Jimi Hendrix Episode 12: Who Killed Jimi Hendrix?

would bandy about for years after Jimmy's untimely death. Another two would be the number of hitmen Michael Jeffrey, Jimmy's manager, sent on a covert mission to drown Jimmy with booze and pills, if, as one theory goes, Michael Jeffrey killed Jimmie Hendrix. Two more would be the number of white paramedics who refused to revive and treat the famous black rock star as they drove him to an undignified death at St. Mary Abbott's hospital, if, as another theory goes,

the neglectful paramedics really did kill Jimmie Hendrix. Twenty is the number of the recommended dosage of vesper x, a powerful barbiturates that would be fund in Jimmy's body. Twenty times the recommended dosage all totally on this our final episode of season one, covert hitman, neglectful paramedics, twenty times the recommended dose, and Jimmie Hendricks. I'm Jake Brennan in this cosy. James Tappywright wished he could unhear when he

just heard. It's shocked him. It shall olenged everything he knew. It rocked his world, and it scared the ship out of him. Michael Jeffrey had just confessed to Jimmie Hendricks's murder, not in so many words, that is, it was strongly implied. He had no choice. He told Tappy he was out of options. He had to do it. Tappy and Michael Jeffrey were at Jeffrey's apartment in February discussing the upcoming

American leg of the Jimmy Plays Berkeley Tour. They had just finished touring the documentary film around the UK and Europe, where they had sold out venues and continued to spread the gospel of Jimmie Hendricks. His death was still fresh in the minds of many. The movie could give fans the thing that they would never be able to experience again.

A live performance by Jimmie Hendricks delivered on a thirty ft tall movie theater screen, and they had a few drinks and a few more, and Jeffrey was relaxed, but also a little drunk. Tappy had noticed a change in Jeffrey's recent daily to meet here. He was no longer under pressure, no longer under the gun, and Tappy would notice. He had been working for Jeffrey since the days back in Newcastle, running clubs and bringing up the animals. A respected roady, a doer. Tappy was there through it all,

did what needed doing, helped here, help there. Tappy was everywhere, rubbing elbows with everyone, from the Beatles and the Rolling Stones to kN Tina Turner to Elvis Presley. And he was there as Jeffrey took on more responsibility with Jimmy and the studio, took on more debts, new debts to pay for old debts, even newer debts to pay for the new debts to pay for the old debts. Tappy was the one who would drive Jeoffrey out to New Jersey,

who was secluded suburban mob house. He'd sit in the car, tap his fingers on the steering wheel as he listened to the Archie's the Foundations, to Tommy James and the Shawn Dells while Jeffrey was inside doing his business, shaking hands, making deals, signing his life away. Jeffrey would walk back to the car, suitcase in hand, loaded up with fresh bills handed to him by mafia kingpins, the guys who could afford to live in these ostentatious and Jersey mansions.

Tappy was there too when the calls started coming in, when Jeffrey couldn't pay the mafia back. Jeffrey was over extended, ambitious and greedy. Michael Jeffrey was fucked. Where's the money, Michael, The heated mob voices would say from the other end of the phone, Where's the fucking money? Ship in. Tappy started living his life by looking around every corner, checking underneath cars before getting inside, screening phone calls, Remaining extremely

wary of strangers. He lived his life every day like someone was coming for his boss, Michael Jeffrey's head. And now sitting in Jeffrey's apartment reminiscing on a wildly successful documentary film Tour, things seem more relaxed. Tappy was no longer on edge. Jeffrey had paid off the I R S, paid off the Mob. He was even able to buy out Jimmy's interest in electric ladies studios from Jimmy's father, Al Tappy wanted to know where did Jeffrey get all

that money? Why was everything coming up roses, And that's when the mood of the room changed. Jeffrey tensed up. It had obviously been weighing on him all this time. The secret he had. He had many secrets, all collected through many years of his life, but this one, this one may have been the hardest to keep inside, because even though Jeffrey was a great keeper of secrets, this one felt different. I had no bloody choice, Jeffrey told Tabby. The implication hung there in the air like a thick

fog of Dunhills smoke. The look in Michael Jeffrey's cold eyes filled into blanks. The look said a lot. Mostly it said, I'm a survivor. When the ship house starts to go up in flames, I'm the motherfucker with the fire extinguisher. I'm Michael Jeffrey. I do what needs doing to get myself undone, my man, qualified man. The look filling in the space around Jeffrey's last comment, I had no bloody choice. It also said it was the payout and the two million dollar insurance policy took out on

