The Hendrix Experience, with only a one point deduction from the Russian judge.

Holy guitar strings Batman! Just sat through 3 amazing hours of modern interpretations of Jimi Hendrix's indelible music. Billy Cox from the original Band of Gypsies, Robert Randolph, Susan Tedeshi, Johnny Lang, Eric Johnson, Kenny Wayne Sheppard, Ernie Isley, David Hidalgo, Brad Whitford, Chris Layton, Living Color, and last but not least Joe Satriani, all took turns making this one of the most memorable concerts I have seen in years. And even slightly disappointed in no-show Doyle Bramhall II, the night was a 10. OK, the music was a 10, but I have to give the night on a whole a 9 for one dubious reason.

Not to distract from the awesome display of guitar fueled rock that spanned from the beautiful (Wind Cried Mary), to the powerful (Foxy Lady), to the psychedelic (3rd Stone From the Sun), I still have to take away a point. It wasn't for the 90 minute drive through rush hour traffic, we were not in a hurry. It wasn't for the $30 for 3 hours of parking, a deal no doubt. And it wasn't for the $5 lemonade either at the Chicago theater, (half a bottle of what is overpriced at $1.79 at a gas station, but I digress). Nope, I have to detract a point for the couple that sat to my right.

When we took our seats, about 20 rows back, there was nobody in our row. As the seats filled in, the pair to my right remained empty, and I hoped that it was some rich asshole who bought the tickets on a whim, only to wimp out and stay at home favoring a couple of vodka tonics and a re-run of Wall Street on HBO. Even the girl right in front of me was about 5'4". Awesome. Right up until the lights went down, and the woman from hell took her seat. First thing I noticed was the over abundance of perfume. She could have left the bottle at home, but instead smelled like she had just bathed in it in the ladies room. When the first song started, as people do, she worked herself up into a frenzy, screaming over the singer. But it wasn't a Yeah! or a Whoo! Ever heard the battle cry of a blood lusting terrorist? That shrill scream that sounds a bit like a Native American from the frontier days? Over and over and over, all bloody night long. And it came at the most inopportune times. Not, say, at the end of the song when everyone else is whooping and clapping.

And there were other annoyances. Like trying to have a conversation with me in the middle of one of the guitarists personal stories about Jimi. Would have been nice to hear that. Or her telling me she had to go pee as she was stepping on my foot attempting to squeeze down the aisle. To much info, but thanks. But as they left, I was thinking that maybe I would get lucky and her boyfriend would switch seats with her. That is until he stepped on my foot as well, thus allowing me to know what it's like to have a 400 pound man step on your toes. And they did this like 3 or 4 times, always in the middle of a song, always ruining a moment when I could have otherwise been enjoying some amazing music. We never left our seats, but the approximately 600-650 combined pounds of human flesh needed to go in and out like they were subbing at a basketball game.

The night was not ruined, as it sounds like here. Just a minor point deduction for atmosphere. In the end, I did got my wish. The boyfriend sat next to me when they returned, forget about using that armrest. Hell, forget about using the right side of my seat. The people behind us must have thought my buddy and I were gay, the way I was snuggling up to him. (He did smell nice) Thus is the moral of today's story. An amzing night no doubt, but be careful what you wish for.