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It’s a way of life.
—Frank Zappa

I just finished reading a fascinating biography called Hendrix: Musician, by Keith Shadwick (Backbeat, 2012), which caught my eye in the discount bin at the local music store. I’ve been delving into Hendrix lore since working on the 1968–70 portion of a memoir, My Generation. Hendrix was god to me then, though I didn’t know enough theory to explain why in musical terms. It was more about the sheer instinctual power and creative reach of the guitar, the generation of a sound never heard before, the universal lyrics and personal voice, and the band as a potent entity, an engine of personal and cultural enlightenment.

Hendrix put in the time learning his craft. Inseparable from his guitar (except when it needed pawning), for years he survived on low pay and anonymity, touring the roadhouse “chitlin circuit” with R&B and soul bands like the Isley Brothers and Little Richard. In New York he played and jammed everywhere he could, until finally he was discovered in a club there by Keith Richard’s girlfriend. The rest was history.

Until reading this biographical fleshing out of the full discography, I never realized how prominently jamming figured in Hendrix’s vision and talent. Of the songs officially released as singles or album tracks, whether studio or live performances, most began as jams. And the majority of the bootlegged material later released could also be counted as little more than jams. In the Winterland concerts of 1968, Hendrix can be heard between every song almost apologetic: “So dig, y’know, we’re just gonna jam on this little thing, I think it’s called, lemme see, bear with us now, y’all so beautiful, out there… oh yeah, it goes somethin like this…”

In the studio, Hendrix’s management team was driven to despair and near insolvency by endless hours of going over material by… more jamming… often with whoever visiting musicians were invited to drop by. After working hours, performing or recording, Hendrix would hit the clubs and sit in during and after sets, jamming on into the night.

Eventually the grind of the touring and recording commitments wore him down. He would have to placate screaming audiences with the same old hits, and attempt to come up with new collections of commercially cohesive songs. Of the 1968 US tour, Bassist Noel Redding  recalls, “We stopped making music and started doing time” (188).

Shadwick relates, “Hendrix’s way of dealing with this type of pressure–apart from drugs and casual sex–was to jam after-hours as much as possible. Nearly everyone who became at all close to him, either professionally or personally, was struck by just how much importance Hendrix attached to sitting in with groups or convening an informal jam–anywhere, at any time” (188).

Good jams, bad jams… it seems even the great Hendrix had his share of both. For the famous Woodstock concert, Hendrix brought on two freelance conga players and percussionists, Jerry Velez and Juma Sultan. Neither kit drummer Mitch Mitchell nor biographer Keith Shadwick were impressed with the results of the ever more undisciplined jams, in rehearsal for “the crowning set at the world’s most overpopulated rock festival” (256). Nor did the Woodstock set show much improvement, in Shadwick’s view.

“With the extra percussionists [Hendrix] was trying to bring a heavier emphasis to the crosscurrents of rhythm… a more ethnic or roots-based foundation for the counter-rhythms and patterns.” Unfortunately, the outcome was less than satisfying. Shadwick explains:

Hendrix verbalised nothing. No one was told when to play and when not to play, with the inevitable result that plenty of inappropriate playing took place. This is especially noticeable in the case of the two percussionists. It is an old saw among musicians that percussionists without a precise brief will play through anything, regardless of how appropriate or inappropriate their contribution may be. They always think a few extra rhythms will help. The opposite is true. A constant thunder of uncoordinated percussion will dissipate the music’s impact and prevent it from breathing properly, making it seem to drag along with heavy baggage rather than propelling the sound. (258)

Shadwick goes on to note that much of the conga/percussion sound was buried in the Woodstock recording mix, so perhaps I never noticed the flaws, when I lapped up the Woodstock soundtrack album at the age of nineteen.

Lately, though, I’ve been realizing the need to learn this same lesson in my conga and percussion playing for two improv bands, Aquarius Victoria and Dream Catcher. As an “ethnic” drummer for traditional West African dance, accompaniment parts are played steady throughout a piece (except in the case of unison break arrangements for performance). Even as a lead drummer I will mark the dance moves by switching between predetermined “traditional solos” as taught by masters such as Famoudou Konate and Mamady Keita. As a soloist there is opportunity to mark the dance more creatively, too—whether fast and busy, or sparse and spacious.

In an electric band mix, the congas/percussion play a different role. There the kit drum and bass can cover the main responsibility for holding the rhythm foundation; so I have come slowly to find out I don’t need to carry that role into this type of music. Laying back then opens the door to more listening, so I can respond and play off what the drummer and bassist are doing. It then becomes a potent triangle of rhythmic conversation that provides a strong yet dynamic foundation for the other instruments.

It’s also a matter of style. Some percussionists excel at holding the tempo, supporting; others bring a more exotic, abstract spice to the mix. And it depends on what the musical style demands and invites.

At a recent birthday jam I introduced the concept of jamming by the simple rule, “keeping the beat.”

Chris, a longtime musical companion and improviser, corrected me. “Or, there’s only one rule: there are no rules.”

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The free memoir Friday Night Jam chronicles my early attempts to fuse African percussion with electric blues and rock jams. Currently I’m at work on a three-decade memoir of the baby boom, My Generation. Visit my website NowickGray.com, connect on Facebook and Twitter, or sign up for my newsletter.