Jimmy's head. And it was the insurance policy that rescued Jeffrey from certain ruin or even death from his debtors. The mob again, according to James Tappy, right, Michael Jeffrey had no bloody choice. Tappy could believe it. Michael Jeffrey, former agent of the Special Forces for the British Intelligence Michael Jeffrey mobbed up. Michael Jeffrey, professional badass, Michael Jeffrey, trained killer, or so he told Tappy. Jeffrey sold that image hard, and guys like Tappy bought it hook line

and sinker. Tappy put two and two together Jeffrey's vague confession and the reports from the attending doctors about the red wine that had been in Jimmy's mouth and throat but not in his stomach, and now Tappy was burdened with this bombshell, one of a handful of people who knew about it. He wished he didn't. He'd been on the sidelines for most of his life on a need to know basis, and now he was privy to the deepest,

darkest secrets. He sat across the table from Jeffrey in the apartment and picked up what was being put down. Tappy was convinced that Jeffrey had offered Jimmy. Convinced that Jeffrey had sent a couple of goons to that apartment in Nodding Hill and it was there that they forced the red wine down Jimmy's throat until he drowned. James. Tappy right sat on his bar stool in a near empty seaside Whitley Babe pub Convinced Michael Jeffrey killed Jimmie Hendricks,

his imagination went into overdrive. He could see it all, how it all could have come together, and it was moving fast. When Michael Jeffrey got the news that Jimmy had taken meetings with Chaz Chandler and Alan Douglas, it was the last straw. Tappy knew this. He knew Jimmy meeting with Chaz again would have flipped out his boss Jeffrey.

So Tappy knew that if Jeffrey did what he thought he did, they need to have the idea circling around in his head for a while before moving on it, Before taking it from just an annoying thought to an idea. He needed to execute on. Michael Jeffrey's days as manager to the greatest guitar player in the world were numbered. If Jeffrey lost Jimmy, Tappy figured, then he would have no way out from his mob debts. So Jeffrey moved quick. If he was going to survive avoid being clipped by

the mafia, then Jimmie Hendricks had to go. It was the only way for Michael Jeffrey. It was never a question of if he could do it, It was a question of how. In his rampant imagination, Tappy could see Jeffrey going into full James Bond Boat total Mission Impossible

waking fantasy. Tappy saw Jeffrey tightening his cuff links, smoothing his pressed white shirt, donning his black jacket, punching his cuffs, methodically cleaning the lenses of his dark prescription glasses with the pocket square from his suit jacket, the theme from Peter Gunn playing in a loop in his head on Max Volume. Tappy knew the training from Jeffrey's days laid dormant inside of him, and that Jeffrey thought of it

as an ace up as sleeve. It was in part what gave him the balls to deal with the mafia types. He's so casually borrowed money from that training coiled inside of him like a sleeper sell ready to be activated, covert deep cover. No more. Now it was alive, ship was on. Warner Brothers weren't the only ones with half a fucking clue. Mike Jeffrey knew how thin the mortal coil was being stretched by his client, Jimmy Hendricks, so he took out a two million dollar life insurance policy

on his star attraction as well. And now, after all the bullshit, after the arrest in Toronto and the subsequent trial, the kidnapping at the Salvation Club, the shakedowns on the streets of Harlem, the drugs and the girls, and the constant deviation from the master plan, after Jimmy collapsing on stage and barely escaping an island on fire, after coming out from under a recording studio that was hell bent on sinking no matter how hard they tried to keep

it afloat, After the back alley fist fights and threatening phone calls and claims of illegitimate children, after all the other fame hungry hangers on who wanted a piece of Jimmy's pie. After all of that, at this time, finally for Michael Jeffrey to cash in on his Voodoo child cash cat to quit while he was ahead. Jimmy wasn't gonna listen anymore. Jeffrey had resorted to keeping Jimmy as preoccupied and disoriented as possible. He controlled his mind by

dosing him with drugs. He controlled his location by buying him that swank house outside of Woodstock. He controlled his creativity by giving him the recording studio of his dreams. He did all of this just so he could minimize the amount of not listening that Jimmy would do. Tabby knew that Jeffrey knew that. The simple truth was that he, Michael Jeffrey could not carry on with Jimmy Hendrix. If Jimmy's behavior didn't drive him to the point of no return, then his debt to the mob to keep him and

