Note: for the full suite of measurements from the SoundStage! Audio-Electronics Lab, click this link.
August 2024
For the three years following late September, 1970, not a day passed without me listening to Jimi Hendrix. For various reasons, I had missed most of the guitarist’s supercharged, stratospheric rise to fame. I only began seriously listening to his music with the release of Hendrix’s final official album, Band of Gypsys (1970), and then I couldn’t get enough. I’d begun buying LPs—just $3.33 each for the stereo versions at my local discount store—in 1965. Within the year I had a small stack of vinyl: Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited; the Rolling Stones’ 12 × 5 and The Rolling Stones, Now!; the Dave Clark Five’s Glad All Over; and Beach Boys Concert. Ironically, it was the lovable Monkees—whose 1967 US tour had featured the newly formed Jimi Hendrix Experience as an unlikely opening act—that led me to overlook the guitarist’s earlier work.
My introduction to the Monkees was at Ottawa’s annual Central Canada Exhibition in August 1966. The local television station was due to start airing The Monkees, the quartet’s weekly show, and was previewing highlights at the station’s promotional booth.
The TV show provided a light-hearted glimpse into the improbable lives of four up-and-coming musicians. Looking back from this distance, I think I was more attracted by the Monkeemobile—the sleek, red, modified Pontiac GTO designed by legendary custom-car builder Dean Jeffries—than I was by the band’s music. Both Jeffries and George Barris had caught my attention with their radically reworked automobiles.
Cars, guitars, and baseball. Girls were about to enter the picture, too; but in ’66, at age 12, that was my world. The Monkees fit right in.
But my friends and I thought that the music was a joke, and when the Beatles and my beloved Stones began to veer away from their blues-based rock into psychedelic meanderings, I bailed from that, too. With songs like Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow,” the Association’s “Never My Love,” and The Royal Guardsmen’s “Snoopy vs. the Red Baron” filling the airwaves, I gave up on popular music entirely. Sadly, that meant I missed the rise of Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and others whose music would stand the test of time.
Thanks to a neighbor, the son of a Mexican diplomat who moved in across the street in 1970, I began to slowly acquaint myself with what I’d missed. Evenings spent in Mario’s basement were revelatory—he introduced me to the Doors, Cream, and his patriotically inspired favorite, Santana.
By September, Hendrix was on my radar, too. And then, on September 18, 1970, he was gone. Dead, at the age of 27.
I was crushed, and my obsession began. Among my coveted copies of early Dylan and Stones recordings, I still have first editions of Hendrix’s posthumous The Cry of Love, released on March 5, 1971, and Rainbow Bridge, which hit the shelves seven months later.
Hendrix’s unexpected death left a messy tangle of legal issues. His father, Al, was his clear, sole heir, but the landscape gardener was an uneducated man who rapidly fell victim to forces that swept in to offer financial advice and take control of the dead artist’s affairs. Several claimed to have had Jimi’s ear concerning future plans. It took years of legal wrangling to sort through it all, and when the dust settled in 1995, Al’s adopted daughter, Janie, took control.
Through the Experience Hendrix company, the Hendrix family began to put things in order. In 2009, Experience Hendrix licensed the guitarist’s work to Sony Music Entertainment and its Legacy Recordings division.
First Rays of the New Rising Sun—featuring 69 minutes of music from The Cry of Love, Rainbow Bridge, and War Heroes (1972)—was released in 1997, and then again in 2010. The key selling point for another version of First Rays of the New Rising Sun (Experience Hendrix / Legacy 19658831571) is the fact that the music has been newly mastered by Bernie Grundman, using an all-analog process from the original ¼″ master tapes, and pressed on 150gm, audiophile-grade vinyl at QRP in Salina, Kansas. One strange thing about the 2024 version: the sticker affixed to the album’s plastic protective wrap is the sole visual indication that you have the updated version. Everything inside the wrapper—save for the music itself—is identical to the 2010 release.
In keeping with this back-to-1970 ethos, what better way to enjoy this music than through an analog integrated amplifier that looks like it could have come out of the factory more than 50 years ago?
