I Shot Jimi Hendrix

Forget what you read about there only being two life squad workers who picked up Hendrix that day in 1970 from his flat and took him to St. Mary Abbot’s Hospital. There were three, and I was the third, unnamed one. I should have taken better care of my patient, as he lay in back of the ambulance, breathing. I repeat, breathing. Maybe high, but hell, I was high myself, who wasn’t back then? It’s why I refused to drive. I saw two steering wheels. And I let Jimi slip away, not noticing that his breaths became shallower, as they must have, and then stopped, as they did. Actually, I shot Jimi Hendrix, and that explains why he stopped breathing.

The other two medics had left the superstar to me, while they had fun taking harebrained chances in traffic with our lights and siren on max. I, a huge Hendrix fan, wanted nothing more than to save the god of music. ‘Jimi, man, Jimi, it’s going to be all right,’ I kept saying to his recumbent form, as I played with my gun. I had taken my pistol out of my concealed holster, without knowing why. To this day I don’t know why I took it to work. Crazy, acid-filled days! Then there was a big explosion in my hands, and I had plugged the Voodoo Child. It was an accident, of course. I was just showing Jimi how to load the gun, how to aim it, how to fan off shots. At the hospital entrance, after I saw what had gone down, I split. My medic partners never mentioned me to anyone. I was too mortified myself to speak up for days. But it’s just as I say. I’m the one who killed Hendrix, right here. I shot him. I gave him the gun. I think so, though as I say I was tripping on Pluto.

Whenever I go public with this, of course, no one believes me. I came clean the first time just days after the tragedy. The police, the press and the ambulance management all brushed me aside, stating that I wasn’t on duty at the right time or the right place, that there was no gunshot wound, and that someone in my condition, who slurred his words, had a lot of facial tics and kept drooling, couldn’t possibly know what happened.

This constant skepticism grates on me. The truth is, I shot him. Yes, I did! I shot him! My memories of it—the flashbacks of a druggie, if you prefer, but the druggie was there—are too vivid to be illusions. I even remember now why I had my gun. I was going to buy some reefer late that night in a bad part of town, and wanted some protection. So there you go.

I dream of the tragedy, too. It’s that close to me. In one dream I’m with the guitarist, and he’s sitting on a chair in what appears to be a recording studio, eyes closed. Suddenly he opens his eyes, and I hear the soft, violin-like feedback of a distant electric guitar. It’s full-channel stereo with Dolby. ‘Jimi,’ I say, ‘you’re okay.’ ‘There will be tomorrow,’ he says in his gentle voice, smiling. Then, ‘Blam!’ goes my gun. Scratch one world-changing guitarist. The scene explodes in my head like the rising sun, but I awaken to a darkened world.

I’m retired now, but for years after I blew Hendrix away, I made a point of giving the best possible emergency care to every victimized patient in my ambulance. I wasn’t going to let any more greatness slip from this world, not on my shift, regardless of their field or talent. If I found Steven Hawking or Maggie Thatcher or Keith Richards in my care, no matter how juiced or fried I was, or they were, I was doing trachea clearing, CPR and mask all the way to the ER, and I was definitely not shooting anyone. I did my best for everyone who overdosed, since you never know who you’re reviving back there. Safest way is to treat everyone as if they’re famous and a genius, and that’s what I did. I knew that this would never make amends, but it was the best I could do. They still didn’t let me attend Jimi’s funeral.

Naturally I don’t expect this news about Jimi’s death to revive the interest in him there once was. When I talk about him at all, people look bored and say, ‘Jimi? Yeah, he was the greatest,’ just tolerating me. And when I go on to explain how I shot and killed the greatest, they’ll look at me like they think my brain is running on a pair of synapses, or they’ll say, ‘Oh you shot Hendrix? Really?’ And it’s clear it makes no difference to them, it’s so old and irrelevant.

But that’s just it. It still matters. Everyone should care. I don’t see any guitarist or musician today of whom I’d feel right about saying, That’s all Jimi would have done, the debt is repaid. Cobain? Don’t even talk to me about Cobain, or any other rock guitarist. The debt is alive, and that’s why I can’t forget. I hear a hot guitar solo now, or any interesting new sounds, and I hang my head over what could have been. Jimi, I took away too much of your sweet time. I’ll give it right back to you one of these days. Just remind me to leave the safety on next time.

Oh yeah, I also shot Brian Jones.