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"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 15:41:00 GMT

TIME TO SAY GOODBYE

It was Springtime in NYC when Lance finished the mural. He was so homesick by then he kept imagining what it was like in Southern California. The weather could be unpredictable at home. Sometimes it rains in the Spring, other times it's so sunny you can go down to the beach for a game of Frisbee. You never know from year to year what Mother Nature will bring. What he did know was that he was tired of New York. The snow, the cold, even the color of the frozen dog turds, it had all gotten to him. He just wanted to see a green leaf, a real live green leaf.

There wasn't anything tying him to New York anymore. Waiting around another week or two, he thought maybe he could nurse along another job. But nothing turned up.

The loft had been cleaned up, his clothes were packed, and he stopped by Electric Lady Studio to say his last goodbyes.

Walking down to the recording studio area, he ran into Bob Levine, a member of Jimi’s key management team, and Jerry Morrison coming up the stairs with Carlos Santana. He didn't recognize Carlos at first because he was wearing one of those caps that holds all your hair in. Lance wasn’t used to seeing him that way.

Bob looked up at Lance as they passed and said, “Here he is now. Lance, I want you to meet Carlos.” Lance looked surprised.

“Wow, I’ve been looking at your mural, man,” Carlos complimented him. "You did all that? That's amazing!"

Carlos booked the studio to record his new album, but all of that took a back seat to his curiosity about the meaning of Lance's work. Walking up and down the length of the massive painting in the narrow, curved hallway, Carlos wanted to know everything about each section. He then explained to Lance what he thought was its significance. This took Lance back. Most people spent more time trying to figure out what he was trying to say.

For the next two and a half hours Carlos and Lance spoke about the mural's concept. Lance could tell their conversation was very important to the rock legend. Never mind that an orchestra of musicians filed into the recording studio booth with their instruments in hand. Carlos didn't give it a second thought when they sat down and waited patiently for him to come in and start recording. This was costing him a fortune. The studio time alone was around five thousand dollars for a half-day session. Add the musician’s time in and Carlos Santana wasted fifteen thousand dollars that day so that he could talk to Lance about his creation.

The recording session got underway. Lance and Carlos finally parted ways. As Lance left the studio for the last time, it was very apparent to him that Carlos was a very spiritual person.

Taking a cab to the airport, Lance figured he could've stayed in New York and spent all the money he earned on the mural or he could go home where he belonged.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 00:57:00 GMT

FINISHING THE MURAL

Lance worked diligently for seven months to bring his space mural to life. From the beginning he conceived a basic visual of what it would be and where he was going to go with it. But incorporating ideas from a painting he did in a Honolulu clothing store called, The Wizard, along with the inspiration of the comic books which forced him into the illusion, plus the configuration of the studio itself, he ended up creating a wonderfully colorful three-dimensional image looking outside of a spacecraft into the beyond.

At one point, there was so much going on, Lance felt like he was lost. To collect his thoughts and find a light at the end of the tunnel, he sat down and listed everything he still needed to do to finish.

During the process, people from the studio came over occasionally to see Lance's progress, except Eddie Kramer, of course. They never did hit it off. So it wasn't really a big surprise when he announced he was done.

Tearing it down, Lance removed hundreds of staples, rolled up the heavy one hundred foot long canvas, and he and a friend lugged it through the streets of Greenwich Village to the studio.

Installing the canvas in the narrow hallway, Lance planned it pretty well. There were certain places where the floor was uneven. The canvas wasn't going to bend at this point, stiff from coats of dried paint, so he cut it and pieced it together with rubber cement.

With help, it only took a couple of hours to staple it to the two battens (one by three inch strips of wood screwed to the top and the bottom of the wall). As he worked, everyone started coming out of the offices to watch him finish up. They'd seen the corridor walls looking the same way for so long, a boring gray speckled textured wallpaper. This certainly made a huge difference, kind of like when in The Wizard of Oz where the film changes from black and white to Technicolor.

Walking up and down the hallway, people stopped and gathered together in small groups of two and three to discuss the mural and Lance's talent. Suddenly, Eddie Kramer darted out of his office while Lance was still stapling. Way amped, he ignored everyone around and walked the length of the corridor, his eyes intensely viewing Lance's masterpiece. "Gee," Eddie finally spoke in front of everyone standing around. "If I was rude to you, I'm sorry, man. I had no idea what you were doing here."

The crowd went dead silent and dropped back. As Eddie turned to talk to a staff member on the other side of the hallway, a couple of secretaries approached Lance, "Do you realize what just happened?

"What are you talking about?" Lance asked, distracted but kind of confused.

"Eddie Kramer just apologized to you in public," the other secretary said.

It took a minute for it to sink in, then Lance smiled to himself and finished wrapping things up.

Moments later, Lance noticed a secretary apologize to another for something that happened a week before, then there was a second apology between two other staff members, and a third. People all throughout the hallway started hugging each other and crying, asking forgiveness for misunderstandings, some that went as far back as the previous year. Lance was caught off-guard. He didn't expect this kind of reaction. He wasn't sure if it was because of Eddie apologizing to him or if it stemmed from their reaction to his mural. Either way, it was cathartic to say the least. He preferred to believe it was the mural he painted for Jimi Hendrix that was having such a profound effect on everyone at Electric Lady Studio.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Sat, 19 Mar 2011 16:02:00 GMT

CULTURAL SUNDAYS

On the weekends Lance didn't go up to Woodstock with the gang, he'd try and take a break from the intensity of his work. He got a map of the local tourist spots and rode the subway all around town, even to the Bronx once to see the Botanical Gardens.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art on the eastern edge of Central Park with its Natural History and Ancient Art Sections were superb, as well as the Museum of Modern Art in Midtown Manhattan with it's Picasso drawings. Each floor exhibited a different era; impressionist, dadaist, fauvist painters, then on the top floor was one big room with a piece Monet painted at the turn of the 20th Century called, "Water Lilies." It was huge, about thirty-eight by forty-one feet. Looking up close, each of Monet's brush stokes were rough and undefined, but stand back and Lance wondered how the artist did it. The colors were so peaceful. It didn't just look real to Lance, it looked like it was alive. He left the museum wishing he could exhibit there one day.

The Guggenheim Museum on the Upper East Side of Manhattan was a trippy, multi-level, round building designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. You'd go up and up and around the spiral ramp leading to each floor.

Their exhibits were just as trippy. Although Lance could paint anything he put his mind to, he favored the human form. His mermaids and mythical sculptures were very realistic. As he walked through the Contemporary Gallery in the museum, it was amazing that everywhere he looked there was no attempt to include anything that resembled life or anything you could relate to. It was just weird. As far as content, message, or meaning, it was devoid and trying to tweak people's minds.

Someone suggested he visit a gallery in the Soho section of town. When he opened the door, all of the art pieces were sitting on the floor. He figured they were setting up the show so he left. When he went back a few days later, nothing had moved. It was still all on the floor. Lance was starting to get upset. This was New York City. Space was valuable. A week passed and the disorganized art gallery was really messing with his head. Then an article came out in the New York Times. The artist intentionally put his pieces on the floor. The way he dropped it and where it landed was the artist's message. Go figure.

One thing you could always count on were the amazing bookstores in the Village. Kind of like the messy contemporary gallery, there were stacks of books piled high on top of each other. You might find what you wanted, but then you'd have to figure out how to get it out to buy it. But it was worth it. The books were so extraordinarily cheap. Lance found large volumes with photos of outer space, and pictures of exploding galaxies for his mural.

