30th Anniversary of THE DEW in MSG

An excerpt from A Tale of Twisted Fate

Following their first two shows at Madison Square Garden, Garcia and Weir paid a visit to NBC Studios to appear on Late Night with David Letterman. Middleweight Champion Sugar Ray Leonard, who had just come out of retirement to upset Marvelous Marvin Hagler, was the other guest. It made for a nice pairing—Sugar Ray and Jerry, the comeback icons. With his sharp wit and jovial demeanor, Garcia looked good, but if you compare this appearance to his last appearance on Letterman’s show in April 1982, he appeared to have aged twenty years in just five. Weir hadn’t aged a day since 1982.
   
Garcia and Weir joined Letterman’s band, led by keyboardist Paul Schaffer, and played “When I Paint My Masterpiece.” I’ve always been baffled as to why Weir sang lead vocals on “Masterpiece.” He did a respectable job with it, but the Garcia Band version was much better. After some relaxed and witty conversation with the host, Weir showed Letterman an old parlor trick. Weir, Letterman, Schaffer, and Biff Henderson gathered around Garcia and gave TV land the illusion that they were lifting Garcia out of his chair—a bit of silly magic. What happened the following night in Madison Square Garden was truly miraculous.

Emotions were running high for Garcia’s first set of New York City’s performance since the coma, and the Friday night September 18 ticket was a hot commodity. The first set merrily rolled along, and after a strong version of “Birdsong,” it ended abruptly after six songs. Experienced Deadheads expected an eight- to eleven-song opening set, but shorter sets were no longer a surprise. Dead crowds were boisterous, optimistic, and appreciative on this tour, especially in New York.

On this evening, the packed house in the Garden continued to aid the band, and eventually all the emotion was returned in one of the most stunning live spectacles I’ve ever seen. As of the publication of this book, videos of 9-18-87 MSG can be found on YouTube. The show can also be found on the 80-CD box set, Thirty Trips Around the Sun, released in 2015 as part of the Grateful Dead’s 50th anniversary celebration. The massive box set contains one show from each of the Dead’s thirty years, and 9-18-87 MSG effectively represents a glorious year. However, if you really want to experience this show, I suggest listening to an audience tape. The audience in conjunction with the band is something to behold. 

The funky groove of “Shakedown Street” ignited set two. There was group singing, clapping, and dancing as a euphoric vibe gripped the crowd. It was a routine version, but NYC Deadheads embraced it as if it were a stairway to a new enlightenment. “Man Smart, Woman Smarter” kept the dance party flowing, and the audience was duly pumped for this popular but pedestrian tune. Weir screamed a solo chorus in falsetto that led to a resounding finish. The audience imposed its energy and will on the band and there was no turning back.

A split-second after the last “The women are smarter that’s right,” chant, Garcia strummed the chord progression of “Terrapin Station.” The aural sensation was as pure as heaven’s rain, and there was bedlam in the Garden. I was fifteen rows away, watching Garcia dig in, focused, judiciously channeling the excitement in the air. Every line meant something to almost everyone in the audience, and Jerry was the shaman, collectively getting everyone off. The ending refrain rang out like a royal rhapsody. Jerry and Brent chased each other with gleaming leads as Lesh, Weir, Hart, and Kreutzmann hammered the thunderous arrangement. “Terrapin” was excellent, but the energy in the building was absurd. You could sense something special was imminent after the Drums > Space segment.

 An ordinary “Goin’ Down the Road Feelin’ Bad” set the stage for “All Along the Watchtower.” This was my first “Watchtower” without Dylan, and there was a Garden roar as soon as the riff was identified. Garcia’s first solo made everybody’s hair stand on end, and Weir shrieked, “No reason to get excited!” It was at that point that I asked myself, What if they play ‘Morning Dew’? I flashed back to that time I saw my first “Morning Dew” in Philadelphia, and somehow, this moment would be bigger. After all Garcia had been through, and where the Dead were now with the success of “Touch of Grey,” did Garcia have the audacity to pull this off? The anticipation was unbearable. The thought of “Morning Dew” emerging from “Watchtower” was almost too much to bear.

           

 “Watchtower” fizzled into a few seconds of no man’s land. If the next song were “Black Peter,” “Sella Blue,” or “Wharf Rat”—Garcia songs that fell into that slot—it would have been a letdown, and it would have taken me a few minutes to get into it. 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 euphoria, 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 just announced that everyone had a winning lottery ticket.

