September 18, 1970 was fifty years ago today, the day Jimi Hendrix died in London at age 27. We were not well acquainted with sudden death at age 14, and the news came as a real shock, a slap in the face; our initial reaction was disbelief: "Not Hendrix. He can't die." We were still pretty well insulated from the harshness of the adult world, and completely unaware of the dangerous, treacherous "rock star" lifestyle; our naive belief was that these demigods walked on air, immune from mortal risk. But we'd also been studying music for six years and we already knew Jimi Hendrix was touched by musical genius. You couldn't help but hear it; his searing, emotional, and, yes, intensely patriotic deconstruction of the "Star-Spangled Banner" at Woodstock remains a masterpiece today and was no less so then. We'd rather listen to the man make music than fix where he stands among the greats, but many call him the greatest of electric guitarists, and we've no reason to dispute it. What makes this moment today especially sad is considering how far, how immeasurably far, he might have taken his genius beyond such considerations if he had had fifty more years to do so.