Central Park was the biggest scene on Sundays. Everyone wore their best duds. There were street musicians, roller skaters, sometimes rallies, people would come out just to be seen. It was a lively show-off place.

Intentionally featured in the park for people to climb on were very artistic looking rock formations. Lance didn't realize it at first but it was bedrock. You could also see bedrock in the foundation of the skyscrapers surrounding the park. The ancient rocks in and around Central Park were where eons before the glaciers carved grooves in the exposed chunks of bedrock.

Lance even did the tourist thing, and had a girlfriend take him up to the top of the Empire State Building. They rode the elevator up the 102 floors to the observation deck. Four days earlier, the World Trade Center, which was under construction, passed up the Empire State Building in height. There was also the thirty-five cent round trip on the Staten Island Ferry, where they cruised past the Statue of Liberty.

All in all, Lance certainly didn't take advantage of everything New York City had to offer. He only skimmed the surface. But then again, he was there to do a job.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 14:51:00 GMT

ON THE TOWN

Lance felt like a fish out of water even before he landed at JFK. It wasn't just NYC, he never felt comfortable in any big city. It was so contrary to who he was. The beach lifestyle blended well with Lance's spirit. He became more and more apprehensive as the plane taxied up the tarmac. Was he going to fit in?

New Yorkers come out in shifts. Early morning, service trucks dashing up and down the streets, deliveries, milk men. Seven to nine sidewalks fill with people hailing cabs and walking to work, same crowd at lunch. In broad daylight you could literally watch somebody break into a car with no police for blocks. Shoppers out and about after five, it’s hysterical. Nobody talks to each other on the street in the City. They just grip their pocketbooks as tight as they can and look straight ahead like they’re in a trance. Around seven p.m. the dinner crowd emerges, whatever you’re hungry for, New York has it, then after midnight is when things get real gamey; transvestites, semi-humans, whatever you want to call them, come out from the cracks in the sidewalk.

At first Lance started hanging out with Michael Jeffery and his girlfriend, Lynn Bailey. Sandy blonde hair, fair skin, slim, petite, like a model, Lynn had a somewhat bubbly personality. She knew she had moneybags on her arm. Michael got her a new Mercedes sports car when Lance was there and people in the studio were raising their eyes a bit. But she always treated him with respect. In fact, she and Michael had a very good relationship.

Once Lance got used to the subway system, he began venturing out on his own and with people from the studio. One afternoon when business was winding down, Devon approached Lance and asked, "Hey, we're going to the Hippo tonight. Want to come along?"

"Sure, why not," Lance thought. It might be kind of fun. So he, Devon, and three of her groupie friends dressed to the hilt in their flouncy dresses and feather boas jumped in a cab to hit the town.

The Hippo or Hippopotamus was a Euro style nightclub located on 54th Street between 3rd and Lexington. Most everything was painted white, very upscale, hip, with a clean decor. It was dimly lit, with two or three disco balls hanging from the ceiling. Lance heard the owner traveled with the celebrity circuit; a lot of famous rock bands in the sixties frequented the club on any given night.

As soon as he and the group of ladies entered the Hippo, Lance looked around for the bandstand. He asked Devon when the DJ was going to stop playing songs on the jukebox and the musicians would start up. "Oh no," she chuckled. "This is a disco, Lance. There is no band."

No sooner did the girls and Lance grab a booth in the back, when a group of musicians walked in with a couple of the original members of Traffic, minus Stevie Winwood. Instantaneously, Devon and her friends slid across the dance floor, swooped down on the rockers, and brought them back to their booth.

A couple of the musicians brought girls with them. Unfortunately, for one of the poor things, Devon was shining on her boyfriend. You could tell this wasn't the first time Devon met the guy. It was obvious they knew each other well. When everyone piled into the booth, Devon sat next to him, leaving barely enough room for the girlfriend to squeeze in on the edge.

You had to give Devon credit. She did everything she could to keep the guy's attention focused on her. Talking to him animatedly, her eyes were as big as saucers when she wasn't batting her eyelashes, and her arms flew every which way as she repeatedly bumped the poor girl with her butt nearer and nearer to the edge.

When the group was getting ready to leave the club, Devon told Lance, "You wanna get the check?" That's when it hit him that the only reason he was invited was to pay the bill at the end of the night.

Hailing down a cab, which isn't the easiest thing to do in the City, the girls, the musicians, and Lance piled in for the ride home. Again, Devon sat next to the guy, still carrying on, and elbowing the girl on her other side. Finally, the girl spoke up, annoyed, "Why do you keep hitting me?"

"Honey, if I hit you, you'd be in the street," Devon barked back.

Back at the studio, as everyone was going inside, Lance headed back to his loft. Devon shouted, "Lance, aren't you going to party with us?" Lance declined. He'd had enough.

Max's Kansas City on Park Avenue South was another hip place in New York City. William Burroughs, the poet would come by, as well as artist, Robert Rauschenberg. Warhol's group, The Factory were always within reach of Andy, and Bowie, Lou Reed, and The Velvet Underground would pop in occasionally.

One night, Lance got invited to Max's where Andy Warhol held court. He'd heard the buzz about the club, but he never really respected Warhol's act. He also knew the group, including a few people from the studio, was into a really bad drug scene, heroin. He'd been around when they were chipping chiva at Electric Lady. He didn't want anything to do with it.

Down at the other end of 8th Avenue in the East Village, Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground played the Electric Circus, and there was always something happening at the Fillmore East.

Bill Graham, the owner of the Fillmore West in San Francisco, opened a club in New York in 1968. Headliners like Hendrix, the Allman Brothers, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and the Jefferson Airplane always put on outrageous shows at either of the Fillmores.

Occasionally, Lance would take a date and walk the few blocks from his loft to the Fillmore East. A favorite of his to see live was Mountain, a hard rock band with singer and guitarist Leslie West, bassist Felix Pappalardi and drummer N.D. Smart. One of their hit songs on the radio was "Mississippi Queen."

The Fillmore East was the only time Lance strayed down to the East Village; too many needle freaks hanging around the psychedelic shops. It was like Haight Street in San Francisco, but replayed over and over again, not like the beautiful harmonious people at the Fillmore West. Lance was working intensely on the mural most of the time anyway. He didn't have the time or the desire to hang out there. Besides, going to the East Village really made him miss the beach. Man, he was getting homesick.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 03:13:00 GMT

STUDIO TIME

Although Woodstock opened up a whole new world to Lance, just hanging out at the studio was trippy enough for him.

Daylight hours were spent warming up to working on the mural; developing new ideas, motivating himself. Nobody in the loft actually got up until noon, which was when Holy Moses split for Electric Lady. Thank goodness, Lance never could get anything done when the boys were around. They were starting fires right and left, especially in the evening when they geared up. That's usually when the chaos began. As soon as the band left, Lance was able to concentrate on matters at hand.

After putting in four or five hours of work, Lance would take a break and show up at the studio just when the staff was calling it a day. Those moments were too special to miss, especially when musicians were in town to record. The clock would strike five and associates, roadies, engineers, friends, and the recording artists would congregate in the upstairs lounge area centered between Michael Jeffery’s office and the cubies.

