COVER STORY: BILLY COX Bassist Billy Cox sits down with

the spirit Following of music

To lean on bassist Billy Cox, is to lean on a soulshaped rock. He hears it all — what is there, and what is not there — and he stands at the ready.

Cox straddles both time and musical space, with a professional career that spans six decades, and counting. He’s worked R&B, gospel, pop, country, folk, rock, and beyond with names that leap off the pages of music history — most notably Jimi Hendrix.

He was inducted into the Musicians Hall of Fame in 2009, the West Virginia Music Hall of Fame in 2011, and into the R&B Hall of Fame by way of Hendrix’s Band of Gypsys, in 2019. He received an EMP Founders Award in 2010. Today, he leads his own Billy Cox Band of Gypsys, and regularly tours as special guest with the Experience Hendrix concert series.

Cox is a man who has played the Club Del Morocco on Jefferson Street, recorded for Ernie Young and Excello Records, and stood blissfully onstage, bass in hand, as Hendrix played his haunting, incendiary version of the “Star-Spangled Banner” at Woodstock. Enough said.

Now 81 years old, and a life member of AFM Local 257, he remains a stone-cold music man.

“I felt as though it was all I had,” he said recently. “I had to follow through with it and trust it, and it carried me through. It did. I had my highs, and I had my lows, but I kept on keeping on.”

Cox has played, toured, or recorded with the giants, including Little Richard, Sam Cooke, Freddie King, Wilson Pickett, Rufus Thomas, Joe Simon, Slim Harpo, Carla Thomas, Lou Rawls, Etta James, Jackie Wilson, Patti LaBelle, Arthur Alexander, Charles Brown, Curtis Mayfield, Hendrix — you get the idea.

was born in Wheeling, West Virginia, in 1939. His mother, Laverne, was a classical pianist, and his father, the Rev. James Cox, a seminary graduate, was on his way to becoming a military chaplain.

“Somehow, somewhere, in space I believe I chose my parents,” Cox said. And though he was born into a loving home, a divorce ensued as World War II broke out.

“I was almost like a latchkey kid until I was about seven or eight, but I still had a good life and enjoyed it. Music was a guiding force, because in the house where my mother lived, she had a baby grand piano, and I found myself many a day listening to Brahms, Mozart, Handel, Liszt, Gershwin, the whole bit.”

Cox’s mother and two of her brothers played as a combo, often rehearsing in the house.

“Sometimes they would get a drummer,” he said. “That combo was very enlightening to me. I loved to hear that. It was a great influence.”

“And, even though I lived in Wheeling, north of the Mason-Dixon line, it still was Jim Crow. People like Count Basie and Duke Ellington would come through town, and they never carried a full array of people, so they would call my uncles to play. They were good readers. They knew the Campbell brothers were tough.”

Later, Cox moved to live with his father, recently discharged from service. The move brought a new discipline to life, but music continued to drive him. His father ultimately remarried, but still managed to nurture Cox by teaching him harmonica, and seeing to piano and violin lessons. The boy lost interest in both.

“I got disinterested,” he said. “I didn’t want to carry a violin case and stuff, and I was out there in a tough neighborhood. My grandfather lived up on Grandview. You got to go fifty flights if you’re going to walk up to his house. A lot of times there were clouds, we were so high up. There were clouds in West Virginia.”

That wasn’t all that was in West Virginia. There were radio airwaves in those clouds. “I had built a crystal radio set,” Cox said. “My father had a calling for the church, and I couldn’t bring the worldly music into the house because to my father, that was the music of the devil. He was a Baptist. I respected it. So, I built this crystal radio set out of a cigar box, about five foot of cord — and the first thing, I had to get the earphones. So, I worked hard mowing lawns and finally got a set of earphones, put that together, and I plugged the antenna into my bedsprings, and lo and behold the first thing I heard was ‘I’m down for Royal Crown. This is Hoss Allen, downtown Nashville, Tennessee, WLAC — 50,000 watts of clear channel.’

"Somehow, somewhere in space I believe I chose my parents."

“Wooo! Jimmy Reed, B.B. King, Howlin’ Wolf, Lightnin' Hopkins, The Drifters. I said, ‘Aw man, I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

While that radio became his gateway to the greater universe of music, he also embraced something closer to home, literally. He lived near the site of the Wheeling Jamboree, broadcast on WWVA, the second-oldest country music broadcast in the U.S., behind the Grand Ole Opry.

“It was great. So, night after night, I listened to WLAC. It was hard to find that station. I remember a couple nights I lost it, because the head of that pin, that crystal, was about maybe a little bigger than my thumb, and I couldn’t find it. So, when I did find it that third night, I got a lead pencil and just scraped it on there so I would always find that one spot. I was absorbed with that. Then I had the music from church, and I was absorbed with that, too — and I lived two blocks from the Wheeling Jamboree.

