Of course I walked into Studio A like I knew exactly where I was going. I couldn't help it. It felt familiar.

I practically collided into one of the engineers as I entered. He led me through an adjoining doorway into a large wood-lined room. As I made my way towards a small couch that was perched on the edge of everything, I wondered if I'd know any of the musicians. Whaddya know? As I passed the rhythm section, I saw Mark Peterson and Aubrey Dayle. Mark and I went to Spain with Blood awhile back. I met Aubrey before (Blood introduced us once, backstage at The Cooler) but I had never worked with him. Ditto for David Barnes (also known as Tatum's Dad) and Leon Gruenbaum, who remembered me through a mutual acquaintance from long since I don't know when. I'd never met Charlie Burnham but I've heard of him. He was leaning against a huge psychedelic mural of a spaceship braving the ultra blue cosmos that had unfurled itself on the wall furthest away from me when I entered the room. I had never heard anyone play slide mandolin and I'd never heard anyone make an electric violin sound like that. It was bluesy and alive, an endless cacophony of feeling. It's been a minute since the session and I'm still thinking about the way he sounded when he played.

Vernon had gathered the band members from the first effort for a repeat performance. Everyone had planted themselves in a broken circle of sorts, their gear strategically placed within a massive snake pit of cords and wire and technical details. As they would play, the music would swirl around the room and bounce against the walls, shaking me like thunder. It was mesmerizing. Clearly, the concept had been refined. The band had become even more of a unit than it had been and Blood responded well to the material. It was fairly obvious that this record was going to be even better than the first one. And the first one was pretty good.

Behind a glass window sat the record label folk, the engineers, Alan (Blood's official photographer, taking candid shots), musicians who would play later in the day and various and sundry observers. After some discussion, I was led into this area and a microphone was set up for my eventual performance. With an audience, the engineers and the board literally behind me (a first) and Vernon directing everyone's efforts inside the vortex of sound front of me, I pressed my energy into the glass that separated me from the other musicians and sang into the great wide open that was painted onto the wall.

After this song, I made a fast exit to be in a performance/presentation at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I tried to work my way around this commitment earlier so I could stay in the studio all day but it had already been scheduled for months. I returned a few hours later to sing backups on "Bright Lights, Big City." Things were more relaxed the second time around. I could ask questions about the equipment and the recording process, and chat. Olu Dara had arrived. I can't remember exactly when we met, but whenever I see him, it feels like Christmas. As I took my position against the glass, I was told that I had to redo my vocals in the large room later on that night. Something went wrong with my take.

It was there, alone in the quiet of the large room, with almost everyone gone and that beautiful German mic hanging in my face, that I thought about Jimi again. Recording here changed something for me. I never expected to find Jimi wandering the halls but I can't say I wasn't looking for his ghost. As African-Americans, we were undoubtedly connected in a myriad of ways that the rest of the world could hardly even begin to comprehend. But working here and becoming a part of this place creatively caused a shift in my perspective. Instead of turning into even more of an enigma, he became even more real. Really really real. I could feel his realness as one of the engineers dimmed the lights and lit them just so, just for me. And as my voice flew out of me and bounced around the room (singing weirdly enough "you know, I know we gon' get together one day"), I realized that we finally had gotten together. Jimi belonged to me now. In a way, he always had.