When Lance heard that The Ghetto Fighters recorded at the studio on a regular basis, he initially imagined gang bangers. He didn’t know that the twin brothers, TaharQa and Tunde R Aleem had recorded on three of Jimi's albums, "Cry of Love," "Rainbow Bridge," and "War Heroes." He also wasn’t aware that they had worked with Sam Cook, Sam & Dave, and Otis Redding, just to name a few, or that they were the founders of the Harlem World Club, a precursor to rap.

Listening to them play, Lance saw that they were two unbelievably talented and deeply evolved musicians trying to overcome the repression of the ghetto.

Standing around and feeling a part of the loose-knit group of fifteen or so, someone would sing a few chords of a classic song from the past and the rest would spontaneously go into riffs. They were so steeped in the culture of Harlem, it was a high point of hanging out at the studio.

There were a number of musicians coming in and out of Electric Lady. Lance heard about a young woman that had an outrageous talent. The studio was trying hard to get her in to record, but getting her organized and in the booth on time was next to impossible.

This was no isolated issue. There were so many talented young performers who stood out on street corners, harmonizing in the middle of the cold winter nights in New York. Knowing they could easily make it in the entertainment business and getting them focused were two entirely different matters. It just wasn’t going to happen.

People went on and on about this one particular young woman who was A.D.D. and high strung, but a huge talent. They actually got her in once, but to keep her entertained while the recording process ran on, her manager had to sprinkle fairy dust all over the studio. The fairy dust was actually metallic flake, which was not good at all for the recording equipment. It took days to get everything cleaned up and back in tip-top shape.

One afternoon, Lance was hanging out as usual, and Carly Simon came in to make some last minute changes on her first self-named album. For some reason, Lance thought this was the young woman with the fairy dust. He sat and watched her cavort around the studio with her entourage in tow. Most musicians that came in to record, no matter what level, would stop and talk with everyone. It was a very social scene. But not Carly. She made a beeline for the booth, recorded, and was out of there. If she did speak to anyone, it was to her surrounding flock.

The Third World, a reggae band before reggae was popular, came in the studio when Lance was in New York, and recorded "America The Beautiful." Their music definitely had an island influence, but it wasn’t totally ethnic.

Definitely part of the social scene, the band members saw a painting of Lance’s, depicting a woman embracing the universe. They loved it so much they wanted to use it for their album cover. Even though Lance and the band went to the RCA office together to show the big cheese his work, a couple of weeks later the album came out with a cover showing the American Flag burning. It had nothing to do with his work.

Over time, it got to the point where Lance felt very comfortable walking into the studio in the observing area to watch the musicians record. Someone would say so and so was recording in Studio “B,” and Lance would go in and listen. No problem.

A frequent visitor at the studio was Devon Wilson. Originally from Milwaukee, Devon was a prostitute in Vegas when she was just fifteen years old. After she moved to New York City, she hooked up with rock legends like Mick Jagger and Brian Jones of the Stones, Eric Clapton, Duane Allman, Traffic, and Jimi Hendrix.

Slender, around 5’9”, with a long afro, she wasn’t particularly memorable looking. It wasn’t like, “Wow!” when you saw her, but Devon was Jimi’s on-again/off-again girlfriend and his personal assistant. Jimi’s song, Dolly Dagger is all about her.

Devon would show up at the studio quite often, reviewing tapes of tracks that Jimi had laid down. The vaults in the walls of the studio were filled with stacks of reels of Jimi’s music. She, Michael Jeffery, and Senior Engineer, Eddie Kramer sorted through the tracks and out of it came the "Cry of Love" album.

It always felt uneasy when Devon was in the studio. Lance asked someone once why they let her in if it just made everyone nervous, and they said that Devon was really good at blackmailing people. It was easier to just work with her.

The roadies hung out at the studio as well; specifically Gerry Stickells and Eric Barrett. Both Gerry and Eric were big guys with British accents, and a lot of fun. The electrical engineer and one of the founding techs, Shimon Ron had been an Israeli commando. At least that’s what he told Lance. He had an interesting edge to him. He was kind of like a green beret, only more intense.

Drugs were definitely passed around at the studio after hours. There’d be a little coke here and there, and of course, pot, but taking drugs wasn't everyone’s focus.

Michael Jeffery actively interacted with everyone. He had such an upbeat personality. He was the studio cheerleader. Lance was overwhelmed and star struck at times with the whole experience.

It wasn’t always this rock legend paradise, though. There were situations that Lance would have rather avoided. He wasn't the type of guy who liked confrontation anyway. He just wanted everyone to get along.

Since Lance's arrival in NYC, there was a bit of dissension in the ranks. A couple of people couldn't understand why Michael Jeffery was putting up some small-time artist on the studio's tab for who knows how long, to paint a pretty picture. Profits should go toward buying much needed equipment, not a mural. Now that Jimi was gone they had to make Electric Lady a working studio. This didn’t sit well with Senior Engineer, Eddie Kramer.

As a result, whenever Lance came into Studio A, Eddie's domain, while he was setting up for a recording session, the high-strung engineer would get distracted. “What are you doing in here?” he’d ask, perturbed. Lance never faulted Eddie, the man had a job to do, but it was an uncomfortable situation whenever they ran into each other.

Lance got the hint real quick and from then on he hung out in Studio B where there was a much easier atmosphere. Eddie didn’t run the show in that room. Then he would return to the loft and paint into the early hours of the morning.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 15:38:00 GMT

WOODSTOCK

Lance met quite a few people involved in show business during his stay in NYC. Makes sense, he was painting a commission for a recording studio, plus his connection with Jerry Morrison and all his friends. Once allowed into their click, he discovered they had their own language, “Carny Talk,” which is kind of like Pig Latin.

The way it works is you insert the sound "izz, azz, or eez before the first vowel sound of a word. It's based on how the word is pronounced. For example, bread is "brizzzead" and friend is "friezzend" in carny.

Wizzat dizzoo yizzou neazzeed to neezow? It's really nizzot that tizzough my frizziend.

Translation: What do you need to know? It's really not that tough my friend.

On the weekends, Lance would pile into a limo with Michael Jeffery, a bunch of people from the studio, and various friends and drive up to Woodstock. Jeffery owned a beautiful country estate, equipped with a very proper English butler and maid on hand to grant your every wish; authentic English breakfast served every morning, cocktails in the evening. The gang would hang out at night in a huge library full of English literature, while tapes of Joey Dee and the Starliters played “The Peppermint Twist,” with Hendrix playing backup on guitar. Jimi was very tucked in compared to the look of the sixties; short hair, waiter-type suit with no collar. He definitely hadn’t gone off yet.

Woodstock is obviously best known for the infamous concert, but the festival didn’t take place in town. Yasgur’s Farm is actually twenty miles away. The peaceful little community was where music producers, executives, and hippies lived cohesively.

The Halpernion Brothers owned an estate in Woodstock that was once owned by the mafia. A couple of pretty tough guys, they were Carnies who made and distributed tattoo guns to tattoo parlors on Coney Island. They weren’t really brothers. They met when one of them broke into the other’s apartment in NYC with a sub-machine gun to rip off his heroin stash. The one who was being robbed responded, “No, I’m not gonna give it to ya!” They ended up talking it out and became best friends.

Contrary to what you'd believe, the Brothers had a reputation for defending the hippies that lived in Woodstock. If they found out some redneck was hassling them, they’d turn around and terrorize the harasser.

