DISGRACELAND - Jimi Hendrix: Tear Gas, a Kidnapping, Heroin Hostages, and the Great Escape

Episode Date: June 13, 2023

Jimi Hendrix spent much of his life pursuing a great escape. Escape from his abusive childhood home. Escape from his court-ordered time in the Army. Even an escape from his own band, the Experience, who he felt limited his groundbreaking sound. But when two wannabe mobsters lured Jimi into a hostage situation with the promise of heroin, Jimi came face to face with the most extreme – and rarely discussed – escape of his life.For the full list of contributors, visit disgracelandpod.com To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Jimmy Hendricks are insane. His last performance with the experience erupted into a riot. His drug habit often lured him into the clutches of enemies, like the Mounties who arrested him at the Canadian border, or the mafia wannabes who kidnapped him and held him hostage in New York.

He was a natural escape artist who dodged childhood poverty, prison time, and even the United States Army, and he couldn't avoid his fate with the 27 Club. But before Jimmy Hendricks succumbed to his spot alongside Janice Joplin, Jim Morris, and Ron Pigpen McCurney, and the rest, Jimmy Hendrix made great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show,

that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called UBIB-W-W-B-W-B-40, M-K2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to love theme to Romeo and Juliet by Henry Mancini. And why would I play you that specific slice of, Wherefore art thou cheese, could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on June 29, 1969, and that was the day Jimmy Hendricks narrowly escaped a riot by catching a ride in a U-Haul,

a memory that would serve him well just months later when he had to escape the clutch of of a pair of kidnappers. On this episode, riots, drug habits, escape artists, mafia, wannabes, and the kidnapping of Jimmy Hendricks. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. Jimmy Hendricks didn't know where the driver was taking him.

He rested against the back door of the U-Haul. Noel Redding, his bass player, sat to the left of him, his drummer Mitch Mitchell to his right. Or was it the other? other way around. Jimmy couldn't see shit in the dark. He could even tell if the truck was moving right now. That's the thing about U-Hauls. No windows, no direction. The three members of the Jimmy Hendricks experience were in their own little world. Inside the U-Haul, it was still, silent. Outside was anarchy. A cloud of tear gas swallowed the Denver Pop Festival.

17,000 people staggered through the haze, eyes burning lungs tight, drooling all over themselves like sick animals. And the cops foolishly thought their plan would clear out the mile-high stadium. Big mistake. The gas loomed over the crowd. Nobody could see three feet in front of them,

thus nobody could find an exit. Ten minutes ago, this was a mere riot. Now it was more like a war zone. And Jimmy technically didn't start the drama. The hippies did that form. People rioted at the gates and demanded free tickets long before Jimmy even showed up. The crowd was in a mood. So was Jimmy.

He was tired, listless, he used up. Just because he could make his fingers fly across his fretboard didn't mean he wasn't bored with his own band. It was the summer of 1969. There wasn't much peace and love flowing among Jimmy, Noel, and Mitch anymore. The Jimmy Hendrix experience was fresh out of good vibes. Jimmy's stage presence underlined this fact. The band tore into Voodoo Child, that white-hot, bluesy bolt of lightning, moan lava psychedelia streaming from Jimmy's sixth string.

Not today. Today it was Jimmy's battle cry. Gonna make a lot of money and buy this town, he sang. Wait, that wasn't anything near the actual words of the song. It was a mighty fine, fuck you, to no one in particular. But Denver took it personally, and Jimmy kept it up. Gonna buy this town and put it all in my shoe, he sang. That really wound the crowd up.

Then came the kicker. This is the last gig we'll ever be playing together, Jimmy announced. It was like he dropped a bomb. Fans raged. They threw themselves forward and started climbing up the sides of the stage. That's all the cops needed to see. They brought up the tear gas. and they hurled canisters into the crowd like free t-shirts.

Rebels began to drop like flies. It was an amusing sight for Jimmy in his bitter mood. We see some tear gas. That's a sign of the Third World War, he said into the microphone. The scene was a joke to Jimmy, until it wasn't funny anymore. The gas wafted in the band's direction. The cloud flooded the stage. There was no time to think.

