The twenty seven Club is a production of I Heart Radio and Double Elvis Media. Jimi Hendrix died at the age of and he lived a life where every day was unlike the day before. I can give you twenty seven reasons why that statement is true. Three was his magic number, the holy trinity of the power trio guitar, bass drums that he would master briefly with the Jimi
Hendrix Experience and again with the Band of Gypsies. Fifteen would be the number of miles that he'd ride and a stolen truck with Neil Young to get to Woodstock on time when they're playing landed at the wrong airport. Another eight would be the number of hours the jury in Toronto would deliberate in order to decide that the world's greatest guitarist would spend the next decade of his life behind bars. And one would be the number of years he'd have left to live after Brian Jones was
found dead at the bottom of his swimming pool. All totally on this our seventh episode of season one. Magic numbers, stolen trucks, a dead rolling stone, and they always searching Jimmie Hendricks. I'm Jake Brennan. And this is the seven o'clock. Neil Young was searching for the helicopter, the helicopter man, their own personal chopper, the Woodstock Express, the bird that was going to get them from here to there? Where
the hell was that bird man? Neil stood on the small regional airport tarmac, peppered with small charter jets like the one he had just flown in, on the sun beating down. He raised his flat hand to just above his eyes to provide shade from the glare, his ruffle dress shirts sticking out from the cough of his jacket. Where the funk are they? New York, Vermont, fucking New Hampshire. Damned if he knew the mescaline he had ingested on the plane was coming alive now, which made everything crystal
clear and messed up all at once. Everything felt great, everything did not feel great. Jimmie Hendricks stood next to Nielia, similarly baffled and equally dosed, along with the other passengers from their little plane, attorney Melvin Belli and Nil's manager Elliott Roberts. Melvin, whose high profile clients included Jack Ruby and the Rolling Stones, was clear headed and unencumbered. He suggested the logical conclusion to their predicament. They have been
dropped off at the wrong airport. There was no Woodstock helicopter coming to get them. Woodstock would have to start without them, and they were screwed sort of. Oh man. Jimmy laughed and looked at Neil. I was supposed to go on first, just me and my guitar. He let her repress giggle snort out from his mouth, and Neil, at a giant belly laugh run free. It was true.
Woodstocks producer Michael Lang contracted Jimmy to open the three day outdoor music festival with a surprise solo acoustic set and then close it on Sunday night with an electric set, and Jimmy was now the highest paid rock star in the world. Here ago he was the highest paid performer at Woodstock, much to Laying chagrin, laying at the cap larger acts at fifteen grand due to a Favorite Nations policy and Jimmy's hard as nails manager Michael Jeffrey was
having none of it. Jimmy would do it for fifty grand and you know what else, His name would be listed first on every print in Radiohead. His name would be bigger than everyone else's. He'd headline the gig. It was too much. Laying wanted Jimmy, but he couldn't meet Jeffrey at fifty grand. So Laying and Jeffrey came to an agreement that gave Jimmy the most money but didn't break lanks for Jimmy would play two sets for fifteen grand each, along with another couple of grand for expenses
plus grand tour deal. The thing was, Jimmy wasn't gonna make the opening set. He didn't even know where he was. His mind was elsewhere, anywhere but upstate New York. All he could think about was the bust in Toronto, the impending trial for heroin and hash possession. It was four months away, and that almost made it worse. All this waiting around and obsessing over every last detail. What he could have done differently, what he should have done differently,
What could have happened to him? What would happen to him this December, when you had to stare down years in a Canadian prison, his fate in the hands of strangers. Jimmy must have checked out for a moment, and the mescaline was starting to take hold. After all, because when he turned to look at Melvin. The attorney had taken off his shirt. It was pouring a cannon beer on his chest to facilitate the tanning process. The attorney yelled at him from across the term ac and Jimmy rubbed
his eyes. It must be the must be the drugs. Neil was at the driver's side door of a pickup truck parked in the airport lot. Neil peaked inside, wide eyed, and then tried the door. It opened. He hollered at Elliott to keep an eye out, and then jumped in the driver's seat. Worked his hands beneath the steering wheel. Clanks, clunks, bangs, booms, The spark a couple of false starts, and the old
truck roared to life. Neil knew that soon, very soon, they would be completely twisted, and there was no going back, no time to rest. Get in. He hollowed to the other three. Elliott, Melvin hopped in the cab with Neil and Jimmy. Knew that the obvious thing to do, the rational thing, was to jump on the hood of the
truck and hold on for dear life. Of course, it was Neil put the truck in first gear and tore out of the airport parking lot, with Jimmy's body swinging from side to side on the hood of the truck. Elliott laughed, Holy Jesus, Jimmy scream from the hood because these goddamn animals, and he lay flat on his stomach, his hands dug into the under side of the hood near the windshield, holding on for dear life the sky.