Lance really enjoyed going over to the Halpernion's estate. He was especially impressed with the antique bar made out of dark wood. Horseshoe shaped, ten foot across, it had an elevated back bar with ornate posts. Laying on top of the bar were stacks of Marvel comic books the Brothers had collected over the years. Lance sat for hours looking at the inspiring graphics. He couldn't get over how the far out cartoon characters were drawn so vividly and with such precision. Not wanting to stop, he asked one of the Brothers, “Can I borrow a few of these to get some ideas for my mural?”

“Of course. Just make sure you return them. They’re classics.”

Lance returned to his loft on a Sunday night. Standing back and looking at the work he'd completed, ideas danced in his head then popped onto the massive canvas.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 02:24:00 GMT

WHEN CHUCK CAME TO TOWN

The Director of Rainbow Bridge, Chuck Wein, showed up in NYC in December. He finished editing the movie in Los Angeles and flew back east to dub in Jimi's soundtrack. Chuck was only thirty years old and a very intelligent young man. That's probably why he was nicknamed, "The Wizard." After graduating from Harvard he spent the early to mid-sixties making movies with Andy Warhol. Chuck's girlfriend, Edie Sedgwick became famous as the artist's muse. He was also Otto Preminger, the well-known movie director's protégé, who said Chuck wrote the best dialogue he'd ever read.

With a thin build and long brown hair, Chuck was prone to wearing muslin shirts and pants and a leather strap tied around his head. He was very deep, as well, and psychic. Lance never put too much faith in that sort of thing. His beliefs lied in his religion. But Chuck blew him away one day when he read Lance's astrological chart. He was very astute in his interpretations.

As a treat, Chuck invited everyone at the studio to join him for a pre-screening of Rainbow Bridge. Even though it was only a rough cut, he was excited to show his baby off to his friends. He'd been nurturing it for a year and a half, since back when Hynson came to him with the concept.

The studio reserved a screening room for the private showing. Of course, Michael Jeffery came. He was the guy responsible for Jimi doing the soundtrack so he had a vested interest in the film. Chuck arrived with his good friend, Melinda Merryweather on his arm. The previous summer when they were filming the movie in Maui, Jimi had asked Melinda, who recently married Mike Hynson, to decorate the studio offices. Charlie Bacis, a fashion designer in New York was also part of Chuck's entourage. Thirty or so guests, including the studio manager, Jim Marron, engineers, secretarial staff, and friends, gathered in the room and settled in to see the invitation-only premier of Rainbow Bridge.

Everyone waited anxiously. Because of Jimi's involvement, there was a lot of anticipation at Electric Lady Recording Studio about Rainbow Bridge. It had only been three months since they lost their beloved friend. The rumored film footage Chuck shot of Hendrix in the Islands would be the first glimpse they'd have of him in an excruciatingly long time. Maybe it would be a way to say their final goodbyes.

The movie began without a score. Hawaiian cowboys also known as paniolos, surfing by the greats; Nuuhiwa, Fletcher, Hynson, beautiful Seabury Hall, the private girls school where they shot the film, the visuals at the beginning were wonderful.

As Rainbow Bridge progressed, actual dialogue was eventually exchanged between the "actors," but Lance noticed it wasn't scripted. Chuck was just filming people's off-the-cuff opinionated conversations about everything under the sun. He loved it when drama took over. He capitalized on it wherever spotted. I guess you could say this was one of the first "reality" shows, but in movie form.

Lance couldn't believe his eyes and ears. He kept waiting to catch a story line, some reason why these people were doing what they were doing. There was kind of a vague plot, and he thought the footage of Jimi Hendrix was an amazing insight into the rock idol that had never before been shown, but other than that there wasn't any content. It was so loosely structured that he kept scrambling to figure out what was going on.

Since Chuck was some Hollywood director prodigy, Lance expected more. He wanted really heavy stuff, sparks to fly, something meaningful. But it just droned on, one vignette after another of people pompously going on about how evolved they all were.

The movie ended with Lance pissed off that Chuck received a million dollars financing from Warner Brothers and this was all he could come up with. As the house lights came back on, Lance said rather loudly, "Where's the movie?"

"Oh, no, this isn't the final version," Chuck and Melinda said defensively in unison. "We still need to add the score and the special effects."

"Special effects, you need a story, not special effects," Lance barked back carelessly. He sincerely believed that Rainbow Bridge couldn't possibly be finished.

After spouting off enough, Lance realized he was becoming inconvenient to the rest of the group and ostracized, so he shut his mouth and kept his feelings to himself the remainder of the time he spent in NYC.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 03:28:00 GMT

MORE ROOMMATES

With the loud music and mischievous behavior under control, Lance only had one other problem with the boys in the band and their entourage. They were filthy dirty, and smelled really bad. Whenever Lance did his laundry he had to strip down all ten beds just to get the stink out of the loft, and his pad wasn’t exactly the kind of place you could leave dirty clothes, food, open whiskey bottles, and beer laying around. Since Day 1, Lance had been fighting an uphill battle with cockroach infestation.

Living at Kawella Bay, he was used to cockroaches. Any place you have tropical weather, you’re going to have problems with roaches. It’s a given and you just deal with it. But there's a difference between roaches in Hawaii and those in New York. In the Islands they’re huge, like small pets. When you walk into the kitchen, they freeze for an instant then scatter. In New York City the roaches are small, but bolder. Let's say you go to make a sandwich. They don't disappear into the woodwork. They just sit there and watch you. You can even smack one with a newspaper and the others won’t flinch. They give you absolutely no respect. To make a meal, Lance would first wash the counter down with organic bug spray. The next day, they’d be back.

Lance found out the hard way where the roaches were living; behind the expensive decorative wooden slats in the kitchen that Rudananda raved about. While spraying between the slats one day, roaches began pouring out by the droves. At one point, he actually thought he was gaining on them until he felt something on his neck. It was nothing, just an itch. He brushed it off. He felt something on his head, then again and again. Slowly looking above the slats, Lance watched as a trail of roaches crawled up the wall, onto the ceiling, and were dropping on him one by one.

Jumping out of the way, and brushing one or two roaches out of his hair, Lance was now on a mission. He was not going to let the filthy little scavengers win. Spraying with determination, he held strong and actually managed to knock them back to just a few.

Sleeping that night in his bed, twenty feet from the kitchen, was when Lance realized he was just fooling himself. Under the cover of nightfall, the roaches crawled out of the slats, up the wall and onto the ceiling. Making their way into Lance's bedroom, they bombarded him one after another while he lay in his bed.

Lance knew he was fighting a losing battle. He finally succumbed and just put up with them.

Email comments to: lancejost@aol.com

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 16:07:00 GMT

ROOMMATES

To get to Lance’s loft, you climbed up three flights of stairs on the outside of the building and enter through a metal doorway. Once inside, the room was configured into one long straight room, seventy feet long by fifteen feet wide. There were four windows that overlooked 4^th Avenue, one with a fire escape that led you down to the street. In the back of the loft was a small kitchen with expensive wooden slats over a brick wall for decoration. Plus there was an eight by ten-foot room built in the back corner by the bathroom and the kitchen, which was where Lance slept.

Not long after Lance moved in, the studio informed him that the band, “Holy Moses” would be recording for a few weeks, and they needed a place to stay.

Cheap beds with foam rubber mattresses were spread out around the floor for Billy Batson, the leader, lead guitarist, Ted Speleos, rhythm guitarist, David Vittek, Marty David who played bass/tenor sax, and drummer, Christopher Parker. Also joining them were their roadies and girlfriends, about ten new roomies in all.