The trio dropped their gear and rushed. backstage. They needed to get the hell out of there, but so did 17,000 other people. The crowd bottlenecked at the exits, stumbled over each other, swarming in circles. Making an exit alongside all those people wasn't an option. There was only one escape plan, climbing to the back of a U-Haul and plow through them inch by inch. So here Jimmy Hendrix was, nosing through a crowd in the darkness, slow as crosstown traffic. Only thin metal walls. separated the band from the bedlam outside. The tear gas wasn't clearing anything.

One fan vaulted himself onto the roof just to stick his head above the clouds, and then another and another. Jimmy could hear the roof start to crackle and dent from above. People were getting wise, and they suspected Jimmy was in the U-Haul. Jimmy, that jackass who just mocked them, who said he was going to buy their town and shove it in his shoe. He was leaving in a truck full of clean air. Fans beat on the sides of the U-Haul.

The walls began to buckle, and Jimmy gritted his teeth. He needed to get the fuck out of here, in more ways than one. He needed to get away from the fans who said they loved him, but didn't really. The same ones who wanted to hear the same four songs over and over again. He needed to get away from the bandmates that he couldn't jive with anymore. Noel was a prick. To be fair, Jimmy was a prick right back. Mitch kept out of the way but looked like a coward in the process.

and Jimmy was playing sick of the experience of being in the experience. The band had done what they set out to do. They rewrote the rulebook for rock and roll, and then they lit it on fire along with one of Jimmy's guitars. Three mind-blowing albums in under 18 months. And their latest record, Electric Ladyland, was a double LP, and it shot to number one on the Billboard 200 instantly. That just didn't happen with double albums.

But Jimmy Hendricks made something beyond records. He made revelations, divine experiences that invented new ways to make a guitar sing and scream. The promotional posters didn't call him Dylan Clapton and James Brown all in one for nothing. The Jimmy Hendrix experience was a snapshot of rock and roll history that no one would be able to bury or forget. And that was the issue. Everyone was holding on to that snapshot. shot, treating Jimmy and his music like static one-dimensional beings. There was nothing one-dimensional about Jimmy Hendricks. He was living inside of a kaleidoscope, dripping with intergalactic

sounds and colors that bled into every aspect of his being. His playing was fast, fuzzy, textured, so far out. Jimmy wanted to flow, but no one would let him. Everything was now rigid. Play these songs, go on this tour, and do these interviews, make these pull. Political statements are a don't, depending on who you're okay with pissing off. Even setting his guitar on fire felt wrote and uninspired these days. The truck, barely moving forward, reminded Jimmy of that reality. He would never move forward with the experience. He would be stuck at a crawl at best when he wanted a sprint.

Somewhere slow is nowhere fast. And Jimmy didn't work this hard to go nowhere. Drugs moved him when his career couldn't. It started as a practical habit, taking cheap amphetamines to log more hours practicing and playing as a young man. Jimmy rarely had the cash for grass and smoking mellowed him out anyway. Speed was the way to go. Speed didn't make you dumb, it just made you go. With enough red devils, Jimmy could bulldoze through a set, rushed to a studio,

and still have the stamina for a recording session in the wee hours of the morning when the rates were cheaper. But man cannot survive on speed. eat alone. Not in London, not in Manhattan either. And Jimmy paid his drug dues in both cities. His tastes expanded. Pop was good. Hashish was great. And heroin could be a bitch, but that never stopped him from snorting somers shooting it up. Cocaine was powdered lightning. And LSD, those seductive little tabs, they made him superhuman. Jimmy could chop down mountains with a little acid on his tongue. He could seduce the sky. hold it, kiss it, and then puncture it with whatever jagged new riff entered his mind.

When Jimmy Hendricks needed to escape, there was a chemical for that, and it was around, somewhere. With the company he kept, Jimmy didn't have to look far. All he had to do was to ask the right person. When Jimmy Hendricks did eventually ask the right person, it was otherworldly. The warm glow of euphoria spread across his body. He took slow, deep breaths. Inhale, stardust, exhale ashes, purged the poison. Just... Jimmy had to just be right now.

He was too doped up to do anything more than sit and space out. His eyelids were clamped shut. His mouth dry as cotton, his skin flushed with color. He poured all his energy into forcing one eye open. Something shifted in front of him. Strange beings. Amorphous blob. with miles and noses.

