Ever Grateful For "The Dead"
I started this blog four years ago, finishing up that inaugural attempt with a dig at those purveyers of triteness, those mind-numbing cliche filibusterers, the ones constantly uttering the same tired idioms ("It is what it is"; "At the end of the day"; "Giving 110%", etc.), their lack of willful attempt to add anything original to the verbal landscape contributing mightily to the downfall of intelligent conversation. The piece ended with the quote, "Please don't dominate the rap, Jack, if you've got nothing new to say." The words were those of the enduring Grateful Dead lyricist, Robert Hunter, from a tune on the "Working Man's Dead" album, dating all the way back to 1970, and they succinctly conveyed my sentiments, the sternness in the tone especially jiving with my sensibilities. No surprise, though. The Dead's words and music had done this to me on a regular basis. From my rebellious years ("Casey Jones") through maturity ("A Touch of Grey") and beyond, this motley band of rogues provided a song track that always made me feel I wasn't alone.
And, Indeed, I wasn't. "Deadheads" were everywhere. They were like one huge extended family. Descendents of some other-worldly cult, many living like itinerant gypsies, following their musical gurus from town to town, getting by on God knows what ("... reds, vitamin C and cocaine"?). A caravan of freaky fans shadowing the group's every move. The same group that opened a Funk & Wagnalls dictionary, covered their eyes and randomly picked out "The Grateful Dead" to use as their moniker; the same guys who dedicated themselves to spreading joy through their music without ever letting pride or lust for fame and fortune get in the way. Their songs were eclectic; their lyrics designed to live on forever. They were the Pied Pipers of my generation. And now... officially?... they're gone.
Alas, just two weeks ago, Robert "Bobby" Hall Weir, nicknamed "the Kid", on account of him being so much younger than the rest when he joined the band at 16, succumbed to underlying lung issues after successfully battling cancer just six months earlier. Bob Weir, who for decades sang alongside Jerry Garcia, his partner in crime--the two prized sons of Haight-Ashbury, Bizzaro World's answer to Lennon and McCartney, the real, honest-to-goodness San Francisco treats--has left the stage. And while the last of the founding members, drummer Bill Kreutzmann, remains, the reality is Bob's death officially marks the end of all that was The Grateful Dead. We're talkin' sixty years 'worth, in one iteration or another, that "Ace" (yet another nickname) was on the bandstand, always fulfilling his goal to help the audience "find each other through the music", he and the boys traversing America and Europe, even performing in front of the Pyramids in Egypt (so, yeah... "What a long strange trip it's been").
And the shows?... Let's just say no one ever complained about being gypped. Hell, these guys played for five hours. Every time! The thing of it is, it wasn't just a concert; it was an event. A "turn on, tune in, drop out" invitation to leave the world and all its problems behind. It was a parade, a circus, a full-scale happening all wrapped into one. It was a scene, man. A delectable smorgasbord being eaten up by a suddenly materialized small city of revelers basking in these perfect harmonies and jazz-infused rock jams. As the pungent smell of reefer permeated the air, smiling hippies, dancing in a trancelike state, some clothed, some not so much ("We can have high times if you'll abide"), wallowed in a heightened sense of community. A collective effervescence. It was surreal. And yet, it wasn't. Somehow, it all made perfect sense... Just another Dead concert.
These guys were a band, in the truest sense of the word. They played without ego, their intent to constantly add to the song, causing the whole to become exponentially greater than the sum of its parts. And Bob, realizing early on that playing guitar alongside a gunslingin' virtuoso legend like Jerry Garcia really meant playing second fiddle, did so willingly. He adapted, taking cues from jazz greats, McCoy Tyner and John Coltrane, constantly inverting chords and playing riffs, contrapuntal solo lines of his own, that meshed perfectly with his partner, earning him high praise from Garcia and everyone else who shared the stage with him. The thing about Bob, they'd all say, is that he was kind of a savant, always searching for something new, never playing a song the same way twice.
This selflessness within the band also translated to their relationship with the audience in the form of "the tapers section", a place where audiophiles could set up their recording equipment and tape every concert for themselves and their friends (much to the dismay of the group's record label). And ticket prices?... yeah, they were cheap. Really cheap. Comparable to about $35 today for general admission, meaning if you wanted to get there early and jostle for position, you could be right up front for the entire show. Contrast that with today's "no taping" policies and the prospect of having to refinance your house just to afford mediocre seats to see today's acts, and you realize that Bob's passing truly marks the end of an era.
But here's the thing: they left the music behind. So much music. And spirit. And that's not goin' anywhere. So, yeah, "Pretty Bobby" has left the building (the dude had a lot of nicknames), but in a sense, he's not goin' anywhere either ("I will get by; I will survive"). And neither are his compatriots. So cry not; keep a stiff upper lip ("whistle through your teeth and spit 'cause it's alright")... Rest in peace, Bob. Long live the Dead.