Catfish Files GD '77 Part One

CORNELL...Happy 30th to an Immortal Performance

Cornell, an Ivy League school in Ithaca, New York, is best known by many, as the site of the most fabled concert in Grateful Dead history. Ithaca’s mayor, Carolyn Peterson, declared May 8, 2007 Grateful Dead Day to commemorate the 30th anniversary of the Dead’s landmark performance at Barton Hall. In the past few years, another adjective has been used by some Deadheads to describe this show, overrated. So is this show a milestone in the musical annals of GD history, a paper tiger, or maybe a little bit of both?

For Starters, this performance is not even in contention for the Dead’s best concert. Thanks to an uninspired song selection during the first set, this show can’t compete with several other shows from 1977, one of the prime years for the band. First set show stoppers that soared into prominence during this year like Sugaree, Mississippi Half Step Uptown Toodeloo and Music Never Stopped were nowhere to be found in Cornell. We can only imagine how majestic one of those selections might have been if they were included in the set because the band was on fire all night. Jack Straw, Row Jimmy, and a super funky 15 minute Dancin’ in the Streets bristled with raw energy and fine craftsmanship, but the inexplicably bland set list from the opening set wasn’t up to nut. By 1977 standards, this set gets an A for execution and a D for substance. However, the scintillating ninety minutes of music that followed justifies Cornell’s hallowed status.

I remember acquiring the second set of Cornell like it was 26 years ago because it was. It was my sixth Grateful Dead bootleg tape. I dubbed it on a Yamaha double deck using a 90 minute Maxell II tape. With a red felt pen, I carefully copied the songs onto the cover like I was inscribing a religious document though I’d yet to experience the music. I first listened to it the following Saturday morning on a thirty minute car ride to Yonkers with my father for a dentist appointment. I was still feeling the effects of a Rorer 714 that was consumed the previous evening as I listened in awe to that Scarlet>Fire. It was a hypnotic collage of sound unlike anything I had ever experienced.

After Weir implores the crowd to take a step back because as Garcia put it, “All these people up front are getting are horribly smashed up here,” the band breaks into a vibrant Scarlet Begonias. With Phil Lesh’s thumping bass leading the way, his mates work their way through Scarlet like Olympic skiers on a slalom course. The attention paid to detail by the musicians is startling. In between Jerry’s radiant vocals, Keith’s psychedelic piano runs and Billy’s drum rolls were dazzling. The collective sound of the band is noteworthy – this was their best night of 1977 reaching heights that they achieved in the summer of ’74. Garcia has had more impressive nights, but I could make a case that the Grateful Dead never clicked on all cylinders like they did on 5-8-77. Even the date, has a nice numerological ring to it.

There’s something about musicians when they are basking in the glow of a fresh composition like the Dead were on this Scarlet>Fire. Fire on the Mountain was brand spanking new and was born as an extension to Scarlet Begonias on 3-18-77. Whenever I listen to live music I notice that most songs never sound better than they do as when they’re initially displayed the first 30 or 40 times. Musicians can alter tunes to keep them vibrant, but they rarely can recapture the excitement and magical essence of their babies like they do early on. In 1978 Garcia added an extra verse and instrumental foray to Fire on the Mountain making for longer Scarlet>Fires, but the Cornell rendition is the most spirited. Familiarity can lead to paths of new exploration with songs, but there is nothing like a musical experience when an artist completely kicks ass and delivers their initial definitive performance of one of their creations.

To this day, I’m blown away every time I hear the transition jam between this Scarlet and Fire. The transcendental nature of the playing grabbed me the first time I listened to it. For four minutes, the band was in two places at once as they leave Scarlet and approach Fire. Garcia dialed up the right amount of distortion on his guitar and pecked away furiously on the Scarlet outro – the notes poured out like a psychedelic dream while the band played neither Scarlet nor Fire, but both. It was a seamless magic act that no amount of preparation could have produced. Garcia’s leads are impressive, but the full scope of this sublime segue jam is one for the ages. The band was locked into a tight groove as they sound like they were coming and going at the same time. This is quintessential Grateful Dead as the band ascended to another time and place.

Jerry officially introduced Fire on the Mountain with his trademark leads that sound more robust than any other version. If anyone felt uncomfortable because of the mass of humanity crammed into Barton Hall, that was history because this musical event was a mind left body happening. The Dead weaved their way through Fire on the Mountain with compelling proficiency. Jerry and Donna harmonized delightfully on the final chorus, hanging on to the its simplistic beauty, but they had to let go, it was show time.

Jerry’s guitar playing was tasty up to that point, but on the final five minute passage of Fire he went ballistic. If Garcia’s intent was to simulate a volcanic eruption he was successful. Garcia savored the moment like never before as his guitar repeatedly screamed out the song’s standard melody line over and over before racing off to a two-tired climatic finish that can rival the apex of Morning Dew. He tore into a dramatic 15 second chord-fanning assault that was to be followed by a more intense 30 second finale. His playing defied the laws of physics – it was the ‘we’re not worthy’ moment of the night. I’d suggest using this Scarlet>Fire to try to turn on a newbie to the wonderful world of Grateful Dead music. If they don’t get it, abort mission.
That was the first of two long musical pieces worthy of serious homage. In between, the Dead exhibited a new song called Estimated Prophet. In the scale of things, it was inconsequential, but very well played. St. Stephen, a revered song in Dead circles, followed to the ecstasy of those in attendance. The hoopla created by the mere appearance of the good Saint was enough to send everybody home satisfied. To be honest, this St. Stephen doesn’t stand out from the pack, but it didn’t have to. The Buddy Holly classic that followed rocked the faithful to the bone.

Not Fade Away emerged from St. Stephen with all its rage and glory. The Dead’s tribute to Buddy was insidious. After one short verse they exploded into another elongated instrumental free-for-all. The band pulled off a Houdini act as the jam straddled between NFA and St. Stephen for the next ten minutes that seemed like a concise eternity. In a different context, this jam was similar to the Scarlet Fire transition and gives this concert a distinctive identity. It was an immense undertaking that smoked the minds of the denizens on hand. They first attempted to go back into NFA, but that vehicle was long gone. Instead they staggered around before awkwardly, yet triumphantly, returning to St. Stephen for its concluding verse. There was only one logical way to conclude matters – Phil dropped the bomb and Morning Dew was in the house.

