I May Have Killed Jimi Hendrix

As I pulled a wrap of powdered cold cure from my pocket, a voice behind me whispered in my ear, "I could do with some of that."

Isle of Wight Music Festival, England, 11 p.m., August 30, 1970. Working the backstage catering, I had handed soup and cheese sandwiches to the Doors the day before, and I had personally buttered Jim Morrison's bread. I had a stinking cold and was consuming regular doses of a medication called Beecham's Powders, which came in folded wraps of plain white paper.

It was hard work feeding legends. I was knackered , so I sat down for a moment to listen to the music, as I had heard nothing from the front of the stage. As I pulled a wrap of powdered cold cure from my pocket, a voice behind me whispered in my ear, "I could do with some of that." I handed him an unopened one from my top pocket. He winked and disappeared into a throng of people.

Less than three weeks later, he was dead. I always wonder whether Jimi Hendrix really had a cold or if he thought it was something else. Perhaps he had mainlined on it sometime down the road, and I had killed him.

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