The driver glanced at us in the rearview mirror, probably thinking we were insane. He’d never believe the baby in my lap was Fred Hunt’s son.

Saturday arrived. All I had was a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt—actually worn by Fred Hunt himself—that I put on hoping to stand out among thousands. I didn’t even have a VIP ticket; our money wouldn’t stretch that far.

I took a deep breath and said to Simone as she held Jimi:

“General admission,” I laughed. “It’s not that bad, right? Maybe ...