I because the dark and huge bats to take into the skies, diving all around the truck and nearly missing Jimmy with each dramatic swoop. Man, this is the way to travel in love and Holliday and reach for the volume nod on the A M radio. He cranked tones of the Fifth Dimensions, working on a groovy thing until the speakers crackled. You feel good, Jimmy thought, you fool. Wait, you see these goddamn bats. No point in mentioning. Poor
bastard will see them soon enough, Jimmy thought. Hired to open Woodstock on Friday and close it out on Sunday night, and Jimmy never made it for Friday's commitment, laying panicked and persuaded Richie Havens to perform in his place, and Richie killed it, and Jimmy wasn't exactly sure what time he finally made it to old man Jaskar's farm, or what day he made it, or how he made it, for that matter, did he ride in the hood of the truck the whole way there? Everything was running behind schedule,
set times were all screwed up. Bands would take to the stage hours after their originally scheduled performance times after waiting around in the mud and the rain drugs had worn off, or maybe the drugs they didn't intend to take. It started to kick in, and by the time Jimmy took the stage with Gypsy Son and Rainbows, his new band he had formed after the Experiences break up, the Monday morning sun would be rising on a decimated Woodstock crowd.
Nearly half a million people would have already split. Jimmy stepped on the makeshift stage, stuck in the middle of the farm's backyard, more than ready to make a scene or whoever would listen. M ros Payne was talking down a kid in the trip tent when she heard it. Fuzzy and phased out, metallic and shrill, familiar yet completely foreign. She heard the first six notes of the National Anthem ring out from the stage. It gave her pause. She
stopped talking. The sun had just come up over Jascar's dairy farm, and would stock New York Times stood still. Ros had been calmly helping a young boy get through a bad trip. He couldn't have been older than nineteen. He had no shirt. It was lost, forever, swallowed by the mud. Sometime after the rains came a sacrifice for
the gods of peace and love. His jeans were wet and soiled with dirt, and the sweat from his forehead seemed to jump over to the inside of his glasses, which were all fogged up, and he panted, popped his eyes with wide shook his head, muttered under his breath. He had taken something, but couldn't tell Ros what it was. Perhaps it was some of that brown acid that the festival organizers kept warning the crowd about on the stage.
Stay away from the brown acid. Perhaps this kid didn't hear the announcement and took him anyway that he would cry, and then he'd shake with fear, and then he calmed down and fell out about it, and then you go through the cycle all over again. Roz sat with him, kept talking with him, positive things, riding it out together. You'd get through this bad trip and come out on the other side. He had survived a weekend of heat and rain, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of total strangers,
and surely he'd survive this. He would see, he would be fine, just fine. Ros and the kid were one of the many couples inside the trip tent, kids on bad trips, side by side with the bad trip guides. Woodstock producers had hired a team of doctors, nurses, and e m t s to help over the weekend, but a group of citizen volunteers had stepped in to deal with bad trip rips, hallucinations, paranoia, anxiety. Instead of drugs.
To combat drugs, they'd use good old fashioned human interaction and let the doctors deal with the foot lacerations and the seizures and the asthma texts. They did this all weekend freakouts each hour, twenty five bad trips each hour, and by Monday morning, the Woodstock site was a filthy ghost town. Only about forty thousand of the original half
million festival goers remained. Everyone had gone home to get back to work, back to the real world, back to their families, back to their lives, tuned out, turned off, and dropped back into reality and the Monday morning, stragglers, refusing to give up the dream, walked through the wreckage, brushed their teeth, tens, umbrellas, shoes, and coke cans, all pressed into the muddy earth and left for dead spent trash, t shirts, condoms, watermelons, oranges, bras, mattress pads, maxi pads,
cigarette butts. A skeleton crew served up hot breakfast for those who weren't passed out on the hoods of Sedan's for those who weren't nodding off on the ground are unknowingly coppying a serious, dangerous tan atop a blanket on a sodden expanse of firm lamp Ros was there to help. She showed up early before the music even began, help set up. She loosened up fencing each day to allow
those without tickets to enter the festival grounds. And she was tight with Abby Hoffman and the Hippies, political pranksters. Sometimes their political pranks had unexpected results. Abby's face met the business end of Pete Towns his guitar when he attempted to interrupt the Who's confrontational set at five am on Sunday morning, ros helped found which the women's International terrorist Conspiracy from Hell to fight for social change and
rail against the patriarchy. She was at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, the Rank and Brigade Merge, anti War rallies at the Pentagon. She was everywhere wherever there was a fight, so hungry people could eat, Ros would be there. Roz was far enough from the stage Monday morning that she couldn't see Jimmie Hendricks flash of peace sign with
his hand after that first six note run. She couldn't see his afro poofing out from the confines of his red bandana, or the white fringe from his shirt danced upon the top of his crushed velvet pants, or his long flat hand, dirty fingernails and all squashed down on a strats wimmy bar to make the sound drop like an anvil one moment and soar like a fighter jet the next. She did hear every note singed the human morning air, every trill, every hammer on, every pull off.
The guitar was not a guitar. The national anthem was not the national anthem. It was all new. She had never heard a guitar. Before this moment, never heard the Star Spangled Banner. Before this moment, ros fought authority. She clawed at the establishment champion, the underdog marched for social justice, demanded change, orchestrated movement. She didn't follow leaders or watched
the barking meters. The Star Spangled Banner was the theme song of American jingoism, of blind nationalism, of football games. But not today, never again, Now the song was hers. Woodstock was the debut of Gypsy Son and Rainbows, Jimmy's new thing. The Experience were no more disbanded. At the height of their powers, there was a change in the wind, and Jimmy blew along with it. He kept Mitch Mitchell on drums, but replaced Old Redding with his old army
buddy Billy Cox. Another old friend and Nashville cat, Larry Lee was on guitar, and the group was rounded out by two percussion players, Jerry Vellis and Jima Sultan. And Jimmy held rehearsals for the group at Michael Jeffrey's rented house and show can, conveniently just down the road from Woodstock, a mansion made of stone with eight bedrooms and ten acres of land, a horse stable in a pool, and Jeffrey let Jimmy stay there, and the cook and housekeeper
Jeffrey hired to keep Jimmy happy. It was just the cherry on top. The band got to Woodstock on Sunday and they waited and then waited some more, and the day saw sets from Joe Cocker and Country Joe and the Fish, and the night rolled on and it was the band Crosby Stills, Nash and Young and Shanna Now bands took the stage hours later than originally scheduled, and they hung around in the mud and rain, waiting, drugs wearing off, waiting, drugs kicking in, waiting day turn tonight, waiting.
The festival organizers offered Jimmy and the eleven pm slot on Sunday night. Michael Jeffrey refused. Jimmy Hendrix was closing out Woodstock. He would be the last sound from the stage. He'd have the last say. Jeffrey could give a rat's ass what time that was. Jimmy collapsed off stage when a set was over, slept for days, and the two hours set was one of his longest, full of highs and lows, and when it was all said and done.
Jimmy was just spent. It wasn't just Woodstock, wasn't just the hot and sweaty throngs, the mud, the drugs, the herculean amounts of patients took simply to endure the weekend, to wait around. It was the way the other kind of week w e I g h T. The band had just sung about it a few hours earlier. Was feeling about half past dead, the weight of it all.
