Eleven Elite Morning Dews

Everybody loves an elite Morning Dew. There’s are many praise worthy versions, and I apologize to fans who love the pre-Keith “Dews,” 1967-1971. Those renditions rip, but I have a predilection for “Dews” from the Keith and Brent eras when the song became Jerry’s Holy Grail. Everyone’s favorite “Dew” list will look different, but here’s elven “Dews” guaranteed to blow your mind.

Elite Dews

1. 9-2-80 Rochester: There’s bedlam in the War Memorial as “Iko” segues into “Morning Dew.” This is one period in Dead history when the “Dew” was truly a scarce commodity. It was only played once in both ’78 and ’79, and twice previously in 1980. The entire show was building to this moment, although nothing was predetermined. Garcia sang each line as if it were Holy Scripture, and his voice could heal and comfort the survivors of apocalyptical tragedies. Bobby’s striking rhythm, Phil’s bass bridges, and Brent’s solemn organ grinding all fall into place. Jerry only belts out: “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway,” twice. The last one is as heartfelt as any he’s ever sung. The emotional control, temperature, and texture of this performance makes this one of the most gripping “Dews” to listen to.

All ears are on Jerry as he pinches his guitar strings to produce the sound of a lonely robin singing, and Weir strikes a chord that finishes one of Jerry’s thoughts—the group mind flourishes. The band knows where Jerry’s going and exactly what needs to be done, even though this is a unique improvisation. Garcia’s runs are delivered with maximum feeling as they maintain a mathematical quality. The escalating tension is almost unbearable as the band rises to the crescendo. Garcia unleashes a wild torrent of speed licks as the band rolls into chord fanning mode, and then Jerry joins the thundering madness which ends with a mighty bass blast and a final “Guess it doesn’t matter anyway.” blessing from Reverend Garcia. There’s something about this “Dew.” Every note, lick and vocal embellishment is perfectly pitched with precise emotion—this scores a perfect ten on the “Dew” scale.

2. 9-10-74 Alexandria Palace, London: Of all the elite versions, this one from Dick’s Picks Volume 7 is the Rodney Dangerfield of “Dews.” The London “Dew” rises solemnly out of “Dark Star,” the next to last time these two anthems would hookup. The hypnotic crawl is redirected by a beguiling solo that wobbles and trembles. Weir’s fine strumming stands out against Garcia’s barrage. It’s a conversation they will pick up in the next jam.

Heading into the BIG jam, Keith’s rare electric piano playing sets the stage like heavy humidity before a thunderstorm. Garcia’s early leads are authoritative and patient, north/south and east/west. The waves of escalation are remarkable as Billy the drummer orchestrates. Jerry turns up the heat. As his lava-like leads flow, Weir’s smoking and inspiring Garcia to the next plateau. It sounds like dueling lead guitarists as Bobby challenges Jerry with rapid chord strumming. Garcia accepts the invitation and obliterates what’s possible at the speed of sound. My brain gets whiplash listening to this showdown. It’s the best Weir/Garcia guitar moment side by side. And then this monster “Dew” bounces and pounds to climax. This is the best jam in any “Dew,” but by a hair, the overall presentation ranks second behind Rochester.

3. 5-8-77 Cornell: Jerry’s purposeful noodling leads back to a “St. Stephen” reprise. Jerry, Bobby, and Donna harmonize the immortal final lines: “Can you answer? Yes I can. But what would be the answer to the answer man?” Garcia strikes the Holy Chord signaling “Morning Dew.” Barton Hall erupts into pandemonium as lucky Deadheads experience the only St. Stephen > Morning Dew the band would ever play—a distinguishing characteristic that hurls Cornell towards instant immortality.

The Cornell “Dew” is emotionally and artistically intense. Jerry’s first solo is subtle, as if he knows the mayhem that will be released later. After singing, “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway,” Garcia offers shrill lead guitar as the band restlessly thumps behind him. What ensues is perhaps the longest “Dew” jam with the finest group effort in Grateful Dead history. As the instrumental escalates, there are six Garcias in sync. It’s an all-out blitz—scientifically precise, yet wild—an earthquake of a performance that’s tough to comprehend. Jerry cries out a final, “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.” Framing the magnificence of “The Dew,” the Dead end the set, and then they come back for an anti-climactic “One More Saturday Night” encore.