As someone who has scene Morning Dew and St. Stephen, but never in the same show, I can only dream of how intense an experience that must have been. Is it any wonder why this show is so venerated? The Dew that followed was picture perfect in every way. The ending instrumental was another classic GD moment for different reasons. Garcia came out of the box a little fiercer than the usual. He had a series of lightning quick guitar runs that cast a mesmerizing spell on his mates and the crowd. As the Dead approached the big climatic finale stage of the jam, everybody was Jerry Garcia. Weir, Phil, Keith, Billy and Mickey were all creating at breakneck speed. The playing was so furious that all Garcia could do was strum chords as quickly as possible. The spotlight was truly on the Grateful Dead as a band, not just the amazing leads emanating from Garcia. I’m a Garcia junkie so I’d say there are at least ten Dews where his playing is more extraordinary, but this was the band’s collective moment, maybe their best ever as it put a huge exclamation point on the festivities. Fittingly, they put their instruments down and walked off the stage together.

If it were a Friday night, they may have encored with Uncle John’s Band, but alas, it was the Sabbath and they had to encore with the anti-climatic One More Saturday Night. However, the damage was done. They had a produced a timeless masterpiece of a second set that would live forever. As luck would have it, this would be one of the most circulated bootleg shows available in spectacular soundboard and audience recording. That probably explains why it has never been released officially. If it were released as a 30th anniversary edition in super duper 5.1 surround sound with 30 pages of liner notes prose, I would surely pluck down 30 bucks for it. I feel like I owe somebody something for the years of pleasure I’ve derived from Cornell. The fact that there is no 30th anniversary release reveals the corporate downfall of the Grateful Dead machine. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Cornell is more responsible for turning people on to the Grateful Dead than any other concert, even though it’s not their best start to finish. Clearly, it’s the accessibility of the Scarlet>Fire and the St. Stephen>NFA>St. Stephen>Morning Dew segments to both younger and older fans that makes this show so popular. Two huge musical happenings, one featuring their best 70’s combo, and the other brining together some of the band’s defining early masterpieces, makes for an enticing entrée. Long psychedelic classics like Dark Star, Playin’ in the Band and The Eleven are more of an acquired taste. I’ve learned to dig those longer free-form jams, but it took some time.

In conclusion, Cornell is not the greatest show ever and it is not overrated. No one from the Ithaca town board or Cornell Student Body lobbied for this show’s immortality. Its popularity is due to timely and wide circulation of the tape, ease of musical understanding for all levels of fans, two monumental second set masterworks and the band performing at their highest level. It’s the most important show because it turned a new generation of fans on to the Grateful Dead – ensuring the band’s staggering popularity from 1977-1986 without having any hit songs or albums. It’s fitting that this date and concert is being honored by a small city and its mayor in Upstate New York, but it’s truly Grateful Dead Day for Deadheads everywhere.

Back Street Jelly Roll

Back Street Jelly Roll...Van the Man 4-29-07

At 3:30 AM on Saturday night/ Sunday Morning, prior to Van Morrison’s concert at the Theatre at MSG, I ran into one of the top cardiologists in New York in an Upper Eastside watering hole. I hadn’t spoken to the good doctor in a couple of months, but knowing his affection for Van the Man, I wasn’t surprised that he, like me, had plucked down $175 for the show. We decided to meet up at Uncle Jack’s Steakhouse for cocktails and a pre show feast consisting of baked clams, crab legs, oysters and porterhouse. After being spoiled by Uncle Jack, it was off to see the surly musical genius from Belfast.

As I was truculently making my way to a seventh row seat, the band, minus Van cranked out the Train Kept a Rollin. I had last seen Van at the same venue sharing a bill with Dylan nine years earlier. As our stocky hero emerged from backstage, he looked like he did in 1998. In fact, he seemed to be wearing the very same buttoned up grey suit and pork-pie hat as he immediately got down to the nitty-gritty with an angry three song assault consisting of Talk is Cheap, I’m Not Feeling It Anymore and Stranded. I think Van was reflecting back to his early days in New York City when he had some rough dealings with big time operators from Bang Records.

I was pumped to hear I’m Not Feeling It Anymore as Van barked out the lyrics like a mad dog. I’ve seen Van six times before, and this concert by far, was his strongest vocal outing. He physically stepped into his singing with the intensity of “Smokin” Joe Frazier unleashing a left hook. All night he was engaged in his distinctive, repetitive scat- style word echoing. If you’ve heard Van live before, you know, you know, youknowyouknow… you know…you know what I'm talking about, it’s got nothing but soul, back street jelly jelly jelly roll. Oblivious to the audience, he was lost in a zone that only immortals like Miles and Dylan escape to. Actually, Van’s gruff demeanor makes Dylan come off like Dick Clark.

Van was blowing saxophone as things began to swing during an upbeat jazzy rendition of the crowd pleasing Have I Told You Lately. The versatile band consisted of two guitarists, drummer, bassist, Hammond pianist, steel pedal player, two multi-instrumentalists, and a pair of female backing singers. The band cooked throughout their 90 minute set, but the demanding Morrison seemed to be chastising his mates on several occasions. Towards the end of the set, he could be heard bellowing at one of the guitarists, “play it fucking steady!”

Van played three songs from his most recent all country release Pay The Devil. I find that 15 track effort banal, but these songs were magic when mixed into his set. He played my three favorite cuts from that CD – There Stands the Glass, Playhouse, and the irresistible Don’t You Make Me High. With the possible exception of Dylan, I’ve never heard any performer pull off such an eclectic mix of American musical styles featuring R&B, soul, jazz, country and pop. It was a little surprising that Morrison decided to not to pursue any compositions that had a powerful Celtic flavor on this night.

Van’s sax playing was impressive during Moondance as a starlit nighttime sky stage backdrop was revealed. It was a plush version that was followed by another one of his best known hits, Wild Night. These numbers fired up the crowd for the big rhythm and blues finale medleys. A smoking Real Real Gone segued into a brief flirtation with Sam Cooke’s You Send Me.

Precious Time, from 1999’s Back On Top was sandwiched by Don’t Stop Crying>Custard Pie and Sonny Boy Williamson’s You Gotta Help Me. It was clear that Van savored playing these classic blues tunes as he continued to impress with the harmonica and sax. The brunette haired lady playing pedal steel guitar was quite talented. You Gotta Help me was the most inspired number of the evening featuring wonderful solos and Van repeatedly singing the phrases, “Put on your nightshirt and your morning gown, “ and “Shake your moneymaker,” before disappearing behind the backstage curtains.

Van remerged with an electric guitar kicking off the last stage of the show with the wonderfully weird And the Healing Has Begun from 1979’s Into the Music. A lengthy mystical rap dominated this number just like earlier during The Philosophers Stone.