One band was ending, another band was beginning. One of his manager's chas Chandler out of the picture, while the other, Michael Jeffrey, was making moves to as certain more controlled and above all the weight of this Toronto thing, the drug bust. When he cleared his mind of all the other worries, the looming trial would pop into his brain
and stress him out. What a drag. If only he could predict exactly what would happen when he walked into that courtroom in a few months, when he sat in the hot seat with the judge and jury in the eyes and pleaded innocence. We'll be right back after this word we were. Jimmie Hendricks was looking for an indication that the jury had reached a verdict. Even better, they
had reached a good verdict, a fair verdict. A glimmer and when he closed his eyes and envisioned what would happen after the collective of white shirted Canadians returned to the courtroom, it didn't involve jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, And it most certainly involved getting out of the hot seat and walking out of the courtroom door as a free man, of vindicated man, man who no longer had the weight of this trial
clinging to his back, weighing down on him, privately consuming him. It had been hours since the jury had left to talk amongst themselves decide the fate of the most famous rock star in the world. And Jimmy sat on a bench in the lobby outside the Toronto courtroom, decked out in a square suit, blue blazer, gray pants. This Toronto
defense attorney, John O. Driscoll sat by his side. Jazz Chandler paced back and forth like he was the bouncer for this party of two, holding their own quiet, meditative session a very exclusive bench prison. Ten years he'd read about a dealer bringing a quarter million dollars of grass and a Canada from Africa around the time he was arrested, and that dude just got fourteen years. Oh. Driscoll assured
Jimmy that it wouldn't go that part. Still, it wouldn't shock anyone if the twelve clean cut male jurors wanted to make an example out of Jimmy Hendricks Wilts flower powers, so to speak, give his hippie dippy fantasies a big old dollp of normalized mainstream defiance. If they weren't twelve angry men, they were still twelve men with the power to make whatever decision they deemed fit. And the Crown Attorney had put the cops who arrested Jimmy on the
stand and drove this point home. You should have seen these guys the experience. When they got out the plane, they didn't look like anybody else. You got a plane full of normal look at folk. They got slacks, it fitted shirts and the light and then these three moonbats pull up the rear with the chikis and sandals, beads everywhere, chewing gum like cow and it's cut this one guy is wearing his hair all poofed out like a black man, but he's white, and they're gonna dress like some bohemians
with something to hide. We're going to treat him the same. And they were asking for it. And the proof is in the pudding. And the guy had drugs in his bag. Open and shut. Jimmy didn't deny that there were drugs in his bag. When he went through customs in Toronto, he denied that they were his. And Jimmy sat on the stand, raised his right hands solemnly swore. He recalled a girl he met in Los Angeles, Swallow on tour. She gave him something and when he complained about a headache,
he said it was Bromo seltzer. He stucked it into his pocket thanks to take it. Then he was really just being polite. Strange ship from a stranger that was going in his pocket now would be dealt without a later time, and that was a problem with the future Jimmy. And then he probably forgot about it. He couldn't say where it might have ended up. It must have been the vial with the heroin packets. He just didn't look
closely at it. He was giving random ship all the time, clothes, scars, love letters, instruments, teddy bears, hash brownies, pot cookies, tabs,
and joints and bottles. Only half the time did he actually stopped to see what it was, and the defense put Sharon Lawrence on the standing back up the story, a United Press International journalist, Sharon was at the same party and saw the girl give Jimmy something, and they put Chaz on the stand and he explained how one of the main rules backstage was to never eat anything
that was brought in by a fan. Maybe you'd enjoy some delicious cake, or maybe you get sick, or maybe you get high poisoned dead, or maybe you get arrested. Jimmy was open and honest about drugs. More or less, his answers in the hot seat were the kinds of answers you give to the doctor. When asked how many drinks a day you have? You know, on average? How often have you used cocaine? Twice? Jimmy said, how often have you dropped LSD four or five times? Have you
smoked marijuana and hashish? Yeah? Have you ever taken heroin before? No, sir, But what about drugs? Do you still like to take drugs? I feel I about coron it he had outgrown it. If it would please the court. If the judge wanted to hear him say he didn't do drugs anymore, then that's what he'd say. The public at the time was blissfully ignorant when it came to what went on behind the closed doors of rock stars. Even in the case
of a wild and crazy artist like Jimmie Hendricks. They saw the Paisley Prince and the psychedelic swirls, and heard the strangeness spilling from his records. They could draw their own conclusions. The noisy suggestions and tracks like the Gods Made Love e XP and if six were nine were far from sober, that was for sure. But suspicions and hunches aside. How little they actually knew. Even Jimmy's arrest
had been kept a secret swept under the carpet. When Jimmy was now by the mountains at the Toronto Airport, his press agent, Michael Goldstein, didn't let the story hit the wires. He wasted no time. Goldstein picked up his phone and got the Associated Press editor on the horn. Played him like a fiddle, easy target. Look the other way on this Toronto thing. Okay, it's all trumped up anyhow. The Monty's met the band as they walked off the plane.