4. 12-31-76 Cow Palace: As an instrumental “NFA” fanfare rings out, Phil hits the unmistakable blast announcing, “Morning Dew.” “Walk me out in the morning dew, my honey.” Jerry’s voice covers the Cow Palace like a velvet blanket. The patient commitment of the band is admirable bordering on heroic. At the end of a marathon performance, the band digs in and commits to each note with heart and soul. Keith’s piano playing sets the sacred tone. They say it takes ten years to truly master your craft, and perhaps that explains how brilliant this “Dew” and the ensuing ’77 versions sound.

This Cow Palace “Dew” is a steady barrage of unrelenting magic that places it in the pantheon of killer “Dews.” This must be the longest “Dew” jam as Garcia taps into all his creative genius and the band reads his thoughts. Jerry scurries along, slicing and dicing like a hibachi chef. If you like lobster meat, that’s what Chez Garcia is serving. As the jam boils, Cow Palace is enchanted, engaged, and fully under The Dead’s spell. Jerry concludes the ceremony with a final sigh, “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway,” and the set is closed with a thunderous instrumental exclamation point. The one thing that this “Dew” is missing is an incredible closing crescendo like Cornell. Yet the Cow Palace “Dew” is elite. And like Cornell, the “Dew” closes an immortal set.

5. 9-11-73 Williamsburg: For the most part the William and Mary “Dark Star” is a delightfully understated journey, atmospheric and embracing. Seventeen minutes pass before the first verse. Phil takes command of the next jam, and early on I hear hints of “The Dew.” As Phil carpet-bombs Williamsburg, the rest of the band seemingly cowers in fear and prepares for the inevitable. This bass-driven jam is as much a “Morning Dew” prelude as it is a continuation of “Dark Star.” William and Mary College, the second-oldest American institution of higher education, founded in 1693, was about to experience an aural sensation and molecular transformation that couldn’t be explained in any lecture hall.

The musical terrain has been eviscerated, and out of the rumbling ruins of Phil’s bass, “Morning Dew” is born. Jerry’s solemn voice sings respectfully, as if he’s comforting survivors of a nuclear holocaust. It’s eerie, and ultimately moving as Garcia connects with the spirit of the lyrics. Suspense is born out of the stillness of this version.

Keith and Jerry carefully walk out in the morning dew to Phil’s sobbing bass. Garcia’s emotional playing comes through in soft, rolling waves. The band’s executing in conjunction with their leader, and the music swirls and intensifies naturally—the laws of physics are in play. Yet, the thickness of the bass and the temperature and velocity of these guitar notes can’t be charted. As the shit’s about to hit the fan, the soundboard recording cuts out, as if it couldn’t handle the heat. Luckily, a Deadhead is out there making a decent audience recording, and this is wonderfully spliced in—not one note is lost. Garcia’s guitar runs squeal like sirens and then he pulls back as Keith bangs away and thunderous bass clears the way for the final run. Jerry’s chord-fanning sequence climbs the high-frequency ladder faster and faster, with Weir matching him in a lower register every step of the way until the last remaining voice sighs, “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.” 
DEADOLOGY: THE 33 ESSENTIAL DATES OF GRATEFUL DEAD HISTORY

6. 6-7-77 Winterland: “Terrapin Station” winds down and rolls into the Holy Grail, “Morning Dew.” This is the last “Dew” of ‘77, and it’s the final Terrapin > Dew ever. Garcia’s not messing around as he shreds the mid-song solo—kinetic energy compressed in a succession of shrill notes. Billy, Mickey, and Phil simulate a musical heart attack, pumping away as they keep pace with Garcia. It’s the best opening solo of the ’77 “Dews.” Great versions have distinguishing characteristics, and another tell-tale sign of the 6-7-77 “Dew” is that Jerry only sings “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway” once before the ballistic ending. Jerry’s calling the shots and escalating the urgency of the jam. It’s as inspired as it is technically flawless. In rolling climax mode, the band chases Jerry in unified bursts. It’s a brilliant “Dew” all the way, and it challenges the Cornell version for ‘77 supremacy and bragging rights. Yet Cornell weaves a mystical tapestry of strange magic that gives it the edge over this Winterland masterpiece.