A kiddy cookout consisting of Gloria and Brown Eyed finished up the concert much to the crowd’s delight. It absolutely sucked, but I knew it was coming so I wasn’t disappointed. Van’s learned that he has to be a professional and play these songs if he doesn’t want to piss off the paying customers. These were so uninspired it was if Van was saying, “Put this in your pipe and smoke it,” but the crowd didn’t care, they loved it. Dylan gives the crowd Like a Rolling Stone and All Along the Watchtower every night, but those songs are timeless, well played and define who he is. Morrison plays these two early hit songs like they are throwaways, unlike his gripping take on Moondance earlier. I would have gladly traded those two songs in for another arcane Morrison classic like Summertime in England, but when you’re charging $175 for a ticket, even an artist like Van has to make concessions.

Some of the departing concert goers thought Van should have played longer than 90 minutes. I felt the show was brilliant and the good doctor agreed when we met up for post-concert libations at Uncle Jack’s. Knowing that Van mixes his set lists up, we had decided to do it again in Boston the following night as we parted ways. However, Monday morning reality set in and we scrapped those plans. He had to save lives and I had to drop some do re mi off at the bank in preparation for the Bob Dylan summer tour pre sale on Tuesday morning.

Van Morrison 4-29-07 The Theatre at MSG

Train Kept A Rollin’ without Van
Talk is Cheap
I’m Not Feeling it Anymore
Stranded
Have I Told You Lately
There Stands The Glass
Playhouse
The Philosopher’s Stone
Don’t You Make Me High
I Can’t Stop Loving You
Moondance
Wild Night
Real Real Gone>You Send Me
Don’t Start Crying>Custard Pie
Precious Time
You Gotta Help Me
The Healing Has Begun
Gloria
Brown eyed Girl

Early Morning Rain - Town Hall 4-26-07

“You can’t jump a jet plane like you can a freight train” and you usually don’t run into an old friend who happens to have an extra ticket for a Gordon Lightfoot concert while waiting for the Downtown 4 Train. At 2:14 PM, my old friend J Marc, who I hadn’t seen in a few years, spotted me on the underground platform waiting for the Downtown Express. He lives in Southern New Jersey and comes into Manhattan once a year. With all the various subway lines and the frequency with which they run, this encounter was a million to one probability. Then, throw in the fact that my favorite Canadian folk artist was in town that night and J Marc had an extra ticket, and the whole thing was just weird and whacky. Destiny and lady luck was shining on me. I would have preferred to win a mega millions lottery, but this ended up being a fine evening of entertainment.

Gordon was delighted to be performing at the Town Hall again. As he noted during the concert, this intimate Midtown theatre was the site of his first New York gig opening up for the Paul Butterfield Blues Band in 1968. He also reminisced about playing in the Village mentioning places like the Bitter End and performers like Jerry Jeff Walker. Seated in my orchestra seat, I imagined what it must have been like to watch a baby-faced Dylan perform Masters of War here in April of 1963. Ah, the good old days, which I was too young to be part of.

Lightfoot is still a striking figure with commanding stage presence. He looked like a well dressed swashbuckling pirate as he serenaded the audience with his arsenal of classics with a few newer compositions tossed in. His familiarly distinctive voice was evident, but it was a little tinny and hollow. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise because his four piece band faithfully reproduced his songs note for note, so his softer vocals made the songs sound fresh. Lightfoot kicked the evening off with a pair of crowd pleasers – Cotton Jenny and Carefree Highway. He delivered every song I desired to see without any preconceived shtick, which is refreshing.

The highlight of this two set affair that ended with a two-song encore was The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” Ending the opening set, Fitzgerald was energetic and it stood out as the masterpiece from his back pages. I have a strange predilection for songs about ship tragedies that dates back to my childhood. One of the first albums I ever heard was a live Weavers album that contained Guthrie’s The Sinking of the Rueben James. I listened to that song repeatedly when I was five years old. Here are a couple of analogies for you; Edmund Fitzgerald is to Lightfoot as Hurricane is to Dylan and Johnny Cash is to American music as Lightfoot is to Canadian music.

The finale of the second set, Early Morning Rain, sparkled as well. As Gordon sang this I was savoring the amazing lyrics. No wonder so many others covered it and Dylan has such high praise for Lightfoot. Other fine performances that made this a memorable night included Sundown, Don Quixote, The Watchman’s Gone, Beautiful, A Painter Passing Through and Rainy Day People. Of the approximately 24 songs, the most noticeable absentee was Canadian Railroad Trilogy. If You Could Read My Mind was part of the concert, but it was the one tune that was off target, it just wasn’t performed well. However, it was a great night of music, Lightfoot gave it his all.

I can now say I’ve seen the legendary Gordon Lightfoot thanks to a simple twist of fate. That afternoon I didn’t even realize he was in town until I bumped into an old friend. Sunday night I’ll be enjoying Van Morrison at the Theatre at MSG. In June I’ll be spending several nights with Dylan and his Cowboy Band as well as seeing a Levon Helm Ramble in Central Park. Artists like this are the last of a dying breed, so I gotta hop the freight trains while I can.

Bringing It All Back Home, Again

mp3s of the show are here - http://visionsofdylan.com/bb/cgi/ikonboard.cgi?act=ST;f=5;t=70


All new episode of Visions of Dylan on Monday, April 23rd 9-11 PM EST. on WBAI New York 99.5 FM
The show can be streamed live here: http://stream.wbai.org/

Theme: Bringing it all Back Home, Again
Dylan’s mid-Sixties compositions

Bob was a busy boy in the mid-Sixties. In a 17 month period starting in 1965, Dylan’s body of work is unmatched by any entertainer. He changed the world of popular music with his trilogy of groundbreaking albums that today, sound as exhilarating as ever. These albums are still ahead of their time.

His tours of Europe are legendary. He was a crusader for an artist’s right to musical freedom. Dylan went on the offensive, attacking the music establishment (fans included) with poetic imagery and blazing rock-and-roll. Every genre of music existing or yet to be born, benefited from his courageous artistic endeavors. Don’t Look Back is still one of the most intriguing documentaries of a genius at work transforming before our eyes. He forever immortalized Woodstock and Newport.

One thing that surprised me when I put this show together was how many great tunes I couldn’t squeeze into this two hour special. There was a ridiculous amount of material for me to choose from. I had to consider all those amazing outtakes and previously unreleased material that appear on Biograph, the Bootleg Series and No Direction Home. I also had to ponder five decades of live performances and other interpretations of his works. In summation, putting this special together was a blast.

