smiled at me. It was immediately apparent why he was called Sunshine. The man had a smile as luminous as the Sun. He radiated calm and joy at seeing me that transcended spoken words. I was lucky to have landed with a strong tribe.  

The Murder of Jimi Hendrix

I wrote this article in 1999. A friend brought Ron Russell to the Cafe' Be At Studio in Tampa saying that I really needed to hear this guys story. I was dubious. After 7,000 gigs I've heard hundreds of unbelievable stories. Weird, crazy stories that the tellers swore happened to them. Only, I heard the same story by several tellers. They were common road stories.

With Ron Russell there was a difference. I, like most, accepted the official proclamation that Hendrix died of a drug overdose. He joined Janis and Morrison in the pantheon of Rock Stars dead at 27. But Ron Russell had a different take on Jimi's death. Jimi was murdered.

If it was just some guy telling me this story on a bar stool in a local pub I'd have listened politely and probably bought him a drink. But there was something different about Ron Russell. He exuded an aura of truthfulness. The level of detail that he related was uncommon. It was clear that he truly believed that Hendrix's death happened exactly as he described.

I'm not a journalist. I've never claimed to be. But, I do confirm stories before I publish them. I also talked to my lawyer who advised against publication of the potentially libelous claims. It isn't libel if the story is true, I reasoned.

I did more research on this story than any previous. I talked to people that knew Ron at the time of the incident. One in particular played Hammond Organ onstage with Jimi while Ron drummed. I spoke with Jimi's road manager for his final European TI tour. She confirmed the story, though wasn't privy to the commission of the murder. I decided to publish in 2000.

I received numerous comments on the article, most questioning my sanity and one veiled threat. I took them in stride. However, I was never contacted by the principal named as one of the murderers. I was never sued. Yet, I know that he read the story and was fuming. He was the one that sent the veiled threat - a red and black devils face.

The story died down and was mostly forgotten. That was until James "Tappy" Wright published his autobiography "Rock & Roll Roadie". Therein Tappy described a conversation that he had with his close friend Michael Jeffries that paralleled Ron Russell's story down to the minutest of details. Tappy had never read my story or heard of Ron or me. He merely related a story that Jeffries told him over brandy in 1975 as Hendrix's manager unburdened himself of 5 years of guilt.

I contacted Tappy. We conversed and he confirmed Ron's description of the events. Today, Tappy lives about 100 miles from me. We intend to get together for dinner some night when our schedules permit. I'm looking forward to that night.

Believe it or don't, I present Ron Russel's telling of:

The Truth Behind The Death Of Jimi Hendrix

By Armond Blackwater as told by Ron Russell

Ron Russell developed his love of music at an early age.  Perhaps, he was even born with the love.

Ron’s father took him to a Gene Krupa concert when Ron was only six years old.  Gene Krupa was the great drummer of the big band era.  Krupa was a contemporary of Glenn Miller, Bennie Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, etc. -- The Swing Era players.  Krupa inspired many drummers, like Buddy Rich, or potential drummers.  I would say that Gene Krupa was the Carl Palmer of his day.  Understand, of course, that I judge Carl Palmer as the best percussionist of our time and I tend to measure all drummers against him.  If you don’t agree just insert your candidates name and that is how good Gene Krupa was.  Not just the best, there was no one else in Krupa’s class at the time.  Seeing Gene Krupa perform set off a raging fire in young Ron Russell.

“That’s what I want to do,” Ron stated emphatically, “That’s what I want to be.”

So, for his next birthday Ron’s father bought him a set of drums, Kent drums as Ron remembers them.  His father also arranged for Ron to take lessons from a local jazz legend whose name Ron no longer remembers.  Ron studied with the man for a year, but death claimed his professor ending the lessons.  The professor died of cirrhosis of the liver, a very common ailment among musicians of the time.

Shortly thereafter, Ron’s family moved to Xenia, Ohio where Ron studied under the professor of percussion at Ohio State University.  Ron proved to be a natural drummer.  He absorbed the lessons and tapped into the rhythm of the universe.  He became one with his drumming.

In 1960, Ron’s father, who was an electrical engineer, was selected for a position as a scientist at Cape Canaveral.  The Russell family left Xenia and moved to Satellite Beach on the Florida Space Coast.  Ron continued his percussion practice relentlessly.  He continued to study and expand his prowess of the beat.