With those hands, Jimmy couldn't tell. He shrugged off the vision. His imagination had dreamt up worse things before, but he slumped back into his chair with another deep exhale. And then he pictured himself melting into the high, dissolving into the dream. Who said that? The voice disturbed Jimmy's perfect high.

He brought his head upright and forced both eyes open this time. And those amorphous blobs sprouted arms and legs. Their faces slowly came into focus. Were those things actual people? Real people? Jimmy's eyes darted around the room, searching for other details, other clues. Shit, those men were real.

Real is the straps that kept him tied to his chair. No, no, no, no, no, it couldn't be. Jimmy jostled around in the chair. Its legs scuffed the bare hardwood floor. There was no other furniture. Nothing to knock over any use to his advantage. Not a potential weapon in sight. It was just the three of them, Jimmy, and the two goons.

One looked amused, and the other just scowled. Jimmy recognized these guys. There was something hungry about the look in their eyes, animalistic even. He knew their glare from somewhere, but where? Not at a show, not in the studio. At Salvation. Yes, he'd met them in Manhattan after a jam session. Jimmy Hendrix found his own personal hell at salvation.

I'm telling you, man, that's him. No way. Jimmy Hendrix doesn't just hang out in public like a regular guy? The two goons bickered at the corner of the bar. One was lanky, sveled as a gazelle. The other was more stout with ruddy cheeks. Both of them looked ready to fight. And better yet, ready to hustle for a few extra dollars.

They came to the Salvation Nightclub in Greenwich Village after work on week nights to let off a little steam. The stout one always got testy when they went boozing together, blaming on the stiff porers from their favorite bar keep. But tonight, the stout man kept his temper in check, because his friend might just have a point. It was fall, 1969. Woodstock was a few weeks in the rear view, but Jimmy's riffs were still ringing in America's ears. Everyone in the brother knew about Jimmy's sunrise set, which meant everyone in their brother knew what Jimmy did to the national anthem. And to some, that rendition was heresy.

And others thought it was heroic, a slice of ultimate patriotism. But no matter what you thought, one thing was for sure. Jimmy Hendricks was hot shit. You think a regular guy dresses like that? The tall goo jerked his thumb in the direction of a man drinking by himself in a corner. When there's a butterfly at the bar, you notice. The stranger was decked out in an old British military jacket. His afro was teased to the heavens.

Scarves flowed down the front of his shirt, which from this angle looked like a blouse. The stout one peaked over his shoulder and sighed in resignation. You're right. Dude's in a blouse. Only rock stars wear blouses. Jimmy Hendricks was in the corner of the bar. His skin was clammy,

and the blouse clung to his back like glue. Jimmy wasn't here for the drinks. He was here for the drugs. Normally, world-class musicians didn't have to roam the streets looking for a fix. They had people to keep them high and happy at all hours of the day. But Jimmy Hendricks wasn't some delicate prima donna, and he definitely wasn't about securing his own dope. He dressed like a diva, true, in velvet pants and Western hats,

but that didn't make him one. It was all part of the experience, even though the actual experience was over. Jimmy had a new band now, called Gypsy Sun and Rainbows. Tonight he was a lone gypsy jamming under the moonlight at salvation, with the last of his stash already dwindling in his bloodstream. He'd have to sniff out a dealer for himself and quick. Jimmy locked eyes with the two goons. He sized them up.

They didn't look like dealers, but you never knew. Anyone and everyone was peddling dope these days. The lanky goon jabbed his buddy in the ribs. Quit staring. Ah, what's it matter to you? We could kidnap him. his buddy nearly spit out his scotch. What a stupid idea?

What were they going to do? Trick Jimmy Hendricks? Gang up on him and stow him away in an empty apartment? Make his manager spring him with his hefty checkbook? Huh. The goon mulled it over. Maybe it wasn't such a stupid idea. It could be a stupendous idea if they pulled it off.

That was a big if. But what was standing in their way? Jimmy was alone, and he was clearly jonesing. not to mention 155 pounds soaking wet. If they kept them doped up, he wouldn't even be able to fight back with the little muscle he had. The goons calculated the risks. They had no guns, no qualifications. They didn't know how to negotiate, but that almost didn't matter.

Any sum would do as long as it came from Jimmy's deep pockets. Word on the street was that Jimmy earned $14,000 a minute at a show at Madison Square Garden with the experience. and that was for one show. If they did this right, they could swipe his woodstock paycheck in a snap. And this could be some mafia-level shit. Jimmy locked eyes with the goons again. He sat up from his bar stool this time, dropped some cash on the counter and started walking over.