They never do that, and Jimmy was fucking set up. Man. He'll beat it. He'll licked these charges easily and move on. No one ever remember it happened in here for your troubles. I'm having a case. The liquor dropped off. What's your favorite brand again? You're a bourbon guy, right? Did I go to your house or to the augets? The story oozed out just as Goldstein had planned. In its review of Jimmy's Mapelief Garden Show, The Toronto Star buried a reference to his being out on bail in the middle
of the sentence. And when the full account of the bus finally did make the press, it was a month later, and it was in the pages of a sympathetic Rolling Stone magazine. Richie Yorke and Ben functorres didn't confirm what the drug was in their article, only what it was suspected to be, and they wrote about conservative Toronto in a very public display of humiliation by the Canadian authorities. Yet, despite their solidarity, they all speculated the years of jail
time was a real possibility. Jimmy's pulse went through the roof when it was announced that the jury had reached a verdict. He sat his hands clasped together, a giant turquoise bracelet, rattling against the table every time he'd wring his hands. The courtroom was full of young kids, Hendricks,
fans eager to see their hero walk out or freeman. Outside, wet snowflakes fell, and the twelve White Shirts entered the courtroom, along with the judge, whose gaudy powdered wig was regal overkilled to the max, a long distant salute to the motherland. It reminded Jimmy of London of all the swinging, Vaudevillian inspired fashion that was desperately missing inside this drab courtroom. And then the verdict not guilty on both counts. The
fans in the courtroom stood and cheered. The snowfall picked up outside, and Jimmy walked out of the courthouse, splashed a peace sign with his fingers. Remembered how good a big ear to ear grin could feel. Got on a plane to New York, fat joint of how she she waited him. It wasn't gonna smoke itself. I gotta keep moving. Blues fallen down like hell on the plane back to New York. Tommy watched an older couple play a game of cribbage across the aisle, and the way of Toronto
had been lifted, but his mind was still worried. And just because this one hurdle was clear, it didn't mean there weren't other hurdles left to face, bigger hurdles, bigger problems. And he watched the couple count the crib the cards shuffling in their hands, and he thought a tarot current, tarot card reading, and the rock earlier that year, a premonition come to life. He tried to suppress it, ignore him. That feeling came back, and that feeling that's settled in
it made itself known. His days were numbered and he would die soon. He knew it. Jimmie Hendricks was dreaming of Brian Jones, his dirty blonde mop top obscuring half of his face, his smile, hesitant, patient, his stone eyes swimming with kindness and with something wicked too, The duality of a rolling stone and the dream. Brian was shouting at Jimmy, waving out, warning him something didn't feel quite right. Jimmy woke up in his bed before the dream could finish,
he sat straight up, gasped, and got his bearings. He was alone in his hotel room in Morocco, to be precise, on the Atlantic coast of North Africa. Tapestries hung on the walls and dangled from the top of the bed. The dream felt so real, Brian felt so real that it couldn't be. Brian had been found dead at the bottom of his swimming pool only a few weeks before. He was just Jimmy and Brian were musical brothers, fashion brothers.
Brian was the one who introduced Jimmy to the crowd at the Monterey Pop Festival, his first show with the experience in America. Brian's death hit him hard to have someone that close to him, a soul brother from another mother, gone so quickly and at such a young age. Brian had been transitioning, just like Jimmy, moving away from the rolling stones and looking to start something new. Some would call it a reburn, a change, and now he was gone in an instant, in the amount of time it
takes to jump into a pool. A snap of the fingers, and Jimmy rubbed his eyes, still having a hard time believing Brian was gone, still having a hard time that the Brian and his dream wasn't real, and the hanging tapestry that ran along the edge of the bed started to wave a breeze maybe, but Jimmy had closed the window before he had fallen asleep, and the patterned fabric fluttered, waved again, swayed dramatically, and then there was a hand
on the tapestry, pulling the tapestry aside. The hand was ashen smoky, translucent. Jimmy jumped from the hand, pulled the tapestry down the length of the bed and revealed Brian and jone and sitting on the corner of the bed,
just a few feet away from Jimmy's legs. Brian sat there, silent, smoking a cigarette, right leg crossed on top of his left leg, Chelsea boots oversized scarf with the smoky whists from the end of his cigarette wafted into the air, as did the rest of him, his whole body like one big haze of tobacco smoke, gray and half formed and about to blow away. Jimmy couldn't move, couldn't speak. Brian started slowly motioning towards Jimmy like he had in the dream, waving his arms. He wanted him to leave,
