Fusing blues, jazz, and outrageous psychdelia, Hendrix scored multitudes of devoted fans with his frenzied, irreverent guitar playing, singing, and song-writing. And at the age of twenty-seven, when his private nightmares caught up with his dreams, he died in a torrent of drugs and alcohol. More than a decade after his death, Hendrix is still considered by millions to be the greatest guitarist in rock and roll history.
Now, David Henderson has captured the essence of Hendrix's intense, apocalyptic, and ultimately tragic life in this brilliantly researched, deeply honest and totally moving biography. Convert currency. Add to Basket. Book Description Bantam Books, Condition: New.
More information about this seller Contact this seller. Book Description Condition: New. Brand new and never read! At the top of the hill are lines of shops and stores along Latimer Road, where during the dawn hours strange-shaped vans and trucks of English manufacture energetically deliver their wares. The weekend is just about here. The early morning will throb with the energy of people expecting their pay and a holiday. Past Lansdowne Crescent, the hill begins a steep descent into the flatlands of Notting Hill Gate where the West Indians, East Indians, mulattoes, hippies, and poor whites live.
There, the view from below Lansdowne Crescent shows trees so prolific they become a solid mass of green rising like a natural mountain. At dawn, solitary figures appear at various points along Talbot Road, where the buses and the Underground station converge. Posters and leaflets line the boarded-up storefronts, wooden fences and posts announcing the latest West Indian dances and house parties. The great flea market of Portobello Road will be held tomorrow.
Throngs of bargain-seekers and fun-lovers will come from all over London to rub shoulders and mingle in the ghetto at a safe time. Crews of locals will be lined up at points along the mile-long route, drinking beer spontaneously in outdoor pubs. Street musicians, solo and ensemble, will play before clusters of casual spectators. Bargains ranging from good antiques to various concoctions of West Indian and East Indian foods will be sold.
Back up on the crescent his body is still. Above London, moving across the world, a massive storm of fantastic colors sweeps voluminous currents and waves across hundreds of miles of landmasses and water at an incredibly fast pace. Sunrise over the Pacific Rim. The sun is bright over the city on the hill. Fall, Indian summer; in the quick tinges of wind that hit with swift force, the harbinger of winter nights and the waters of the storms. Time moving so fast, backward and forward, people and places move into scenes and then out again so quickly as if in the blink of an eye, they shift from one sphere of vision to another.
Seattle He sees sticking outward from a pinnacle, a hill, the high granite arm of a statue of an Indian man, tall and stately, pointing out over the buildings of downtown Seattle, out toward the lakes that lie before the Pacific Ocean. People are crowded from the edge of the knoll to the top of the hill where, before the statue, a rotund man in a black frock addresses them with a megaphone from a reviewing stand.
He is dwarfed by the statue he points to. He gestures broadly, shouting something about Indians. At night when the streets of your villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not forever lost. Dead, did I say?
There is no death, only a change of worlds. He is wrapped in a granite robe that appears strangely tattered.
His left foot forward, his right arm raised toward the bays, he looks like he might either be beckoning or waving good-bye. The tiny officious figure orating is the new reform mayor of Seattle, George Cotterill. He takes the occasion to reaffirm his liberal nature and to belittle the former administration, noting that its former chief of police was at this moment serving time in the penitentiary at Walla Walla. The crowd roars with approval. On the outskirts of the crowd stands a group of blacks.
They laugh, throwing up their hands; the two women are dressed in very fashionable clothes from the East; the three men wear tailored dark suits, their hats tilted and broken in Chicago style. Nora, the youngest, laughs with the rest but she knows they really have little to be happy about.
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Black vaudevillians stranded in Seattle, they were wearing their stage clothes and wondering about their survival. Nora, whose full name was Zenora Rose Moore, twenty-nine going on thirty, was flirting with being an old maid, as the other showgirls would tease. Ross Hendrix was seventeen years older and had been married before.
But she loved him, and their years on the road had strengthened an already natural bond. The Pacific Ocean coming in and out of view on the left, faded white streamers trail and break off the speeding black car in the dust and wind. Nora and Ross Hendrix are the newlyweds. They have decided to live in Canada and quit the show-business life. Their colleagues accompany them for the ride.
The rickety black Ford sped for Victoria Station and the ferry that would take them across the waters to another country. It was not often Al Hendrix spoke this way. It had to be a long quiet Sunday afternoon with perhaps a few beers and a couple of shots of hard stuff. He would look off straight ahead and his eyes, which were usually sheltered by his dark creviced brow and high, close cheekbones, would shine with a liquidy light through the mahogany brown.
My mother and dad got stranded here in a show tour. That was before the First World War. And he wanted to go to Canada, so they went up to Canada to live. They took out papers and became Canadian citizens.
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My mother was a dancer. She was a chorus girl. A chorus girl back in those days used to wear tights and all such as that. He was born April 11, , in a small town in Urbana, Ohio. We had a hard time finding it on the map. My daddy had been married before. I remember him telling me one time that he had been a special policeman in Chicago. Her name was Belle Lamarr.
That was her stage name. They always used some fantastic kind of name.
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Bertran and Zenora became Canadian citizens in He worshiped his older brother Leon Marshall, who played both the violin and piano by the time Al became aware of music. Leon was long and lean with long tapering fingers on his large hands. He read and wrote music so well Bertran and Nora hired a piano teacher to help him advance. During the last part of the twenties Leon played the new jazz music so well that he had a discernible style of his own.
He also was an excellent dancer who was very popular with the women. He had a regular dancing partner and they were often called upon to perform at public events, where they would do the generally popular waltz, tango, and even the Apache dance. But Leon shone when they got to the popular black dances: tap, the Charleston, the Lindy Hop.
Al never forgot those lessons, those steps. When Leon died suddenly of a ruptured appendix in , Al, only thirteen, was devastated. His father died two years later. The family was plunged into insecurity and poverty, but they held on. It was the height of the Depression and Al began to hustle for every cent he could earn. The family soon adjusted to their losses.
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Between orders Al would do some of the dancing he had cultivated and often received tips. The jitterbug craze grew and he and his sister Pat grew closer since he was the natural selection to escort her to dances, something Leon would have done. Frank was a wallflower, not very social. Pat and Al were photographed dancing to a Duke Ellington Orchestra appearance and it was printed on the front page of the Vancouver Sun.
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After that Al had local fame as a dancer. That was the first time a big band came to Vancouver in years. Jitterbugging was in then. We used to have jitterbug contests. We were the couples in the black group. They had a hundred dollars for the prize. They brought a jitterbug group from L. Man, I picked it up real quick.
I mean, shoot, I had all the timing, because I used to do a lot of tap dancing.