In 7^th grade Ron formed a band with a few local musicians.  The group played local teen dances, parties, and eventually wound up in the club scene.   7^th, 8^th, and 9^th grades are particularly rough times in the development process for teenagers in the United States.  It is an awkward time when bodies are changing, hormones are raging, and passing through various social gauntlets can be excruciating.  Being in a band granted identity to the players as well as exposure as one of the cool cats.  Plus, chicks dig musicians for some reason.  I never ask why, but it is true and I am thankful for it.

Ultimately, the band that came out of high school and burst upon the Tampa music scene was named Raindriver.  The band included Ron on drums and Wally Dance on bass.  Subsequently, Waldemeer “Wally” Dance joined the Belamy Brothers in 1980 and has been playing with them ever since.

Not long after the bands move from Satellite Beach, Raindriver became the premier act in Tampa.  They performed as the openers for many of the big name groups of the day, such as Blue Oyster Cult, REO Speedwagon and others.

The band also played the Tampa club scene. Among the gigs they played was a classy venue called The Men’s Garden Club where they would host a weekly jam session.  Raindriver would set up their amplifiers, drums, and PA (Public Address) equipment and invite musicians to “sit in” with the band.  It gave local musicians a chance to showcase their talents, meet other musicians, find a gig, or earn a free drink or two.

The turbulent 1960’s were coming to a close. The Viet Nam conflict was at its height of savagery, butchery, and insanity.  Hippies were preaching a message of love, peace, and expanding your mind.  Drugs became a favourite method of mind expansion.  “Tune in, turn on and drop out” was the often repeated doctrine of acid-guru Timothy Leary.  Marijuana, LSD, and cocaine were the expanders that the hippie generation chose, plus two deadly old favourites: alcohol and heroin.  The word on the street was that all of those treats could be found at The Men’s Garden Club – where the hippies were.

Raindriver had just completed a set and were taking a break. Ron sought refuge from the crowd and the madness under a tree to the side of the stage.  A limousine pulled up to the entrance of the club.  People started yelling excitedly, “It’s Hendrix. It’s Hendrix.”  Frenzy broke out as Jimi Hendrix emerged the limo.  The tall guitarist rapped with fans and signed autographs.  He also obtained a vile of heroin from a skinny cat by the name of Ron Wells.

Meanwhile, Ron Russell sat under a tree enjoying the calm.  Ron wasn’t a Hendrix fan.  Ron’s musical tastes ran more towards jazz than rock and roll.  He had heard of Hendrix, but wasn’t very familiar with his work.  “I wasn’t really into Hendrix,” Ron explains, “at the time,” he adds with a chuckle.  Ron felt a warm rushing wind surround him.  Ron could smell a scent that was wonderful, but hard to describe.  Ron knew from past experience that his “best friend” was about to speak to him.

“Go talk to Jimi.  You have something in common,” the voice said.  Ron rose and started walking toward Jimi Hendrix.

“What do we have in common?” Ron asked the voice.

The voice merely repeated, “Talk to Jimi.  You have something in common.”

Hendrix watched Ron curiously as he approached.  Jimi asked Ron, “Man, are you crazy?”

Ron replied, “No, I’m a rather intelligent person. Why?”

“Then, are you a ventriloquist or something?” Jimi probed further.

A large smile broke on Ron’s face, “You heard the voice, didn’t you?”

Jimi responded, “Yeah, man. I heard you talking to someone and I heard him, but there wasn’t anyone there.”

“Congratulations,” Ron beamed, “you are one of the few who has heard the audible voice of God.”  Jimi looked puzzled.  “Are you familiar with the baptism of the Holy Spirit?  Have you accepted Jesus?”

“Oh, that religion shit.  I don’t believe in that crap,” Hendrix replied.

Jimi didn’t believe in organized religion.  He felt that the spiritual message had been lost to power struggles and greed.

As Monika Dannemann recounted in her book the inner world of Jimi Hendrix, [1]“Jimi explained that he felt the Church had knowledge and wisdom, but that this had to be given in the right way to the people. Much of what is said is right, but seems false. He thought that the Church concealed too much, had distanced itself from the people it wanted to reach, and was not effective in putting across the message of God to the people.”

Ron Russell had come to a similar conclusion years before.

“The voice told me that we have something in common,” Ron continued. “Did you ever know Dr. Martin Luther King?”

Hendrix replied, “No, I didn’t. I always wanted to meet him.  He was one of my heroes.”