to go somewhere else, to avoid something. And then as he continued to wave his arms, he disappeared into thin air, just blew away. The smoky haze dissipated, the tapestry slipped back into its hanging position, and Brian Jones was gone. Jimmy had taken some friends up on a last minute invitation to visit Morocco in the summer. N It so last minute, actually, that he ditched Gypsy's son and Rainbows as they rehearsed for woodstock without so much as it
could bye. His friend Dearing, how trust fund kid and heir to the Deering's family international harvester Fortune, invited him on a jaunt to North Africa, and their friends Collette and Stella were waiting for them. Carpe A d M was Deering's bag. Sure, Jimmy thought, why the Hell'm not in Morocco. Jimmy let it all hang out. He could
be whoever he wanted to be. He could be himself completely anonymous, a black American man in Africa for the first time in his life, tapping into a new yet familiar culture, new aesthetic, breathing new air on a new strip of Atlantic coastline. The most famous rock star in the world, just another nameless face on the street, driving a beat up chrystler through the desert, blending in with the crowds along the faded blue and white architecture, A
blissful nobody. It was the only real vacation he ever took, and he needed it. He was thinking about the pending trial in Toronto, about rehearsing to a woodstock. He couldn't get Brian Jones out of his head. He walked the streets in Morocco and saw Brian's face in the vendor's faces, and saw his mop top shag bounce along ahead in the crowd. He had thought about dying lately, premonitions, feelings, and this cloud of uncertainty would envelop him out of nowhere,
an unshakable feeling his time was limited. He could feel it. He wouldn't live to be thirty. He knew it. Collette, Jimmy's friend Morocco. Her grandfather was a local tribal leader and his new wife a clairvoyant who worked for the king, and she asked if Colette and a group of friends that Jimmy included. Of course, wanted to have their cards read. She ran her hands along the lines of Jimmy's face. She wanted to see more, and she'd read him first. The group sat at a table in the hotel Dayle.
Collette offered to translate, as the clairvoyant wife only spoke French, and she wore a bright scarf patterns, beads galore. It was like a neon day dream of Jimmy's preferred fashion ideal, A kindred spirit, no doubt. The first Taro card she drew from her deck was simple, innocuous. The Star card a silhouetted naked woman pouring water into a stream. Very athena esque or was it aphrodite, didn't matter, A beautiful goddess, a giant star in the sky above her, surrounded by
galaxies other worlds. The clairvoyant rattled off a sentence or two in French, and Colette laughed and nodded her head. She lightly patted Jimmy's arm, as if to indicate that everything was all right so far. Then the clairvoyant flipped over. The second card slapped onto the table, face up. The Death card, A figure on a white horse, A skeletal figure wrapped in medieval armor, bodies at the horse's feet, the sun rising on the distant horizon. Jimmy's eyes went wide,
his mouth gaping. The head of the skeleton was Brian Jones's head. Brian Joe was on the card. He was riding that medieval death horse. Bryan Jones was death. And Jimmy stood up quickly from the table, gasping for air. His knees knocked against the table's leg and the cards scattered. He got himself outside. He needed air. He stood there outside a hotel in the North African desert and spoke softly at the warm night towards the ocean, whispering, I'm
gonna die. I'm Jake Brennan and This Club. Seven Club is scored and co written by me Jake Brennan. Zeth Lundy is the lead writer, editor and co producer. The Club is mixed and engineered by Sean Klein and Matt Bowden, both of whom led their considerable music talent to the scoring of this series, as well additional music and score elements Ryan Spreaker. The twenty seven Club is produced by
myself for Double Elvis in partnership I Heart 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 future is twelve episodes on Jimmy Hendrickson. Season two will feature twelve
episodes on Jim Morrison. If you like what you hear, please be sure to subscribe to the twenty seven Called on Apple podcast, the I Heart Radio app, or wherever you get podcasts, and if you'd like to win a free twenty seven Club post or designed by the man himself, Nick Gonzalez, then leave a review for twenty seven Club on Apple Podcasts or hashtag subscribe 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 you that a fallow, so we'll get out there and please spread the word about the twenty seven As always, you can find me blabbing about other crazy rock stars on my other podcast, Disgrace Land, and you can talk to me per usual on Instagram and Twitter at Space lam pod, one way or another. I hope to be talking to you suit. Let's tell that yeah, what's up for your ears,