We’ve been going on regular sunset outings to playgrounds, harbors, hilltops and such. Today his sister couldn’t come because she had missed her nap. My son requested that we take “some songs in the car, from the cabinet” (meaning CD’s, not the iPod or the radio).
After I assented, he got the ponderous CD cabinet door open and grabbed about a dozen jewel cases for me to carry to the car. I said “Are you sure you have enough?” He thought for ~1 millisecond, and grabbed several more. I said “You really want to listen to these?” and to make my point, “which one do you want to hear?”
Giggling ecstatically, he answered “I want to listen to the full moon one!”
Huh? Bad moon rising? Oh, Tom Petty. I get it. “You want to listen to ‘Full Moon Fever?’ He nodded vaguely and we got in the car. Rather dated, and still a little stale, but love is a long road. Anyway by the time we jumped in the car he had changed his mind and wanted to listen to whatever happened to be in the double jewel case. Okay, works for me: The Siegel-Schwall Band. Huh? That’s for another post.
“You want to listen to ‘My Starter Won’t Start’?”
“Yeah!” he giggled with glee.
My starter won’t start this morning
My gasoline won’t perc-u-late
“No! You don’t sing that!” Okay, fine, I won’t sing. He listened intently to his song, and the next one (‘Jim Jam’), and then pointed to the cover and said in his high register begging voice “I want to hear this one!” I re-examined the cover photo, showing the band looking moody, approximately mid-’66 first-trip greasy but not yet hippy.
“Okay, let’s put on that song.” I selected an instrumental that I happened to be in the mood for, called ‘Break Song.’ He studied the CD cover and listened intently, no doubt linking song and image in foundational association. When we got to ‘Down in the Bottom,’ I again attempted to sing along, and was once again shut down.
We went to Hesse Park. Very nice place, quiet, up high, with plenty of open space, and a playground overlooking Santa Monica Bay. On the way home, I grabbed the next CD in the stack. Jimi Hendrix: the Ultimate Experience. It’s a high-quality collection which, back when I bought it, affirmed my original opinion that I like his early stuff better. Anyway, with my son, I thought it might be hard sell, so I handed him the jewel case just in time for the opening chords of ‘All Along the Watchtower,’ which (though a later recording) is possibly the best Hendrix track after ‘Hey Joe.’
I pointed to the hard-to-see cover photo and said “That’s Jimi Hendrix. He plays the guitar.”
My son didn’t miss a beat; he jumped straight to the hard questions. “Did he die?”
A little back story here: he already knows about Stevie Ray Vaughn, and how he died in a helicopter crash on his way to a concert where Uncle David was going to see him play. But that’s another adventure in bad parenting.
“Well, yes, he did die. But this is his music.”
“Why did he die?”
Silence. “It was an accident.” Unease. “But that was a long time ago, before I was born.”
“Why was it an accident?” Go ahead and answer that, those of you at home. I must have mumbled something.
We were at a traffic light. To change the topic I opened the jewel case. “See, that’s him when he was a little boy.”
“He has his guitar. Does he play his guitar and drums?”
“Well, he has his friends to play the drums. He likes to play the guitar and sing.”
“Oh. Does he have a costume?”
“Yeah, sometime he dresses in a Halloween costume. He likes to dress in funny clothes while he plays the guitar. How about you? Do you like to dress in funny clothes when you play music?”
“No! Just regular!” Well, me too I guess. Comme pere, comme fils.
“Was it on the street?” Huh? “Did he get died on the street?”
(No, he was in bed. He died in his bed because he took too much medecine. Which is good for you, if you are sick, but only if the doctor tells you to take it. No, the doctor didn’t tell him to. If you take too much, it’s bad for you. By the way, yeah, I know it wasn’t as simple as a straight OD.)
“How did he take too much medecine in his stomach?” Good point. If you’re almost incapacitated, how do lift that last spoonful of cherry Robitussin? Well, it takes a while to kick in. I didn’t mention anything about needles.
“Why did he take too much medecine?”
“He thought it would make him feel good.”
“But it made him feel bad in his stomach?” Yeah, that’s about right.
“But the doctor fixed him at the hospital?” This was not fun to answer. Can’t we just enjoy the man’s music?
“I’m sad that he died. I don’t want him to die!”
“Well, it’s too late now.” What a wonderful father I am. “Yes, lots of people are sad that he died. They like his music and wish he did not die.”
“Maybe he can go to the hospital, and when he wakes up, he can look for the hospital people to make him feel better.”
Well, that was a long time ago, and after you die, no one can make you better. Now I was starting to get a little bummed.
Paging through the liner notes: “Is this when he died?” he pointed to a grainy b&w that, yeah, kind of looked like Jimi with his eyes closed lying on a sheet. What is this: liner notes, or a comic book adaptation of the Passion of Jimi Hendrix?
“Yeah. That’s him after he died, in his bed.” Yes, I am ashamed, but I was actually pretty tired. Anyway the pages kept turning.
“Is he dressed like a bad guy?” Speaking of comic books I recently saw a 1978 New York City comic-inspired gang movie called “The Warriors” (special edition) which features a character called Cochise who tied feathers in his afro and the whole nine yards, Lakota-style, like Jimi Hendrix. Great movie, by the way.
I said “Sometimes people dress like bad guys so they won’t be scared.”
“But he’s not a bad guy.” It’s good to end on a high note. I was already getting into the ‘Manic Depression’ groove. One of those early songs that Don and I learned.