Jimmy happy and on the charts certainly did. Jeffrey had no other artist in his stable that was enough of a moneymaker. He wasn't going to bring him the bacon with soft machine, no offense. He was losing his grip, and he was too smart to not know the Chaz Chandler wasn't too far behind. Chaz was always there when it came to Jimmy, never quite out of the picture, waiting in the cut, about to strike and steal Jeffrey's voodoo child right out from under him, cut him down

to size. Tabby heard the rumors, Ship. They weren't even rumors, they were more like public declarations. Jeffrey was a cheat, a scoundrel, and opportunists. Eric Burden flat oled accused Jeffreys stealing money from the animals, and Burden let anyone who would listen know that he thought Michael Jeffrey was a dirty thief, that he set up an offshore tax haven, funneled skim and earnings from his bands into it to avoid heavy UK taxes, move money around from country to country,

island to island, suitcase to suitcase. Good fellow and a good fellow. Tappy knew that if Jimmy didn't know what Burden knew, that he would know soon enough. And he fucking a knew that Michael Jeffrey would have known this too, known this that if Jimmy Hendricks cut Michael Jeffrey loose, then Jimmie Hendricks was a fucking dead man. No Jimmy, no money, no money, no more yank with the boys

from Jersey. It was a death sentence for Jeffrey. And if the mob didn't get on and the I R s would they take the studio, his houses, his fancy clothes, his fancy drugs. They take every last thing and leave him with barely the shoes on his feet. He'd have to take the subway or the tube to work in some downtown shipole or worse, to the unemployment office like some ordinary joe. Fuck that. He wasn't gonna let that happen. He got in the zone, he got a character, and

he moved with the quickness. Tappy can see it all happening. Michael Jeffrey is Michael Caine and funeral in Berlin, doing what had to be done to save his ass. A qualified man smashing her motherfucker's face him with a vase of roses without thinking twice if need be. But but he wasn't about to get his own hands dirty in

the process. Jeffrey was too smart for that. Tappy knew it best for Jeffrey to stay on the sidelines, call the shots from behind his dark prescription classes don't risk that two million dollar life insurance paym the goon is listened intently, and Michael Jeffrey spoke, this is what you're gonna do. Jimmy and his old lady are powering around town today. Go sweat the Sammer kid. She's got a room there. Wait till he's alone. Even if you have to wait all night. Wait, he'll be watching. You'll be

waiting when he's alone. That's when you can't do it. Tappy could see them in his mind's eye, the goons. They're peering inside the Samarkan flat window, hiding undercover in the small gardens and wrought iron fencing out front. They watched while Monica made Jimmy the tuna sandwich, their own bellies rumbling. They just needed to get this over with so that they could go eat. They were starving. The sun was coming up. Monica's eyes were going down. She

passed out. Jimmy absent mindedly grabbed a fistfull of sleeping pills Monica's vesper x and slugged them back with another swig of wine from the glass next to the bed. It felt like he hadn't slept in days, and at this moment it was all he needed the pills to do the trick. Little did he know he was making the job for the goons waiting outside all the more easy. The goons stood quiet, watching, whispering, waiting. A few hours later Monica woke, walked drowsily around the apartment, and then

she left, took a hike on up the street. Left Jimmy passed out cold in bed. It was time the goons tried the front door unlocked. They were in easy. They swept into the flat like a gust of wind, closed the door behind the dead bull blatched. They spoke in hand signals, blinks of the eye, head nods. They were in all black, black pants, black shirts, black beanie hats, and they moved swiftly. Tappy could see them in his mind, and now he thought of another Michael Caine reference gambit.

