He is the guru of guitar, the master of melody, musical mentor to a generation of silent screaming shredding scavengers, the genius of jam, the psychedelic swami on the secret city streets after dark, to the sound of strings strumming, no one is quite sure where Jimi Dee comes from, or where he goes when the night is through.

He plays forbidden music and speaks in mystical rhyme, reciting the poems, songs and stories that are hidden from your sad embrace.

First appearing on the streets of Hollywood sometime when the hills were on fire, he haunts the alleys and parking structures where homeless congregations sing hymns of their delirious oblivion. Encamped in their tents harboring dreams backlighting the side of the dawn on your moonlight drive past the palm at the end of the mind, girls brightly bedecked in starlight and scented raiment, hair like fire blazing with hungry eyes stalk the pathways of love,

Where the wind of time blows across the labyrinth of the mind, there his music is.

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