Santana Met Jimi Hendrix in May 1970 — 4 Months Later, Hendrix Was Dead at 27 ht

Carlos Santana stood backstage in May 1970 talking to Jimmyi Hendris for the first and only time. Two guitar gods, two completely different styles, but both speaking the same language, the language of making a guitar sing. We should jam sometime, Jimmy said. That easy smile on his face.

Create something together. Your Latin thing mixed with my thing. That could be wild. Carlos nodded eagerly. Yes, absolutely. Let’s do it. They shook hands, promised to connect, made plans that felt real. 6 months later, Jimmyi Hendris was dead at 27. and Carlos Santana would spend the rest of his life regretting that he never said everything he wanted to say to the greatest guitarist who ever lived.

This is the story of the one meeting between Santana and Hrix and the jam session that never happened. May 1970, Carlos Santana was 22 years old and still processing what had happened to him. Nine months earlier, he’d played Woodstock, that legendary performance of Soul Sacrifice that had introduced him to the world. Now he was famous.

His album was climbing the charts. Promoters wanted him. Fans recognized him. He’d gone from playing small clubs in San Francisco to selling out major venues. It was surreal and overwhelming and incredible all at once. But Carlos still felt like an impostor. He’d grown up poor in Tijana.

The son of a struggling mariachi musician who told him he’d never make it. And now people were calling him a guitar virtuoso. Magazines were writing about his unique sound, that fusion of Latin percussion and rock guitar that nobody had done before. It didn’t feel real, especially when he was about to meet Jimmy Hendris.

The festival was somewhere on the east coast. Carlos would later struggle to remember exactly where. What he remembered vividly was the moment he learned that Jimmy Hendris was also on the bill. Jimmy Hendris, the most revolutionary guitarist alive. The man who’d set his guitar on fire at Mterrey, who’d played the Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock while bombs exploded from his amplifier.

The man who’d shown every guitarist in the world what was possible. Carlos had worshiped Jimmy from a distance, studied his playing, tried to understand how he got those sounds from a stratacastaster, but meeting him, talking to him, that felt impossible. After Santana’s set, Carlos was in the backstage area coming down from the adrenaline of performing.

His band members were laughing, celebrating a good show. And then someone said, “Hey, Jimmy’s here.” Carlos’s heart started racing. He looked around and saw him, Jimmy Hendris, walking through the backstage area like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was wearing one of his signature outfits, all flowing fabric and color.

His hair was a massive halo around his head and he was heading straight toward Carlos. Carlos felt frozen. What do you say to Jimmy Hendris? How do you act normal when a god is walking toward you? Jimmy stuck out his hand. That easy smile on his face. Carlos Santana, he said, “Man, I’ve been wanting to meet you.

” Carlos shook his hand, trying to process those words. Jimmyi Hendris wanted to meet him. I caught your set at Woodstock. Jimmy continued, “That soul sacrifice solo man. That was something else. You were playing like you were possessed, like the guitar was playing you instead of you playing it.

” Carlos managed to find his voice coming from you. That’s I don’t even know what to say. You’re Jimmy Hendris. Jimmy laughed. A warm, genuine laugh. Yeah, but you’re Carlos Santana. You’re doing something nobody else is doing. That Latin rock thing. Mixing congas with electric guitar. That’s revolutionary, man. That’s new.

They started talking and Carlos began to relax. Jimmy wasn’t what Carlos expected. He wasn’t arrogant or distant. He was kind, curious, genuinely interested in what Carlos was doing musically. “How’d you develop that tone?” Jimmy asked. “Your guitar? It sings like it’s crying. It’s different from how I play.

I’m more aggressive, more attacking. But you, you make the guitar weep. That’s beautiful.” Carlos felt tears forming. Jimmyi Hendris was complimenting his tone, understanding his approach, seeing what Carlos was trying to do with the instrument. I learned a lot from watching you. Carlos said, “The way you use feedback, the way you make the guitar sound like it’s alive, like it’s another voice.

You changed what the guitar could be.” They talked about their different approaches. Jimmy’s was psychedelic, experimental, pushing the boundaries of what sounds a guitar could make. Carlos’ was more melodic, emotional, rooted in Latin music, but expressed through rock. Different languages, but both fluent.

You know what would be wild, Jimmy said, his eyes lighting up. If we jam together sometime, your Latin thing mixed with my psychedelic thing, congas and feedback, melody and chaos, that could be something nobody’s ever heard before. Carlos felt electricity run through him, jamming with Jimmy Hendris, creating music together.

The possibilities were endless. Yes, Carlos said immediately. Absolutely. Let’s do it. I’m serious, Jimmy said. Not just jamming around. Actually create something. Write some music together. You bring your band, I’ll bring my guys, and we’ll see what happens when we collide. They exchanged contact information through their managers. Made real plans.

This wasn’t just talk. They were actually going to do this. Don’t disappear on me now, Jimmy said with a grin. You’re going to be huge, man. Everyone’s going to want a piece of you. But remember, you promised to jam with me. I won’t forget. Carlos promised. This is going to happen. They shook hands one more time.

Jimmy pulled him into a quick hug, looking forward to it. Brother, take care of yourself. And then Jimmy was gone. Pulled away by someone from his crew. Carlos stood there still processing what had just happened. He’d met Jimmy Hendris, talked to him, been complimented by him, and they were going to create music together.

Over the next few months, Carlos thought about that jam session often, but life got busy. Santana was blowing up. More tours, more recordings, more demands. The album Abraasis was being recorded. Carlos kept meaning to reach out to Jimmy’s people to set up a time for them to get together and play, but there was always something else, always another obligation, always tomorrow. He figured they had time.

Jimmy was young, only 5 years older than Carlos. They were both at the beginning of long careers. They’d make it happen eventually. Maybe after this tour. Maybe after the next album. There was no rush. September 18th, 1970. 4 months after that backstage meeting. Carlos was at home in San Francisco when the phone rang. It was his manager.

And something in his voice made Carlos sit down. Carlos, I’m so sorry. Jimmy’s dead. The words didn’t make sense at first. Dead. Jimmy Hendris. That was impossible. Jimmy was 27 years old. He was healthy. He was at the peak of his powers. How could he be dead? But he was found dead in a London apartment.

The official cause would be ruled asphyxiation from his own vomit after mixing alcohol with sleeping pills. Whether it was accidental or intentional, nobody would ever know for sure, but the result was the same. Jimmy Hendris was gone. Carlos felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. He just talked to Jimmy.

They’d made plans. They were going to create something together. And now those plans would never happen. That collaboration would never exist. The music they could have made, the fusion of Jimmy’s psychedelic genius and Carlos’s Latin soul, would never be heard. The regret hit Carlos immediately. Why hadn’t he made it happen sooner? Why had he let weeks and months pass without following up? Jimmy had said, “Don’t disappear on me.” And Carlos had done exactly that.

Not intentionally, but through busyiness and procrastination and assuming they had time. But they didn’t have time. Nobody has guaranteed time. And now one of the greatest guitarists who ever lived was gone at 27. And Carlos would never get to play with him. The funeral was devastating.

Seeing Jimmy’s guitar silent and still felt wrong. That guitar was supposed to be making sounds nobody had ever heard before. That guitar was supposed to be creating revolutions in music for decades to come. Instead, it was quiet forever. Carlos went home and picked up his own guitar. He played for hours, crying as he played, trying to channel what he was feeling.

grief, regret, anger at the unfairness of it all, and gratitude. Gratitude that he’d gotten to meet Jimmy, to hear him say those kind words, to know that Jimmy had respected his playing. But underneath everything was the haunting question. What would that collaboration have sounded like? Carlos thought about it constantly.

Jimmy’s Stratcaster feedback and effects mixed with Carlos’s Gibson SG sustain. Jimmy’s experimental approach mixed with Carlos’s melodic sensibility. Mitch Mitchell’s jazz influenced drumming mixed with Santana’s congas and timber’s the experience meets Santana. Psychedelic rock meets Latin fusion. It would have been revolutionary.

It would have pushed both of them in new directions. It would have created something that had never existed before and could never exist now. Over the years, Carlos has talked about that meeting often in interviews and every time you can hear the regret in his voice. Not regret that he met Jimmy. That was a gift, but regret that he didn’t say more.

Didn’t express fully how much Jimmy meant to him. Didn’t make that jam session happen when they had the chance. I keep thinking about what we could have created together, Carlos said in a 1990s interview. Jimmy was opening doors that nobody knew existed, and we were doing something different, bringing Latin music into rock.

If those two worlds had collided with both of us playing together, creating together, I think it would have changed music. It would have shown people possibilities they hadn’t imagined. But I waited, Carlos continued, his voice heavy. I was busy. I was young. I thought we had time and then we didn’t.

That’s the thing about time. You think you have it until you don’t and then all you have are whatifs and should haves. In the decades since Jimmy’s death, Carlos has paid tribute to him in various ways. Playing Jimmy’s songs, talking about his influence, keeping his memory alive. But there’s always that underlying sadness.

The collaboration that never was. The music that never got made. The friendship that never had time to develop. When Jimmy said we should jam sometime, he meant it. Carlos reflected. That wasn’t just talk. He was genuinely interested in creating something together, and I should have made it happen.

I should have called his manager the next day. I should have made it a priority, but I didn’t. And now it’s too late. The lesson Carlos learned from losing Jimmy has stayed with him for over 50 years. Don’t wait when you have the chance to create something meaningful, to connect with someone important, to make something beautiful. Do it now.

Don’t assume there will be time later. Don’t put it off for when you’re less busy because life is fragile and time is not guaranteed. Every time I play guitar, Carlos has said, I think about Jimmy, about what he taught all of us, about the doors he opened and about the music we never got to make together. That’s my biggest musical regret.

Not making that jam session happen when we had the chance. not telling him fully what he meant to me, not saying everything I wanted to say. But Carlos also learned to carry that regret forward as motivation, to not make the same mistake again, to collaborate when the opportunity arises, to tell people what they mean to you while you can.

To create now instead of later. Jimmy’s death taught me that tomorrow isn’t promised, Carlos reflected. So when you have the chance to make music, make it. When you have the chance to tell someone you love them, tell them. When you have the chance to create something beautiful, create it.

Don’t wait for the perfect time. The perfect time is now. The jam session between Jimmyi Hendris and Carlos Santana never happened. The album they could have made doesn’t exist. The music that would have come from their collaboration is silence. And that silence is haunting. But the one conversation they had, the 20inut meeting backstage in May 1970, gave Carlos something precious.

The knowledge that one of the greatest guitarists who ever lived, had respected his playing, had seen what he was trying to do, had wanted to create something together. Thank you for the music you gave us, Carlos said in a tribute to Jimmy years later. Thank you for showing us what was possible.

Thank you for those kind words backstage. And I’m sorry we never got to jam. I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I thought we had time, but I promise I’ve tried to honor your legacy by not making that mistake again. By creating when I can. By collaborating when the opportunity arises. By not waiting for tomorrow.

The greatest jam session that never happened. The collaboration that died with Jimmyi Hendris at 27. The music that exists only in imagination. What could have been if a psychedelic genius and a Latin rock pioneer had gotten to create something together? We’ll never know what it would have sounded like.

But we know it would have been revolutionary. We know it would have been beautiful. We know it would have been something the world had never heard before. And that’s the tragedy. Not just that Jimmy died young, but that all the music he still had to create died with him, including the music he would have made with Carlos Santana.

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