7. 9-18-87 Madison Square Garden: I was there. “Watchtower” fizzled into a few seconds of no man’s land. If the next song was “Black Peter,” “Sella Blue,” or “Wharf Rat,” it would have been a letdown. The moment demanded the Holy Grail. Garcia had no path but the “Dew,” and he bent a warning note before striking into the sanctified anthem. To be in the thick of that audience and to experience the collective ecstasy is the realization of the ultimate power of music, which is beyond anything from any other realm. It was as if New York was healing Garcia, and Jerry had just announced that everyone had a winning lottery ticket.

Jerry sings soulfully and spiritually, bestowing “The Dew” upon his devotees like a soothing prayer. This is where the enthusiastic wisdom of New York Deadheads factors in. They know every nuance of the song and treat it like a religious anthem, only expressing their joy in response to their spiritual leader. You can hear a pin drop as Jerry growls, “Where have all the people gawwwwn TODAY!” And then the silence is parted by the unified roar of his flock. “Morning Dew” was more moving than ever before for both the singer and the audience in the aftermath of Garcia’s comeback from a near-death experience.

Phil’s bass rattles the arena as Garcia leans forward and shreds a shrill solo between verses. Singing from the heart of humanity, Jerry croons: “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway,” four times, each cry more sorrowful than the last, and each ensuing eruption from the audience, louder. Madison Square Garden was shaking from the last roar as it never had before. It was as if a Knick just hit a three-pointer at the buzzer to win the NBA Championship.

Usually Garcia builds his “Dew” solo deliberately, but due to the overwhelming emotional explosion, he went for the jugular—down on the lower part of the fretboard, a blizzard of notes. Standing there fifteen rows from Jerry was surreal. To make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I bent over and slapped the cement floor with the palm of my hand three times.

How is Garcia going to execute and extend this jam when he started with a climactic tirade? Simple. He invents pathways. At one point he makes a circular motion with his hand, as if he’s waving a magic wand, and then seemingly discovers a frequency that never existed before, hitting the highest possible notes on the fretboard and peeling them off with speed and precision before the band joins in for the final fanning blitz.

8. 9-21-72 Philly Spectrum: Bob and Jerry strike up a groovy riff and suddenly there’s a jazz jam on Mars. Kreutzmann steers the ship for a while as Phil and Keith ping-pong leads back and forth. About twenty-minutes into “Dark Star,” Jerry starts to channel a dark disturbance as Keith slashes electric piano riffs and Phil furiously thumps away. The Dead are sounding like a Miles Davis fusion group as the music spirals round and round like a cyclone tearing far into another universe. They take it to the limit, and then the jam floats around in a vacuum of timelessness—sparse music trying to find a way back home. The Dead rise into a jam that loosely resembles “Feelin’ Groovy,” and for the next five minutes they ride an intergalactic trail. This is September 21, 1972, and the show must go on, so the bamd nonchalantly tumbles into “Morning Dew.”

            It’s a concert once again as Jerry’s soulful singing stirs deep emotion alongside his mates’ astute playing. The band is relaxed and bold as they play in one of the major East Coast sports venues as the main event for the first time. The final “Dew” jam is a steaming wave of cascading heat—pure aural paradise and the best version of the year. This is a D Star > Dew for the ages, and the set is still only slightly past the halfway point.

9. 4-26-84 Providence: I was there. This was the third “Dew” of this Northeast tour, making it almost anti-climactic if that’s possible, and it materialized after Space. Jerry’s shredded voice struggled all the way through. It’s painful too listen to, and it’s hard to imagine how Jerry rallied this to pure ecstasy. A sad yet energetic tone emerges as the jam takes flight. The screeching licks materialize like lightning. As if Jerry understands the fragility of his own mortality, he digs in to give it his all. Every segment is more exciting than the last, and this performance is heroic. Jerry scales all emotional barriers, and his stunned mates keep the wheels turning. This is my second favorite “Dew” jam, and if the rest of this version was worthwhile, it would rank much higher than Number Nine.