The goons would have been tall, one routon the other sickly, a real young yang thing, one lanky, one short stacked. The sickly goon spied the bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter waiting for them, just as Jeffrey had said, Jimmy's crypt tonite, and Jeffrey called it the fellow should use it to their advantage. Jimmy was laying in bed, fully closed on top of the sheets, his black strap nestled next to him. The two stood over sleeping Jimmy Hendrix and the sickly Goon pulled the cork from the

half empty bottom for red wine. It made a startling popping sound, loud enough that Jimmy was roused. He started mumbling something about Brian Jones, something about rotis reading, like he was talking to them. The sickly goon with the wine bottle motioned to his partner, who grabbed the front of Jimmy's shirt and lifted his head slightly from the pillow. Jimmy's eyes fought to open up, but the pills were

fighting him. He just kept mumbling Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, like a tick, like it was on a loop in his brain. And the sickly goon squeezed Jimmy's prone cheeks with his left hand and shoved the wine bottle into Jimmy's mouth was his right. The bottle was turned upside down and the red wine came out like it had busted through a floodgate. Jimmy's eyes still weren't fully open as he started to guzzle the Bluese that was being forced on him, and the bottle smacked against one of his front teeth.

He started to choke, made wretching noises, sending SIPs of wine splattering onto the sickly goon's black jacket. Two held him there, made him take it, made him taste it, made him swim in it, drowning it. After the last drop was out of the bottle, they dropped Jimmy's head back down onto the pillow. He was unconscious again, seemed, but his chest was still heaving. The goons split fast.

The empty wine bottle was recorked, put back on the kitchen counter, and they could hear sputtering and wretching coming from the bedroom, and then silence. They left up the front door, closed it behind them. They had done Michael Jeffrey's bidding, and now they were getting something to eat, and they were fucking starving. And James Tappy right sitting on his bar stool, but a year after his boss's most famous client up and died, was thirsty as fuck. The thought of it, all, the why, the how, the

who is shook Tappy with fear. He pushed the who done into the back of his mind, straightened himself out on his stool, shrugged, and ordered another pint. It could have happened that way, but Tappy wouldn't know for sure. The only thing he was sure of was that Jimmie Hendricks was dead and that Michael Jeffrey was a bad, bad and we'll be right back after this word were were?

Monica Danemon spoke calmly as she told her attorney the same story she'd been telling the world for over twenty years, the same story she told the day Jimmie Hendricks died, The same story she told in the Inner World of Jimmie Hendricks, the book she had just published. The same story she was now being taken to court over charged with libel against Cathy Etchingham, another of Jimmie Hendricks's former girlfriends. But Monica didn't see herself as just another girlfriend. She

told the attorney. Monica Daneman hadn't known Jimmie Hendricks for that law. The connection she felt was strong, and who were they to tell her that her connection wasn't strong, she didn't feel the way she felt, or that Jimmy wasn't as true blue as she believed him to be. The haters were just jealous they wanted what she had and they couldn't have it. Who fucking who for them?

When she first met Jimmy in a bar and Dusseldor if it was all over all downhill, She left Germany, left her job as an ice skating instructor, and went where Jimmy went. Sometimes she'd get his attention, other times not. And they had a few nights together here, a few nights together there, and then those last days in London at the Samarcan she had his complete attention in the garden, he told her he loved her, He told her that

he would marry her. Didn't matter if he said those same things to other girls on other days and other gardens. He belonged to her now and she wasn't about to let go. And Kathy Etchingham I thought Monica was offered, not deluded, that she had casually met Jimmie hendrickson a bar and Dooseldorf and almost instantly concocted a fantasy where she and Jimmy were the leading roles. And furthermore, she would say whatever she needed to say to push other people,

people like Kathy further out of the picture. No one was going to write her out of history, least of all a delusional ice skater. Monica had been accused of a lot of things in Jimmy's death. Accused of neglect, lies, accused of poisoning him, used of waiting too long to call an ambulance. But she stuck to her story. She sat across the table from her attorney and spoke her truth,

the things she believed. Others called them conspiracies, fantasies, falsehoods, meant to benefit no one but Monica Daneman, but she stood her ground. She told her attorney that she thought the paramedics were neglectful. The paramedics refused to give Jimmy the help he needed because he was black. It was so fucking obvious, she thought, I could see it in her mind, see how the whole thing played out. It was obvious because Jimmy's life was full of more than

his fair share of racist encounters. He had told her about the time that the cops had stopped Jimmy and Cathy as they walked on the streets of London. Jimmy dressed in that antique royal vet core jacket, guilty only of walking while black, or perhaps more accurately, walking while

