By the summer of 1967, Jimi Hendrix wasn’t just another guitarist—he was a fuse, burning down to a single, explosive moment. His destiny was waiting on a California stage, drenched in sweat, smoke, and distortion. But that night, when Hendrix struck the match and watched his beloved Stratocaster burn, it wasn’t just spectacle. It was rebellion. It was frustration. It was a man saying, “You’ll remember me—even if I have to burn my music alive”.