Oh shit, not now, not yet. Jimmy wandered over to their end of the bar, asked if they had any dope he could take off their hands. His voice was cool, but his eyes were desperate. Up close, the colors of his clothes seemed even more vibrant against the ashen color of his skin. For once, Jimmy Hendricks didn't look so hot. This is going to be easier than they thought.

All the puzzle pieces were falling into place. There were two of them and only one Jimmy. A weak Jimmy at that. The lanky goon knew how junkies were. They'd do anything to score again. It was written all over Jimmy's face. Yeah, man. We got some goods back at home, he told Jimmy.

You up for a ride? Jimmy nodded. He'd go anywhere if it meant getting high again. And the goons could tell. Jimmy watched his new pals just as closely. Their eyes were hungry like his. Maybe not for drugs. Maybe for something else, but that wasn't any of his business right now.

The two ushered him into the backseat of their car and told him to buckle up. Jimmy Hendrix was precious cargo, but only if he was alive. Those bastards, they were hungry. Jimmy knew it. He could smell a bad vibe. a mile away. Yeah, they had drugs all right. Enough drugs to keep Jimmy doped up and dumb for days. Apparently that was the plan. They explained how they strapped him into his chair without a fight. Explained how an entire day had passed in an instant too. The men weren't in the room now,

but Jimmy heard them murmuring down the hall. Not necessarily to each other. Jimmy strained to hear. We have him here. We want to see him again. Jimmy sighed. He didn't have the energy to get worked up. He was too mellow. The plan was working. Dope did do the trick. His body melted into the chair. There was no use of fighting the high.

One side of Jimmy told him the panic. What if they broke his knees, slid his throat, robbed him blind. Whoever was on the other end of that phone better know what the hell they were doing. And the other side of Jimmy couldn't muster the energy. He was dissolving, becoming one with the chair. He heard a few more words before we slipped back in unconsciousness. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. There was no clock ticking, no television humming, no voices, and no murmurs to

hear. Just quiet, darkness. Jimmy Hendricks wasn't used to the silence. It borrowed into his ears, clawed at his mind. It was unsettling. He tapped his boots on the hardwood floors to fill the dead air. He would give it anything for just a little music, a rhythm to help his mind wander away from here since the last dose of dope had already worn off. His stomach growled, not the kind of noise he had in mind. Those goons hadn't bothered to feed him today.

They just pumped him full of dope every few hours. Jimmy kept track of the time by watching the sun rise and sink, a needle in the arm at midday, in another just before sunset. Then, a little midnight snack after darkness fell. It was as if they thought Jimmy could live on drugs alone, like some kind of superhuman. And that was the problem.

Everyone thought Jimmy Hendricks was something other than human. An angel, an alien, a rock star from Mars. But he was just like anyone else. And he really needed a bite to eat. Maybe a piping hot plate of spaghetti or strawberry shortcake with cool whipped cream dripping down the sides. Jimmy's belly gurgled again. The hunger nodded his stomach as if his guts were eating themselves.

Jimmy knew the feeling well. Growing up in Seattle, hunger was just as common as joy or sadness. Hunger was inevitable, a fact of life. He spent a lot of days as a child just like he was now, alone in a barren room, hungry, huddled in the dark because the power. bill had gone unpaid, totally alone except for the bugs scuttling around the unkempt floor. The Hendricks family was a specific kind of poor. To keep cardboard in your shoes so they last longer, kind of poor. Play a guitar with one string kind of poor. The same kind of poor that made

you craftier than the other kids. Jimmy learned when and where he needed to go if you wanted to eat it all. Split a sandwich with a cute girl at school, her sandwich of course. Jimmy almost never had his own lunch, and then hit up the local burger joint just before closing, and ask if they had any leftovers they could toss your way instead of into the trash can. If all else fails, sit down with the neighbors for dinner. They'll always make an extra plate, mainly because Jimmy looks so malnourished. Technically, he was malnourished. Many days, if Jimmy didn't eat with the neighbors, he didn't eat at all. The problem was that Jimmy's father, Al, preferred drinking to eating. He didn't think twice about knocking back a few bottles or knocking his own children around with his belt either.