black with a white woman on his arm. Jimmy had also told her stories about touring with the experience in the States, about the restaurants in the South where he would begrudgingly eat with the rest the tour crew, and Jimmy, the only black man in the joint, he managed to sit through an awkwardly quick meal, all white eyes in

the place on him the entire time. The tour made its way to Seattle, where a cop pulled a gun on Jimmy, a cop who was hired to protect him because he was walking hand in hand with a white woman. Other cops pulled their guns too. The whole situation turned into a standoff of extremely ignorant proportions and ended with hired cops walking off the job simply because they couldn't stomach Jimmy, a black man walking with a white woman.

Monica was convinced that the day he died was the same thing that a couple of white paramedics walked into the flat, saw a white woman with a black man, and their inherent racism flared to the surface. Monica closed her eyes and envisioned the whole scenario clearly in her head. She could see Jimmy's life slipping away inside the ambulance. Every bump in the road that the ambulance hit, he felt it in his bones. His stomach went into revolt with every sharp turn, each breath he took, it felt

like it could be his last. He was sitting up in a stretcher, his shirts soiled with vomit and wine spots dried red wine threw out his hair, his eyes swarming around in his head. He felt his pulse quicken and then suddenly dropped down to a dribble, and then it quickened again. He was just as surprised as anyone that he was actually conscious in the back of this ride.

He could have sworn he felt dead there for a few minutes earlier in the morning, and the paramedics both sat in the front of the ambulance, one driving, another riding shotgun. Shouldn't one of them be back here with me, Jimmy thought, fighting the ways of pain and nausea. Why wasn't someone taking his vitals, monitoring his pulse, making sure he remained in this world. I'll meet in the next one,

don't be late. And they passed the first hospital. Through his half masted eyes, he watched the hospital come and go through the ambulance window. He raised his arm, pointed out the window, mumbled some words something to draw ten into the fact that they had just driven by a fucking hospital. His mumbling seemed to fall on deaf ears, and the paramedics weren't any rush to get to their destination.

They weren't in a rush period. The two paramedics had arrived at Monica's rented flat about ten minutes after she made the call, and they took their time, didn't bust down the apartment door, didn't scatter and make up for lost time. They walked patiently into the bedroom, found Jimmy unconscious, and gradually got him up on the stretcher and packed into the ambulance. They slapped his face, attended to and rustled around for some medical instruments in their bag, and

within seconds, Jimmy's eyes had fluttered open slightly. He was still there, still inside that body, still with it. When they left, Monica remembered that they didn't turn the siren back on, just merged into traffic like any other vehicle driving on any other Friday. Jimmy wheezed, spattered some more, felt another wave of wretching coming on. It was burning up.

One of the paramedics clicked the stereo on and the chairman of the boards, You've got Me Dangling on a String rolled through its giddy yet mournful chorus, and the paramedic writing shotguns snapped his fingers. Now this is music, truth be told. This is my kind of black music. It's calm, catchy, strings are nice, boy, Too much of you give. People's music is loud and political. Paramedic driving chimed in, say it loud. He's black and he's almost dead.

And as you shared a laugh while the song played on, You've got Me Dangling on a string. Please don't let me trapping because everything I've gotten Back in the stretcher, more reclined than upright, Jimmy began choking some more. He felt his airway clog up again, tasted the Vombit there, lodge tight that your girl back there at the apartment. Shotgun writing paramedic yelped towards Jimmy and the stretcher, twisting his neck just enough so that his voice would carry

into the back. How many white women does that make for you? Oh, it's the problem. You don't like black ladies. Jimmy's face went flush as he lost more ability to breathe. He was too tired to move. He was slipping under again. He could feel it. He'ld come up for air only to be humiliated and ignored by these racist assholes, and

now they were just gonna let him die here. He knew it, looking down at his feet in the back of the shot bus ambulance, listening to the chairman of the fucking board on this goddamn slow boat to China. When the ambulance pulled into St. Mary Abbott's Hospital in Kensington, Jimmy was under again, and the paramedics flung open the back doors, pulled the stretcher out, and went to wheel

him into the emergency room. And they didn't check any vitals, They didn't take stock of the situation, and they didn't look back as they casually walked away out of the hospital and back to their ambulance. They didn't give two ships because it didn't really matter to them at all. Jimmy Hendricks didn't matter to them at all. They got

him there, it was someone else's job to care. The doctor's noted the unusual amounts of red wine residue on Jimmy's clothes, in his hair, in his throat, in his lungs, if not necessarily in his stomach, it was coming out of his nose, in his mouth. When one of the nurses saw Jimmy on the stretcher and shouted and shocked, Oh, that's Jimmy Hendrix. Who's Jimmy Hendrix, the attending doctor responded.

