RAINY DAY, DREAM AWAY by JIMI HENDRIX. Story by D.R James

At a small college, Fall 1972

Alone, but Not Lonely

November Something, 1972. I’m 18, a college freshman, self-confined to my room, nine-ish on a Saturday night, when I suddenly realize everyone else has split, including Mark and Glenn next door, new friends from another town close by, who drive twenty minutes to smooch girlfriends at home, and across from them, Steve and Ken from my own home town, probably prowling around trying to ‘pick up chicks,’ and Teddy and Rich down around the corner, gone who knows where. Not even my roommate, George (thank God), is around to fiddle with his Glenn Campbell eight-tracks.

For once I get a jump on some homework, temporarily lose track of time and what people are up to, and, wham, I’m left behind, abandoned.

This is not usual for me. In fact, this has never happened to me before, and I panic. What am I going to do?

I shuffle to my cracked-open door and step into the quiet hallway. There, only music drifting from the suite on the corner where I imagine the four stone-heads holed-up smoking dope. The zoo rests calm for once, and I’m left in charge. Though I know I don’t want to be.

Back in the 9 x 12 cubicle I call my room I gaze around and admit to myself I could study some more. Still plenty of that to do, unfortunately. Or I could write a letter or two. I owe some to friends: Rick, Noel, Brigitte…ah, yes, Brigitte….   But they owe me letters, too. Or I could read, for fun. (Fun?) Naaawww.

None of the above.

Then, what will I do? This is very weird.

At a loss, I experiment. I turn off all the lights except one dim desk lamp and light a few candles we have sitting around. One’s the hand-dipped kind with multiple, multicolored layers, and I watch two or three layers near the wick soften and glisten and re-melt the pool formed by previous burnings. The flame—gentle, supple, beautiful—seems to dance when I squint, which gives it an out-of-focus look, and it gives off a faint scent that somehow reassures and creates a space of its own. I’m so close, it warms my face. This is almost too artsy-romantic for me, but I’m alone, so who’ll know?

Music, now. Never total quiet unless I’m studying something really confusing, i.e. everything. But what music? What would match the mood, this hippie mood? Jimi Hendrix comes to mind—of course, always Hendrix—but my favorites, Purple Haze, Johnny B. Goode, Manic Depression, are too loud and too fast.  I need something to go with fuzzy light, candles, quiet. How about Joni Mitchell or Neil Young? Neither strikes me as right. Joni reminds me of the wrong person right now (someone I probably could be with tonight if I had my head on straight), and Neil just plain whines too much.

I thumb through my albums, only to come back to Hendrix and wonder if this is the time for Electric Ladyland, the double-album I’ve never really liked all that much. I bought it because I buy every Hendrix thing that comes out. Yeah, OK, maybe Ladyland’s time has come.

I don’t know any of the four sides yet, so I put on the first that slides out and immediately know I’ve made the right choice. Jazzy, coffee-house sounds soon hover in the room, Jimi’s squeaking cord changes transforming the dorm into a place I’ve never experienced before. The psychedelic lyrics mean next-to-nothing to me, but Jimi’s voice quality lures me in, his earthy, mellow, surreal sound. He’s singing mostly nonsense but still creates an almost mystical effect: “Rainy day, dream away…. Let the sun take a holiday…. Let it fade your worries away…. Lay back and groove on a rainy day…. Lay back and dream on a rainy day….”

I kick back on my bed while Jimi plays the blues. I follow the patterns in George’s springs overhead while candle shadows flicker across the wall.

I actually relax into being alone. Not lonely, really, though melancholic. Thoughtful. Myself? Strangely content, anyway.

This is actually luxurious. This is like no other time in my life. This is finally my life I’m living…and it’s OK to be alone.

Stereo Story 874