Jimi Hendrix was found dead on the morning of September 18th 1970. The coroners report stated cause of death due to barbiturate intoxication and inhalation of vomit. An open verdict.

1973, and I’m sitting in an old friend’s apartment. We’re working; doing what we’re good at; what we’ve done for over a decade. A collection of glasses and ashtrays are propped up amongst sweeps of paperwork on the table in front of us. The hours tick by, the details are completed and we talk. More than thirty years on, I can still hear that conversation; see the man I’d known for so much of my life, his face pale, hand clutching at his glass in sudden rage: ‘I had to do it, Tappy. You understand don’t you? I had to do it.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘You know damn well what I’m talking about.’ And I did, though I didn’t want to believe it. I knew what he was telling me and now I’m going to tell you. Because of all the crazy theories there were about Hendrix’s death, there is one I know to be true. There are secrets I don’t need to keep anymore, and I’m going to tell them all.