by Lewis Shiner
In 1989, London is one step further into the future than the United States, a little more toxic, more hostile. There’s less employment and fewer resources to go around. The third world is on every corner, East and West Indians, Africans, Asians: their shops, their newspapers, their music. Entire squatter cultures thrive in the council flats of Brixton. Public utilities are starved to the breaking point by the Conservative Party, then privatized. The rich protect themselves with insanely high property values and a heartless prime minister named Thatcher.
In 1970 London leads the way too. The newspapers complain of “stagflation,” a combination of stagnant consumer demand and runaway wage and price inflation. Underground fares have doubled and auto parts workers and miners have been on strike all summer long, while Prime Minister Heath sailed his sloop around the Isle of Wight, the same island where Jimi just played. Meanwhile, on Carnaby Street, fashion has already turned into a parody of itself, all huge collars and lapels and monstrous ties. They play rock and roll in all the shops, not out of love of the music but because, as Erika would say, “it’s simply expected.” American music, of course; English music, of course; English music seems as much a victim of stagflation as everything else.
I wandered into a record store on Carnaby Street where, between the stacks of Let It Be and Led Zeppelin II, I found dozens of forgotten bands: the Fourmost, Judas Jump, the Equals, Love Affair, Blue Mink, all of them with top ten hits, none of them able to make it last. The bins held only jackets and the records themselves were in paper sleeves behind the counter. I had nothing to play them on, no way to take them back to Austin except in my head.
I ended up in Hyde Park. It was a decent autumn afternoon, cool, with the sun breaking through now and again. There were a lot of kids there in the grass with long hair and patched jeans and guitars.
Keep this, I thought, keep the kids and the park and the weather. Lose the guys in the dark suits with the bowlers and umbrellas and red carnations who stared at them with open hatred. Lose the pollution and the cars; keep the trains and the buskers in the tube stops, with their music echoing through the long tiled halls. And keep Jimi. Most of all keep Jimi.
I got to Ronnie Scott’s club at midnight to see the show. It was a jazz venue, guys in suits and turtlenecks, guys in goatees and berets. The tables were all taken and I had to stand by the bar. I ordered a lemonade and checked the setup: Lonnie Jordan’s Hammond B-3 and the drums and congas and the stacks of amps completely filled the stage. A roadie made a last pass to duct-tape anything that moved, and then the lights went down.
War had been gigging for ten years in San Pedro, now they suddenly had a gold record and a European tour. It didn’t matter that front man Eric Burdon had been in the spotlight forever. They were hot. I saw the excitement and longing and bravado roll off them like sweat.
And tonight, for me, there was something extra. A chance to see Jimi perform again, and the knowledge that, in another world, this was the last time he would ever play in public.
The band tore into “They Can’t Take Away Our Music.” There’s a sound a well-miked snare drum makes on stage that you can never get on record, like an ax splitting wood. That sound alone was reason enough to be there. Burdon had shag-cut hair past his shoulders, looking younger than I would have thought, rejuvenated by the band’s energy. A spotlight hit Howard Scot for his guitar solo and the notes he played cut through the rhythm section like lasers. He fired them out of a blond-neck, sunburst Telecaster, looking fierce in sideburns that came down to meet the ends of his mustache.
As the spotlight tracked him I saw Jimi in the audience down front. Monika was with him, and a woman I thought was Devon Wilson, and five or six others crowded around. Jimi had on a shirt that looked like it was made out of peacock feathers.
I didn’t see Erika. I wouldn’t have a chance to talk to Jimi until after the show anyway. I stayed where I was and listened to the band. They did about half their album, standards like “Midnight Hour” and a couple of Animals tunes. They finished off with “Spill the Wine” and by this point the jazz crowd was on its feet.
Burdon gestured to Jimi and he got up on stage. He already has his black Strat up there, and he strapped it on and they went into “Tobacco Road.” It was awkward at first. Jimi seemed to expect to run things and the rest of the band wasn’t interested. When the time came they gave him a solo and Jimi cranked up and played hard.