“A lot of times we’d sit out there on a Saturday night, man, on the weekend. Hawkshaw Hawkins, Wilma Lee and Stoney Cooper, Doc Williams and the Border Riders, Johnny Cash, you name it. That was raw stuff. Right on it. A lot of times they had fun in that back alley back there. We saw bottles going up and they would give us a couple of bucks so we wouldn’t peep at them. They’d give us a little money. I was influenced by that music. So now I had the R&B, the raw sound, and I had the music from church — and I had the WWVA Jamboree.”

Music shaped him, and when his father moved the family to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Cox continued to evolve, absorbing new sounds and taking on new challenges. Jazz found him.

“Now, I’m in the heart of a jazz city,” he said. “I’m hearing all that stuff. Art Blakey. Ahmad Jamal. All this stuff, man, I had a great jazz influence. I was 12 or 13. All of this is so good. I’m in Pittsburgh, so I gravitate to the

trumpet. I wound up playing trumpet in the band at Schenley High.”

To Cox, it was all part of a greater plan. He always felt there was a place for him in this world.

“I was playing baseball on a baseball field one evening, and all of a sudden I heard some magic happening in the universe,” he said. “I heard this sound — resounding through the whole universe. I heard my first electric bass. It reverberated through my whole body. I didn’t know what it was.

“I hadn’t even touched the bass. I told my buddy to take my stuff and I went to the sound. It was coming from the Syria Mosque — a Shriners’ center they rented out for gatherings. That night was Lloyd Price, and they were playing ‘Personality.’ The back door was open, and I found the bass player. There were some fans around, but he let me see the bass. Man, I just thought it was crazy! They went back on about fifteen minutes later, and I listened to three whole sets.”

But, even with that discovery, he also felt a pull toward the military, given his father’s background and his own desire to make some money. After graduating high school, he joined the Army with the intent of becoming a parachutist. After basic, he was able to choose the 101st Airborne at Fort Campbell in Clarksville, Tennessee, for his training — a fortuitous decision.

“So, I preferred to get it here, near Nashville, at Fort Campbell,” Cox said. “I was assigned to headquarters. A good gig. They checked my IQ and background extensively, and I was assigned there.

“We went to a John Wayne movie one night, and after it was over, we get out and it’s raining cats and dogs. I ran for cover and wound up on the porch of a service club. There were about eight or ten guys, and I heard someone playing from a practice room through the window there. I heard what he was attempting to do — I heard what he wasn’t playing. I thought it was unique.

“So, I went inside, and saw this little bald-headed kid. I walked to open the door and said, ‘You sound pretty good.’ He said ‘My name’s Jimi Hendrix. I’m just trying to get it together.’ I told him I played a little bass, but not that good. He said I could give them my service card there, and they’d give me an amplifier and bass — a little cheap Silvertone or Danelectro, or something. I turned in my card and went into the room with him, and — bang! — what magic. The magic was there. I can’t explain it. The destiny was there.”

They played “Soul Twist” by King Curtis. “It clicked, he didn’t make those mistakes I heard earlier, and I don't know how I played it, but I played it,” Cox said. “I had played all the cards you’re dealt at birth, but destiny is what you do with those cards.”

Hendrix immediately wanted to form a group. Cox knew a drummer, Gary Bellaire, and the three of them began to practice. But, to get tight, Cox knew they would need more time and regular access to space.

“I was set to be the message center chief,” he said. “I had a good gig and a good job on post. I knew in my heart we had to make this thing work. We took our rehearsing habits to a different club, to Service Club No. 2.”

Within two months, through classic Army wheeling and dealing, Cox managed to become the manager at Service Club No. 2, even though it meant turning down the better gig at headquarters and taking $56 less in monthly pay — real money then. It also cost him $50 and two fifths of Canadian Club.

The three began to woodshed.

“Jimi was not what you would call a top soldier,” Cox said, smiling. “He knew he had a destiny, so he had to do a lot of rehearsing and a lot of times he kept people up at night. People would look for him, and couldn’t find him. He was ghosting, so I gave him a place to go, down there where we rehearsed. We were rehearsing all day, every day.” continued on page 20 " I heard this sound resounding through the whole universe. I heard my first electric bass. It reverberated through my whole body. " Jimi Hendrix and Billy Cox backstage at the LA Forum, Inglewood, California on April 25, 1970. Taken prior to the concert while walking from dressing room to the stage. This was the first show of the newly formed The Jimi Hendrix Experience band with Billy Cox replacing Noel Redding as the group's bass player.

"As long as we were playing, we were in a glass ball, and we had the protection of that glass ball, which was the spirit of music."