Home meant hunger for Jimmy. It meant pain, abuse. Home held nothing for him. So Jimmy wandered. Sometimes he wandered into taverns at night looking for Al. Not to bring his father home. Jimmy knew better than that. But he was there to retrieve the house key to let himself in when his father didn't bother to turn up that night.

Other times he wandered. into the homes of local musicians. It didn't matter what they played or what genres they liked. If you had an instrument, Jimmy wanted to jam. He had a new guitar to flex. For years, he clung to a shitty acoustic one-string guitar experimenting with his worn tones, but not anymore. He swapped that guitar out for a white Supro Ozark.

When he was just 16, he toaded that thing all over town in a paper dry cleaner's sack. Jimmy even had the misfortune of wandering behind the wheel of a stolen car. twice in the span of five days. He claimed he didn't know the cars were stolen. The court didn't care. They gave him two options,

five years in an orange jumpsuit or three years in an army uniform. Jimmy naturally picked the lesser sentence. In May of 1961, the federal government shipped into California for basic training, miles away from the hunger, the abuse, and the harrowing poverty. Jimmy didn't just curb prison.

He curbed his childhood. And now, Jimmy Hendricks thought he was stone free. Well, sort of. The consistent meals and clean clothes and basic training were great. Being told when to eat and what to wear. Not so great. There was order in the Army like Jimmy had never experienced before. Someone told him when to wake up and when to go to bed,

how to style his hair and how to speak and how to be spoken to. That regimen didn't jive with Jimmy Hendricks. He was used to his rules, his timetable, both of which revolved around music. Leaving the army wasn't an option, though. If Jimmy bounced before the agreed upon three years of service, he'd get tossed behind bars, no questions asked. So he needed to get sick, break something, frighten his fellow soldiers with madness. He came in with the big guns and went right to the base psychiatrist, said he had disturbing thoughts, homosexual thoughts about his bunkmates. That didn't get him anywhere.

So he came back with new complaints, again and again. He bitched that he couldn't sleep, and then what he did, he was gripped by night terrors, that he was lovesick over a fellow soldier to the point of losing 15 pounds, and that he wet himself regularly, that his chest spasmed with pain. Eventually, the base doctor either got freaked out or just fed up with Jimmy. He discharged Jimmy for his original quote-unquote concern

about homosexual tendencies. By the summer of 1962, Jimmy Hendricks was out of the army and back into the sweet embrace of freedom. Come to think of it, Jimmy spent his whole life trying to get free. Jimmy was so delirious he couldn't help but chuckle. Been kidnapped. So what?

He was Harry Houdini. If he could escape the clutches of the United States Army, he could get out of this shit hole wherever he was. He had to. Otherwise, there would be no more music, no more festivals and fans and tours that took him in circles. No more riots and tear gas. No more playing the same songs on repeat like a well-trained circus animal.

No more political organizations jumping down his throat demanding him take sides. Shit. Would that be so terrible? The positives piled up in Jimmy's mind. No more setting guitars on fire. God, that was getting old. He'd rather set himself on fire at this point and no more court dates. Staying here, kidnapped, meant skipping his upcoming drug bust trial in Toronto. Now that would be a relief.

It was all innocuous stuff at first. Vitamin C tablets, a bottle of avocado cream shampoo. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police rifled through Jimmy's luggage at the border. Normally, Mounties didn't hang around to customs for drug bus, but there was nothing normal about a rock star like Jimmy Hendricks passing through Toronto. The experience had prepared for this exact situation. Each member of the band scoured their luggage for anything questionable ahead of time. Every member, except Jimmy.

The officer pulled out a book called You Can Change Your Life Through Psychic Power. The type of garbage of the Mounties assumed any dirty hippie would read. They were getting warmer. The Mounties knew that hippies didn't leave the house without a solid stash. Jimmy Hendricks was packing plenty of goods at the Toronto airport on May 3rd, 1969. The Mountie then pulled a glass vial out of Jimmy's back. Inside were six cellophane packages of white powder, dark resin smeared across the inside of the vial. Two H-bombs, heroin and hashish.