Garcia delivered what we desired. He sang soulfully and spiritually, bestowing it upon his devotees like a soothing prayer. This is where the enthusiastic wisdom of New York Deadheads factored in. They knew every nuance of the song and treated it like a religious anthem, only expressing their joy in response to Jerry. You could hear a pin drop as Jerry growled, “Where have all the people gawwwwn TODAY!” And then the silence was parted by the unified approval of his followers. “Morning Dew” is an apocalyptical song of survival after a nuclear war, but hearing Garcia sing it after coming back from a near-death experience gave the anthem deeper resonance.

Phil’s bass rattled the arena as Garcia leaned forward and shredded a shrill solo. Singing from the heart of humanity, Jerry crooned: “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway” four times, each cry more sorrowful than the last, and each ensuing eruption from the audience, louder. The entire Garden was shaking from the last roar; 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 was surreal.

How was Garcia going to execute and extend this jam when he started with a climactic tirade? This is where the man excels, inventing pathways that never existed before. At one point he makes a circular motion with his hand as if he’s waving a magic wand, and then Garcia seemingly discovers a frequency that never existed before, the highest possible notes on the fretboard, and peels them off with speed and precision before the band joins him for the final fanning chord. The heroism is complete with a final: “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Weir cut the tension in the building, breaking into “Good Lovin’.” Halfway through the song there’s a subtle shift in the chord progression, and Garcia starts singing “La Bamba.” It was a great surprise for many on hand, although a healthy percentage of the audience knew they had done this combo for the first time a week earlier in Providence. The Grateful Dead were now featuring two top ten hits, because the Los Lobos version of “La Bamba” topped the Billboard charts a few weeks earlier. The crowd was thrilled and the band segued back into “Good Lovin’” and finished the show with a “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” encore. A Tale of Twisted Fate

40th Anniversary of Englishtown

To most folks in New Jersey, Englisthown is a haven for redneck extremes—drag racing, funny cars, and monster trucks. To Deadheads, especially those on the East Coast circa 1977 and beyond, Englishtown is where their beautiful obsession with the band began, whether the baptism was on the grounds of Raceway Park on September 3, 1977, or thru the radio broadcast on that blessed evening, or sometime in the future via bootleg tape or Dicks Picks Volume 15, the officially released three-CD set of Englishtown. 

My Englishtown tale began in 1981, two months after John Lennon was gunned down on the outskirts of Central Park, and a week after the attempted assassination of President Ronald Reagan. On that fateful morning, I arrived at Clarkstown South High School and quickly spotted the cat who sold the juiciest bones in town. On this morning he was also selling bootleg tapes. He showed me an impressive list of shows by legendary rockers, but one show leaped off the page: Grateful Dead at Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey. Although I didn’t know the song list or the quality of the BASF tape, Englishtown was the tape I had to have, it was as if the tape chose me. 

  

As a youth, I spent endless hours listening to New York’s top hit station, Musicradio WABC. I used to hear Gladys Knight & the Pips, The Spinners, Stevie Wonder, McCartney & Wings, Sly & the Family Stone, Elton John, Marvin Gaye, David Bowie, The Eagles, America, Harry Chapin, Grand Funk Railroad, Linda Ronstandt, and Paul Simon battle it out for top spot on the charts week after week. Anyway, one of WABC’s top advertisers was Englishtown. The commercial began with a helium infused voice: “Ha- ha-,ha-ho, Raceway Park, Englishtown, New Jersey!” The follow up message talked of funny cars, drag racing, and other arcane activities. Englishtown and the Grateful Dead seemed like a fine connection, sure to arouse the ghosts of Old Weird America. 

 

I had recently started listening to some Grateful Dead albums, but that morning, I was blown away by Englishtown’s monumental “Mississippi Half Step.” The pre Rio Grande instrumental was the greatest piece of improvisation I’d ever heard. After hearing Englishtown’s radiant “Eyes of the World,” I finally understood why people considered Jerry Garcia to be the greatest guitarist in the universe, and why Deadheads would travel anywhere to see this band. 

Looking back at the summer of ’77, Englishtown could have been a disaster of Altamont proportions. Raceway Park was only forty-five miles from New York City, which was suffering from an overdose of the summertime blues. Son of Sam, the most feared serial killer of his time, was firing lead into lovers making moves in parked cars, and taunting police in the tabloids. The Bronx was burning from a never-ending series of arson fires. The New York City blackout on July 13 triggered chaos and rioting in the streets, and it exposed the rotten core of the Big Apple. In addition to all the madness, the East Coast experienced one of the hottest summer’s on record. With 150,000 restless stoners pouring into Englishtown on an oppressively hot Labor Day weekend, and the Grateful Dead coming off of a three-month touring hiatus, the outcome was highly uncertain. 