“Every time that club had a function, I made sure we played, and that we got paid. We wound up getting pretty good. We wound up playing a little club there in town called the Pink Poodle. It was owned by a mortician. We were The Sandpipers. I finally bought my first Fender bass — a Precision.”

With that, they were professionals. Cox and Hendrix got their discharges in 1962, a month apart, and they rented a small place in Clarksville. An ill-fated decision to move to Indianapolis — minus a homesick Bellaire — left them stranded for several months.

They had a small gig or two, but real work that had been promised never materialized, and after a home-cooked, runner-up finish at a local talent contest, they were on their own. They found themselves living in Cox’s ’65 Dodge Plymouth as the the money ran out, subsisting on shared bowls of 25-cent chili and crackers.

“Funny thing about all that,” Cox said. “We wanted Gary [Bellaire] to go with us, but he wanted to go home. We said to him then, ‘You’re one of us, you’re going to all these black clubs with us even if you’re white — you’re black like us because you’re a musician.

“We still talk every two or three months. I tell him he’s the Pete Best of The Jimi Hendrix Experience.”

They returned home, rescued by their girlfriends, and three musicians they had met in Indianapolis followed them.

“We’re back at the Pink Poodle on a Friday night, and in comes three guys from Nashville,” Cox said. “They were looking for us. Dallas, Chico, and Uncle Teddy Acklen, the owner of the Del Morocco. It was a big old, nice club on Jefferson Street. They wanted us to play there in Nashville.”

The King Kasuals were born. The band, after giving the Pink Poodle notice, moved in upstairs at the new club, where each would be paid $35 a week with free room and board. They played five nights a week, off Sundays and Mondays. It was solid, and the band was a powerhouse. Cox also found a little daytime session work, and through that, was uncovered by Hoss Allen — the legendary WLAC disc jockey he had heard as a boy over the airwaves from his bed in Wheeling, West Virginia.

That connection led to important work for Cox. From 1962 to 1968, he played on The !!! Beat, hosted by Allen, and Night Train, hosted by Noble Blackwell — two television shows broadcast from Dallas, Texas, and Nashville, respectively, featuring the best of R&B, pop, and soul performers. And, he put more focus on writing songs.

“I wrote ‘Don’t Take My Kindness for Weakness,’ he said. “Earl Gaines cut it with Hoss Allen’s company. I wound up writing ‘Push Mister Pride Aside’ for Percy Sledge, and ‘I Got My Finger on Your Trigger’ for Slim Harpo. I thought things were good, and I bought a little tape recorder, and had Jimi in the background singing.

“I wound up doing all of Ernie Young’s things for Excello Records [and the sister Nashboro label]. I did all the gospel — every gospel artist who came through. Brother Joe May, Shirley Caesar, The Consolers, the Brooklyn All-Stars. You name it. He had that going down in Printers Alley. He knew how to map the room. He would systematically put the singers over here, the background singers over there, the bass had to be here, the amp, he had the things written on the floor. He’d put on these microphones and capture it like he had a $250,000 studio. He was a genius. He built an industry with two tracks.”

Nashville was a smaller town then, and Cox did a lot of demos, working out of his own office on 19th Ave. South, with a buddy who had a studio in the back.

“John Richbourg would call me up and I did a lot of demos for him,” he said. “Pete Drake was next door. Bob Riley was at Tree Publishing, so I had all my friends. Jerry Bradley was young and starting out, so we worked together on a lot of projects.

“I worked some with the B-Team here in town, which was Bob Wilson, Karl Himmel, and Ben Keith, and myself. They gave us a lot of demos. Every now and then we'd get an A gig. I had a great time with everyone.”

However, the gig at the Del Morocco began to disintegrate over money disputes. The band was packing the house but couldn’t get a raise, and left. Hendrix was becoming naturally restless.

“We were doing a few gigs here and there, but Jimi knew that he wanted to be on stage. He knew he had gotten this guitar thing down. He left town with an emcee, Gorgeous George [Odell], who had a review. He felt it was his time to get to the big time. I’d advised him against it. The great guitarist Johnny Jones had left the Club Baron and approached me. He took Jimi’s place, with the understanding a spot would be held open if he returned.”

“We did that, and Jimi got stranded in St. Louis. I wired him the money and he came back for a short time.”

It was a pattern that would be repeated, Hendrix leaving, and returning. He hit the road with The Isley Brothers, and Little Richard, Wilson Pickett, and Sam Cooke, among others. One popular band, which Cox prefers to keep anonymous, were essentially holding Hendrix captive, watching him closely at every gig, wary of his escape.

“He called me from Memphis, needing help,” Cox said. “He told me he would be playing the enlisted men’s club at Fort Campbell the next Saturday night, and begged me to come get him. Well, I rounded up the six ugliest thugs in Nashville, and we went up there and got him after the gig! I had two carloads of guys.