Once Jimi started to play the personality clashes didn’t matter. It was loud enough that I thought my eardrums might bleed. His feedback went inside me and left me ringing like expensive crystal.
When he was done he built up to a big finish. The band played right over him and took their own solos. Jimi looked pissed off. He took his guitar off and started to walk away but Burdon grabbed him by the shoulder and yelled in his ear. Jimi shook his head resignedly and put the guitar back on and comped rhythm chords. He had a look on his face like “why am I doing this” but he stayed out the song. Burdon introduced him and he got a big round of applause, which seemed to cheer him up.
They went into “Mother Earth,” a traditional blues from the album, and things really caught fire. Howard Scot traded licks with Jimi and they both played blistering solos. People stood on their chairs and shouted and drank everything in sight. About this time some guy, either the manager or Ronnie Scott himself, came out and made frantic throat-cutting signals. It was the same thing I’d seen in my club days, managers terrified that somebody might have too good a time.
The band wound the song up and said their thank-yous and split. The house lights came up and the magic disappeared, leaving spilled drinks and cigarette butts, the knowledge that the last train had already run and there would be long queues for a taxi. For me it was worse, it was the sudden fear that this would after all be Jimi’s last show. There was no sign of Erika, and I started to panic. What if Jimi went out the back door and disappeared? A heavyset guy in leathers refused to let me backstage.
I was contemplating an all-night vigil on Lansdowne Crescent when Erika finally showed up. She was breathtaking in a strapless cream-colored dress. I had seen that body naked, had spent the night next to her, and never really touched her. I knew I wouldn’t get another chance. She had a young guy with her in leather pants and a white shirt and a ponytail like mine. She saw me as I stood up and the two of them made their way over. “Have they already finished then?” Erika asked.
I nodded. I wanted to apologize for the night before, but it wasn’t the time or place, even if she’d wanted to hear it. She introduced me to the guy, whose name I immediately forgot.
This time there was no problem getting backstage. The dressing room was mobbed, and a line of young women stood against the wall, like they were there for an audition. Monika and Devon guarded Jimi from either side. Now that he was through playing he looked drained. His eyes were narrow and lined and there was no light behind his smile.
After all the hours I’d tried to imagine this moment, I was speechless. I knew Jimi was lost by looking at him. I was an idiot to think I could change that.
Then he saw Erika. He came to life and hurried over to hug her. He was not quite as tall as me and there was a shyness in the way he moved that was the opposite of the way he was on stage. He kissed Erika on the lips and said, “Baby, you look so tired. I’m not trying to put you down, I’m just worried, you know, I want to be sure you’re okay and everything.”
“I’m fine. Listen, this is a friend of mine, Ray, from the States. He needs to talk to you and I think you should listen.”
I tried to swallow what felt like a ball bearing, stuck halfway down to my stomach. Jimi shook my hand and said, “Hey, Ray, brother, what’s happening?” The grip was familiar, large and dry and powerful, like his father’s. Everything about him was familiar. It was like I had known him all my life. “So did you like see the show and everything?”
“Yeah, it was really good. I saw you in Dallas, too, the first two times.”
�
�Oh yeah, Dallas, wow, man, that place is a real hassle sometimes. That first show everybody got real uptight over a little lighter fuel, you know?” He turned to Erika to bring her in. “They wouldn’t let me burn my guitar or anything so I kind of put out this row of footlights.”
“With the head of his guitar,” I said.
“See? The man was there.”
Erika touched Jimi’s cheek. Over her shoulder I saw the young guy in leather pants talking with Eric Burdon. She said, “Jimi, I really think you’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“Well, you know how it is, this and that, I got that trial thing coming up Friday. And there’s always somebody wants you to be somewhere, you know, it’s hard to get away.”