Monika Dannemann confirmed Jimi’s love of the civil rights leader, [2]“Jimi had great admiration for Martin Luther King and the way he had made important advances for the black cause by peaceful methods. I remember that he spoke of King as someone very special. He rated him as a leading figure of world importance and closely followed his activities on behalf of human rights. Jimi himself stood up for the civil rights movement. His father told me about an incident that occurred when Jimi was still a backing musician. He and the group he played with at that time went into a cinema and sat in seats reserved for whites, to protest for equal rights for black and white. They were all arrested and put in jail until the owner of the club they played at came and bailed them out.”

Ron stated, “Well, I used to be his best friend so that’s not it.”

Jimi offered, “I have a favourite aunt who told me about a thing that happened in Chicago Heights a long time ago. Her name was Martha Brown.”

“That’s it,” Ron exclaimed.  “That’s what we have in common.  Let me tell you the story and you tell me if it’s the story you heard.”  Ron related the story of the 4-yearold child who had been visited by the Holy Spirit, spoke in tongues, began an association with the Pentecostal Church of God and a lifelong friendship with Martha Brown, the aunt of Jimi Hendrix.  “I am the child.”

Martha Brown played a pivotal role in the lives of both Ron Russell and Jimi Hendrix.  It was Martha who explained to Ron the meaning of what happened to him at age 4.  Martha had had a similar trip through the Revival Fires, speaking in tongues and the Baptism of the Holy Spirit. 

The two musicians felt an immediate and deep bond. Their spirits spoke to each other exchanging a lifetime of experiences and emotions in a minute.  The two began talking about music and influences.  Jimi described the concept for his new band that would fuse the elements of Jazz, Classical, Gospel, and Rock together. 

[3]“Jimi wanted to develop, expand, and move on in many fields. In 1969 he intended to change and develop his music, but unfortunately faced strong opposition from his manager, who tried to make Jimi repeat the style of music which initially had made him famous: for example, “Hey Joe” and “Purple Haze”. Mike Jeffery tried to persuade Jimi to stay in line and do what he was told to do. Persuasion meant any means necessary, including strong threats.”

Ron described his early history, from the time he had first seen Gene Krupa and knew that he wanted to be a drummer, through the years of jazz lessons and countless hours of practice, to the jam he was playing that day.

Jimi invited Ron to join him in the limousine where they could continue their talk in private.  Once in the limousine, Jimi pulled out his “works” (drug world slang for equipment used with heroin.) Ron looked on in horror as he watched his new friend “shoot up” to ease his tension.

“Man, that stuff is no good, Jimi,” Ron advised.  “Where’d you get that?”

“I got it from that skinny guy out there,” Jimi pointed out Albert Ronald “Ron” Wells standing in the crowd. 

Ron Russell quickly exited the limousine and took after Ron Wells.  “He was faster than I was then.  He’s lucky, ‘cause I would’ve done bodily harm to Ron if I’d have caught him,” Ron Russell recalls now.  Years later, in 1994, Ron Russell met up with Ron Wells.  Upon hearing Ron Russell speak of his days with Hendrix, Ron Wells interrupted to say, “Hey, you were the guy who was going to kill me because I gave heroin to Hendrix.”  It turned out to be the last heroin that Jimi Hendrix ever did.

Hendrix knew well enough what the heroin was doing to him.  The previous evening, Jimi had left the stage at Curtis Hixon Hall after playing only three songs.  He was strung out.  He needed his heroin fix.  He couldn’t play without it. 

Ron Russell returned to the limousine and coaxed Jimi to the stage for a jam with Raindriver.  The music that resulted was incredible.  The hippies received a preview of the future of Hendrix’ music.  As Ron remembers the moment, “It was of God.  It was incredible.”  The feeling transcended the local scene propelling all who attended to a new plane where music combined with spirituality.

Hendrix felt it too.  Memories of the previous evenings debacle disappeared as Jimi began playing with a greater joy and purpose than he had in his recent memory.  The dream that he had of combining Jazz, Classical, and Gospel together was flowing from his guitar and was complimented perfectly by the musicians on the stage.

It was clear that they were destined to play together.  Jimi invited Ron to join his new group, which would be called The Jimi Hendrix Fusion Band.  Naturally, Ron accepted.

[4]“… Jimi was looking for new musicians to work and play with. His dream was to find good players who would also be his friends, which was the reason he chose Billy Cox as a new bass player when Noel Redding left the band.”