As luck would have it, I had just taken possession of the all-analog, no-frills Marantz Model 50 ($1800, all prices in USD) that Dennis Burger previously reviewed on SoundStage! Access—just the type of rig a Hendrix fan might’ve used in the early ’70s. As straightforward and elegantly utilitarian-looking as the 100W Marshall Super Lead heads that Hendrix used at the end of his career, the Model 50 has the badass vibe of a black Fender Stratocaster.
I couldn’t wait to crank it up, employing the remarkable PSB Imagine B50 loudspeakers ($699/pair) that I reviewed in my previous column.
The Model 50 is proudly basic. While other amps at this price point tout their wide range of inputs, the two-page tech-spec sheet includes this line for digital inputs: USB-B/no; optical/no; coaxial/no; USB-A/no. Nothing to see here; move along.
Lots of analog inputs though: a pair of very prominent RCA MM inputs, plus five pairs of line-level inputs—just what you’d expect from a 1970s-era rig. It has the kind of power you’d expect from a vintage amp, too: 70Wpc into 8 ohms or 100Wpc into a 4-ohm load. Total harmonic distortion is rated at 0.02% and frequency response is 5Hz–100kHz (±3dB). On the front, there are knobs for bass, treble, and balance. A large headphone jack and a volume knob. You need more? Plug it in, crank it up, and let Jimi transport you back five decades.
Four of the pieces included on First Rays of the New Rising Sun—“Ezy Ryder,” “Night Bird Flying,” “Straight Ahead,” and “Dolly Dagger”—were declared complete during Hendrix’s final summer. He and producer Eddie Kramer had worked them up to their final state in the frantic weeks leading to the official opening of Electric Lady Studios on August 26, 1970. Hendrix had a series of shows to perform in the UK, Denmark, Sweden, and West Germany, and he left the United States for the final time that night, arriving in London the next morning. Other songs were close to completion, with Kramer noting that they were only lacking an overdub or two before the final mixes were undertaken.
Of course, we have no way of knowing if all this material would’ve had official release had Hendrix not died in London a few weeks later. He was notoriously fluid in his thinking and finicky about what he released, so it’s impossible to know if any of the songs he’d been working on—including the four he and Kramer had completed—would’ve found their way to his next album. Representatives from Miles Davis’s camp claimed that the trumpeter had sent music for Hendrix to consider—unaware that the guitarist could not read music notation—and Canadian-born arranger and orchestra leader Gil Evans said he and Hendrix had discussed recording plans (although, given Evans’s close ties to Davis, that may have been the same project). Those “finished” tracks may have simply been an attempt by Kramer, Hendrix, and the guitarist’s manager, Mike Jeffery, to demonstrate the capabilities of the new studio to prospective clients. Construction, in a basement under a Greenwich Village street, had run well over budget, and Jeffery was anxious about recouping the investment. The team had locked in the date to launch the new studio, and had invited guests—including Yoko Ono, guitarist Johnny Winter, and poet and sometime rock journalist Patti Smith—to preview the new material.
The mixing during the days leading up to the studio launch was so intense, Kramer recalled, that at one point he, Hendrix, and an engineer collapsed in a heap on the studio floor as they scrambled to adjust the sliders on the mixing console. They burst into laughter and called the track complete.
After Hendrix’s death, Kramer felt confident there was enough material for one solid album, so he and Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell set about finalizing The Cry of Love. That left another six tracks for Rainbow Bridge, along with a long, live version of “Hear My Train A Comin’” from a California concert on May 30, 1970. After that, things became decidedly murky, with another three pieces—“Stepping Stone,” “Izabella,” and “Beginning”—parceled out to War Heroes alongside some decidedly lesser material.
After the release of War Heroes things began going sideways. John Jansen—who had assisted Kramer on previous releases—pulled together material for Loose Ends (1974), and then longtime jazz producer Alan Douglas stepped in to create the highly discredited pastiches Crash Landing (1975), Midnight Lightning (1975), and Voodoo Soup (1995).
