THE HOUSTON POST - ‘King Of The Jungle’, ‘Jimi and guitar radiate… drummer’s arms swirl… quite an experience unless you’re Dylan-oriented’ by Larry Sepulvado:
“The Black Bawana. King of the Jungle. The true-to-life Jimi Hendrix centered the universe at the short end of the Sam Houston Coliseum last week and with the assistance of Houston Lighting & Power turned his magic on for the almost 10,000 pleasure seekers.
Thus followed this sequence of events: Band one was horn-rooted in the Blood, Sweat, & Tears tradition of the 1969 variety type group of rock ‘n’ roll music assuming a concise to-the-point descriptive name of Chicago. Exit for a Coke. Upon return found group No. 2 which I had presumed was Jimmy Vaughan of Texas with Kewpie doll hairdo and official band group glasses... but... quick flash from my female companion informed me that it was in fact Noel Redding’s (bass man for the J. H. Experience) new group, the Fat Mattress. A so-so group probably better on record. The first group within a group. Thus far Travis, Dylan-oriented 2-year-old son, had reserved all comment.
Return exit to the corridors of the super throng of glassy- eyed Houston freak clientele which had paraded itself to hamburgers and cokes. Who are these people? Return to row two to find a greasy- type DJ voice with hairstyled 45 degree angle sideburns choking out a hardsell for Jimi Hendrix posters and brochure booklets. Throws a generous giveaway of posters to unsuspecting non-paying front row.audience. Exit. Vague introduction for the Jimi Hendrix Experierience. No response. No Hendrix. Some concern. Another Hendrix-Redding disagreement? What is the problem? Anticipation... more anticipation.
General restlessness. Foot stomping. Behold! At last... Jimi... yeah... yeah... Jimi the Fox. Standing ovation. Applause. ‘OK baby, give us about a couple of seconds to tune up.’ Wow catting around stage with these quick panther-like movements, Jimi looks like a black Polynesian in his thigh-high bell bottoms of blue with a matching head scarf caressing his newly acquired Afro-gig hair that has replaced his [Bob Dylan] frizzzzz of yesterday. Yeah Jimi. You got it. ‘We would like to dedicate this first song to people like the cops.’ Fire.., something cool. Jimi and guitar like some self-contained energy entity. Radiating. Upside down left-hand constantly grinding, picking and strumming in the same motion, twisting knobs, free hand jerking the guitar neck off while his feet are dancing on the wah-wah and floor pedals... exhausting.
Mitch Mitchell to the rear, most incredible rock drummer in the world. Arms crashing, swirling, both feet stomping his bassdrums and amidst all the seemingly chaotic dynamics... some beautiful drumming. Noel Redding is to the right playing bass notes so loud that they are felt, not heard, The guitar is screaming at a merciless volume, even to a veteran masochist who could not hear his way through a draft board physical. Good grief, the sound. No longer music but the movement of the sound in the air. Oh. Oh. Travis has begun to react. Protection extended. Exit mother with child and deliverance from death to life everlasting. I’m remaining for the review.
More standard material... “Foxy Lady.” Ah, some new extra-added licks. Nice, Jimi, that’s good. But no audience reaction. Hendrix is a little sloppy, maybe a little uninspired. We’ve paid our money and no one seems to want more. A deadly attitude. Whose fault? Hendrix? The crowd? What happened to the Beatles? The Stones? You know... the screams... screams.., screams. But one more song. “Purple Haze.” And it’s over. The end. They’re gone with no encore. Lights and exit to the doors, to the parking lot with mother and child. Well Travis, what did you think? Uhhhh... loud rock ‘n’ roll band.”