Some of the stars appearing on this special:

Bob Dylan in the studio 1965 and 1966
Bob Dylan performing live 1965, 1966, 1971, 1974, 1989, 2006

Snippets from Dylan's 65 press conference in S.F.
Jerry Garcia
Van Morrison
George Harrison
Buck Owens
Luther “Guitar Jr.” Johnson
Red Hot Chili Peppers

Host: Howie Weiner

If you enjoy the show, after it airs, please call 212-209-2800 and ask to leave a message for the arts director or send an email to catradiocafe@gmail.com

Hibbing

Our bus left Minneapolis, one time home to F. Scott Fitzgerald, bound for Hibbing via Route 35 at 8:30 AM. Our invading force included fans, lawyers, scholars, poets and professors. During the three hour journey we discussed lepers and crooks while watching Dylan DVDs. For almost all of us, it was our first pilgrimage to Dylan’s hometown where Greyhound Bus originated. Joining us on the bus tour was famed Dylan author Michael Gray.

50 Dylan fans gathering around Zimmy's. Our possee included folks from six different countries.

When we arrived in Hibbing at noon, the sign of the Wells Fargo Bank informed us it was 69 degrees. A change in the weather is known to be extreme, but according to locals, a month earlier it was 20 degrees below zero.

Our first stop was a fine establishment named Zimmy’s, where a buffet of delicacies including brownies made from Beattie Zimmerman’s recipe awaited us. Owner Bob Hocking, who rolled out the red carpet for us, changed the name of the place to Zimmy’s about 15 years earlier. Two large dining rooms with a wrap-around bar in the middle are decorated with a plethora of Dylan memorabilia dangling from all over. B. J. Rolfzen was on hand signing copies of his memoir on growing up during The Depression in Minnesota. B.J. was Bob’s English teacher and an important influence in developing Bob’s love for words and poetry. Also joining us for the tour was Hibbing resident, Leroy Hoikkala, who was the drummer in Bob’s high school band the Golden Chords.

You can call this place Zimmy's...located on Howard St. in the heart of Hibbing.

Howard just pointed with his gun, he said, "that way down Highway 61!"

The Magical Mystery Bus Tour began with a visit to the original Hibbing, which is at the bottom of the largest man made pit in the world. The pit, which helped fuel U.S. victories in World Wars I and II, stretches low and wide in all directions. Hibbing is known as “the town that moved.” The mining companies literally moved Hibbing two miles south so that they could get at the vast quantities of iron ore that lay beneath the heart of town. Many houses were uprooted and moved fully intact. Hibbing was a well off community at the time, so to placate the residents; the mining companies built three magnificent structures for the community: The Androy Hotel, City Hall, and Hibbing High School.

The World is Yours! Welcome to the largest man made pit in the world, formerly Hibbing, Minnesota

Hibbing High School is where Bob Zimmerman received his education, grades 1-12. In 1920 money, the school cost 4 million dollars to build. It’s a colossal four story structure – a monument to the importance of education. Numerous artistic treasures can be found throughout. The architecture is dazzling, marble busts, brass rails, decorative ceilings, and painted murals decorate this building. It’s the type of school you would expect Roman Emperors to build for their children. It’s the only time I’ve ever been impressed by the sight of a high school.

Here it is - Hibbing High Auditorium, modeled after the Capitol Theatre in New York. This stunning theatre, which masquerades as an auditorium, seats 1805 people. It’s the scene of Bob’s first public performance which didn’t go so well. Instead of giving him the hook, the principal cut of his microphone. An axe wielding Pete Seeger was backstage threatening to smash the piano to smithereens if the principal didn’t put an end to the proceedings.Ho ho ho. Maria Mulduar is scheduled to perform on this stage for Dylan Days 2007. Here’s some pictures, that due to poor lighting, don’t really capture the majesty of this venue.

This is the house where Bob grew up. The owner was kind enough to let us in to see the bottom floor. It’s a modest, yet cozy house with eight foot ceilings downstairs. On those 20 degree below zero Hibbing nights, Bob must have been up in his bedroom listening to the radio and dreaming up themes and schemes.

None shall Pass! That’s me blocking the front entrance to Bob’s Childhood home. I appear to be in some sort of meditative trance.

Inspired by my day in Hibbing, I expressed myself by painting Blood on the Tracks on the garage of the former Zimmerman residence.

Hibbing Memorial Arena - A place to enjoy some good clean fun.

A typical Hibbing Saturday in March, the ladies are curling the afternoon away. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen live curling.

If you prefer rock and roll, you can head downstairs to the “Little Theatre.” Led by Robert Zimmerman, the Golden Chords rocked the house with Little Richard’s Jenny Jenny back in 1958.

Dylan Symposium at the University of Minnesota…Bob Hocking, owner of Zimmy’s (center), an enthusiast from Alaska (left)

A special thanks goes out to Coleen Sheehy who was instrumental in putting together the Dylan Symposium, the exhibition at the Weisman Museum and the bus trip to Hibbing.

Dinkytown

DINKYTOWN

My first mission in Minnesota was to find Dylan’s old crib during his stay in Minneapolis. That was a cakewalk. The first building I saw in Dinkytown was Loring Pasta Bar which was formerly Gray’s Drugstore. Dylan rented a second floor apartment there, and his fascination with Woody Guthrie began around this time in 1959. If you look at the pictures of Loring’s, the old façade of the drugstore is still visible. However, any traces of Dylan’s time there or of a folk scene have vanished. Even the famed Ten O’clock Scholar Coffeehouse no longer exists. The business area of Dinkytown encompasses an area of about four small blocks. This charming part of town has a smoke shop and two excellent bookstores. Dropping by Loring Pasta Bar for at least a cocktail is a must, the scenery inside is elegant, but the food’s expensive for an establishment in this tiny village.

After interrogating the employees at Loring’s, a few of them informed me that they thought the party room, also known as the Red Room, is where Dylan resided. There’s a framed photo of Bob in the room.

The Red Room

It’s possible that part of the Red Room was Dylan’s, but in Chronicles he says that he had a window that looked out into an alleyway which leads me to believe that this was where his apartment was located:

A Week In The Life

A WEEK IN THE LIFE

A glorious, yet savage excursion with the Jerry Garcia Band

During an eight day odyssey that concluded on the evening of June 5, 1983, I would spend seven nights and ten shows with the Jerry Garcia Band at intimate theatres in the Northeast. Traveling mainly with two of my best friends, we experienced Jerry Garcia at the height (and weight) of his extraordinary guitar prowess. With the Grateful Dead, Garcia’s prime was from 1969-1977, but his glory days with JGB were this magnificent swing through Yankee country in the late spring of 1983. However, our golden road had some nasty bumps along the way. We pushed our young minds and bodies to the point of total exhaustion, even flirting with death. We bought the tickets and we took the rides. Ho ho ho.

