The New York Commune or Purple Haze (2 of 2)

There were, including my traveling companion and myself, five men and a varying number of women. I use the term women loosely, as most were obviously runaways between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. Though when asked, they vehemently claimed to be eighteen. There were two of these women when we arrived and as many as six at one point during our stay. The more or less permanent residents of the commune were Abdul and his main female companion (don’t remember her name); a biker who called himself Cherokee and his “woman,” Mary; and a character who called himself Captain Trips and claimed to be a personal friend of Timothy Leary; he certainly looked the part. Abdul led the commune in nightly seances and discussions of his destiny. For my money, he and Manson were cast in the same mold.

My companion and I fed ourselves while we were there by panhandling in Washington Square, sitting around playing with our guitar cases open. People threw change in as they walked by. We also performed for evening meals in a little biker dive called “Juniors Cave.” The interior was dark. The walls were draped with old parachutes, and candles were lit on several of the dirty tables, where bikers and their “old ladies” drank lots of beer and ate greasy burgers and fries. The smell of stale beer, cigarettes, and grease was overpowering, and the volume of the jukebox was slowly pushing the entire room into the next building.

It was time to earn our supper. Here I should mention that we were the first live band this place ever had (at least that’s what they told us). We tuned up our guitars, stood in one corner of the room, and started playing “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Everyone stopped and listened for a minute. Then a particularly large biker stood up, walked over to the jukebox, and shoved a dime in the slot. In mere seconds, Jimmy Hendrix and “Purple Haze” blew us through the wall.

That only happened once, though. The bouncer at Junior’s Cave was the sister of my commune brother, Cherokee.  Her name? Baby Sunny, what else? And she was no one to be trifled with, as she was renowned for her talent with the three-foot length of chain she wore around her waist.  She took a strong liking to us for some reason, and after that first incident, she would take her chain off and sit on the jukebox with it draped across her lap. No one dared approach it again while we were playing. And Baby Sunny was our biggest fan.

One evening one of the locals came up to give us some constructive criticism. As he walked up, someone said, “Hey Jimmy, what’s up?” He told me that I had a good voice, but sadly, no soul. As he left, my bandmate turned to me and said, “That was him, Jimmy Hendrix.” I looked hard after him… well, I kind of doubt it, but maybe… Imagine that, Jimmy Hendrix telling me I got no soul… fair enough.

(End?)

–LE

PS: The actual end of this story is revealed in a poem, Wisps Over a Small Bowl 1968, which I posted a while back. Obviously, a lot more happened to us during this little adventure, and I may at some point fill in more details… https://simplegeezer.wordpress.com/2022/11/22/wisps-over-a-small-bowl-1968/