In November 1969, Jimi played a small club in Greenwich Village called Salvation. It was supposed to be a warm-up gig for a long tour, and an early birthday party for Jimi. It was billed as the Black Roman Orgy. The sound system was crap, and Jimi gave up after a few songs, returning to his table where Richard had somehow wangled a seat. As the evening wore on and the sundry guests got up to go to the bathroom, Richard found himself sitting right next to Jimi, who was in a deep state of melancholy, complaining that he was trapped, being forced to perform like a circus act, and that he wanted to explore new musical terrain but “they” wouldn’t let him. Richard decided to give him a pep talk, tell him how much his music meant, that he should do what he wanted, because he was Jimi Hendrix. Jimi turned around and slugged Richard three times. Richard then hid out in the club for a while on the theory that he didn’t want to get slugged some more by Jimi’s security guards. After half an hour or so, Richard decided it might be safe to exit. Outside, Jimi was waiting for him in one of his Corvettes in the parking lot.

“He called me over and asked for my hands,” Richard says. “He apologized and began weeping on them. My hands were wet with his tears. I kept telling him it was okay, and finally he rolled up his window and drove off. Velvert later explained to me that Jimi hated compliments, thought they were patronizing. I didn’t understand that he was being tortured by criminals. But I didn’t care that he hit me. He gave me something that I’ve carried to this day. It was a gift. And that’s why I had to make this album. I owe Jimi. And I owe Velvert.”