It all started innocently enough in the world’s insurance capitol, Hartford Connecticut, on Sunday, May 29, 1983. After loosening up with some libations at a local watering hole, my accountant and I made our way into the lovely Bushnell Auditorium. We had a bullet packed with Peruvian powder to entertain us while waiting for Jerry to take the stage from our dead-center, fifth row seats. We were awe stuck by our hero’s appearance. His frizzy unkempt grey hair and beard looked wilder than ever. He seemed to have added 20 pounds to his mid-section since the last time we had seen him just two months earlier. Jerry was hooked on Persian (a pure heroin derivative) and Haggan Dazs. Despite his rapid aging and health problems, he looked more God-like than ever to his faithful. Standing practically in one spot all night with his gold-rimmed glasses barely clutching on to the bottom of his nose, his eight and a half fingers were a blur as they molested the fret board of his custom made Tiger guitar.

As if Garcia wasn’t enough of an eye full, the other five members of the band made the visuals more surreal. JGB was an equal opportunity employer and the embodiment of the American Dream. Including Jerry, the band was half white and half black, featuring four overweight individuals playing for crowds consisting of skinny white hippy types. The funky soulful keyboardist Melvin Seals was beginning his third year of service with JGB. Making their debuts with Jerry were backing singers Dee Dee Dickerson and Jacklyn La Branch, and drummer Greg Errico.

We were all familiar with the skinny guy who had played bass guitar with Jerry since 1971. John Kahn had a powerful stage presence in spite of his slender frame and he was a devil of a bassist. Even though Jerry was a member of the Grateful Dead for 30 years, I could make a strong argument that Kahn was his most trusted musical confidant. Like a spouse often follows their loved one to the grave, John Kahn passed away less than a year after Jerry’s death in 1995.

Garcia wasted no time by blowing us away with the opening number of the night Sugaree. Unlike Grateful Dead versions, there was no doubt Jerry’s guitar playing was going to dominate on all three opportunities for a solo. His second foray was one of the most impressive displays I had heard from him in my first 26 months as a Deadhead. On this tour, Jerry was stepping up his game to a new level. Almost every song over the next week would feature multiple dynamic electric guitar leads. Jerry really shined on Catfish John and the rarely played Tore Up as well. At first, the encore sounded a lot like Chuck Berry’s Let it Rock, but Jerry was reintroducing his epic guitar masterpice Rhapsody in Red into the rotation for the first time since 1978. This was Jerry’s fourth show of the tour, and it was a superb introduction to the finest week of music I would ever witness.

Hitting the road again the following night, I shuffled a new set of passengers into my maroon Chevy Caprice Classic for our jaunt to Hartford for Jerry’s second and final performance at the Bushnell. My lawyer was by my side keeping us amused by filling up one-hitters and shuffling Grateful Dead tapes in and out of the deck. A great friend of mine, my lawyer turned me and several thousand others on to the genius of Jerry Garcia. We didn’t have tickets for this concert and things looked ominous as we neared the Bushnell. Packs of desperate freaks were looking for tickets, demand had greatly exceeded supply for this sold-out concert.

We were feeling pretty down and out until we heard a hippy exclaim,”Hey man, a miracle door just opened.” Inside was a stairwell that led to the Bushnell’s mezzanine. About 60 of us scampered up those steps like rodents making their move on a Taco Bell when the lights go out. Once inside, we were safe, dancing amongst our brethren. The highlight of the night was watching my lawyer dance around like a chicken on ten hits of mescaline during Mystery Train. Garcia clocked in with another outstanding performance, but the shows that followed the next two nights made this show pale in comparison. This JGB swing was a sycophant’s delight.

Jerry’s next stop on the last day of May was the Roseland Ballroom located on New York City’s West Side in the Theatre District. Though a San Francisco native and legend, Jerry was always eager to impress his rapid East Coast following. Performing in the New York metropolitan area brought out the beast in Jerry. Unlike the restrictive atmosphere of the Bushnell, these Roseland gigs were anything goes affairs. Underneath a tantalizingly exotic could of hash, opium, kind bud, and cigarette smoke, an extremely giddy crowd awaited Jerry’s arrival on the spacious dance floor which was surrounded by carpeted lobbies and long-sleek bars. It was the ideal concert setting. A little too coked up or you’re beginning to see Tasmanian devils, no problem, just head to the bar, score a cocktail and chill out without missing any of the action.

Matching the buoyant mood of the show, Jerry wore a red t-shirt which was his only wardrobe option beside black. Opening the night with the hard-charging rocker Rhapsody in Red, our fearless leader stepped to the microphone and bellowed:

“I love to hear that Rhapsody in Red
It just knocks me right out of my head
Lifts me up here
Just floatin's around
Sends me way up
And it don't let me down”

Floatin’ around and sailin’ away, Jerry had the crowd joyfully prancing around in a hypnotic spell. Jerry was on fire from the start as he shredded his first long instrumental of the evening. They Love Each Other, a familiar song that often occupied the second slot at JGB and Dead shows was extra funky. Soulfully pounding away on his Hammond M-3 with a big grin, Melvin Seals made sure of that. Garcia followed up with a two tiered assault that turned this routine number into something distinctive. His initial lead was like a reconnaissance mission testing the waters, but just holding back enough for round two. He proceeded to turn up the heat during his follow-up exploration, reaching crescendos never heard before on this somewhat tame tune as the astute NYC crowd roared its approval. It was the only time I’ve heard an audience explode in response to a Love Each Other instrumental.

Matters of the heart were the evolving theme of the night as Jerry checked in with That’s What Love Will Make You Do. The big fellow made us feel the love when he sang, “When they speak of beauty, you can stand the test/ When they talk about making love, baby you’re the best/ Don’t want to brag about you too much and give others ideas/ Trying hard to express myself cause baby that’s the way I feel.” Like many JGB songs, this one features a similar structure in the main jam: Jerry states the theme three or four times on guitar, Melvin takes it around the block once, Jerry and Melvin combine on a funky chord progression and then Jerry nails it a few more time before going back for a final serenade. This is going to start sounding redundant, but this rendition also qualifies as a best ever. After the funky reggae like chord progression, Garcia’s solo was searing, raising the roof off the joint. We were in the midst of seeing a special night of performances.

Garcia followed with two more songs of love, Valerie (a personal favorite) and How Sweet it is. Jerry often used How sweet it is as a warm up or anti-climatic encore. Placed in the fifth slot of this sequence of tunes, it never sounded better as Jerry peppered the crowd with piercing guitar runs. Garcia brought the first set to conclusion with the new Hunter/ Garcia composition Run For the Roses. Those six songs that comprise the first CD of this concert, remains one of my favorites, everything came up roses and aces.