The oldest track on First Rays of the New Rising Sun, “My Friend,” actually predates the final sessions for Electric Ladyland by several months, so it’s highly questionable that Hendrix would’ve selected it for inclusion on his fourth studio album in 1971. That said, it’s a charming, atypical piece that reflects his love of Bob Dylan’s whimsical use of language and alludes to Hendrix’s brief incarceration for drunkenly trashing a Gothenburg, Sweden, hotel room in January 1968. Recorded March 13, 1968, the track features Hendrix on bass and overdubbed guitar. Ken Pine of The Fugs supplies 12-string guitar, old New York City friends Paul Caruso and Jimmy Mayes play harmonica and drums respectively, and Stephen Stills tinkles on the piano briefly.
Started at the Record Plant on November 17, 1969, the intensely driving “Room Full of Mirrors,” featuring Buddy Miles on drums and Billy Cox on bass, easily stands alongside anything on Hendrix’s four “official” albums. At just a shade under three-and-a-half minutes, it might’ve been a killer single in 1970, had it not been shelved after the disbandment of the Band of Gypsys lineup early that year. Featuring a number of layered guitars and some aggressive phasing by Kramer, it remains one of the most timeless of Hendrix’s studio performances.
“Ezy Ryder” is the oldest of the tracks that Hendrix selected to showcase at the Electric Lady launch. Recorded December 18, 1969, shortly after he was cleared of drug-smuggling charges in Canada, it’s another piece anchored by Miles and features a great bass line by Cox. But the lyrics are a mess, so despite the layers of guitars and the arresting change-up halfway through, it’s hard to imagine this version seeing the light of day had Hendrix lived.
On the day after the “Ezy Ryder” session, Hendrix was back at the Record Plant to record “Earth Blues,” which has always struck me as the song that might’ve broken him through with Black audiences, had it been issued in 1970. It’s a plea for peace, but with a veiled threat that the political situation in the US might explode if things were not addressed “before the summer.” The guitar work is simply outstanding, and the chorus sounds anthemic.
Shortly into the new year, just a week after his triumphant two-night stand with the Band of Gypsys at the Fillmore East, Hendrix laid down the basics of “Stepping Stone.” He would work on the piece at three subsequent sessions at the Record Plant and then lay down more guitar parts at Electric Lady on June 26. The song is filled with great riffs, but it lacks a definitive ending. Clearly a work in progress.
Recorded 11 days before the Band of Gypsys imploded onstage during a benefit concert at Madison Square Garden on January 28, 1970, “Izabella” is built on an infectious 15-note riff and filled with molten guitar work. The mix sounds extremely hot on this new version, and the vocals, by Hendrix and the brothers Albert and Arthur Allen (aka the Ghetto Fighters), seem higher in the mix than I’ve previously heard.
“Night Bird Flying” sounds fully realized. Hendrix chose to preview this track at the Electric Lady party, and it hints at the sound he was pursuing for his fourth studio album. There are multiple layers of guitars, all pulled together in a very complex mix—perhaps the apotheosis of Kramer’s work while Hendrix was still alive. Cox’s bass sounds tremendously present, and this new master reveals the dense layering of its various parts. It’s a gem!
First cut at the Record Plant on June 17, 1970, and finished during three additional sessions at that studio, plus some additional work at Electric Lady, “Straight Ahead” was another track previewed at the studio launch, but I don’t buy that Hendrix considered it complete. The rhythm doesn’t quite lie right and the vocals seem rough.
On the other hand, “Freedom”—recorded on June 25 and added to at four additional sessions—sounds finished, apart from some of the guitar parts in the right channel. This new mix also reveals someone talking during the final seconds of the song.
June 25 seems like it was a very productive day, because it also yielded “Drifting,” a gorgeous ballad that would’ve sounded good on any of Hendrix’s official albums. Despite his outrageously brash onstage persona, Hendrix was a reluctant vocalist in the studio; so shy about his voice that he often did vocal tracks either alone or behind a screen. Here, he seems to be stretching his voice in a new direction, revealing more vulnerability than usual. It’s also one of Mitchell’s best performances—so good that you might mistake him for Ginger Baker, a far more confident and seasoned player. Kramer is also at his best, tweaking the controls until Hendrix’s guitar sounds almost like a synthesizer toward the song’s conclusion.
