When on the morning of September 18, 1970 my father told me by phone the news of Jimi's death, it was the most terrible moment in my life. I was incredulous, I remember sitting for hours on the edge of the bed staring at the wall as I recalled the years that Buster and I (the name Jimi used to call himself as a child) had spent together, the beautiful and the less beautiful hours.
When I was little, he was the one who took care of me in everything, so much so that I thought he was my father. He was more than an older brother, much more.
A few months later Jimi and I would have had to get back together to embark on a new journey, to start staying and doing things together again. My brother in making music seemed to be touched by grace, as if he had been chosen by a higher power: he was predestined to become a star. He had something special that set him apart from anyone else, Jimi was ahead of his time and still is.
Remembering the good times with Jimi brings me back a smile, but when the more difficult ones come back, my heart breaks. The mind goes back to that September and, however hard I try, I can't hold back the tears.
At Jimi's funeral there were friends and musicians: Noel Redding, Mitch Mitchell, Buddy Miles, Johnny Winter, Miles Davis and many others, besides all our relatives. I also remember the presence of the mayor of Seattle.
Jimi wore a green silk brocade dress and he looked calm and peaceful, almost as if he was sleeping or simply thinking with his eyes closed on his next musical project, that's how I like to imagine him fifty years later. During the funeral ceremony the Reverend sang some traditional motifs, then one of Mum's best friends, Mrs. Freddie Mae Gautier, fondly remembered Jimi reciting the lyrics of one of his songs - Angel - and a poem of mine that I had dedicated to him. Dad decided to bury Jimi at Renton cemetery because mom also rests there.
From the moment Jimi's body was lowered underground, on that gloomy afternoon, a tough legal battle broke out. All that Jimi possessed, after his death, would go to Dad, but it was soon discovered that there was very little left to claim: I could never deal with my brother's estate. I don't even have a clear idea of what happened that fateful night in the London hotel room, nobody knows and nobody probably will ever really know. The summary is terrible: after a party evening Jimi returned to the hotel and was dead the following morning. In the stomach they found traces of sleeping pills, some wine and a sandwich. Then they told us it had been an overdose of tranquilizers.
That's all. I have heard many stories and many were in contradiction with each other: many, too many people wanted to have their say. Will the truth ever be known? Can one day emerge among the many corridor rumors, between speculations and inventions in bad faith? My brother would deserve it.
Over time I have become increasingly convinced that Jimi has been killed. I don't really believe in conspiracies, I don't think Mike Jeffery got him killed, at least not before I sorted out my brother's issues and grabbed another slice of money and maybe another life insurance policy.
It is true that in certain circles Jimi was frowned upon for his mythical figure, for the influence he exercised and also for his interpretation of the American national anthem: but kill him for this? No, Jimi was killed by an infernal machine that crushed him. From this point of view, my brother's killers are many: greedy managers with grueling tour claims, harassing journalists, public opinion, fans and groupies who gave him no respite, the debts contracted for the Studios and lawsuits ...
My brother has been a hero for an entire generation, with millions of fans around the world and still many young guitarists still take him as an example. An amazing rock icon, which in just three years has revolutionized the way you play the guitar, changing the world of music forever. It makes me dizzy to think about how much my brother has accomplished in his short existence. I continue to listen to him for this too, as millions of people still do at all latitudes.
Excerpt from the book The Story of Life. The last days of Jimi Hendrix by Enzo Gentile and Roberto Crema (Baldini + Castoldi, 336 pages, 20 euros), in bookstores from 23 July