“Could you get away with me?” I said, finding my nerve again. “Just for a couple of minutes?”
Jimi looked at Erika and she said, “Go ahead, Jimi, I’ll wait here.”
We went through a fire door into an alley behind the club. It was red-brick and dark and the night had turned chilly. “Wooo, man,” Jimi said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the weather over here. This is supposed to be September, can you dig?”
I nodded. “Look, this is going to sound weird to you however I say it. I don’t know any way to do this except just blurt it out, okay?”
“Yeah, okay, whatever.”
I squatted down and Jimi squatted next to me, his huge hands tucked into his armpits. I looked at the bricks at my feet and said, “I know you’re open to things that most people aren’t. UFOs and magic and spiritual things. So if I sound crazy maybe you’ll give me a chance to, I don’t know, a chance to convince you.”
I knew I had to go ahead and say it or I would lose him. “I’m from the future and I can prove it.”
“Oh, man.”
“I know things nobody could possibly know. I know you want to get with Chas Chandler again. I know you’re planning to fly to New York after court on Friday, to get the tapes for First Rays of the New Rising Sun, and bring them back here for you and Chas to work on, to finish the record, so you can go play with Miles Davis.”
Jimi looked genuinely terrified. I hated to scare him, hated to look like some obsessed lunatic. “Who are you?” he said.
“My name is Ray Shackleford. I’m from 1989. I want to save your life.”
“Mike Jeffery sent you, right? Oh God, I knew this was gonna happen.”
“I’m not from Jeffery, I swear to you. I want you to finish the record. I saw a list you wrote out for it. Side one: ‘Dolly Dagger,’ ‘Night Bird Flying,’ ‘Room Full of Mirrors,’ ‘Belly Button Window,’ ‘Freedom’; side two: ‘Ezy Rider,’ ‘Astro Man,’ ‘Drifting,’ ‘Straight Ahead’; side three: you started out with ‘Night Bird Flying’ again—how could I know all this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because I’m who I say I am. And in the world I come from, you die Friday morning because you take a few too many of Monika’s sleeping pills and choke to death in your sleep.”
“Oh, man.” He looked at me sideways, like half of him wanted to laugh and the other half wanted to run away. “Oh, man.”
I rubbed my hands over my face, tried to relax. “Don’t make up your mind yet. Just listen. I know your rooms at the Cumberland are a cover and you’re staying with Monika at 22 Lansdowne Crescent. I know you just sent Billy Cox home because of an acid freak-out. I know you can’t trust any of these people who are all over you because they all want something.”
Jimi balanced himself with one hand and turned until his back rested against the wall of the club. “Man, it’s like, I just don’t know anymore, you understand? There’s all these people and there’s this new thing, like peace and love, right, and maybe these people really do love me, but…”
“Maybe they just need what you have. They see you on stage and they see how that music makes you so alive, and they all want that. Even if they have to take it away from you to get it.”
Jimi didn’t say anything.
“That’s not what I want. I want to save your life. I want to see First Rays finished.”
Jimi shook his head. “So tell me again what’s supposed to happen? I mean tell me exactly.”
I told him. I told him what the inside of Monika’s flat looked like, I told him the pills were called Vesperax and he shouldn’t take more than two, I described the attendants who picked him up.
“Man,” he said, “you’re really not bullshitting me are you? You really know something. You’re from when?”
“1989.”
“And I never finished First Rays or Straight Ahead or anything?”
“No. They did a single album called Cry of Love and a soundtrack for this really stupid movie called Rainbow Bridge, from that concert you did in Maui. Reprise threw them together from whatever was lying around. But everybody still knows who you are. You still win guitar magazine polls as favorite guitarist. They put music on these computer discs now, they call them compact discs, and they’ve reissued all your stuff, plus live albums and interviews and studio jams, everything they could find.”
“So I guess they’ve got computers playing everything, right? Is that what the music is like?”
