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It took Freddie a few moments to absorb the news.
"Jimi Hendrix, regarded by millions as one of the most talented and original performers in modern rock music, is dead." The solemn voice of the BBC said.
Jimi Hendrix. Dead.
It shouldn’t be possible. It can’t be.
Not him!
A lump formed in his throat. Once the radio announced someone's death, it was as if it made it real. It was no longer a rumour, a bad joke or a state of floating between uncertainty and reality. Taking refuge in oblivion or the hope of a mistake wasn’t an option anymore.
"...Roger."
His voice was weak, his heart, his shoulders, heavy like lead. He’d followed Hendrix’s gigs around the country, and had seen him on stage as often as he could. He recalled him captivating the entire audience with his guitar playing and exuberant body language, his extraordinary energy, his unique aura. He had the kind of stage presence only the greatest rock stars exude.
He was everything Freddie aspired to be. Freddie even had a picture of him on the edge of his mirror, for daily encouragement.
Now…
“...I can’t believe we won’t see him anymore.”
Jimi Hendrix would play no more concerts, write no more albums. No more blistering music, no more breathtaking riffs, no more memorable songs to listen to over and over again.
No more of his magic.
"That's fucking unfair, he was only twenty-seven! No one should die at this age–” Roger grumbled, a pained scowl on his face as he clenched his fists."...Jesus, why him?"
He then turned to Freddie, without saying another word.
What could he say anyway? His idol, their idol was gone.
Freddie didn’t respond. The damn saying was right; it's always the good ones who die first.
The hours passed, and Freddie couldn’t think of anything else. He held the stand as best he could, but his smile and his heart were with the wonderful artist who had put constellations in his eyes. Roger did his best to comfort him, but he too was morose, and Freddie didn’t really know how to comfort him back. Morose Roger was an antithesis. He was always the sunshine that lightened up the conversation and those around him.
Nothing was fair. Life was just one big bad joke, first Brian Jones, now Jimi Hendrix... Who would be the next rock star cut down in their prime?
The paper Freddie had done on his idol for his degree – or rather, its loss – weighted on his mind. What an idiot, he should never have sold it... (They needed the money. They could have solved this differently!). He’d put all his energy and creativity into illustrating the lyrics of Third Stone from the Sun , one of his favourite songs from him.
Strange beautiful grass of green,
With your majestic silver seas
Your mysterious mountains I wish to see closer
May I land my kinky machine?
Freddie sighed. It wouldn't have brought back his idol, but it had been his token of admiration and perhaps keeping it would’ve done him good.
The afternoon wasn’t over when Roger decided to close the stand. Given their state of mind, there was no point in continuing any longer; and the customers didn't seem destined to come, anyway. For want of money, at least they could have some time to themselves.
There was a kiosk nearby. Maybe the newspapers would give explanations, maybe they could understand why and how it happened.
Death. Death. Tragic. Overdose .
All those Daily thingies and their big, dramatic headlines were about that. And the ones in the “respectable” papers weren't much better; Freddie rarely opened a newspaper, but now he just wanted to walk far away. Roger, too, was in a huff when he saw the front pages.
Little groups of people – mostly youngsters, but not only – were crowded around the newsstand looking for information. Of the conversations they heard, nothing was comforting.
"Admitted to St. Mary's Abbott Hospital this morning..."
"-–Shit, they say they tried to resuscitate him but–"
"They're saying it was an overdose, but it's not clear, apparently it was medicine–"
Among those looking at the papers were a few old people, who had nothing but contempt and judgement on their wrinkled faces. – Well, no wonder he died of an overdose, you know well artists today have no restraint. – Don't tell me about it, a nd then it's these young people who do all this nonsense! – I don't understand this generation, in my time at least we were more–
"Oh shut up!" Roger barked, startling them. "You make me puke, Jimi Hendrix made us thrill and dream! You, what good did you ever do in your life, you stuck up arses?
They looked so outraged their eyes were about to pop out of their sockets. Freddie couldn't help but smile.
