I met Hendrix’s girlfriend last night.
We were on a narrow balcony above an art gallery in Shoreditch.
“He gave me his jacket. We went to The Speakeasy and he said,’ I’ve got just the jacket for you!’ He went upstairs and came back with this jacket and I put it on and he said, ‘I knew it would fit you.’ ”
“Was it velvet?” I asked.
“Yes, with a lot of brocade, like a Mr Freedom jacket but it wasn’t a Mr Freedom. There’s a picture of me wearing it downstairs. ”
“What was Jimi like then?”
“Sweet, very quiet.”
Her name’s Jenny and she’s a friend of Jeff Dexter and the whole UFO/Pink Floyd crowd.
Earlier Jeff had introduced me to the legendary Barry Miles.
“How many books have you done?” I asked
“Sixty five but only 33 of them are proper books. Others were things like John Lennon In His Own Write.”
Barry worked in the USA on Crawdaddy, a monthly rock magazine whose staff took a helluva lot of drugs but were remarkably efficient, he said, some having studied journalism.
“Did you go to the Beat poets thing at the Albert Hall?”
“Ginsberg stayed at my house. Wore my tie onstage, never gave it back.”
Miles is a mellow, good-looking guy with short grey hair and a winning smile.
Although I don’t smoke, I later found myself outside in the street with the smokers, chatting to a lovely young designer who rolls her own cigarettes. I introduced Kirra to Jeff.
“Are you Italian?” he said.
“Half-Italian.”
“Which half?” said Jeff, bending over to look at her legs.
Jeff worked with everybody in the 1967 hippie underground, including Nigel Waymouth.
“Always loved his work, from day one.”
“I saw the America album cover on the balcony.”
Jeff managed and produced America, a young folky trio.
“He didn’t have a copy of that. I had to dig it out of my loft.”
“Do you wanna come home now?”
“I’ve got another show to do. Nigel’s son has a show at another gallery 200 yards away. After that, I’ve gotta come back here and clear up.”
That’s my man.
Still enjoying, still grafting. When they made Jeff Dexter, they threw away the mould.