After the jam session, Ron spoke to Jimi in earnest about the heroin. “Man,” Ron spoke, “if we’re going to be together I want it to really fly.  Man, we’ve got to get you off the stuff.”

Hendrix listened to this new friend intently.  Though they had just met they felt as if they had known each other forever.  Jimi knew inherently that he could trust Ron, unlike the plethora of parasites that sought him out for his fame and fortune.  Ron invited Jimi to stay with him at his humble abode in Tampa while Hendrix kicked the ugly habit that was ruining his life and his talent.

Jimi moved in with Ron.  The first days were the worst.  Jimi was wracked by tremors as the physically addicting drug grudgingly loosed its hold on him.  Ron recalls cradling a shuddering Jimi in his arms on the floor. 

Ron soon learned that Jimi’s problem was due as much to exhaustion as to heroin addiction.  Jimi described how his manager, Mike Jeffery, continually pressured him to produce more, tour more, record more… Everything was more, more, more.

As Monika recalled, [5]“He also told me about the stress and exhaustion he felt after two and a half years of constant touring all over Europe and America, plus recording on top of this. He said that he needed a holiday for a long time, but that his manager, Mike Jeffery, kept on booking new tours, often without first informing him.”

Jimi and Ron talked at length about life, death, spirituality, and, particularly, music.  They jammed together for hours on end.  They also wrote several gospel songs together.

“You see, Jimi was a funny guy.  When he was alone he didn’t listen to rock and roll.  He’d listen to Classical, Jazz, and Gospel.  He really loved Gospel music,” Ron recalls.  “When Hendrix wrote music he’d hear the whole thing.  He couldn’t read a lick of music, but he’d play each instrument in the orchestra’s part.  He’d play something and say, ‘I want the violins to play this,’ and so on.  He was really remarkable in that way.”

Jimi described his love for Monika Dannemann who he called his soul mate.  He confided to Ron that he worried about his love for Monika being discovered and exploited by his manager, Mike Jeffery. 

[6]“Jimi didn’t feel safe anymore, and he also felt unable to protect me from anything that might happen. He told me to wait for him, and that he would come as soon as he had sorted out everything with his manager. He wanted to break free from his management first and then join me in England,” wrote Monika Dannemann.

Monika Dannemann further described Jimi’s paranoia, “In the last eighteen months of his life, several threatening events made Jimi cautious. In May 1969 he was arrested at Toronto Airport for carrying drugs, which he believed Jeffery had got someone else to plant on him. Death threats and other attempts to intimidate Jimi followed. He was even kidnapped by people who told him they were Mafiosi, then miraculously ‘rescued’ on Jeffery’s orders. These events made Jimi ask me not to join him in New York after his tour, as he feared that Jeffery might try to use me as a way of blackmailing Jimi. When I protested, saying that I could look after myself and that I wanted to help him, Jimi told me about a dream he had had some months before. He had made this into a song called ‘Look Over Yonder’. In this dream he saw an evil force taking his love away after discovering her.

Jimi believed the dream to be a premonition – a warning about what could happen if his love was discovered – and he wanted to be able to protect me from its becoming reality.”

It was clear to Ron that Jimi desperately wanted to change his management situation. But his manager had neatly tied up Jimi in legal entanglements.

Monika echoed Ron’s thoughts, “[7]Jimi told me that he was thinking of leaving his manager for good. He felt it was high time to take control over his music and his life, especially as he wanted to change his image and his music drastically, to convey more spiritual messages with solutions for the people and the problems in life. However, he feared that Jeffery would do everything in his power to prevent this.”

Jimi listened intently as Ron Russell told of his friendship with Dr. Martin Luther King from their first meeting in Melbourne, Florida in 1962 until Dr. King’s murder in 1968.  Ron confided to Jimi the incredible sense of loss that he felt following Martin’s assassination. 

Jimi confided to Ron that some “heavy shit” had been happening around him; that he feared for his own safety.  A sentiment that Monika reflected, [8]“Jimi felt more and more unsafe in New York, the city where he used to feel so much at home. It had begun to seem like a prison to him, and a place where he had to watch his back all the time.”

Hendrix told Ron that Mike Jeffery was constantly making deals behind his back attempting to control the superstar’s every movement. 

