Andy Summers: "A few weeks after I take up residence in Laurel Canyon, the Soft Machine turn up at the stub end of the Hendrix tour. There is a concert with the two groups at the Hollywood Bowl. I go see them and am enthralled by Jimi but have mixed feelings about the Softs.
We get the word that Jimi will be recording in Hollywood at a studio called TTG, and we are invited to drop in. After eating at Ah Fong’s at the bottom of Laurel Canyon and pondering the significance of a fortune cookie, I drive with Zoot over to the studio on Highland. Jimi is recording in studio A, the big room. We walk into the control room and are greeted by the amazing sight of Hendrix leaning sideways into the glass dividing window with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the hat with the Indian feather on his head, and the white Stratocaster in his arms roaring and snarling out of the speakers overhead. The impression of Jimi in this moment is one of shamanic power, a force of nature that is both sexual and spiritual. Hearing him is like having your guts turned inside out.
Jimi turns and sees us in the control room, and we wave shyly. He smiles, puts his guitar down, and comes into the control room to greet us in his soft-spoken manner. We talk for a few minutes and then I wander out into the studio, where Mitch is jamming with himself. I pick up a guitar that's lying there and start jamming along with Mitch. A few minutes later Jimi comes back out into the studio and picks up a bass and starts jamming along with us. Christ I think, in a hallucinatory flash, Jimi Hendrix is playing bass with me. But I don't freak out or stop but just carry on playing. This might be (a) the greatest act of self-confidence of all time, (b) incredible arrogance, (c) my being medicated to the eyeballs, or (d) deafness, but we continue for about ten minutes and then Jimi says, "Hey, man, do you mind if I play guitar for a while?" "Sure," I say, trying to be cool as if this is an everyday occurrence—all musicians are in total awe of Hendrix at this point and I fight against breaking down into a sobbing heap.
We swap instruments and carry on jamming, with me now holding down the low-end chords and choking on the inside. After a number of variations and different directions, the jam turns to a warm glow, cools, and finally turns to ash, at which point we all nod and agree that it was cool, croak outa few "see you later, man" style good-byes, and look for the exit. Zoot and I wander back out onto Highland, shaking our heads in disbelief, while inside Jimi carries on wielding his axe through a new frontier."