Suddenly thrust upon Lance was a loft full of young, immature kids who got blasted out of their minds every night then came back home, plugged in their amps, and played music until dawn. Lance was only 29 years old and could stay up late and party with the best of them, but he had work to do, months of work before he finished the mural. That was the only thing he was concerned about.

Tensions mounted over the ensuing weeks. Ted Speleos, the youngest at 16 years old, slept in a bed the studio rigged to the ceiling with chains. Ted would get on the bed in the middle of the night and start swinging it back and forth until the whole building began vibrating. After a few complaints from the writer upstairs and some of the other neighbors, Lance did everything he could to quiet them down. It never really had an impact on the boys, though. They just gave him guff.

One night while Lance was working on a section of the canvas panel, the band was jamming and smoking pot. Suddenly, there was knock on the door. His first thought was that Sensei was complaining again, but they had patched things up long ago. Besides, it was way too late for karate class. Lance answered the door.

“You’re making a lot of racket here, son,” the older policeman said. With the smell of pot permeating throughout the loft, all Lance could think of was that his parents would get a call that their son was in jail in New York City. “I don’t know what else to do, Officer,” pleaded Lance. “I’ve tried repeatedly to get them to stop. But they don’t seem to listen too well.”

“Well, you better figure something out,” the cop advised Lance. “Your neighbors already aren’t on your side, and just a warning, son, if there’s another knock on your door, it’s not going to be me and whoever shows up will probably start snooping around, if you catch my drift.”

Lance closed the door, scared shitless. He had to do something immediately. This situation had gotten out of hand and the studio was no help at all. “You fucking assholes,” Lance turned and screamed at the top of his lungs at Billy Batson and the band. “Shut up and quit playing now!” The music stopped abruptly and the band behaved from then on.

Email comments to: lancejost@aol.com

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 15:12:00 GMT

HOME SWEET HOME

The third floor flat Lance rented on 4^th Avenue was owned by Rudy, a Jewish art dealer. Rudy was in his early fifties and specialized in Asian Art. His gallery sat on the bottom floor of the building and the floors above were each one giant room. Because of Rudy’s specialized field and the fact that he looked like Buddha, Lance and his friends called him Rudananda. Like Buddha, he was really in tune and glowing joy and beauty. He could have passed for an Eastern Indian. He also carried some very beautiful art pieces. Rudananda did all right for himself. His profits from the gallery enabled him to afford an ashram in Upstate New York where he had an organic bakery and distributed his baked goods to outlets around NYC.

The minute Lance moved into his flat, he started setting it up to paint. He asked John Veltry, a photographer from Juxtapose Magazine to come in and help. John, who was also a carpenter, plotted out the curvature in the hallway at the studio and reconstructed a replica on two walls in Lance’s seventy foot-long loft. Lance then split the 100-foot long canvas into two sections, stretched and stapled them to wooden battens nailed to the bottom and top of the walls.

Standing back as far as he could in the narrow room, Lance looked at the massive white canvas with a huge grin on his face. On one hand he was happy this was finally a reality. The smile turned to worry, though, when he realized all that needed to be done. It was overwhelming to say the least.

To make Lance's job a little easier, he talked the studio into renting an eight-foot long scaffold with wheels to paint the mural. Michael Jeffery also lent him Jimi’s stereo and albums that were stored at Electric Lady. Finally, Lance was ready to paint. Equipping the rolling scaffold with the stereo, music, lights, a very long extension cord, and cans of Liquitex paint, he could roll around the flat with ease to work on different sections.

Blasting Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention’s, “Hot Rats” over and over into the early morning hours, he never got sick of it once.

The tenant above Lance’s loft was a writer, quiet, didn't complain, and wasn't seen very often. Downstairs was a karate studio where they taught children and New York City Policemen how to defend themselves. One night, while painting away to the stereo full volume, there was a pounding on his door. Lance opened it and looked down to find a young karate student in full uniform.

“Sensei said you must turn the music off because it’s disturbing our class,” the young boy took a step back and said politely.

Lance didn’t expect such a request from this small boy. “Well, your sensei must understand that I’m working right now and I need my music,” he said, not taking the child seriously. Besides, Lance could hear every karate class, complete with yelling, kicking, and hitting. Any quick sounds heavily affected him when he painted details, but he never complained once to the "sensei," only because the music minimized the sounds below. This solution allowed him to work without disturbance.

The boy turned and left without a word. Minutes later, there was a second pounding on the door. Another student was sent to deliver the same message, “Sensei said you must turn the music off.”

Again, Lance turned the young boy away.

Quickly, there was a third knock on the door. Lance opened it, very frustrated at the constant interruptions. This nonsense was taking him away from making any progress. Lance looked down, “Tell your Sensei…”

Unexpectedly, Lance scanned up a very large, bald, black man's body. “You must turn off the music when I’m giving my classes,” ordered the Sensei. Before Lance had a chance to respond, Sensei added, “Come with me!”

Lance was dumbfounded and at a loss for words. He figured at this point, he better do what he's told or get the shit kicked out of him.

Entering the karate studio downstairs, Lance saw the class in progress. The brick wall of the studio was painted white with multiple racks to hold swords, numchucks, and other various weapons used in martial arts. “You must turn off the music during my classes,” ordered Sensei again. “Karate is a meditation and your loud music is disrupting us.”

Lance calmly gathered his thoughts. Being a Sagittarius, he always took the time to think before he spoke. Just like Sensei, he had a job to do. “Well, I’m here in New York City to paint a mural for Jimi Hendrix’ Electric Lady Studio. This is just as important to me, as your work is to you,” Lance explained in his usual calm, baritone voice.

Looking around, Lance stood in the middle of the studio, surrounded by the weapons, thirty mini-martial arts students, and a very insistent Sensei. He knew Sensei wasn’t going to hit him, but this was clearly not what the man wanted to hear.

“Look, we’re mature people,” Sensei explained, “and I’m sure we can work this out. What you’re doing is disrupting me. Hopefully, we can get to a level that we can both work with.”

Lance went back to his flat, got back to work, and kept the music down until the Sensei closed up shop for the night.

It took a while to get all the chinks worked out, but Lance promised to keep the base down and he put rubber mats under the speakers. That didn’t stop Sensei from coming up and asking him to turn the base down, but eventually, the two men called a truce and became good friends.

Sensei was also a musician. He played the violin and sang in small clubs around the Village. Every Sunday he practiced downstairs in his karate studio and Lance could hear him playing scales on the violin. That man was like a clock, completely regimented.

Walking from the studio to his loft late one night with a girl, Lance kept an eye open for dark corners. You always had to be aware of your surroundings after the sun went down in NYC. Crazy shit could happen right in front of you if you weren't careful.

Up ahead, Lance saw a large black man coming toward them from the other side of the street and went into protective mode. The last thing he wanted to happen was for his date to get hurt on his watch. The closer the man got, Lance intentionally kept his calm and didn’t show fear. Just when he was about to create a diversion to get away, Lance saw the man’s violin case. Then he saw his karate ghee. “Sensei! What’re you doing up so late?" Lance was never so relieved.

“Just heading home for the night, my friend.”

