Stuff I like....

Ridgeline rambles in the Dolomites

Legacy is a weak word for what Hendrix left scattered across the wreckage of the 1960s: a fire that still hasn’t gone out, still licking at the amplifiers of every kid who ever set a Strat on fire in his bedroom mirror and called it transcendence. Jimi Hendrix bent feedback into prayer, turned distortion into something holy and depraved at once, like a Baptist sermon played backwards through a busted tube amp. He died young, of course, because the good ones always burn fast, too much voltage running through a body never built to hold it. But the sound survived him, screaming out of Woodstock mud and into every garage band that ever tried and failed to touch his flame.