Monika relates the circumstances of the previous tour, [9]“When Jimi arrived in New York his manager told him that Mitch and Noel were on their way to join him. He had booked studio time for the group to do some recording before starting their US tour. Jimi was very upset, as he had planned to fly back to Europe to meet my family, and he had a row with Jeffrey. He also found out that his manager had added new dates to the tour, which would now last until the end of June. As had happened many times before, Mike Jeffrey had ruined Jimi’s plans for a badly needed holiday, to which we had both been looking forward.

When Jimi asked Jeffery to shorten the tour, he was told that the money was needed and also that if he broke the tour contract Jeffery had signed in his name, it would cost Jimi dearly. Once again, his manager had arranged things over Jimi’s head, only informing him when it was too late to change the arrangements.”

Jimi knew that Jeffery was exerting every effort to maintain control of him. As Monika observed, “I know from Jimi himself that there were people around him, including his manager, who were vitally interested in keeping him supplied with drugs and who offered them to him all the time. They obviously believed that it would make it easier to handle and control him this way, especially if they could get him addicted (a common method of dealing with rock musicians.)”

Jimi related an incident that occurred at Woodstock intended to show him who was in control, [10]“While Jimi was in a house near Woodstock, practicing for the Festival, Jeffery and some Italian Mafia types dropped by and told him that he had to play at the opening night of the Salvation, a New York club with strong Mafia connections. Jimi had refused before, but while Jeffery went into the house to persuade Jimi, the other men stayed outside and started some target practice with a gun. Jimi understood the message and did the gig.”

Jeffery went so far as to orchestrate a kidnapping of Hendrix to strengthen his control, [11]“There were several more incidents intended to intimidate Jimi, and his band were also threatened that they should play certain clubs – or else.

However, the most menacing incident took place in the autumn of 1969, when Jimi was visited by two men. They said they had been sent by Jeffery to pick up Jimi, and he believed them. The next thing Jimi knew, he had been kidnapped, and the men told him they belonged to the Mafia.

Jimi was hidden in a warehouse somewhere in New York. At first Jimi believed that they would kill him, but as time passed and nothing happened he realized something else was going on. While he was a prisoner they threatened him, but did not hurt him, so Jimi could not figure out what they wanted. The next day he was told to call Jeffery and let him know that Jimi was dead unless the manager handed over the contract he had with Jimi. Then, all of a sudden, and seemingly out of nowhere, Jeffery’s people turned up and rescued Jimi.”

The light in Jimi’s brain finally illuminated as to the lengths that his manager would go to maintain his income, [12]“When he had recovered from the shock, Jimi came to the conclusion that Jeffery, unbeknownst to the people who rescued him, had been behind the kidnapping from the start, and that the whole thing had been staged to bring Jimi into line and make him realize just how much he was in Jeffery’s power. The simple message seemed to be that if Jeffery wanted, he could do anything to Jimi.”

But Jimi was defiant, determined to free himself of what amounted to modern day slavery, [13]“But this didn’t stop Jimi trying even harder to get out of his contract with Jeffery. The biggest problem was that if Jimi just walked out of the contract, Jeffery would still keep the rights to a considerable amount of unpublished material. Jimi feared that if he lost control of this Jeffery would be able to manipulate the tapes according to his own commercial taste, by having the music and message changed, rearranged and effectively destroyed.”

Jimi Hendrix found himself in a position familiar to musicians like “Little Richard”, Chuck Berry, Billie Holiday and a host of other talented folks who had a genius for music, but were ignorant of business machinations.  The underhanded tactics of managers like Mike Jeffery were beyond the imagination of creators like Hendrix.  Until, it was too late, [14]“business deal and financial power-play gave Jeffery a legal stranglehold on Jimi as well. The Jimi Hendrix Experience was Jeffery’s main source of income and he was determined to squeeze as much as he could out of this successful formula. In 1970 problems and pressures on Jimi accumulated, as several lawsuits were tying up his money and he was in debt as a result of the building of a recording studio in New York.”

Greed, one of the oldest motivators in history, possessed Mike Jeffery.  He would literally stop at nothing to protect his prize revenue machine. For that is how he perceived Jimi, not as a human, a creator, a sensitive being, but as a piece of meat with value in the marketplace.  Mike Jeffery considered Jimi Hendrix as his property not unlike the slave owners of the Antebellum South.

Jeffery wanted Jimi to crank out more hits like an assembly line drone committed to a quota of toaster production.

