Meeting Jimi Hendrix
A group of people sit along an old, grimy bar, doing things. Watching, waiting, aspiring. Every single one of them, in one way or another. Watches, waits, aspires. One of them—the strangest looking one of all—is a black dude with hair like the wind through a California Cypress. Eyes like two half moons. With more care and concern than any of the others, he watches. He watches the man on stage, a fellow named Henry Vestine. Henry is playing guitar, bass, and drums all at once, all by himself.