“One guy named Country, was with us. He was about 6’6” and after the show, he reached up and grabbed Jimi and his guitar and walked him off the stage, and we went right out the door.”

“Anyhow, he came back, but not for long. He left with Little Richard. They came back through town and I was sitting on a stoop on Jefferson Street, and he and Little Richard pulled up in front, and came bounding off the bus. They wanted me to go on the road and play. I couldn’t. I couldn’t just jump up and go.”

That was in 1964, and he wouldn’t talk to Hendrix again until he received a phone call in 1966.

“Jimi said, ‘Look man, this guy has discovered me, he's going to take me to Europe and make me a star and I told him about you. Come on up.’ I thought about it for a minute. I told Jimi I couldn’t make it. I told him I was a renting man, and my bass has three strings on it and the fourth string is tied in a square knot. He called me a lying sonofabitch, but that he’d send for me when he made it — and, that’s just what he did."

Hendrix resurfaced, and phoned Cox again in April, 1969, asking him to come to Memphis to meet him. He met Hendrix in his hotel room there.

“Jimi told me to sit tight in Nashville, and when the time was right he’d call me to come meet him in New York. He gave me nine $100 bills. He said, ‘Just be still. I’m going to call.’ In two weeks, I was on a flight.”

The Jimi Hendrix Experience, formed in London, which had staked such global psychedelic ground, was breaking up.

“I don’t think they wanted to break up, but Jimi was unhappy,” Cox said. “He and Noel [Redding] were fighting. Jimi wasn’t showing up for rehearsals and wouldn’t show up for studios. He wanted to take the music in a different direction.”

At home, the country was roiling. Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were both dead at the hands of assassins. For Cox, a man who had built his career on solid planning, the move was a great leap of faith — faith that he and Hendrix together could do something good in the world.

And though they would do great work in a brief time with the Jimi Hendrix Experience, and ultimately the Band of Gypsys,, it was a struggle. The pressure of the political climate, racial tensions in America, Hendrix’s drug use — boiled into a cauldron, often creative, and

GEA R

Mesa Boogie WD-800 Amp Stack with 2X 410 Cabinets

“I’m excited about this rig. I call it ‘The Last Gypsy's Smoke Blower.’ Mesa Boogie is a great company, with great bass gear. I enjoy working with Doug West and Trent Blake at Mesa — they are like family.”

In studio — 1961 Fender (Vintage) P-Bass Live — Fender Jazz Bass

Also on occasion:

Valley Arts Custom by Gibson Billy Cox Freedom Bass by Cort

potentially destructive. Hendrix flying sky-high on guitar, and Cox holding the bottom together.

The peak of that relationship was Woodstock, in August, 1969, their first gig. The band was larger than any assembled with Hendrix before, with Cox, Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell, guitarist Larry Lee, and two percussionists, Juma Sultan and Jerry Velez. They would perform together just two more times.

“We were the headliner,” he said. “We heard Sly. It’s something about the sound waves that come and go, almost like a radio. We had rehearsed, anticipating. The night before, we wound up staying at a little house. I think it belonged to Stephen Stills — I don't know. We wound up in the back of the festival. The rear of the stage was pretty secure. When we got to the back and went up to the loft, Mitch opened up the curtain and looked out. Oh my God. Jimi looked out. The crowd is sending up so much energy — and he’s taking it in. He said ‘They’re sending up a lot of energy to the stage, so we’ll take that in, and send it back to them.

“That’s what we did. We wound up staying on that stage almost two hours.”

The everlasting performance from that set, of course, was Hendrix’s version of the “StarSpangled Banner,” a transcendent one that riveted the nation, galvanizing supporters and critics alike. America was as polarized as it is today, and the “Love it, or leave it” crowd equated his performance to blasphemy.

“Jimi and I were patriots,” Cox said. “Maybe different in our way. Jimi knew what the song meant. I played on the first four or five notes — we had played it before — but I realized it was something else and stepped back. It was the most beautiful experience you can imagine. Like listening to a singer. I say the same thing about that performance that Jimi said to Dick Cavett. It was beautiful.”

Hendrix would be dead from an overdose just over a year later, succumbing September 18, 1970. It tore a hole in rock & roll. And, though Cox has survived and thrived musically, he still hears what’s not there.

“I was totally devastated when I got the call,” Cox said. “I was at home, and I didn't believe it. I threw the phone up against the wall. I’m devastated today. Jimi always said Nashville was where he really learned to play. I look back, and I think of us. Those times. We thought about it all. Wherever we were, as long as we were playing, we were in a glass ball, and we had the protection of that glass ball, which was the spirit of music.” TNM