[15]“In the meantime Jeffery tried to push Jimi into reforming the Experience, but with no success. Through the last months of 1969 and the beginning of 1970, Jimi tried to bring out some new material, but was stopped by his management, who thought the songs to be too spiritual and not commercial enough. In between, he kept trying to find the missing money and a way out of his management contract. As Jeffery would tell me later, at a meeting after Jimi’s death, Jimi had made seven attempts in all to free himself.”

During Jimi’s re-acquaintance with sobriety he asked Ron whom they should use as their bass player.  Jimi loved Billy Cox, but knew that the pace and pressure that had severely weathered Jimi would surely crush Billy.  That prophecy came true during the European Tour.  “You see, the bass and drums have to be together,” Ron explains, “They are the foundation.”  Ron thought immediately of his friend Wally Dance.  Wally was a premiere bass player, a natural musician.

Jimi had been trying to recruit a keyboard player that he had met in his early days of club gigs in London.  Keith Emerson was the enigmatic keyboard player for the band Nice.  Emerson was fascinated with Jimi’s concept of fusing disparate musical elements together.  However, Jimi was unable to extricate himself in time and Keith joined forces with former King Crimson bassist and lead singer, Greg Lake, and the drummer from The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Carl Palmer, to form the infamous classical rock group Emerson, Lake & Palmer.

The players for the Jimi Hendrix Fusion band were set: Jimi Hendrix on guitar and lead vocals, jazz legend Bobby Lyle on keyboards, multitalented bass player Wally Dance on bass, and Ron Russell on drums. 

At the end of his stay, Jimi Hendrix was clean.  He had wrestled the monkey from his back.  He hadn’t felt that good since his days as guitar man with the Isley Brothers.  He looked forward to a future that would see him moving in new musical directions.

But first, he had to make some money.  Electric Lady Studios was an enormous drain on his cash resources.  Jimi agreed to play a short tour of Europe to raise the much-needed cash.

Jimi invited Ron to drum for him on the tour.  Unfortunately, Ron didn’t have a passport and there wasn’t sufficient time for him to secure one before the tour began.  Ron had to pass on the offer, a fact that haunts him to this day.  Had he accompanied Jimi on tour perhaps Jimi would not have died.

Jimi was left with but one alternative: to do the tour with his old drummer Mitch Mitchell.  Mitchell was limited in his abilities as a drummer and was also a highly excitable individual, prone to violent outbursts if crossed.  Ron Russell had several confrontations with Mitch and, “they weren’t pretty,” Ron reports.

Mike Jeffery feared people like Ron Russell because they threatened his hold on Jimi, [16]“Jeffery did not like Jimi to have friends who would put ideas in his head and give him strength. He preferred Jimi to be more isolated, or to mix with certain people whom Jeffery could use to influence and try to manipulate him.”  It was Jeffery’s intent to keep Jimi isolated.  Perhaps it was he who promoted the conflicts between Mitch Mitchell and Ron Russell.

Jimi Hendrix left for the European tour.  He called frequently to talk to Ron Russell about song ideas for the album that they would record when he returned to the States.  Jimi sounded very happy.  Ron’s heart could feel the change that had come over his friend.  Jimi wrote a dozen or more new tunes during the tour.  His playing took on a new purpose as well.  As if he was already playing with the new band.

On September 18^th, 1970, Ron was teaching a Head Start class at Manhattan Middle School in Tampa.  Ron’s best friend, Martin Luther King, had started the Head Start program and Ron felt compelled to help forward his friends vision.  “I had thirty little black kids there and they were all precious,” Ron recalls.

Early that morning, the principle of the school came down to get Ron.  “Jimi Hendrix is on the phone for you,” the principle said.  His voice belied his initial disbelief that the real Jimi Hendrix was actually calling the school. Ron smiled and said, “Cool. It’s ok, he’s a friend of mine.”

Jimi sounded very good to Ron’s ears.  Hendrix was in London at the flat of his girlfriend and soul mate, Monika Dannemann.  Jimi was in good health and spirits.  Jimi and Ron talked for a few moments about the upcoming sessions at Electric Lady in New York.  Jimi would be returning to New York in a few days and was eager to get his new band into the studio.

Then, Ron heard a familiar voice enter the London flat.

The mood quickly turned ugly. “Is that that fucking drummer from Tampa,” Ron recognized the voice. “You tell him that he’s never gonna record with you. He’s never gonna play with you.  He’s never gonna get any money out of you.”

All of the hair on Ron’s body stood on end in alarm.  Ron felt a terrible wave of dread wash over him.

“Jimi, get out of there, man.  I’m getting’ a bad feeling about this.”

