On January 3, 1969, The Lulu Show was about as far from Jimi Hendrix’s usual stomping grounds as you could get. The show was a high-profile, family-friendly TV program—clean-cut, conservative, and far removed from the chaotic energy that defined Hendrix’s live shows. The producers of The Lulu Show likely envisioned a performance that would fit the program’s safe, commercially palatable vibe. They expected a clean, polished rendition of Voodoo Child (Slight Return), following the typical structure of a musical segment on TV. What they didn’t expect was an artist who wasn’t afraid to push boundaries, make demands, and disrupt the standard narrative.

The performance started strong—Hendrix’s guitar snarled with electricity, his band locked into a groove, and for a moment, it seemed like the show would unfold like any other rock ‘n’ roll moment. But it wasn’t long before Hendrix, always the improviser, started bending the rules. The performance of Voodoo Child stretched far longer than the producers likely anticipated. While TV appearances in the ’60s tended to be tightly controlled, with artists playing shortened versions of their hits, Hendrix’s rendition was a sprawling, unruly masterpiece, one that left little room for editing or cutting.

But it wasn’t just the extended performance that caused the tension, it was what happened next. After the lengthy rendition of Voodoo Child, the band attempted to move into Hey Joe, another of their famous songs. At this point, Hendrix took matters into his own hands. He abruptly stopped the band, stating, “Let’s stop this rubbish.” He was not content to simply follow the script; he needed to do something that felt authentic, that captured the moment. So, he launched into an impromptu tribute to Cream, who had recently announced their breakup.

It wasn’t just a few seconds of tribute either. Hendrix played a full instrumental version of Cream’s Sunshine of Your Love. The track stretched out for several minutes, with Hendrix unleashing wild, unscripted improvisation on his guitar. To some, it was a tribute to a band that had shaped his own musical journey; to others, it was a sign of Hendrix’s refusal to be controlled. He wasn’t just performing—he was expressing himself, setting his own rules.

But while the performance was raw and brilliant, it quickly became clear that this wasn’t what the producers had bargained for. The show had a carefully structured format, with time slots and commercial breaks to adhere to. Hendrix’s extended solos and tribute to Cream were pushing up against the clock, and the producers were under pressure to rein things in. What followed was an emergency decision to cut the segment short.

At this point, Hendrix’s performance was so off-script that it became a logistical nightmare for the show’s producers. The network wanted to maintain a certain standard of control, ensuring that the performance fit within the boundaries of television conventions. What was meant to be a 3-4 minute segment had now expanded into an unchained jam session. As the band continued to push the boundaries of the performance, it became clear that The Lulu Show wasn’t equipped to handle the unrelenting force of rock ‘n’ roll in its most uninhibited form.

The decision to cut the segment short wasn’t just about timing or logistics, though, it was also about protecting the show’s image. While rock music had begun to creep into the mainstream in the late ’60s, many TV producers still viewed it with suspicion. They saw it as dangerous, unpredictable, and potentially disruptive. The carefully curated world of The Lulu Show was about to be upended by a force of nature, and the producers reacted the only way they knew how: by pulling the plug.

But in a twist that would later become part of rock ‘n’ roll folklore, the show’s director, Stanley Dorfman, approached the band after the performance and admitted, “That was brilliant.” Despite the official ban on Hendrix from performing again on BBC television, Dorfman recognized that Hendrix had delivered something extraordinary—something that would be remembered far longer than the well-rehearsed, formulaic segments the show had become known for.

In retrospect, the decision to cut the segment short has become one of the defining moments of the Happening for Lulu appearance. It wasn’t just a cancellation; it was a recognition of the tension between the new, rebellious world of rock music and the more structured, sanitized world of television. It underscored the fact that rock ‘n’ roll was something that couldn’t be easily packaged or controlled. Hendrix wasn’t about to play by anyone’s rules, and in doing so, he made TV history.

The incident also marked a pivotal point in the relationship between rock and television. While it was clear that the producers of The Lulu Show couldn’t handle Hendrix’s wild, unpredictable performance, the backlash from the performance proved that rock music was no longer just a passing trend—it was a cultural force to be reckoned with. Hendrix’s unapologetic style would become a blueprint for future artists to follow, teaching them that television, like music, was not a place for conformity.

And so, the Lulu Show performance lives on, not because it was a conventional TV segment, but because it was an act of rebellion, a perfect storm of spontaneity, artistry, and defiance. Hendrix’s refusal to conform to the constraints of television would eventually open doors for countless other artists to push boundaries and change the face of entertainment forever. It was a moment that proved, once again, that the only thing more powerful than a guitar was the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll itself.