Reverie

There was a sublime moment in my house this past Saturday. As we rushed about, in and out of the bathroom and bedrooms, getting ready for the day, from the radio poured the sounds of Jimi Hendrix. My favorite Jimi Hendrix tune, to be precise: "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)." I paused an made a note of this to my wife and son as they passed by me, and they too pricked up their ears.
That coy, slithering intro, followed by the moment the Experience unloads: "Well, I stand up next to a mountain. Chop it down with the edge of my hand." I believe Jimi Hendrix could have moved large chunks of geology with his hands.
I explained to my son that Jimi Hendrix didn't play a left hand guitar. He learned to play upside down and backwards. All of that amazing music that poured out of that Stratocaster came out the right way through the filter that was Jimi. And as I listened to the flurry, never showy or excessive, I was pleased to see my wife and son finding their own groove. It was a unique bonding moment. At alternating moments, one of us would be swaying, eyes closed, listening to the power and the glory.
As the song ended, I marveled again at the complexity of the song. So many notes. I suggested that maybe that was the explanation for the untimely death of Jimi Hendrix. He ran out of notes.