by Joseph Izzo, Jr.
It was in September when we saw the Jimi Hendrix Experience at the Hollywood Bowl. It was 1968. It was my first week in college. I remember the weather. It was warm. The Santa Ana winds had been howling for days. The canyons were black from wild fires. I could still smell the smoke, eerily sweet with the scent of burned out homes and ranches.
It was in September when we saw the Jimi Hendrix Experience at the Hollywood Bowl. It was 1968. It was my first week in college. I remember the weather. It was warm. The Santa Ana winds had been howling for days. The canyons were black from wild fires. I could still smell the smoke, eerily sweet with the scent of burned out homes and ranches.
The concert to see Hendrix sold out in minutes. My friend and I never had a chance, but we were determined to get in. I had missed seeing Hendrix the year before and I wasn’t going to let it happen again.
We heard a story about a man named Plato who lived in an apartment house close to the Hollywood Bowl. For $5 we were told he sold maps to a secret location where people without tickets could watch sold-out performances. I didn’t know Plato personally, but a guy from school said he knew a guy who knew him. I didn’t feel good about this, but had no choice. I couldn’t afford the scalpers prices, and friends who had tickets weren’t going to take me. I knew this for a fact.
Seeing Hendrix at that point in my life was more important than a college degree so I met the connection after school and paid him the five bucks. He gave me Plato’s phone number. Don’t call until the night of the concert, he said. No sooner.
On that night, I met my buddy at Barone’s restaurant in Sherman Oaks. We shared a sausage and mushroom pizza and hung out until the time was right. Plato let the phone ring ten times before picking up. He told us where to meet him and warned us not to be late.
By the time we got there, the Hollywood Bowl was humming. People scurried everywhere swarming across the streets like ants in confusion. Scrums of long-haired hippies pushed towards the entrance. There were scalpers on every corner. I saw cops and security guards and ambulances. Excitement had reached a fever pitch. Hawkers were pushing t-shirts and jewelry and sweet smelling candles.
Plato’s apartment was set back against the hills in close proximity to the backside of the Bowl. Tall trees in thick clusters encased the building, smothering the skyline and the rising moon.
Before we could reach the entrance, a tall string bean of a man stepped out of the shadows and approached us. It was Plato. He looked like a typical beatnik with a beard and a knitted cap. He didn’t say much. He clipped us for another five bucks then handed us a paper with hand-written directions. Just don’t get caught, were his last words before slipping back into the shadows. We had to sneak into the lobby of the apartment house, then take an elevator to the fifth floor. From there we walked down the hallway to the fire escape. Using one of those fold down metal ladders, we climbed up two more floors then over a wall onto a pathway leading up into the hills.
We hiked for a long time up this steep winding trail full of muddy sinkholes and crumbling shale ledges. Music pumped in the air, faint at first, growing louder the closer we came to the summit. The pounding of bass and drums shook the ground. I felt vibrations in my shoes. By the time we reached the summit, we were sweating and out of breath. It took us a long time to get there but we made it. From this vantage point we could look down upon the tightly packed arena. Voices hummed like generators deep in the earth. People lite up reefer and the sparks from lighters and matches flickered like stars.
Suddenly then the Bowl grew dark, and fell silent. The audience stood up stamping their feet, clapping their hands. My heart pounded. Then it happened. The Hollywood Bowl ignited into one spectacular light show. Everything turned bright dazzling gold and into the blinding luster walked Jimi Hendrix, playing Purple Haze. The earth vibrated. People screamed and shouted at the top of their lungs.
My buddy and I were too excited to notice the LAPD “rough terrain” officers. They rode up to us and asked to see documentation proving ownership of property, permission for being on this property. Of course, we had no official documentation. Plato’s map didn’t help our case. We were immediately charged with trespassing and led down to the squad cars parked below. As we walked away, I took my time so I could hear Foxy Lady, then a few refrains from my favorite, Hey Joe.
Once at the bottom, the cops shoved us around a little and made us sit in the backseat while they lectured us on the severity of trespassing. After a few minutes, they cut us loose with a written warning.
We waited for a long time before leaving so that we could hear more of Hendrix. He played a lot of good songs that night and they washed over the dark sky with sparkling gold dust.
Here is 8mm Footage of Hendrix at the Hollywood Bowl. Eerily quiet with no sound, but really cool to watch!
Just up, someone recently added some audio to YouTube of the Show:
