My memories of 'well-mannered' Jimi Hendrix when he popped into legendary West Midlands club for a drink

In the fag-end fog and beer blur of a Black Country club, amid the “time gentleman, please” clamour for a final Babycham or Brew XI, one man, decked in the height of fab Swinging Sixties flamboyance, stood out from the crowd.

With a shock of hair that appeared modelled on an explosion deep in upholstery, he strolled on to the lager slick stage and began to play. What came from his guitar was disjointed and rambling – a stream of electric consciousness.