Email Comments to: lancejost@aol.com

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 03:37:00 GMT

HOOFING IT

His first week in NYC, Lance spent time getting to know the staff at the studio and discussing the mural. Somehow, the heads at Electric Lady thought it was going to be painted right on the walls of a very narrow and curved hallway. Lance nixed that idea right away. There were way too many distractions to paint while business as usual went on. What Lance needed was a loft, a private workspace that fit a canvas the size of the one hundred foot-long hallway.

Once Lance saw the actual space at the studio and sized it up, he needed to figure out what he specifically was going to paint. His and Jimi's only inspiration to date was the album cover he created for the British Rock Band, Moon back in August.

While processing ideas through his mind, Lance did some social running around with Jerry "Morrison" Breitman, a Jewish gentleman in his sixties, and Jefferey's assistant in late 68/69. Jerry, whose real name was Gerald Breitman, went on to do PR for mass murdering terror dictator of Haiti's François "Papa Doc" Duvalier in 1971. According to Jerry, he had been in the music business for decades, at one point, working with both Billie Holiday and Satchmo Armstrong. Smooth talker that he was, Lance wasn't sure what to believe. He just knew he was fun to hang out with.

Lance learned a lot by running in Jerry’s crowd. At the top of the list was that show business people; vaudevillians, musicians, and carnies, all interact with each other. Carnies, for instance, are a whole sub-culture of the entertainment industry. Most of these people are halfway between professional musicians and street hustlers. They're especially thick in New York City, unlike anywhere else in the country. Lance was mesmerized watching them interact in a town where they had been historically invested for so many years. Jerry Morrison was probably the most streetwise of anyone he met that whole trip.

Unfortunately, Jerry had gotten himself into a bit of trouble before Lance arrived. With the studio’s help, Jerry managed to stretch out his court date for pot possession. But it was definitely going to happen, and most likely he'd end up with jail time. This wasn’t an option Jerry was willing to take. There were a lot of Jamaicans in the City, many were involved with Electric Lady Studio; musicians, etc. So Jerry and his friends had it all planned out that if a sentence came down, he would split for Jamaica.

Hoofing all over NYC, Jerry’s mission was to find Lance a place to set up shop. They looked at a number of lofts surrounding the studio and beyond 8th Street, which is half a block from the center of the Village, Washington Square and Avenue of the Americas.

Past the end of the Village, 8th Street turns into St. Mark's Place. The Electric Circus, located between Second and Third Avenues, was the epitome of the "wild side" of NYC. House band, Velvet Underground, as well as the Grateful Dead and The Doors played, while trapeze artists swung high above the stage in between acts. As you continue down St. Mark's Place heading toward Fillmore East, there were scores of vintage clothing stores and head shops. It was the hippie underground street scene, kind of like downtown Laguna in the sixties; hippies, punks, dope dealers walking up and down the street.

Most of the apartments Lance and Jerry saw were residential. This wasn't going to work for him at all. Lance needed a loft-type space, not a cozy home. Most important to him was finding a place to work. Sleeping quarters were secondary.

Two weeks into the hunt, Jerry and Lance made their way down to the opposite end of 8th Street. Overlooking the Cooper Union Building, a private art college founded in 1859 in the East Village, the third-floor flat on 4th Avenue, just four blocks away from Electric Lady had the desired dimensions to paint a mural; 70 feet long by 15 feet wide.

Email Comments to: lancejost@aol.com

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 16:38:00 GMT

NYC, HERE I COME

Landing at JFK was so surreal. Lance walked out of the airport terminal and was met by a limo driver holding up a sign with his name on it. Wearing the typical navy suit and hat, the non-descript driver opened the car door and escorted him to Electric Lady Studios in Greenwich Village. This was a wild new adventure for Lance. He was flying high with excitement. Looking back, he was still amazed how fast this all worked out.

Lance sat quietly in the cocoon of the heated limo as it passed through the Midtown Tunnel, connecting Brooklyn to Manhattan. This was so different from anything he’d ever seen in L.A. It suddenly struck him that he didn't know a single soul in NYC.

Cruising down the Avenue of the Americas, the sounds of the city muffled through the rolled up windows, he watched as one skyscraper after another sped by, looking like waffles stacked on end. He felt like he was in a bubble quietly floating in the air. Then, out of the blue, the driver made a sharp right hand turn at 8^th Street… from the far left lane. Lance snapped back to the present as they careened in front of two lanes of traffic just to make the illegal turn. "What the?" Lance couldn't believe his eyes. A barrage of horns honked up and down the street, cabbies from all directions started yelling, commotion at its best. The scariest part was that the limo driver didn’t even flinch. Welcome to New York City!

Lance had no preconceived notion of what to expect when the limousine pulled up in front of Electric Lady Studios. Sandwiched between the West Village and Washington Square, blending in with a million storefronts, 52 W. 8^th Street was a rundown brick building with nothing flashy about it at all. From an artist’s point of view, even the sign painted on the window was less than impressive.

Stepping out of the limo, the driver set Lance’s suitcase and the box of his belongings on the sidewalk, rang the bell to the studio, and walked back to the car.

“Electric Lady Studio,” a young woman announced over the intercom. “May I help you?”

Lance hesitantly leaned in to the intercom, “Hi, my name is Lance Jost. I’m here to see Michael Jeffery?”

“Just one minute,” she added.

A few moments later the studio secretary opened up the front door. “Follow me,” the young hip-looking woman said pleasantly and let Lance in. Gathering up his things, Lance made his way down the narrow corridor, then up the stairs to Michael Jeffery’s office.

Like the simple, rundown storefront, Jeffery’s office was run-of-the-mill. In fact, it was kind of messy. “Good to see you again, Lance. Please excuse my office. Melinda Merryweather, Mike Hynson's wife is going to be redecorating it soon,” Jeffery said in his very British accent. “I trust you had a pleasant flight?”

“Fine, everything was just fine, thanks,” Lance replied and sat down in an empty office chair across from Jeffery’s desk as the secretary left and closed the door.

Jeffery brought Lance up to date on what was happening with the movie, Rainbow Bridge then apologized, “I'm sorry, where are my manners? We should get you settled in before anything else. Where would you like to stay?”

“I’m not really sure,” Lance answered, confused. He’d never been to New York before.

“I should’ve booked you a room at the Chelsea Hotel. Things have just been a bit chaotic around here lately,” Jeffery apologized. “Sorry, chap.”

“Don’t worry about it, man,” said Lance. He knew enough about the famous hotel to know that the Chelsea would be too much of a distraction. It was an old hotel located on 23rd Street between 7th & 8th, and best known for its residents. Famous artists, poets, musicians lived there in the fifties and sixties; Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Robert Maplethorpe. Dylan Thomas supposedly died of pneumonia at the Chelsea in 1953. "I’m not here for a social trip. I’m here to paint a mural.”

“You’re probably right. How about we put you up at Jim Marron’s home until we get you a more permanent situation?” suggested Jeffery. “Jim’s the Manager of the studio and lives just five flats down in a ground-floor.”

Lance walked down the street carrying his suitcase and his box, looking for Jim Marron’s address. The housing in Greenwich Village was kind of a mish-mash. Surrounded by tall buildings and storefronts, every once in a while up popped a small apartment building. The neighborhood had been there for a while. As a matter of fact, German artist, Hans Hoffmann, the catalyst of the Abstract Expressionist Movement, rented an art studio upstairs at 52 W. 8^th Street in 1933.