10. 6-24-83 Madison, Wisconsin: On the other side of Drums, the “Truckin’” jam peaks and casually unwinds into “Morning Dew.” Everything is as it should be. Madison’s going nuts, Phil’s blasts rock the Dane County Coliseum, and the first solo sets the table for a dramatic final jam that’s as unique as it is long.

The expedition starts deliberately. Tension builds as Phil’s bass shakes the foundation underneath Brent’s swirling chords. Usually Jerry goes for the emotional jugular at this point, but as the cyclone spins, he pauses to let Brent lead him to another plateau, as he did earlier in “Deal.” The band is all ears as Jerry lets Brent set him up for guitar strikes that are fiercer with each round. Garcia masterfully extends the funnel cloud portion of the jam as he juggles intensity and creativity. It’s an exhaustive performance, and the best “Dew” of 1983. Yes, it’s better than 6-18-83 Saratoga, another special “Dew” that I had the opportunity to witness.

11. 7-10-89 Giants Stadium: An adventurous “All Along the Watchtower” that veers between rock, jazz, and anarchy follows “Iko Iko.” Out of nowhere, the Dead were on the verge of salvaging an uneventful evening. The Neville Brothers provided the impetus, and the Dead were eager to show them what it’s like to stop time in its tracks in a football stadium with 80,000 witnesses as they rang the bell for “Morning Dew.”

            When the Dead played the first Watchtower > Dew in Madison Square Garden on 9-18-87, it was the most thrilling live moment of my years following the Dead. The next one I saw at Oxford, Maine, on 7-2-88, was almost anti-climactic. Seeing the “Dew” was always colossal, but in the late ’80s, this once rare anthem had become commonplace. Garcia’s vocals are engaging on the 7-10-89 “Dew.” The middle solo rises like a tsunami and folds back into Giants Stadium. Garcia finishes the last verse and shrieks: “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway” four times. What happened next was absolutely brilliant—the last mind-blowing solo I’d hear from Jerry (I only saw four more shows in the ’90s).

            The majestic jam emerges with frisky licks that cascade through the swampy Jersey night. At the 9:10 mark, Jerry strikes a chord that rings out as if he’s punching a time clock. The creative direction of the solo changes as Garcia’s fingers scramble through scales, east and west, north and south, and then he retraces his footprints in reverse. It’s a stunning sequence, unlike anything in any other “Dew.” Garcia easily slides into the climactic crescendo, but the musicians are a step behind. Perhaps they were induced into a trance by the Bearded One’s virtuosity. As Garcia rams this across the finish line with rapid chord fanning, I envisioned myself paying my taper friend a visit the following day to dub a copy of the show. I knew that this was a solo I’d cherish. Since 7-10-89, I’ve listened to this solo at least 1,000 times. 

Go West Young Men! 8-7-82

Thirty years ago today. An excerpt from Chapter Four of Tangled Up in Tunes:

Doug was waiting for me in the gravelly Tennyson Park lot, leaning against his yellow Caddy and spinning a red, white, and blue ABA basketball on his index finger. The windows were rolled down, and “Casey Jones” was cranking. He said, “Howie, I got a proposition for you. You’re gonna love this idea. It’s right up your alley. The Dead are in Wisconsin next weekend at the Alpine Valley Music Theatre. We can get tickets from Ticketron. Howie, picture this: We are outdoors with Jerry in the Midwest next Saturday night. I hear this place is amaaaaazing!  Can you imagine how hot Garcia will be in the Midwest? It’s only a sixteen-hour drive. Let’s do it. Whattaya say?” 

The time had come for us to leave the Tennyson Boys behind. Our pursuit of Jerry’s next transcendent jam was paramount. I informed my parents I’d be heading West with Doug in my Chevy. My parents were fond of the Doug. They knew I was crazy, but if Doug was part of my posse, then there might be some merit to it. In the classic tradition of exploration made famous by Lewis and Clark and perpetuated by Kerouac and Cassidy —  look out, America — here comes Catfish and Schmell!

