No. 689 – Red House

Performer: Jimi Hendrix

Songwriter: Jimi Hendrix

Original Release: Smash Hits

Year: 1968

Definitive Version: Soundtrack Recordings from the Film Jimi Hendrix, 1973, or any other version from Isle of Wight. The solo is one of Hendrix’s hardest straightforward solos, in my inexpert opinion.

I’ve had digestive issues as far back as I can remember. This is literally true. My earliest memory is being awake in the middle of the night at Norway Drive and looking into my parents’ bedroom and saying, “I’m going to throw up” and then running into the bathroom in my Dr. Dentons.

This happened before I was 4, and I know it happened then, because it’s the only memory I have from before I had my tonsils taken out, which happened in April 1968—two months before my 4th birthday. OK, so my illness in that oldest memory was tonsillitis and not a stomach issue per se, but there you go.

As I got older, I recall having bad stomachaches, but it didn’t seem like anything unusual. I remember my friend Jim would ask in junior high which was worse: a throbbing headache or a pounding stomachache? I got both, and obviously he got both, so it didn’t seem abnormal.

However, the summer of 1981, after my junior year in high school, when the Hendrix soundtrack was in heavy rotation on my record player, was when I decided that what I was experiencing wasn’t normal. I had frequent abdominal pains, mixed with diarrhea and nausea. But other than the night after my high school baseball team’s aborted road trip to Marietta, I never got violently ill.

The doctor diagnosed irritable bowel syndrome, and in retrospect, considering that my diet at the time consisted mostly of fast food, junk and Coca-Cola, is it any wonder? But there didn’t seem to be any quick fix to relieve the symptoms if things started to flare up, so I was pretty miserable most of the time.

The worst was the last time I spent the night at Dad’s house (at least for most of the rest of the Eighties). There was a big block party on their street, and I hung out with Mike for a while, so instead of driving home to Mom’s, I stayed at Dad’s.

I woke up with my stomach bothering me, and I had a massive panic attack as a result. I might have referred to this before, but this was this night when I first became aware—really aware—of my mortality. I felt my barking stomach and wondered if I was going to die soon or whether I’d already lived half my life (turns out, I hadn’t, of course), and I just basically made myself even sicker with worry.

So I did the only rational thing I could think of at 2 in the morning: I left. I got dressed, jumped in The Fart and drove back to Mom’s, so I could at least sleep in my own bed—or try to.

However, I didn’t tell Dad; I didn’t leave a note or anything. He was pretty pissed when he found out about my stunt, and I don’t blame him one bit. I’d be pretty frantic if I were in his shoes and one of my kids just disappeared in the middle of the night. It was an immature stunt pulled off by someone who wasn’t thinking about anyone but himself at the moment.

But at the time, it worked. My anxiety went away and my stomach problems eased … for a while.