Lance approached the little stucco ground floor apartment house with the small courtyard where Jim Marron and his wife lived. It was slightly decorated, nothing distinctive. He felt kind of weird just walking up to their door, announcing, "Hi, I'm Lance, your new roommate." But he only planned on crashing there for a week or two, just until the studio found him a workspace and a bed.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 16:37:00 GMT

IN DENIAL

Lance was in shock when he heard the news of Jimi's death. His friend, John Moore was gracious enough to let him stay at his apartment above Victoria Beach as long as he needed. So he kicked back and tried to figure out what the rock legend's death meant to his painting a mural for Electric Lady Recording Studio.

He tried to call the studio a few times, but things were obviously insane. After about a month, though, it was killing him not knowing. He had to know if the mural was still on. Finally, Lance got through to Michael Jeffery at the studio. “Sorry to bother you at such a crazy time, but is this still gonna happen?” Lance asked politely as he paced back and forth in the living room.

“Lance, I’m so sorry to put you through this,” Jeffery began. “It's been a bit chaotic here this past month, but…”

Lance knew what was coming next. He’d had the last thirty days to prepare for the worst. Sitting down on the couch, he braced himself for Jeffery's stinging words.

“…but, I’m so glad you waited. Thank you so much, and I’m happy to tell you that we still want you to paint the mural. You just have to give us a little bit of time.”

Lance couldn’t believe what he was hearing. All that worry was for nothing. He could breathe again.

“You can relax,” Jeffery said. “I’ll get back with you in a while and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

Lance’s plane ticket came shortly after his conversation with Michael Jeffery and he left for New York City the first week of November 1970.

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 23:15:00 GMT

SPECIAL DELIVERY

July 25, 1970 was the day Lance was delivering the artwork he designed for an album cover to Jimi Hendrix at the San Diego Sports Arena.

Lance had a few telephone conversations with Michael Jeffery after their initial meeting, in which he was asked to create an album cover for a British rock band called Moon. Lance sent a draft to New York to make sure he and Jeffery were on the same page, then to speed things up, Jeffery told Lance to deliver the artwork to Jimi’s Road Manager, Gerry Stickells at the concert.

Walking up to the entrance of the Sports Arena, Lance wore his finest; blonde elk leather bellbottoms with sealskin inserts on the flare of the legs, and a squirrel fur-lined vest made by Mylon, the owner of West Coast Gypsy. With five free tickets in hand, Lance, Mylon and his wife, and another couple entered the massive stadium and found their seats. The seats were great, of course, but Lance had to leave to go find Jimi's road manager.

Going out and around the arena, down a dark ramp to the back stage entrance, Lance anxiously waited in line to gain entrance. Just as he got up on the platform and was about to reach for the big steel door, it flew open and out came six tough looking cops dragging as many longhaired hippies dressed just like Lance. The only difference was that they were in handcuffs. Coming straight at him, he squeezed his tall, thin body off to the side so he didn’t get tangled up in the flurry and whisked away to the waiting sheriff’s bus.

Noticing that the backstage door was closing shut, Lance quickly grabbed it, poked his head in, and told security that Gerry Stickells was expecting him. Eric Barrett, a pretty big guy with a thick British accent and one of Jimi's roadies, pulled him inside and led him in the direction of the stage, where he was introduced to Gerry.

Gerry, who was also pretty big, and with lots of hair and a beard, walked Lance in and around the chaos of putting on a Hendrix concert. Bodies were darting back and forth, each playing a part in the massive production. Gerry gently pulled Lance by the arm, leading him to a quiet spot where Lance presented the album cover drawing to him for his approval.

“Michael asked for a moonscape," Lance explained to Gerry, "so this is what I came up with. See the round edges of the diamond shape. There’s the moonscape and the craters. It’s kind of a fish eye lens, convex point of view, surrealist in style. Then I’ve closed it all in with this metallic border."

“Lance, this is outrageous,” Gerry was totally blown away. "Michael Jeffery said you were good, but I'm sure this is beyond anyone's expectations. Jimi's gonna love it." Gerry paused, then as an afterthought asked, “Do you want to meet Jimi?”

Lance was completely caught off-guard. Seriously, meeting Jimi was the last thing on his mind. He was just there to deliver his artwork and watch Jimi out front with the rest of the audience. Stammering, he finally answered, “Of, of course, I want to meet Jimi!” He was a huge Hendrix fan. Looking around with a huge smile on his face, Lance could see the big jam-up backstage, tons of people rushing back and forth, a small crowd prepping Jimi before we was about to go onstage. Lance figured the last thing Hendrix would want to do at this moment was shake hands and make small talk with a stranger.

He also didn't see the need to rush things. He was going to New York to paint a mural for Jimi Hendrix. “You know what, Gerry, I don’t want to be rude and take him away from his focus,” Lance explained. “We’ll be hanging out next month in September anyway. Let him go do his job."

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 03:25:00 GMT

BACKGROUND

Just prior to coming back to Laguna in 1969, Lance had been living on Kawella Bay on the North Shore of Oahu. The beauty of Kawella Bay was that the string of vacation cottages were only used in the summer time, so most of the year the Bay was uninhabited. Besides Lance and Cantrell, the only other year-round residents were Jackie Baxter who lived to the left of Kawella Point, the band who took up residency at Kahulu Point, surfboard shaper Bosco Burns, and next door neighbors, Stu and Vicki.

Entering the small private community situated back from the beach, there was a large foreboding “NO TRESPASSING” sign just behind the windowless shack Lance and Cantrell rented for fifty dollars a month. The sign was rather stark and offensive to the eye and totally incongruous with the lush flora of large Banyon trees and coconut palms. If you knew Cantrell at all, you knew he wouldn't be able to keep his paintbrushes off the sign. Talent oozed out of every pore of his body. After he and Lance got their hands on it, the beautifully painted sign with tropical flowers became a great icebreaker with neighbors and trespassing tourists, alike.

Likewise, Lance and Cantrell's shack sported brightly colored banners and flags that they painted. Erecting a large paisley pavilion tent on the beach next to the colorful hammock strung between the palm trees and the catamaran, their house became the fun place to be on the North Shore; lots of surfers, hippies, and pretty girls coming by to party and lay on the beach.

Suzie Bradley was a friend from the Mainland who came to visit Lance at Kawella Bay. Suzie was Miss USA in 1967 for a split second. When the original winner won Miss Universe, Suzie, the first runner up, took over the crown. She refused, however, and the honor went to the second runner up. That's the first time in Miss USA history that a second runner up took over the title.

Lance always had a thing for Suzie, but their timing was off more than on. The first time he met her, his knees went weak. It was a really intense experience. Long, dark hair, petite, Suzie was a very beautiful magnetic young woman. Lance would have jumped at the chance to hook up with her in Hawaii, but she showed up on the arm of a guitarist from Laguna Beach.

Lance and Cantrell had bigger problems on the horizon. One day the sign went missing and the property manager, Mr. Stender, basically accused Lance and Cantrell of stealing it. Normally not a big deal, it was just a sign. The boys even offered to paint a replacement sign, thinking it would diffuse the obvious bug up Stender’s butt. Then they learned that the other residents and leaseholders were invited to a policy meeting where the evil property manager admitted he was trying to rid the bay of the “undesirables.”

The leaseholders didn't have a problem with Lance and Cantrell. They thought the guys breathed life back into their small community that had been missing for years. But that didn’t stop Stender.