I pulled up in front of the Schmell residence before noon on Friday. We wanted to tackle the bulk of our sixteen-hour-trip in one day and cruise into East Troy, Wisconsin, triumphantly on Saturday, August 7, 1982. Doug emerged from his house with a duffel bag slung across his torso and a box of Maxell cassettes carefully balanced in his right palm like a tray with Dom Perignon. Stepping into my Chevy, he admired his precious cargo and said, “Howie, these tapes are bad news for Van Halen fans.” It was a smug remark—one that a Garcia junkie could appreciate. Comparing anybody to Jerry was comical to us. We understood Garcia’s virtuosity, and it was our mission to spread the word to non-believers. Despite the fact that the Dead’s latest studio efforts were lame, the legend of Garcia was growing, and his cult following was on the rise.  

Chuck and Paul, neighborhood Deadheads, joined us on our journey to Wisconsin. Chuck was a serious young man–Fred Flintstone in tie-dye. He was also a person of great interest to us because he had a substantial bootleg collection, but a bad reputation when it came to returning borrowed tapes. Our other passenger, Paul Blatt, was a tiny red-headed cat I met at Rockland Community College–a mini-Bill Walton, minus athletic prowess. Cordial Paul spoke in soft squeaky tones and was always willing to roll with the flow of the group.  

Charging on to 80 West, I claimed the fast lane and refused to budge—left hand steering, right hand juggling java, joints, Marlboros, and boots. Endless Pennsylvania seemed bleak – blue collar town followed blue collar town through Amish Country, insane amounts of highway construction and detours along the way. We ran into three thunder storms, or maybe it was the same one chasing after us. Sheets of precipitation rap-tap-tapped off the windshield as I raced past monster trailers and trucks on the bedraggled two-lane highway. The sky darkened by the time we reached Ohio. Feeling famished, we stopped for food at a place in Youngstown that had a menu boasting of gizzards. A grease-stained bucket of rest area Roy Rogers chicken would have to suffice. One more cup of coffee, a hit of speed and one more ’77 Dead tape; I refused to give up the wheel until Cleveland was in the rearview mirror. By 3 A.M., my comrades were snoring as I pulled into a rest area and slipped into a spot between tractor trailers.  Four Deadheads and 100 truckers were motionless beneath the stars, but they were still tearing down the road in their dreams.  

On Saturday morning, we blew by Chicago, purchased a road map, and found a quaint cabin in Lake Geneva by noon. We had stumbled upon a wonderful Wisconsin resort town, and the weather was perfect—ah-hoooo! Cotton-candy clouds in sapphire skies dangled over a crystal clear lake. This expedition turned up nothing but gold, and the impending jam was still a seed in Jerry’s mind. 

Our heroes opened with a Music Never Stopped -> Sugaree ->Music Never Stopped loop. Once again, the band had rewarded me for my dedication with a combination that was never played before and would never be played again. Garcia raged on, peppering away on the set ending “Let It Grow.” Weir shouted the lyrics at Jerry, begging him to deliver: “Let it grow, let it grow, greatly yield.” And yield, Garcia did.  It’s a guitar lover’s feast offering three separate instrumental segments, with the middle one being the longest and most complex. The band executed flawlessly, setting the stage for Jerry’s mid-summer tirade. 

I finished out the year seeing the Dead at Landover, Maryland (9-15-82), Madison Square Garden (9-20 + 21-82), New Haven (9-23-82) and Syracuse (9-24-82), as well as catching the Jerry Garcia Band at the Felt Forum (11-11-82 early & late shows) and in the Wilkins Theatre at Keane College, located in Elizabeth, New Jersey (11-15-82 early & late show). In 1983, I got serious about following Jerry around. 

Tangled Up in Tunes: Ballad of a Dylanhead is available at www.tangledupintunes.com The kindle version is on sale through August 9th for $5.99.

Facebook Induced Flashback: Alpine to Ohio

A friend posted this photo on Facebook today. This is the earliest known photo of me on tour. Doug Schmell is on the left, Howard "Catfish" Weiner on the right. It's 6-25-85 and we're at the River Bend Music Theatre in Cincinati prior to a Grateful Dead concert. Here's an excerpt from Chapter Six of my road memoir: Tangled Up in Tunes: Ballad of a Dylanhead.