Set number two featured a fluent Mission in the Rain and a thorough exploration of Dylan’s Tangled Up in Blue, but a another pair stole the spotlight. Jimmy Cliff’s Harder They Come turned the Roseland Ballroom into a dancing party that could have worked as an episode on the TV show Soul Train. Errico, Kahn, Seals and Captain Trips lost themselves in a wild calypso like shuffle during the mammoth jam. They hit a groove in that prototype funky chord progression and rode it for all it was worth. It was a joyous celebration that felt like New Year’s Eve in Kingston, Jamaica.

Clicking on all cylinders, Jerry’s angelic voice shined on Peter Rowan’s Misissippi Moon. Jerry reached down deep to muster maximum emotion when he sang, “Honey lay down beside me-ee, angels rock us to slee-eep.” Without question, Jerry had delivered his strongest vocals of the tour at the first Roseland show. It was a dreamy night of optimism, everything was groovy.

I met my lawyer at the Roseland bar after the show and witnessed two things we’ll never forget. We watched the doctor operate on the Los Angeles Lakers as the Philadelphia 76ers won the NBA title that night. Dr. J (Julius Erving) started a drive on the right side of the court and headed down the baseline. Julius went airborne, but he was well defended and forced to go behind the backboard. The only choices available were to throw ball off a defender or blindly heave the ball on the court. Instead, he chose to defy logic and gravity as he reappeared from behind the basket on the left side of the hoop to casually lay the ball off the plexi-glass with his long outstretched muscular right arm for two points. It was poetry in motion – the most artistic display I’d ever seen in a basketball game. Shortly after, we were stunned to see two bloody men who were separated by twenty security guards still lustily trying to get at each other. Maybe things turned violent as they debated when the last time JGB opened with Rhapsody in Red was. Anyway, the trail of blood left behind could have restocked a hospital blood bank. The post Dr. j fight seemed to foreshadow a shift in the mood of Jerry’s performance the next night.

Our Captain was back in a black t-shirt as he boasted,” I’ll take a melody and see what I can do about it/ I’ll take a simple C to G and feel brand new about it,” during the opener on the second night at the Roseland. Chez Garcia was all business as blazed through two long JGB prototype arrangements on the first two numbers. Harder They Come was second, but it had a different feel than the jovial offering from the night before. Jerry’s guitar work was equally compelling, but it felt like we were being checked into the boards of a hockey rink. On night two, Garcia’s artistic creativity was focused on the instrumentals; the actual words to the songs seemed to be an afterthought. There was a haunting vibe to the proceedings.

Gomorrah, a Garcia/ Hunter tune dealing with the biblical tale of two cities full of sinners, which was destroyed by brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven, was the perfect fit as the fourth song of the presentation. After all, we were listening to the devil’s music while gyrating and partying on a dance floor located in Hell’s Kitchen. A few years earlier, the Bronx had almost burnt to the ground. New York City was the modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. Finding a dime bag of your favorite fix or a whore was as easy as hailing a yellow taxi in Times Square. 42nd St. was cluttered with neon-lit sex shops, degradation, filth, hustlers, pimps, and organized crime. Jimmy Coonan’s gang of violent Irish thugs known as The Westies had a strangle hold on fear in Hells’ Kitchen. They were chopping up the corpses of their victims like butchers, loading them into hefty bags, and disposing of the body parts by floating them down the East River. It seems prophetic when I listen to a tape of the show many years later and hear Jerry sing,” Blew the city off the map.” The city that existed in 1983 has in many ways been eradicated.

The gloomy mood of the opening set carried into the closing set as things became savage. Garcia, giving it his all on his fifth consecutive night of performing, teed off on Rhapsody in Red. Unlike the jubilant reception the song had received 24 hours prior, the stunned/ stoned crowd nodded along in awed admiration.

Next up on that Wednesday night of edition of Masterpiece Theatre was the much sought after JGB classic Don’t Let Go. Whenever you heard Jerry sing, “ Oh wee, this feelings killing me/ Ah shucks, I won’t stop for a million bucks/ I love you so, just a hold me tight and don’t let go/ (don’t let go…don’t let go) Ah hold me tight and don’t let go!” you knew it was one of THOSE nights. The 16 minute instrumental started off with a chopping dark rhythm. It sounded like we were sailing into stormy waters with vultures swooping in. Jerry started tearing through frantic leads that moved this piece into a terrifying abyss. Looking around at the crowd, people were just swaying back and forth like they were in a religious trance. In many ways, this piece was like a group exorcism. Jerry was tapping into some kind of unconscious protest of the state of the world in 1983, similar to what Dylan does with his words. Of course I wasn’t having these thoughts at the time. I was just in a state of disbelief as I watched and listened Garcia give birth to an endless run of creative exploration. Dark Star, the Grateful Dead’s piece de resistance from 1969-‘74, is widely considered to be their greatest creation. This Don’t Let Go was the most Dark Star-like voyage Jerry would undergo in the 80’s.

Crooning against sparse accompaniment, Garcia’s next dirge, Russian Lullaby, had me thinking of the Cold War when he sang, “A land that’s free, for you and me, in a Russian Lullaby.” During this Irving Berlin classic, Garcia noodled away and John Kahn had an opportunity to pluck out a gritty bass solo. Sounding somewhat out of place, Garcia followed with the usually joyful Dear Prudence. The vocal presentation was a little askew, but Garcia made this a classic version with a momentous instrumental passage. If you’re looking for the best version of this song, your search will end with his rendition from five days earlier in Cape Cod on 5-28-83. His Prudence in Cape Cod best illustrates what separates Garcia from the other great guitarists. His patience in exploring every nook and cranny before striding into the peak moment is remarkable. As his work with JGB exemplifies, his greatest talent is finding magic in songs that even their creators couldn’t grasp.

This million note march of a second set was anchored by the most played song of Jerry’s career if you tally up Dead and JGB concerts. The 1971 Hunter/ Garcia composition Deal had always been a crowd favorite about gambling and card games. Throughout the 70’s, crowds were delighted by the infectious beat, action packed instrumental tucked in the middle, and the thrilling sing-along finale of Deal. Sometime in 1980, at a JGB show, an explosive instrumental was tacked on to the end. This jam stretched out show after show, and by 1983 it had become a card shuffling showstopper featured to end sets.

After racing through the first two verses in disconnected fashion, Garcia dialed up the volume on his axe and blasted the Roseland with an ear piercing solo. With his sights set on the immense finish ahead, he plowed through the rest of the Deal’s lyrics with indifference. Kahn and Errico picked up on Jerry’s urgency and laid down a pounding foundation that accelerated during the journey. Garcia stated a theme based on a vicious run of guitar licks that he would repeat thorough out with increasing intensity. Set against the power playing of his bassist and drummer, it felt like Garcia was carpet bombing the ballroom. JGB was louder and more aggressive than I’d ever heard before. If I had to label this Deal with a genre, I’d place it in the heavy metal category. It has such a unique sound, that if you pick the final instrumental up mid-flight, the song’s hard to identify. Garcia pushed it as long and as hard as he could, after six unrelenting minutes, he unleashed all the demons.