Jimmy just shook his head, busted. The police arrested him on the spot. It didn't matter how many times he claimed the drugs weren't his. Nobody was going to believe that Jimmy Hendricks, the father of psychedelia, was the victim of drugs being planted on him. The cops didn't believe it, and Jimmy knew the courtroom wouldn't either. and they could lock them up for 10 years, easy. Prison guards didn't care if you were gay, or if you pissed yourself, or if you couldn't sleep.

He couldn't talk his way out of a jail cell. So given the choice, Jimmy would take his current hostess situation over a Canadian prison. At least his kidnappers gave him privacy and heroin. The floorboards creaked down the hall. That must be them now, returning with another dose of heroin.

Or maybe a savior was, finally walking down the hall toward him, someone coming with a fat check to spring him from this room once and for all. In a few minutes, Jimmy Hendrix would either be on his way home or on his way to the moon with veins full of dope. Either way it was fine with him, because one way or another, Jimmy Hendrix was escaping. The fortune teller's long fingers ran through Jimmy Hendricks's hair. Her nails grazed the top of his scalp. She murmured in French.

She traced his facial features, then his forehead. She made a fuss over how large it was. Someone in the room translated for Jimmy said his forehead meant he was an artistic genius. Jimmy's crew shared a couple of knowing smirks. The Oracle didn't know who Jimmy was or what he did for a living. She had to be pretty legit if she could see star power in a patch of skin. She was one of the finest clairvoyance in Morocco, hired by the King of Morocco himself. Incense wafted across the room.

Peace radiated from Jimmy's core like a warm glow. This felt too good to be true. He put it all together as the woman uttered more premonitions in French. This was a dream. No, wait, a memory. Yes, a memory from his time in Morocco earlier that summer. She pulled out a tarot deck and shuffled the cards with her sleek fingers. She wanted to divine the future of this apparent creative genius in her presence.

Card one, the star. The oracle spoke in a were of French. Something about how the card meant grace and that Jimmy would be surrounded by a large number of people soon. Jimmy nodded. That much was true. Performing kept him near crowds all the time. She flipped over the second card, the middle of a traditional three-card spread.

But there would be no third card tonight. The Oracle held the middle card in front of Jimmy's face. Death. And Jimmy, he sprang from his seat screaming that he was going to die, and he paced in circles. The Oracle spoke another string of French, and she tried to calm him. But Jimmy couldn't hear her saying that the death card didn't literally mean that he was going to die. It was just a symbol of natural endings and new beginnings.

It could mean one chapter of his life was ending so that another could open. The death card could be a good thing, a very good thing. But it was no use. Panic had seized Jimmy's body. The end was coming. It was already on its way to him, hunting him down, following his footsteps. He needed to run and get the fuck out of dodge. Before the Reaper found him.

Before... Jimmy awoke with a shudder. his body burned with anxiety, sweaty palms. That wasn't some dream, that was a real memory. That tarot reading really happened. Somewhere back in Morocco, death was coming for him. And now look at him, tied to a fucking chair, ready for the taking. Everything would not be fine.

Everything was not cool, man, not today. Jimmy thrashed around in the chair for the first time in two days, three days, one week, it didn't matter. He was a sitting duck for the Reaper as long as he was sitting here. And the legs of the chair moaned against the hardwood floor. Death was coming. It was gliding up the steps, sniffing him out in a nameless location. Death was smart like that. He could sense Jimmy from miles away.

Here it was now. The jig was up. Maybe he'd go out with a gun wound, fast and easy. Maybe he'd get shot so full of heroin, he'd soar up to heaven and never come back. Jimmy stopped tussling. There was no use fighting it now. His manager slipped through the door. Jimmy almost couldn't believe his eyes.

His manager had apparently negotiated Jimmy's safe release. Use some actual mafia muscle to spring Jimmy without paying a penny. It wasn't Jimmy's time to go. It was just his time to go home. His manager untied Jimmy from the chair. Jimmy walked back into the world in a daze. back into the drama, back into the demands of the road in the public. He slipped back into life like nothing ever happened in that barren silent room.

But he couldn't shake that feeling that he wasn't safe, that he was within the Reaper's grasp, that he could only cheat death in danger so many times. Someday he would fail, someday death would catch up to him. A day like September 18, 1970, in a bedroom in London, next to a strange woman in a puddle of his own vomit. Jimmy Hendricks escaped poverty, prison time, riots, and kidnappers. But he couldn't escape what he saw on the cards.

And that is a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at Disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axess member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership.

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