TRACK SIX: U.S.BLUES

Grateful Interventions…A preview of the 1985 NBA Draft in the style of Moses Malone…The pros and cons of hitchhikers…Sweating bullets in Cincinnati…Ominous clouds in Buffalo…The party’s over at RFK…

The Alpine shows were tight, welcomed consistency after the Helter Skelter Spring tour. On the second night, the “Saint of Circumstance” jam raged, and The Boys opened the second set with the Derek and the Dominoes classic, “Keep on Growing,” featuring Phil Lesh on lead vocals. Lesh had recently emerged from a ten-year singing hiatus. A new Deadhead chant was born: “Let Phil sing.” I wanted to chant: “Bad idea.” The beloved bassist, who wore tie-dyes and looked like a chemist, had a distinct vocal style—awful as can be. This didn’t matter to Deadheads. Tight-knit crowds crave simplistic mantras to chant. In Yankee Stadium they yell, “Boston sucks,” and in the Boston Garden they holler, “Beat L.A.” When Phil Lesh sang, I cringed.

June 23, 1985, was a travel day. Our crew fiddled around Lake Geneva all day and then started the journey towards Cincinnati by sundown. We picked up a hitchhiking Deadhead who looked like a young Rodney Dangerfield in a Hawaiian shirt. His name was Steve Miller. His sticky bud made us fly like eagles, and his stinky feet made us roll down the windows. We had an intervention and ordered him to put his boots in the trunk. Doug’s Alpine Masters sounded sensational as I pressed on for five hours before pulling over to sleep in an Indiana service area.

Sunshine was beating upon my forehead as I awoke in the front seat of my Chevy. My clothes were heavy with perspiration, and I was steaming like a burrito that had been slowly baking all night. Doug was snoring and schvitzing in the back seat. Steve Miller restlessly rolled on the trunk. Phil and Paul had been napping in sleeping bags on the grass, but I found them having coffee in the cafeteria. Their sleeping quarters were invaded by a bivouac of ants at dawn.

The mid-morning heat was relentless, and there wasn’t a cloud over the Midwest. Our spirits were bolstered again as we headed down the highway with the AC cranking. We reached the River Bend Music Theatre at noon, way too soon—we had seven hours to kill on a 100-degree day.

“Iko Iko,” the righteous party song, kicked-off the second set. Behind the stage, a steamboat slowly sailed up the Ohio River. Look out, mama, there’s a white boat coming up the river. The enormous Grateful Dead twentieth celebration banner dropped down behind the band as they slammed into “Samson & Delilah.” River Bend buzzed below the setting sun.

For their Twentieth Anniversary concerts in Berkeley, the Dead broke out “Cryptical Envelopments,” an Anthem of the Sun beauty that had been sitting on the shelf since 1970. In Cincinnati we were treated to a Cryptical Loop:  Cryptical Envelopments  -> Drums -> Space -> Come A Time -> The Other One -> Cryptical Envelopments. A la 1985, Garcia’s voice crackled through this segment, but the loving intent was palpable.

Driving away from River Bend, I gushed about Garcia’s nifty fretwork on “Let It Grow.” Had I been looking at road signs, I might have been warned about the winding pavement that veered sharply to the right. Without time to stomp on the brakes, I snapped the wheel to my right in a desperate attempt to save myself and my crew from flying off the mountainside. The tires screeched louder than a bullhorn, and my Chevy Caprice was airborne—cups, cans, tapes, pipes, and sunglasses in orbit. I stuck the landing on the road like a gold medal skier in the downhill, still cruising at a 60 MPH clip. My crew was silenced with acute shock syndrome. 

Tangled Up in Tunes is available at www.tangledupintunes.com This 1978 Chevy Caprice is a dead ringer for my tour mobile.