Also recorded June 25, “Astro Man,” which was overdubbed at two more sessions, seems like a throwaway. Hendrix, an avowed science-fiction fanatic, seems still to be working out his storyline, and the lyrics are marred—especially by today’s standards—by a gay slur about Superman.
July 1970 was one of Hendrix’s most fruitful months. Clearly pleased to have finally taken possession of his own studio, he wasted no time getting down to work. As proof, July 1 alone found Hendrix putting down almost-complete versions of three of his most compelling late-career songs.
Dedicated to Hendrix’s on-off lover Devon Wilson, “Dolly Dagger” may well have influenced Marvin Gaye as the singer contemplated his transformation from pop singer to soul superstar. The chorus sounds very forward-looking, and Hendrix’s vocals seem more confident than ever before. Although the bass work is credited to Cox, it’s so driving and focused that I’m guessing Hendrix played it. It’s no surprise that it was selected for the Electric Lady party.
While it may be easy to dismiss “Beginnings”—the only instrumental on the album—as a mere studio jam, the polyrhythmic underpinning and the outstanding guitar work elevates it by several degrees. In fact, I would happily argue that the final 30 seconds of the track represent Hendrix’s best guitar work.
Completing the July 1 triple play is “Hey Baby (New Rising Sun),” which offers a tremendous insight into Hendrix’s songwriting process. Although the vocals were still in draft form (“Is the microphone on?” asks Hendrix, before singing), the guitar work is tremendous, offering an echo of the instrumental “Pali Gap,” which I wish had been included here. It’s one song that Hendrix and Kramer never got around to revisiting before that fateful European trip.
Three weeks later, following live performances in Atlanta, Miami, and New York City, Hendrix was back at Electric Lady to record “In from the Storm” on July 22 and “Angel” on July 23.
The former is built around a whiplash riff and features some stinging wah-wah work in the song’s bridge. Although Hendrix added some more parts at two subsequent sessions, and as powerful as the song sounds, it’s evident that he wasn’t finished with the piece.
In contrast, the relatively simple “Angel” sounds finished, and features one of Hendrix’s best vocal performances. Listening to it today puts me in mind of Eric Clapton, and makes me wonder how we’d view his career if he had died before cutting Layla. Would we remember Slow Hand as an effective vocalist had he not poured out his heart to George Harrison’s wife on the title track, or mourned his dead son on “Tears in Heaven”? Hendrix was such a towering genius on guitar that it’s easy to overlook how far his singing had evolved from songs like “Purple Haze” to a piece like “Angel.”
Finally, we come to “Belly Button Window,” which Kramer has admitted is a sentimental favorite of his. Charming and touching—considering Hendrix’s complicated relationship with his late mother, who left when he was just nine years old—the song features some raw guitar-playing, but it’s far from his best work, and probably not something he would’ve chosen to release had he lived.
Overall, from the memory of hearing the original versions of these songs several dozen times over the years, the new masters sound brighter and deeper. The multiple layers of guitars have more clarity, and the percussion is more present.
But, obviously, I had to put my memory to the test. “Room Full of Mirrors” is one of the most complex mixes, with multiple layers of guitars, bass, and drums, so I compared the track on the new release with my original copy of Rainbow Bridge through the retro Marantz Model 50. To my surprise, the difference wasn’t obvious. It took several listens, shifting my position and adjusting the volume up and down as I spun each LP, to determine the impact of Grundman’s mastering on the track. To my ears, the amount of reverb employed on the original causes the guitars to creep further into the center of the soundstage. The Grundman version sounded more focused and more organic. However, Miles’s kit actually seemed a bit brighter on the Rainbow Bridge version of the song. Perhaps that’s because some of the top end on my 1971 LP sounds like it has been shaved off—possibly the result of all those repeated plays.
I have to admit that I don’t listen to Hendrix much these days. These pieces are ingrained deep in my memory cells after all that intense listening during my late teens. In a way, I’m glad I had a chance to revisit the material through an amplifier that embraces old-school technology. To me, that’s not nostalgia; it’s more like time travel.
. . . James Hale
jamesh@soundstagenetwork.com
Note: for the full suite of measurements from the SoundStage! Audio-Electronics Lab, click this link.