Hendrix laughed off Ron’s warning, “Ah, don’t worry about him, he’s just crazy.  I’ve handled him before.”

Before Ron could respond he heard Jimi cry out, “Ouch. Man, he just jammed me in the temple with a needle.”

Ron cried out, “Jimi?”

Ron heard the telephone receiver fall to the floor and his friend with it.  He could hear Jimi Hendrix choking and vomiting.  Ron was horrified.  He was helpless.  He was an ocean away and couldn’t help his friend with whatever was happening to him.  Ron came to the sickening realization: he was listening to his friend die a horrible, agonizing death.

Then, Ron heard the voice that he had immediately recognized moments before.  It was the voice of former Hendrix Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell.  The voice said to an accomplice, “Get those pills and jam ‘em down his throat.”  As a person regurgitates they naturally inhale and influx anything in their throat.  Mitchell was setting up the cover story: Rock Star Dies Of Overdose. 

And then, silence.

There was no longer any sound from Jimi Hendrix.  For a time there was no sound form the London flat save for some shuffling and dragging sounds.

At the other end of the wire Ron was pleading, “What is going on? Jimi? Jimi? Are you there?”

Jimi didn’t reply.

Eventually, the receiver was picked up.  Ron recognized the voice of Mitch Mitchell who coldly, flatly stated, “The nigger is dead!  And I’m coming for you next.”

In shock, Ron responded, “Come on. I live in Tampa, Florida.  I’m waiting for you.”  Then, the line went dead.

Ron was confused, dazed, shocked.  What had just happened?  Could it be true?  Did he just hear his good friends’ murder?  What should he do?  What could he do?

Ron called Martha Brown, Jimi’s aunt.  He described to her what happened.  Martha was shocked by the news.  She excused herself to call Jimi’s father, Al Hendrix, with the tragic news. Ron expected that authorities would contact him for his statement about the murder.  He was never contacted.

“I can’t say for sure who the other person in the room was, but I strongly suspect that it was Michael Jeffery,” Ron states. “I can’t prove that Jeffery was there,” Ron pauses, “But I can prove that Mitch Mitchell murdered Jimi Hendrix!”

If Mike Jeffery could exert the kind of control that Monika and others have described over a mega-star like Jimi Hendrix how could a semi-talented drummer like Mitch Mitchell refuse to do his bidding?  Mitchell’s income source would dry up as well if Jimi made the change in musical direction that he intended.  Even with Jimi dead they had enough material recorded to release Hendrix albums for decades. 

That is in fact what happened.  Jimi Hendrix holds the dubious distinction of having released the most posthumous albums of any artist ever.

To normal folks this would seem a shortsighted approach at best.  To literally kill the goose that was laying the golden eggs.  Jimi Hendrix had already revolutionized the world of rock and roll as well as the art of guitar playing.  Had he just been allowed to follow his own inspired course he surely would have continued to lead rock in new directions.   After all, isn’t that what really made him the star that he was?

But, Mike Jeffery was far from typical.  He bragged that he had served in the British Secret Service.  He fancied himself as a James Bond and frequently promoted stories that supported that persona.  Jeffrey told all who would listen that he was, [17]“A specialist in all sorts of things, he knew all the tricks of the trade and early on in his career had had connections with the Newcastle crime scene. Now he had got involved with the New York Mafia, and was also into the occult. He developed close links with one person in particular who had connections with a brutal dictatorship, mercenaries and the Mafia”

The picture painted by all who knew Mike Jeffery is not flattering.  [18]“Jeffrey was not a guy to mess around with. He said that he had been a British secret agent in M126 and kept circulating stories of having done undercover work, including killing people.”

Jeffery claimed to have killed before.  Following Jimi’s death the manager commenced with the cover up.  “A press conference at which I would explain the true circumstances of Jimi’s death was scheduled for the day of the inquest, but cancelled by Jeffery, again, in retrospect, for obvious reasons. He was simply not interested in clearing up the public misconception that Jimi had died of a drug overdose.”

Just another rock star that got too high; a black man who sang of voodoo.  Jeffery could depend on the fact that officials wouldn’t look to closely for foul play in this matter.  He didn’t underestimate the indifference with which authorities treated Jimi’s demise despite the fact that the physical evidence did not support this conclusion.

[19]“Likewise untrue is the allegation that Jimi died of an overdose. When he died in September 1970 he had no drugs in his system apart from some sleeping pills and traces of amphetamine. There was absolutely no trace of hard drugs.”