Feel Like A Stranger

3-9-81 My first show 31 years ago today


Three months after John Lennon was gunned down by a madman, I hopped on a bus headed from the Nanuet Mall to the Port Authority. Howdy New York, howdy Grateful Dead. My first show was a blockbuster, although I didn't realize it then. I walked into MSG as Jerry ripped his way through a most exotic Feel Like a Stranger jam. Althea was next followed by a long blues jam after which, Weir screamed, C.C.C...C.C. Rider, Hi! I was vaguely familiar with these songs, but I hit pay dirt with "Ramble On Rose," a rousing version of my favorite tune. Garcia's guitar screeched and  squealed, tuned into an unusual frequency, for just this night. I couldn't appreciate the nuance at the time for it was my debut as a critic.

From the third tier, sitting next to me were my non-Deadhead high school friends who were sleeping. I was confused by quick-picking numbers like Deep Elem, El Paso, and Birdsong. The set ended most abruptly with a hot Minglewood. Very strange. We also had tainted weed, the kind that gives you a headache, makes you cough, but doesn't get you right.

During the second set, I identified  China Cat >Rider > Samson, Estimated, UJB, Good Lovin' and U.S. Blues, but I couldn't  connect with the never ending spiral jams. That was a shame because the Grateful Dead would never play a hotter Cat > Rider. The Cat is long and wonderfully understated, and the Rider seethes,  but I'd yet to crack the Dead language barrier. After worshipping the tapes a few months later, I also realized that Stranger, Althea and Rose were all time great versions.

Well at least I was there. It twas a legendry night in the Garden.

Tangled Up in Tunes available at www.tangledupintunes.com

Hampton Here We Come!

Excerpt from Chapter Four of Tangled Up in Tunes

 The Music Never Stopped

Seagulls with massive wingspans glided around us; other seagulls were perched on the rail preparing for takeoff.  Brilliant sunshine bounced off the Chesapeake Bay as the Dead thundered in my Chevy. Doug rocked back and forth—a devotee in a contented trance. As the velocity, pitch, and poignancy of Jerry’s guitar intensified, Doug’s mug glowed–stunned admiration. Pointing at the tape deck as if Garcia was in our presence, Doug said, “This is deranged. How does Jerry think of this stuff?”

I wondered when we might see land again. We’d been on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge for fifteen minutes, and there was just water, road and birds ahead and water, road and birds behind. I was driving straight into an Alfred Hitchcock sequel. It then occurred to me that I was, in fact, driving. I was so stoned I forgot I was captain of the ship.

There were three hipsters in my backseat—Doug’s Deadhead companions from SUNY Albany—Stempel, Genowa and Beehaw. They were quiet cats. Their very names seemed to do all the talking for them. Our destination was Hampton, Virginia: Waffle House, Holiday Inn, hippie chicks, Grateful Dead. Paradise Waits.

Hampton was usually the first stop on the Grateful Dead’s spring tour. For some people, spring begins when the first pitch is tossed from the mound at Yankee Stadium. For Doug and me, and thousands of other Deadheads, crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge signified the commencement of spring.

There are few pleasures commensurate to roaring down the road while the tunes are-a-thundering. Audio transcendence is possible as long as your car can rev up to seventy without rattling, and the windows are rolled up. Yes, the windows must be sealed to bounce the sound around so you eardrums are filled with nothing but rhythm and melody. You breathe in guitar and exhale staccato bursts of air, in an attempt to echo the singers. The bass rattles your bones as the organ sweeps through the pores of your skin. A tiny portion of our brains can handle driving while all this goes down. Accessing that nugget of my mind, I delivered us to the Hampton Coliseum safely on April 9, 1983.

As the boys tuned up for the second set, I identified the sacred twangs from Jerry's guitar. Doug and I grabbed each other and yelled, “Help on the Way!” hugging and jumping in time to Phil’s thumping bass. The rest of the band continued to doodle aimlessly. If this turned out not to be “Help on the Way,” our premature celebration would have looked pretty silly. Luckily, it was the tune we craved. It had been six long years since the Grateful Dead played "Help on the Way" on the East Coast. These were glorious times.
Tangled Up in Tunes: Ballad of a Dylanhead www.tangledupintunes.com

A Deadhead Born This Morning

Philly Spectrum 4-6-82

I sought The Holy Grail, “Morning Dew.” A rarely-played jewel, The Dead only played the Dew when they had IT going on.  A cyclone of psychedelic sound was unleashed in the jam between “Truckin” and “The Other One.” I hollered and yodeled approval; the band was ripping. Now I had mental telepathy working: The Dew, Jerry. For the love of God, please play the Dew. Weir sang, “Cowboy Neal at the wheel, the bus to never ever land; Coming, coming, coming around; coming around, coming around; coming around.” The time had come.