Garcia’s artistic endeavor was over, he came back to put some soothing balm on the wounds he inflicted, by giving New York City a How Sweet it is send off. In 48 hours, I had never witnessed such an incredible display of improvisation. The first set of opening night was one of the most dazzling and uplifting musical experiences, then, the same cat checks in with a blitzkrieg of a final set on night two. I have a strong predilection for both, but that five-song finale on 6-1-83 that ended up with that savage Deal, just might be my favorite set of JGB.

Garcia had a much needed day of rest on Thursday, and so did I, more so than I knew at the time. The following three days with my lawyer would be trying and treacherous at times. I regrouped between shows at my parent’s house in Nanuet, New York which was conveniently located within a two hour driving radius of all concerts I was scheduled to see on this tour. I was masquerading as a college student at the time, this was my summer vacation. Every night after seeing Jerry, it was back to home sweet home for a solid seven hours of shut eye followed by flapjacks and coffee in the morning.

There was no stopping us, enough was never an option. In 1983 I caught 38 Grateful Dead shows and 17 Jerry Garcia Band gigs. I always enjoyed the circus-like atmosphere of the Dead experience, but JGB was more intense. When the Dead were at their peak, that was the ultimate musical experience, but there were too many speed bumps and shenanigans on that road. Very few GD shows from the ‘80’s could render anything like we were seeing from JGB at the time. Garcia Band was a safer bet to get what we really needed, a clean dose of PURE JERRY. That was our drug, and these concerts delivered. Garcia was in good enough health on this tour to provide us our needed fix night after night from the beginning of the concert through the end. Sadly, this spring ’83 jaunt was the last time I heard Garcia in peak condition consistently.

Our lust for Jerry landed us in Passaic, New Jersey on Friday June 3rd. Passaic was home to the Capitol Theatre, a rock and roll haven owned by promoter John Scher since 1971. Located 12 miles from Manhattan, the 3,200 seat theatre served host to some of most famous touring acts of the 70’s and 80’s including The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, The Who, Frank Zappa, Billy Joel, Allman Brothers, Bruce Springsteen, Queen, The Ramones, Hot Tuna, U2 and many more. Including early and late shows, Jerry Garcia’s solo configurations appeared 31 times at the Capitol Theatre from 1973-’86. The Grateful Dead had entertained their faithful at this musical sanctuary on ten separate occasions from 1976-’80. Let it be known that my first JGB encounter occurred at the Capitol Theatre in November of 1981. The Cap was closed in 1986 and they tore that old building down in 1991. There’s not even a plaque to commemorate its existence.

My lawyer and I were enjoying cocktails at a seedy local establishment packed with freaks preparing for the shows. I recognized a cat from my hometown that let me know he had trips if anybody needed. I had abstained from taking acid, I was killing off enough brain cells without adding that to my repertoire, but my lawyer was keen on taking a mind-altering journey. So the cat gives me the vile of liquid LSD and instructs me to dose my lawyer in the bathroom. In a greedy move to make sure he got off, my buddy dispensed somewhere between 4 to 6 drops on his outstretched tongue. I knew things were going to get real weird, real soon.

Within ten minutes, my buddy’s rosy cheeks turned pale white as he began sweating. Small waves of the mega dose were seeping into his brain; we had to get out of the bar. We stood on a street corner and watched others file into the Capitol as I looked on in envy, realizing I’d be missing the opener and more. My lawyer slowly began losing control of his mind and body. 45 minutes after dosing he was against a building with his arms and legs flailing about while speaking gibberish. As nightfall descended on Passaic, I had some issues to deal with.

How was I going to explain this to his father? When he jumped into my car that night he was a good looking Jewish kid with a promising law career. He was an outstanding athlete, extremely witty, well-liked and personable. I respected his old man very much and I loathed the idea of having to face him later that night. I couldn’t explain to a man who never had a drink in his life, that his chip off the old block was a comatose vegetable, unfit to tie his own sneakers. Based on the psychotic meltdown I was witnessing, returning him home didn’t seem to be a feasible option. I thought he was going to need at least of month of rehabilitative therapy to come back to Earth.

My other concern was the nature of the environment we found ourselves in. Nighttime in Passaic is not conducive to psychotic episodes. What type of city was Passaic in the early 80’s? A year earlier, as I was parking my car a few blocks away from the Capitol Theatre, I discharged two pretty hippy girls from my car so they could start walking towards the Cap. A cop stopped the ladies, asked me to roll down my window and bellowed, “What are you fuckin’ nuts, letting these girls walk by themselves, in this neighborhood! And if you don’t move your fuckin’ car, you’ll be lucky to have a fuckin’ steering wheel left with the horn ripped out when you get back.” Yes, that was Passaic, a drug infested, poverty stricken den of treachery.

I had to find some sort of shelter for my friend who was still too whacked for a concert featuring his leader and fearless hero. I escorted him to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. Somehow, about two hours after the acid started working on his mind, he began showing signs of life by laughing at some of the things I was saying. After a quick consultation with a doctor, he was full of unbridled enthusiasm. On our way to the late show, in his best Moses Malone (Philadelphia 76er Center) impersonation, he began chanting, “Fo fo fo fo,” which was Malone’s accurate prediction of their four game sweep of the Lakers. The acid was hitting the sweet spot in his brain. My lawyer is a resilient and gritty soul, and was as scared of his father’s wrath as I was.

We joined the festivities as JGB had a psychedelic/funky chord motif going during Love in the Afternoon, the fourth song of the late show. Garcia closed his opening set with pure heat in the form of Rhapsody in Red. All night, I was glad not to be standing in my buddy’s shoes until I saw how Garcia’s rapid-fire guitar licks we’re speaking another language to him. With an off night to rest his larynx, Jerry’s voice was extra poignant as the show progressed, especially shinning on Gomorrah. His guitar rang out zestful notes during Dear Prudence and Tangled Up in Blue, seemingly designed to stir the neurons in my lawyer’s acid-soaked brain. We lucked out by managing to catch the meaty part of Jerry’s presentation during the last six songs of the night.

While managing my comrade back to sanity, we had missed the surprise openers that night. Jerry had ignited both performances with Cats Under the Stars, which had only been performed once since 1978. The album of the same name which came out in 1978 is my favorite Garcia studio effort. Jerry had seemed to rediscover his passion for this album prior to the tour as four Hunter/ Garcia gems from this collection were now being played with regularity. After consulting with the CDs of 6-3-83 many years later, the highlights of the first show were finest version of Valerie from 1983, and a blistering Deal. I missed a good portion of Jerry’s offerings that night, but all things considered, I went home in a euphoric state of mind.