A few months later, their landlady, Mrs. Cokett stopped by visibly upset and agitated. Avoiding eye contact, she started apologizing like crazy as she divulged Stender's plan. She liked having the two young men there, especially when the rent was due. They also kept vandals away. Apologizing profusely, and almost in tears, she said that Stender gave her an ultimatum. In order for her family to stay, which they had leased the property for generations, Lance and Cantrell had to cut their hair.

With a dumbfounded look on his face, Lance doubled over with laughter. He couldn't believe Stender's gripe was all about the length of their hair. Putting his arm around Mrs. Cokett's shoulder, he told her she didn’t have a thing to worry about. He and Cantrell had already decided it would be easier to get work in Honolulu if they cut their hair.

Complying with Stender's demands angered the man even more and put him on the warpath. The two longhaired hippies had worn out their welcome. To avoid the hassle, Lance reluctantly left his little paradise and returned home.

Back in Laguna in the Fall of 1969, Lance was invited to stay with his friend, Mike Haley and his wife, Sherrie in their beautiful home on Thurston, high above the city. The young couple owned a bikini shop on the Island in Newport Beach called Leopard Spots. Mike was also a very talented surfer, as was his brother Jack, who was a long time lifeguard in Los Angeles and had his own surfboard company.

Sherrie Novak Haley was a beautiful, curvaceous blonde who loved the limelight. She was the girl in a bathing suit at surf contests who wore a sash across her chest and gave out trophies and kisses on the cheek, total knockout. Lance met Sherrie way before Haley, spotting her playing flamenco guitar near the campus at Long Beach State, and singing Malaguena Salerosa with a perfect Spanish accent. As gorgeous and talented as she was, they had never been more than just good friends.

Immediately, upon moving in with the Haleys, Lance felt tension building between the pair. Haley studied spiritual development with the Brotherhood of the White Temple, a religious group in Colorado. He always had a spiritual side, but this group made him even more curious about God and the Bible. Mike would go on and on about his learnings, telling everyone he came in contact with. Unfortunately, Sherrie had no patience for it. To break the tension, they took off for Hawaii, leaving Lance to watch the house.

Through the grapevine, Lance heard that Suzie Bradley was back in Southern California. He somehow wrangled her phone number and asked her out on a date. Instant chemistry. Suzie was working in a nursing home. She had given up her crown a couple of years earlier because she was engaged to Bobby Walker at the time, a known speed freak hanging around Laguna, and Miss USA couldn’t be married. Probably a good thing, she just wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility.

Around the same time, Haley showed up at the Thurston house without Sherrie. Tensions continued over on Oahu and Sherrie ran off with Juan Shelton, a surfer about five years her junior. Haley was devastated.

Ordinarily, Haley was quite organized, systematic, and directed with a wry sense of humor to distract from his proactive philosophical intensity. Now he was totally raging, unable to focus on any one thought. His adrenalin level had gotten out of control.

Lance and Suzie tried to calm him down one night and help him vent his rage. After several hours they were exhausted and turned in. They went into their room, Haley into his. A bit of time went by before they realized something was desperately wrong. Lance had spent a lot of time in expanded states, psychic exploring. He got to a point where he could feel energies beyond walls. Haley’s desperation could no longer be ignored.

Barging into Haley's room, Lance shouted out his name. There, in the middle of the bedroom, Haley was kneeling on the floor, a hari kari knife cradled in his hands, pointed at his stomach. Trained since high school in martial arts, Haley had collected a samurai sword and a hari kari knife. His trance broken, Haley's eyes widened as he looked up at his concerned friend. Lance walked over and motioned to take the knife away. “What the crap?” Lance chided Haley. “Are you out of your mind?”

Haley succumbed, willingly gave up the knife, and collapsed.

Amongst all the chaos, Lance was falling hard for Suzie. He'd never experienced such strong feelings toward a woman. Unfortunately, Suzie was confused. Witnessing the gravity of Haley and Sherrie's marital problems only intensified her opinion of marriage; oppressive. Besides, she liked having people take care of her. She didn't want to be on her own. On the other hand, Lance was an escape from her father. In the end, Lance won the coin toss and the two got married in December 1969 at the American Catholic Church on Park Avenue in Laguna.

Right off the bat, married life went sour for the newlyweds. Suzie didn't want to lift a finger when it came to household chores and cooking. If he was busy working on a paying commission, shouldn't she want to clean up after dinner? Suzie didn’t see it that way, and only two months after their nuptials, she announced, “We’re not married anymore," and moved out.

Haley and Lance were now in the same boat. Each of their wives ran off, one with a younger boyfriend, the other with a girlfriend to Sausalito. Sherrie eventually came back to the Thurston house to pick up her furniture, which left Lance and Haley sitting in an empty living room, trying to come up with ways to pay the rent and buy a couch.

Haley suggested that maybe Lance could get a job painting the movie title and credits for a movie Mike Hynson was making. This was the real deal, a surf movie that Jimi Hendrix would be scoring.

Over dinner at a Mexican restaurant in La Jolla, Hynson introduced Haley and Lance to Michael Jeffery, Jimi Hendrix' manager. British, very proper, with a medium build and height, Jeffery looked strikingly similar to the movie character, Austin Powers.

Pulling out his portfolio, Lance could see Jeffery's excitement over his work. Lance imagined himself in Maui with the gang, creating artwork and surfing. But in the middle of his fantasy, he realized that Jeffery was asking him to go to New York City, not the Islands. His proposal had nothing to do with the movie. Jimi wanted a mural of outer space painted in his Electric Lady Recording Studio in Greenwich Village. Vast moments passed before Lance pulled himself out of the sun and off the beach to finally give Jeffery an answer, “Well, yes, I guess I ought to do that.”

"My Brush with Hendrix," by Donna Klaasen Jost

Surf Rebel — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 15:45:00 GMT

COULD IT BE OVER BEFORE IT BEGINS?

“The Jimi Hendrix Experience is over,” the talking heads repeated again and again on the five, six, and seven o’clock news. “The acid rock musician died today in a London hospital, apparently from an overdose of drugs after collapsing at a party. Jimi Hendrix parlayed his electric guitar into some of the most unusual sounds of an unusual music.”

“Overdose? Collapsed? What is going on?” Lance kept running the devastating news over in his head, still shaken hours after first learning about Jimi's death earlier that day.

“Lance,” a familiar voice rang out above the seagulls’ cries gliding over the crashing waves as he crossed the crosswalk at Laguna's Main Beach.

“John, hey man, what’s happening?” Lance said, pleasantly surprised. It was always a trip bumping into John. He was one of those off-the-wall kind of guys, completely harmless, but you usually never knew what he was going to come out with. John seemed pretty mellow today, though. “Sorry, but I’m in kind of a rush, John. Just wrapping up a few things before I take off for New York,” Lance was so excited. He was beaming. He wanted to tell everyone he passed on his way delivering a t-shirt design that he was going to work for Hendrix, but he didn’t have time to dawdle. He had a plane to catch.

“Didn’t you hear?” John said cautiously, then paused…“Hendrix died.”

“Hendrix died, Hendrix died,” John’s echoing words stung Lance's brain like alcohol in an open wound.

“Last night, he choked on his own vomit,” John added.

“No way,” Lance thought. He had to be wrong.

Sitting in front of the television that night in a friend's apartment above Victoria Beach, next to a half-packed suitcase and a box of his belongings, Lance was numb from head to toe. Was this real? Was everything that happened in the last five months being flushed down the toilet? What now?