Moments later, the same doctor called it confirmed Jimmy's long running premonitions that he, James Marshall Jimmy Hendrix was dead at just months away from his twenty birthday. With Jimmy gone, it was just Monica's story against the world in the world had questions, The world had doubts. The world wasn't buying her story about the death of the most famous guitar player on the planet, not buying it at all.

Not one. The theory about Michael Jeffrey's better dead than alive goonish takedown of Jimmy Hendrix and the theory about incompetent racist paramedics are arguably far fetched. They seem more like attempts to explain the sudden death of a unique musical talent that Jimmy's death couldn't have been so blah, so pedestrian, so clich that some sinister force must have taken him down something fantastical. He was just too unique,

too special, too immortal to die so predictably. The truth may have been less pulpy than the twin theories positive by Tabby and Monica, but the truth was tragic. Nonetheless, the truth about Jimmie hendricks death goes like this. Jimmie Hendricks took nine of Monica Daneman's vest Direx pills. That's nearly twenty times the recommended dosage. It was enough to

take down a goddamn rhino. The autopsy concluded that he died from inhalation of vomit due to barbituate intoxication and phetamines plus wine plus second all and then a ship ton of vesper x. He chugged the booze, he chugged the pills, He fell asleep on his back, and he didn't wake up when his body rejected the leaf of cocktail. Intentional, probably not a dumb move made by a guy who was running on fumes and just wanted the world to stop for a moment so his body and mind could

catch up. That's most likely what happened, but we'll never really know. Jimmie Hendricks was buried at Greenwood Cemetery in rent In, Washington, a Seattle suburb. It was the first day of October in n It was cheaper to bury Jimmy in Renton than in Seattle. Between the naughty mess that was his estate and the paltry salary that his father Al earned his landscaper, it just made fiscal sense to bury him there. Plus, his mother, Lucille, was buried

there too. The funeral took place at the Dumblap Baptist Church. Only one reporter and one photographer gotten the door. Hundreds of fans lined the streets outside. Jimmy's family was intended says were Michael Jeffrey No Reading, Mitch Mitchell and Buddy Miles, Johnny Winter, Alan Douglas, Miles Davis, and Devin Wilson. Devon flung herself at the open grave. A short time later, in February of one, she took another dive. This time it was from a ninth story window of the Chelsea

Hotel in New York City. She was dead as soon as she hit the pavement on twenty third Street. The whole thing was shrouded in mystery. Was Devin Wilson pushed or did she jump? And there wasn't much of an investigation, Devon being devon. As far as many were concerned, it was the jump kup her nose and in her arm that did her in. Jimmy's dark shadows snuffed out, case closed. The tragic deaths of people in Jimmy's life didn't end there. It was only three days after Jimmy's funeral that Janis

Joplin checked out in Hollywood heroin overdose. Jim Morrison followed a short nine months later, supposedly heart failure and a bathtub in Paris. Like Jimmy, they too were only twenty seven years old. In March of nineteen seventy three, Michael Jeffrey was traveling from ma Yorker to London to attend a trial on UK royalties for Jimmy's music. Depending on the verdict, he was looking to add another layer of

lining to his already well stuffed pockets. The Iberian Airways d C nine he was on collided with the Span Text Coronado and mid air over France. All forty seven passengers, including Michael Jeffrey, were killed. Noel Redding was one of the few who called bullshit on the plane crash. They never identified Jeffrey's body in the wreckage. Surely must be hiding on one of these islands with one of his many suitcases of money, dead and loving it. Most certain

