I woke up to a Facebook post about Jimi Hendrix from a hometown friend. Hendrix was my idol (to an excessive degree), despite the fact that I was a teen in the seventies and Jimi was already dead from a drug overdose by the time I heard of him. Today I will share with you what my teenage bedroom’s cherished items were. The coolest Jimi Hendrix poster I had was Jimi with wires coming out of his head. Here it is for your viewing pleasure: After finding that image I closed my eyes and pictured my corkboard wall and all of it’s finery: A black and white Jimmy Page and Robert Plant photo (I was a devoted Led Zeppelin fan); a Yes poster — not so much because the band meant much to me, I just loved that poster. The Yes poster’s colors coordinated perfectly with my teal lava lamp. And it all came together with my beloved yellow beanbag chair. Much of my youth was spent in that room drawing and writing and blasting music. My typical spot was seated in the beanbag chair, with my beagle beside me, paper all around me of drawings and writings — some crumpled up, but most saved.
This year’s Spring cleaning I will once again keep the misshapen, torn tattered box in it’s secure spot in a closet and try to throw out other things to make room for new treasures. That frayed box is witness to extreme teenage rebellion, shameless hedonism, tortured angst and psychedelic creativity. The diaries hold names and events in case time erases memories. Not all of the albums provided the written lyrics, so on those without, I played the music over and over until I puzzled out the words. This process meant picking up the needle from the record and putting it back down earlier in the song. This could go on for hours with harder-to-decipher songs and caused many a scratch into my grooves, but figuring out the lyrics mattered more than anything else. I created a strict, self-inflicted task of memorizing every word. I can recite many verses perfectly even now after all those years. One of my greatest achievements at memorization was Bob Dylan’s Subterranean Homesick Blues.
That was no easy song to learn and yes, I can still recite it straight through. Not everybody can claim such a miraculous thing (see lyrics pasted in below). Johnny’s in the basement, mixing up the medicine I’m on the pavement, thinking about the government The man in the trench coat, badge out, laid off Says “He’s got a bad cough, wants to get it paid off” Look out kid, it’s somethin’ you did God knows when but you’re doin’ it again You better duck down the alley way, lookin’ for a new friend The man in the coon-skin cap, in the big pen Wants eleven dollar bills, you only got ten Maggie comes fleet foot face full of black soot Talkin’ that the heat put, plants in the bed but The phone’s tapped anyway, Maggie says that many say “They must bust in early May, orders from the D.A” Look out kid, don’t matter what you did But walk on your tip toes don’t tie no bows Better stay away from those that carry around a fire hose
Keep a clean nose, watch the plain clothes You don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows Oh get sick, get well, hang around a ink well Ring bell, hard to tell, if anything is goin’ to sell Try hard, get barred, get back, write Braille Get jailed, jump bail, join the army if you fail Look out kid, you’re gonna get hit But losers, cheaters, six-time users Hangin’ around the theaters Girl by the whirlpool, lookin’ for a new fool Don’t follow leaders, watch your parkin’ meters Oh get born, keep warm, short pants, romance Learn to dance, get dressed, get blessed, try to be a success Please her, please him, buy gifts, don’t steal, don’t lift Twenty years of schoolin’ and they put you on the day shift Look out kid, they keep it all hid Better jump down a manhole, light yourself a candle Don’t wear sandals, try to avoid the scandals Don’t wanna be a bum you better chew gum
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