A fractioned second of silence framed the moment. Jerry struck the magic Dew chord.

            Oh, the humanity! I grabbed Scott by the waist and proudly hoisted him over my head like he was the Stanley Cup Trophy. A young lady standing in front of me let out two primal, erotic screams. Pandemonium in Philly! Folks were crying, hugging, kissing, and squeezing each other.

Jerry’s solitary voice emerged: “Walk me out in the morning dew my honey; walk me out in the morning dew today.” The tempo was dirge-like, almost still. Jerry appeared egoless, just standing there in black t-shirt and jeans. He poured his soul into each syllable, seemingly stopping time, freezing the moment, connecting with the raw emotion of the masses: “I thought I heard a baby cry this morning; I thought I heard a baby cry today!”  

            Jerry compressed a screaming tirade of notes into his solo, punctuated by a resounding blast from Phil’s bass. Jerry’s solitary voice returned, more solemn than before, repetitiously crying, “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.” Silence filled the arena. Deadheads prepared for takeoff.

Garcia began his sermon deliberately, plucking strings with surgeon-like precision. He was immobile nobility—his bearded mug intense, his brain boiling. Each note radiating from his fret board did so with intimacy. Each note was crucial. The band followed in a trance, adding layers and waves of aural sensation. As the foundation solidified, the velocity and volume of Jerry’s playing spiraled until the steam valve blew. Each musician was engaged in the spectacular display—they scaled the pyramid of transcendence together.  The wall of sound crashed down. Jerry mournfully wailed, “I guess it doesn’t matter, anyway ay ay ayyyyy!”

Overwhelmed by the Dew, I didn’t care what was next. I let out a lunatic’s laugh as the band burst into “Sugar Magnolia.” Sweat poured as Deadheads bounced off the Spectrum floor like it was a trampoline. This was the exclamation point for a historic set. The boys delivered my wish list: Shakedown Street, Terrapin Station, Morning Dew, Sugar Magnolia. It was the only time in Grateful Dead history that those four songs appeared together in the same show. Just once in 2,314 concerts. Was it a coincidence, or was my presence part of the equation? 

Much like the sports fan who goes to his favorite pub week after week and roots for his favorite football team, and wears the same dingy sweatshirt, and sits in the same wobbly stool, and orders the same pint of beer from the same bartender until his team wins the Super Bowl or flops and he realizes the folly of his ways, I believed my presence in Philly inspired the band.

Returning home, we felt sensational. There was something heroic about it all. I was an active participant in the musical process. I knew I’d soon land a bootleg tape of the show and, if I listened close enough, I might even hear myself howling. Musical recordings are breathing snapshots of life and emotion that pass through time and endure in a way that no other art form can.

Cruising along the Palisades Parkway, fifteen minutes from my twin mattress, Seymour suddenly lost control of the wheel. His pillbox Honda hit an ice patch and went spinning like a sock in a dryer.  When the whirling ceased, we were ensconced in a snow drift, a few feet from the towering pines that might have mangled the car. A tragedy was narrowly averted. Miraculously, there wasn’t a scratch on the car or anybody in it. I pried the door ajar, looked up at the star-cluttered sky and pumped my fist into the night. Standing knee deep in snow while waiting for help to arrive, I cut loose with a “Yee-haw, yippie yah-hoo, Jerry is God-od-od-od.” My crazed voice echoed through the valley.

Thirty minutes later, a tow truck yanked the tiny vehicle from its snowy trap. Three teens were on the road again. Scott and Seymour were subdued and shaken. I'd found my calling, and seeking more days like this would dominate my foreseeable future. I was dropped off at my parents’ house, but there was no going home. My heart and soul were on the road with the Grateful Dead.
     
Tangled Up in Tunes Ballad of a Dylanhead is available in paperback or on kindle www.tangledupintunes.com