not true. But Jeffrey was, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Anything's possible. In April of n Monica Daneman was found guilty of contempt of court. She had been lying to reporters about Jimmy's death when Cathy Etchingham had the coroner's inquest, reopened. Her fantasy world about a relationship with Jimmy took on a life of its own after his death, and she

remained consumed by his memory. The walls of her house were filled with paintings of Jimmy that she had created. She held on to Jimmy's black stratocaster that he had been playing that last day. She wrote a book about her brief time with her supposed fiance, The Inner World of Jimmie Hendricks, which contained a lot of photos she took on her last day together. Two days after she

was found guilty of contempt. She parked from Mercedes bends in her garage, closed the garage door, rolled her windows down, breathed in, d filled her lungs with carbon monoxide, and they were the last breaths she would take. She was fifty years old. Chas Chandler was fifty seven when he died in his sleep at Newcastle General Hospital in July. He had been admitted to undergo tests for a new

ordic aneurism his heart gave out. Noel Redding had a rocky relationship with the Hendricks estate following Jimmy's death in the seventies. He first sued Warner Brothers for hundreds of thousands of dollars and damages plus royalties, and then sued both Warners and chas Chandler for a cool three million. In a few thousand three, he sued the Hendricks estate

for another five million in royalty zone. A few months later, he was found dead by his manager at his home in Ireland, unknown causes, and he was only fifty seven. Mitch Mitchell died in a Portland, Oregon hotel room in November two thousand and eight. He was on the last stop of a US tour with the experienced Hendricks show attribute show to his former group featuring high profile musical guests. His death was due to natural causes and he was

just sixty one. Over the years, all these musicians and more were wrapped up and tied up in the ongoing legacy of Jimmy Hendricks, his music, his legend, his place in the nineteen sixties, and in the pantheon of rock music architects. Though he only released three studio albums, one live album, and one compilation album during a short lifetime, his postumous catalog continues to grow. There have been releases galore of live shows and studio outtakes, but also lawsuits galore.

Record companies, bandmates, family members. A lot of hands have dipped into the Hendricks pie. Jimmy remains the ultimate archetype for rock guitarists, for psychedelic music makers, for left handers and freak flag waivers, and for those who like their fashion sense to raise a few eyebrows. If Jimmy had stopped searching along the way, stop trying to find that thing, that thing that clicked, the right thing with his left hand, searching for something that made sense, the right band or

right song, or right girl. If he stopped searching that, he wouldn't have been Jimmy. He would have been just another dude from Seattle with a guitar and a head full of illicit drugs. He would have done what Little Richard told him to do. Remained in the shadows, but there was always something new to seek out. Sometimes, like the music he made with Band of Gypsies, the results of the detour were great. Other times, like that last Faithful night with Monica, they were deadly. But it was

always Jimmy's move. Jimmy made it happen, and there was no way he wouldn't. People don't realize as he wants, say that a plastic cage is so easy to break. Jimmy hendricks Stone free to do what he please. He can't stay, He's gotta get away. I'm Jake Brennan and this is the seven col. Twenty seven Club is scored and co written by me Jake Brennan. Zeth Lundi is

the lead writer, editor and co producer. The twenty seven Club is mixed and engineered by Sean kaal And and Matt Bowden, both of whom lent their considerable music talent to the scoring of this series, as well additional music and score elements by Ryan Spreaker. The twenty seven Club is produced by myself a Double Elvis in partnership with iHeart Radio. Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com on the twenty seven Club series page.

The twenty seven Club is released weekly every Thursday. Season one features twelve episodes on Jimmy hendricks In season two will feature twelve episodes on Jim Morrison. If you'd like what to hear, please be sure to subscribe to the twenty seven Called on Apple podcast the I Heart Radio

Apple wherever you get their podcasts. Then if you'd like to win a free twenty seven Club poster designed by the man himself, Nate Gonzalez, and then leave a review for twenty seven Club on Apple podcasts or hashtag subscribed to twenty seven Club on social media and we'll pick two winners each week and announce them on the Double Elvis Instagram page that's at Double Elvis. You're gonna want to give that a follow, so get out there and

please spread the word about the part. As always, you can find me blabbing a route other crazy rock stars on my other podcast disgrace Land, and you can talk to me per usual on Instagram and Twitter at graceland pot one way or another. I hope to talking to you, Sue until then. What's up for your ears?