The autopsy reports the discovery of an “unknown substance” in Jimi’s blood.  Ron Russell states that, “they injected Jimi in the temple, behind the hairline.”  A normal autopsy would not have discovered the tiny puncture mark obscured by Jimi’s thick hair.  “I believe that whatever that unknown substance as that it is what killed him,” Ron declares. 

Ron Russell fell into a deep funk of nearly overwhelming depression.  Another close friend had been murdered.  A little over two years before on April 4^th, 1968, Ron’s best friend, civil rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King, had been murdered.  Ron had been devastated by Dr. King’s death.  And now, he had lost his dear friend Jimi Hendrix.

Ron drew within himself fearing to get close to anyone lest they be murdered too. 

The natural question is: Why didn’t Ron speak out about this murder sooner? 

The answer is quite simple: The pain of remembering was too great.  Ron buried the memories deep within his mind.

Ron suppressed his memories for over 25 years. 

Why now? 

Why Ron has decided to tell his story after so many years is perhaps the hardest question to answer.  Ron has a very successful career going as percussionist for singer Bertie Higgins’ Band of Pirates.  The band is about to start a lucrative long-term gig at the Paradise Hotel in Las Vegas; a fat payday, living in the lavish lap of luxury – all expenses paid.  Going public with his murder allegations leaves Ron with nothing to gain and literally everything to lose. Perhaps, even his life.

I first published an article on this story in December of 2001 after about two years of interviews and research.  Researching this story is extremely difficult. 

Some of the complications are:

• It has been 30 years since Jimi Hendrix died.
• The Hendrix family didn’t respond to my queries.  It seems that they don’t want to disturb Jimi’s memory. 
• Eric Burden refused to meet with me for a private viewing of our interview with Ron Russell – even though Mr. Burden was playing a gig a mere 30 miles away from me.
• Michael Jeffries died mysteriously in a plane crash a few years after Jimi and is thus unavailable for comment.
• Monika Dannemann died mysteriously of monoxide poisoning in her garage shortly after publishing her book of paintings and remembrances of her life with Jimi.
• The London Police have been totally uncooperative.  The attitude I get from them is that they barely have time to investigate recent murders.
• Mitch Mitchell hasn’t responded to my queries.  While I don’t expect a confession, I do expect a denial.  A quick explanation of alibi.  But all I’ve gotten is silence. 
• Many of the contacts that I interviewed were cooperative at first but then mysteriously stopped responding to me.  Did someone get to them?
• Several of my interviewees expressed concern about their own safety and would only speak anonymously.  One informant from The Hendrix Experience days stated directly, “He has killed before.  He wouldn’t think twice about dropping me.” 
• A research trip to Seattle proved fruitless.  The Seattle Times refused to talk with me.  As did everyone else that I attempted to contact.

I decided to publish the story in order to garner a response and hopefully flush out folks with information that would either confirm or contradict Ron Russell’s allegations.

The Café Be At received many responses most of which condemned us for publishing the story.  However, none of the messages contained any information that contradicted Ron Russell’s account.  Rather than offer intellectual arguments against our story, the writers attempted to shout us down. 

"Y_O_U A_R_E N_U_T_S," wrote Marco Granetto, an avid Hendrix fan. 

In an exclusive interview with Wanda Boudreaux, Marco failed to produce any relevant evidence, just more intimations of our collective insanity.

Wanda reports that, "Marco is really a sweet guy.  He's a very passionate Hendrix fan who has read books and listened to hours of interviews of Jimi.  That is the basis of his objections."

The Cafe' Be At wholeheartedly stands by Ron Russell and his account of the heinous and, as yet, un-prosecuted murder of the greatest guitar player of all time, James Marshall Hendrix.

This article is a faithful report of the remembrances of Ron Russell.  Every person that we have talked to who knows Ron responds similarly: “If it were anyone other than Ron telling this story I wouldn’t believe it.”

Responses from those who do not know Ron Russell personally are generally poorly worded attacks that tell us that the story is large steaming pile of crap. (If only they were that eloquent.)  However, to this day we have not received one shred of credible evidence that refutes this story.

If you have comments or information concerning this story we invite you to write to us at:

Armond@cafebeat.org

PrincessJ@cafebeat.org

RonRussell@cafebeat.org

And please visit the site http://cafebeat.org for updates to this developing story.

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