"Come on, let's get out of here." Roger said as he took his arm. "We'll learn nothing more useful."
To these respectable old people, Freddie gave a dark look and his most feminine walk.
**-***-**
Whenever he arrived before them for rehearsals (which was often), Brian would tune his guitar and warm up by strumming his strings; today, Freddie and Roger had arrived in the middle of a lively discussion with Barry about guitar riffs, mimed on his beloved instrument. He was smiling, so was their bass player.
Their entrance brought the two out of their discussion, and their smiles disappeared.
"...Have you heard?" Barry asked.
"Yes."
There was nothing more to say. Brian had a hangdog look on his face, his fingers tightened around his guitar, and Freddie felt a twinge of sadness. Jimi Hendrix was as important to Brian as he was to him.
"It's not fucking fair, he didn't deserve this." Barry muttered in a pained voice. "He couldn't die."
Silence returned to the amphitheatre, a sad, heavy silence, like a silence of mourning.
The people we love and admire appear immortal. We can't imagine them dying. Until the day when reality hits us and pain grips us; no amount of admiration can make someone immortal. And time does not let us rest.
They had a gig at the College of Estate Management in a few weeks. They had to rehearse today, but no one really had the heart to work on their songs.
Everyone took their places on stage anyway, making final adjustments to the tunings. With his heart close to the one who was his greatest musical inspiration, Brian just strummed his guitar absently, letting unknown, slow and melancholic melodies slip out.
It was pleasant to listen to. Soothing, in a way.
He played like that for a while, freely, without any of his bandmates trying to interrupt him. Then, little by little, the notes changed. His fingers played familiar tunes, and he seemed to mix several pieces freely, before settling on the Stone Free riff.
A few cymbal and snare hits responded.
Brian stopped, and looked up. Roger twirled his sticks before hitting a cymbal again, the hint of a smile on his face. Brian replied with a shy smile, and a long note on his guitar.
He glanced at Freddie, who had assumed a more confident posture, a new gleam in his eye. Barry, too, had moved into position to continue.
Roger cleared his throat. "One, two, three, four–"
Deep long notes echoed throughout the amphitheatre. What better way to celebrate an artist you so loved and admired, a singer who made you dream and live, than through music?
The pace quickened, the riff poured around them and Freddie felt a new energy flowing through his veins.
Everyday in the week I'm in a different city
If I stay too long people try to pull me down
They talk about me like a dog
Talkin' about the clothes I wear
But they don't realise they're the ones who's square
Through singing, the words he carried and with which he identified, his voice asserted itself, his heart became lighter. Nothing could get to him any more.
His friend Chris arrived quietly in the middle of the song. He too was in shock, but hearing the frenetic music he knew so well gave him some comfort, and he went to sit in the front row, captivated.
Next came an improvised medley of Voodoo Child, Foxy Lady, Purple Haze , which a few misfires in the fittings could not mar. Brian could have had bleeding fingers, he would have continued to play until he fell from exhaustion. It was his soul that resonated through his guitar.
Everyone was absorbing the music, being absorbed by it; it was a real balm for the heart after this terrible news.
Other songs followed, carried by the same passion. The amphitheatre came alive with the powerful riffs and beats that moved hearts and bodies, accompanied by Freddie's voice, imperfect but coming from deep within.
An improvised cry from the heart, that was their tribute. Perhaps their only way of not being totally powerless and helpless in the face of painful reality.
No, admiration did not make people immortal. As long as they played, the music would protect them somewhat, but the fact was that Jimi Hendrix was not coming back. In time, their precious memories would fade, too.
What will remain was his legacy. His songs. So little, and so much. Something as paltry and yet considerable as a flash of light. His energy on stage, and the unique way he captivated the audience, would never cease to inspire Freddie.
Their band was still budding, but not their passion. And Freddie believed in them.
It was like a promise. Until his death, yes, the music – the music he loved and admired, the music Queen would create – he would carry it from his person and his voice, from his heart, to everyone who would listen.