When you’re in the thick of an adventure like this, the actual day of the week is meaningless, but it was Friday night, the weekend had arrived and we were on our way back to see the Captain at The Chance in Poughkeepsie, New York. With my full legal team (accountant and lawyer) along for the ride, we piled into my lawyer’s pimp daddy Yellow Coup De Ville Cadillac, which was the property of his Mom. We blazed our way up the tree-laden picturesque Taconic Parkway in pursuit of more thrills. We were three reasonably clean-cut young men, a little fried from road-weariness and drugs, but we couldn’t be stopped. We were on a mission - it was a rendezvous with musical history, a fleeting jaunt on one of the last great American adventures of the 20th century.

Intimate venues were commonplace on this tour, but nothing had prepared us for The Chance. Opened for business as The Dutchess Theatre in 1912, this strange establishment was a red brick building that looked like a barn and had a 900 person capacity. Closed from 1945 –’70, it reopened as Frivolous Sal’s Last Chance Saloon before officially being known as The Chance in 1980. Inside it had the ambiance of a small theatre combined with your favorite neighborhood drinking establishment, where you might see your friend’s band play. This joint was a third of the size of the Roseland and less crowded.

My lawyer, still reeling from last night, made a bee-line straight to the front of the stage. I was huddled in the corner of the bar with my accountant and his brother. One of our hand’s was occupied with a Budweiser freeing up the other hand to smoke or sniff alternatively. There was a big red curtain still covering the stage, but we were positive we heard Jerry tuning up. All of a sudden, Cats Under the Stars began as the curtain slowly was raised to the heavens. Jerry was sporting a pair of sun-glasses and an ear to ear grin as he approached the microphone and crooned, “Cats down under the star-ars/ Cats on the blacktop, birdie in the treetop/ Someone plays guitar that sounds like clarinet/ I ain't ready to go to bed/ I think I'll take a walk downtown instead.” We looked at each other and laughed for several minutes. This was the good life, Jerry in shades singing a song to and for all the cool cats in attendance. Lyric retention problems aside, Garcia fluently breezed through sought after numbers like Catfish John and That’s What Love Will Make You Do. Including the encore, the seven song early show passed by briskly, but we savored ever delectable moment.

By opening up the late show with a sparkling Rhapsody in Red, Garcia was like a Golden Retriever rolling over on his belly begging for love. That tune was getting better and better with each passing performance. I swear I can hear myself howling on tape as JGB jumped into Sugaree. The third instrumental features a whirlwind of repetitive licks during which Jerry’s axe sounded like 1000 turkeys gobbling in unison. When I listen to a tape of the show I can really appreciate the little nuances like the way Jerry leaves the biblical scene of Gomorrah with the back-up singers chiming in, “Because she looked behind her” five times, and then wham, the band fires into Run For the Roses like a Clydesdale heading down the homestretch. Jerry followed that by unloading on a gonzo Deal that rocked The Chance to the bone. The Midnight Moonlight encore had us prancing around like Russian Cossack dancers.

We were all catching a good night’s sleep an hour after the show; unfortunately, we were in a Coup De Ville headed 80 MPH down the Taconic Parkway. Awoken by a loud bang and shimmy, my lawyer instinctively steered us off the guard rail on to the safety of Robert Moses’ parkway that runs from New York City to Albany. In a split second, we narrowly averted a tragic death near Cold Spring. That would have been a horrific scene for the residents of Westchester and Putnam counties who were taking their families out for a pleasant drive on Saturday morning - a blood stained yellow Caddy wrapped around some trees with wild animals pecking away at the remaining Human leftovers. I’m glad it didn’t end like that; the good Lord had some other plans for us.

As for how my lawyer explained away the large dent on the Coup, I found that out at his wedding many years later. During the best man’s toast at the reception, his brother asked me to stand up and testify. In front of a group of strangers, I had to swear that we actually hit a deer that night coming back from the Garcia show. I proceeded to perjure myself and admitted to killing Bambi. The old man was laughing so hard his yarmulke almost dislodged from his head. My lawyer’s little white lie was adopted from a true story that he witnessed from the passenger seat of my Chevy Caprice. After a Dead show in Rochester a year earlier, I was heading down Route 17 near Binghamton at a 75 MPH clip, when I violently ended the life of a deer, but that’s another saga for another time.

I had come full circle, the eight days of lunacy that started the prior Sunday was coming to an end on this day of rest on June 5th in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. We had another eventful trip in the banged up Coup De Ville as my lawyer was pulled over on the New Jersey Turnpike for speeding. Combining that with the fact we got lost trying to find the venue, we were well on our way to missing our third Cats Under the Stars opener in as many nights. Once parked, we sprinted the final 200 yards for the front doors of the Tower Theatre in a mad dash, determined not to miss any more Jerry than necessary.

Two songs were history as we made our way into the theatre. Our hard work and dedication paid off handsomely. Garcia, who was waiting for us to arrive, triumphantly delved into the first Let it Rock off the tour, on the final night. We ecstatically charged down the aisle to the front of the stage where we played air guitar and hopped around like Mexican jumping beans. Both guitar forays were more elongated and combustible than one would expect from this number. It was layer after layer of unfettered electric guitar mountain climbing. Jerry disobeyed the laws of musical structure extending the song’s apex when it appeared impossible. Fate had delivered us at the precise moment for that mind-blowing Let it Rock. There seemed to be a supernatural force guiding our destiny during these eight days – lady luck and good fortune was shining our way.

My brain must have short-circuited after Let it Rock, I have no recollection of anything afterwards. It wasn’t until I got a tape 24 years later, that was I able to confirm the magnitude of that performance as well as reacquaint myself with the remaining tunes. The similar sounding Rhapsody in Red was the blazing encore of the first show that included an enticing Second That Emotion. The train kept rollin’ during the late show as JGB effortlessly kicked out another fantastic Dear Prudence/ Tangled Up In Blue finale.

I had yet to read Kerouac’s On the Road back in the day , but the generations of Deadheads who followed Garcia and the Dead around America from the 70’s through 1995 were probably the last folks to experience a true community Kerouac-like adventure. Once reaching our destination by traveling through unfamiliar territory, Jerry was there to take us on a musical exploration. It was an unbeatable addiction. Thanks to the Internet, GPS navigation, cell phones, and other technological advances that take the suspense out of life, those days are gone. As I find myself listening to those spring ’83 shows, I’m amazed at how Garcia was at the top of his game and gave it his all every tune, on a nightly basis. We got more than we bargained for in every way. We bought the tickets and we took the rides.