“It’s like Led Zeppelin, mostly, only heavier. Heavy metal, they call it. That’s what most kids listen to.”
“Man.”
“The Beatles never get back together, but the Stones are still touring. And the Who.”
“I don’t know, man, this all sounds so weird and everything, all these old guys playing rock and roll. Did everything just like stop after I died?”
“Pretty much. There was something called punk at the end of the seventies, that was pretty exciting, only it got commercialized too fast. Now there’s rap, which is drum machines and chanting, not much music in it at all. But if you live, see, you can change it. With First Rays, by playing with Miles—”
The back door of the club swung open. Monika and Devon were there, and a black man in an expensive suit and a neatly trimmed beard. “Jimi,” Monika said, “shouldn’t we be maybe going home now?”
For a minute I’d had him. Now Monika had brought him back to earth, the real world of food and bed and court cases. He stood up and dusted at his velvet trousers. “Yeah, okay, whatever.”
I stood up too. “Listen,” I said. “I want to come see you. Thursday night, at Monika’s place. To make sure nothing happens, okay?”
“Sure, man, come over about twelve or something, all right? We can talk some more, that’ll be real nice.”
As they went inside I heard Monika ask, “Who was that funny man? What was he wanting?”
I stayed in the alley for a minute or two to get my breath. Okay, I thought. I can’t miss this time. Everything is going to be okay. I went back in. Jimi was gone, and so were Erika and her new boyfriend. That was okay too. Everything was going to be okay.
I was at Lansdowne Crescent at midnight sharp Thursday night. I knocked on the door downstairs and when nobody answered I tried to see in the darkened window, and finally sat on the steps to wait. It hadn’t rained all day but the air was damp and the chill got into my bones. I was wearing new clothes that I’d bought on Oxford Street and I’d been to see Sly Stone at the Lyceum. I’d seen Eric Clapton in one of the box seats, but Jimi didn’t show.
When he wasn’t at Monika’s flat by two I started to worry. He might have decided I was crazy and gone to the Cumberland Hotel to avoid me. He could take the same Vesperax at the Cumberland as he could at Monika’s and wind up just as dead.
I heard Monika’s sports car a little before three. A minute or so later the two of them came down the metal stairs, Monika in the lead. “Jimi,” she said, “that strange man is again coming around.”
Jimi looked disappointed to see me. “I’m really sorry,” he said, “there was this thing at this rich cat’s flat I had to go to.”
“You just have to promise me one thing and I’ll get out of here. Promise me you won’t take more than two of Monika’s sleeping
pills. They’re stronger than anything you’re used to.”
“If I don’t sleep tonight I swear I’ll go out of my mind.”
“Just take one or two, and if they don’t put you out right away, give them another few minutes. I promise you they’ll knock you out. And you’ll still be alive tomorrow.”
Monika had only been half listening. “Is this man making threats to you?” she asked.
“No, be cool, baby, he wants to help me.”
“Everybody is wanting to help you.”
“I just want him to promise,” I said to her. “If he takes any of your Vesperax, he shouldn’t have more than two.”
“Okay, all right, already, I promise.” He laughed with no feeling in it. “I promise.”
I shook his hand and said goodnight. Monika watched me suspiciously all the way up the stairs, but that was okay. Watch over him, Monika, he needs a guardian angel tonight.
I stood outside in the cold knowing there was nothing more I could do. Finally I caught a cab on Ladbroke Grove and went back to my hotel.
I was outside the flat at ten the next morning. My heart was in my mouth. I hadn’t fallen asleep until after sunup and it seemed like only seconds later that I got my wake-up call. I felt like a knife that had been sharpened over and over for a single job, and now the job was nearly done but I was worn away to nothing. I sat and stared at my watch, and every few seconds my eyes would flick back to the wrought iron gate at number 22.
At 10:13 Monika came up the stairs, looking rumpled. She headed down the street toward the local market. It took all I had not to bolt down the stairs to see if Jimi was okay.
