Yellow Bandanna

This is a Jimi story you've never heard. It's never been told until now.

I know it's what everyone who says they knew him claims, but this time it's true. It's true because no one else knows it. And it's only being told to you now because at last I know all of the pieces to it, whereas a month ago I didn't.

Here it is.

During his ascendance to the throne of king of mighty rock music, and throughout his subsequent reign of musical power, Jimi owned a yellow bandanna. Sometimes he wore it around his head or his neck, sometimes he tied it around his thigh, and sometimes he used it to polish his guitar. To this day, not many people - other than those who were a part of his entourage knew or know this fact, but it is so.

It was a piece of cloth the size of a man's handkerchief. And when I say yellow, I really do mean yellow. This yellow cloth was brighter than the yellow of a perfect lemon. This was ultra-yellow. Acid yellow. Zest yellow. Sunshine yellow. This cloth was a yellow so yellow it hurt your eyes to look at it. And every day, in one way or another, Jimi used it.

In that good vibe jive story-spinning way of his, he once told me it had been given to him in his teens by his maternal Cherokee grandmother. It may well have been, but I'd not seen him with it right at the start, so I just thought it was him telling a watered-down musical equivalent of the Turin shroud story.

Other people have sworn he said the same to them, so, in order not to go down in history as the man who labelled Jimi a liar, let us assume the yellow bandanna was given to Jimi by his maternal Cherokee grandmother.

He also said it had powerful magic woven into its weft and warp.

Let's say it had.

He also said it was one of his most precious possessions - after his guitars.

Let's say it was.

He always tucked it onto his Stratocaster case when he'd finished with it, so you can imagine how he was when we'd arrived at the next venue and he decided to continue polishing that white right-handed-but-upside-down-and-strung-in-reverse-for-a-left-handed player guitar - only to find that the bandanna was gone.

“Hey! Where's my yellow bandanna”

Everyone looked around from setting up. I hurried over.

“Your bandanna gone, Jimi?”

“Yeah, man. It was here when we set off from Detroit.”

“Are you sure?” I asked gently.

“Come on,” Jimi drawled irritably. “You think I don't know where I put my own yellow bandanna?”

“No,” I placated. “Of course not. I'm just making sure you're sure, so I can decide what needs to be done. I'll phone Bill at the hall and ask him if we left it there. If we did, I'll send someone straight away to get it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jimi sighed. He got up and ambled over to the guitar rack and hefted his Flying V. He strapped it on and plugged in.

A sonic roar started. Then, amidst the roar came the sweet and mellow tones of a cluster of those diminished thirds we all know and love.

He launched into Red House, then segued into the scorching wah wah notes of Still Raining, Still Dreaming. He stopped abruptly.

“Gerry!” he called. “Give me less volume, more clarity.”

Gerry flicked some toggles on the mixing desk.

Jimi started to play the slow, vampy blues intro to Voodoo Chile. He stopped again.

“Tonight we do one for Martin Luther King,” he said. “And one for my yellow bandanna.”

I phoned the Detroit Hall, but Bill said there was nothing left behind from our visit. Some people stole Jimi's things for kudos or money or whatever, but I don't think Bill was lying. I told Jimi. He sighed again.

“Man, that bandanna was given to me by my maternal Cherokee grandmother.”

“I know, Jimi,” I said.

“And it had some powerful magic woven into its weft and warp.”

“I know,” I repeated.

“What if it's lost?” he asked plaintively.

I didn't have an answer.

“It'll be bad luck,” he supplied gloomily. “An unhappy ending.”

I offered the nearest bromide I could think of.

“It'll be cool,” I muttered. “You'll see. It'll be cool.”