 
Outside of a massive traffic mess that forced concertgoers to park their cars several mile from Raceway Park, things fell into place. Deadheads and Southern Rockers swayed and jammed as one as the New Riders of Purple Sage and Marshall Tucker Band entertained. According to most witnesses, a plethora of acid was available and consumed, but the first hairy moment of the day was when a woman went into labor after the Marshall Tucker Band performance. A helicopter was flown in to evacuate mom, and she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

 It was still hot and humid when John Scher introduced the headliners: “Okay. Here we go. On keyboards, Mr. Keith Godchaux. On lead guitar, Jerry Garcia. On vocals, a very nice lady, Ms. Donna Jean Godchaux. On drums and percussion, Mr. Bill Kreutzmann. On drums and percussion, Mr. Mickey Hart. On rhythm guitar, Bob Weir. And on bass, Phil Lesh. Ladies and gentleman, the finest band in the land, the Grateful Dead!” 

          After successfully going down the path of least resistance with the first three songs, Bob Weir urges the surging crowd to take a step back before the band bursts into “Mississippi Half Step.” There’s a gleeful bubbling to Jerry’s voice, he’s reunited with one of the defining masterpieces of the Grateful Dead’s remarkable ’77 run. The pre Rio Grande jam is smoking with a pair of climatic peaks. Before returning to the bridge, Keith begins to twinkle a lovely melody that captures Garcia’s fancy. Jerry responds with robin-like tweets as Phil’s bass begins to rumble in the distance. The jam escalates, but the band has the wisdom and good taste to reign the jam in before it becomes overindulgent. It’s a sublime moment, and Englishtown roars approval in unison. The perfectly harmonized Rio Grande bridge is pursued by an ample outro solo. There was a myth that the Grateful Dead failed to rise to the occasion on the biggest of stages. That myth was officially debunked by the Englishtown “Half Step,” The other highlights of the first set were a two solo “Peggy O,” and a hot “Music Never Stopped,” although it’s not one of the elite versions of the year. 

As the hippie throngs baked between sets in Raceway Park, millions of Americans were preparing for an emotional evening of television. The final episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show aired on this Sunday night. America had to kiss the somewhat wholesome girl next door goodbye. In the world of popular music, Andy Gibb’s “I Just Want to Be Your Everything” was dethroned from the top spot on the charts by The Emotions’ “Best of My Love.” And with all the great albums available in record shops, Barry Manilow Live was the bestseller of the week. For those who preferred debauchery and improvisational theater over American fluff and puff, the Grateful Dead took the stage for act two in Englishtown.  

Set two kicks off with a turbocharged Bertha > Good Lovin, and during “Loser,” Garcia nails a moaning blues solo that for all the ramblers and gamblers holding a losing hand. Next up, Weir performs his new pride and joy, “Estimated Prophet,” which segues into a stunning “Eyes of the World.” There are some better ’77 versions, but this “Eyes” is sophisticated and gorgeous. Garcia shines in his less-is-more motif, and when he cuts loose, the impact is heavy. This is magic and alchemy of the highest degree in front of an intimate gathering of 150,000. 

The next great segment takes shape as the band segues from “He’s Gone” into “Not Fade Away.” Let the cat and mouse games commence. The jam slowly builds and retreats, two steps forward, one back—one zig east, two zigs west. After the opening chorus, the music thunders, intense and dark, until it morphs into a zone where fusion, funk, and heavy metal grind. It’s as gnarly and gruff as the racetrack where Deadheads are still sweating as nightfall descends. When the NFA journey recedes, Weir blows a whistle to announce the first “Truckin’” in three years. For some of us tour veterans who saw “Truckin’” every three nights for fifteen years straight, it’s hard to imagine what a thrilling moment this was. Old school Deadheads fondly embraced “Truckin’” as a gateway song to long mind-bending jams, and the new wave of fans embraced this as the quintessential song from Skeletons in the Closet. And for historical purposes, the return of “Truckin’” was another notch of distinction for a show that was an instant classic. 

 

After a long, hectic day, Englishtown was revved up and begging for more. Jerry returned to thank the crowd, and Phil bellowed, “All right! Woo-hoooo! Alright ladies and gentleman, we’d like to play a little ditty from our newest album at your record stores currently.” Ah, the gold ole days when we’d hustle on down to the local record shop and flip through album bins. The “little ditty” Phil was referring to was “Terrapin Station,” an heroic eleven minute encore. Showing no signs of weariness, Garcia calls

upon the muses: “Inspiration, move me brightly. Light the song with sense and color hold away despair. More than this I will not ask, faced with mysteries dark and vast.” 


As they reach the final stages of the anthem, the crucial question is posed: “Terrapin, if it’s an end or beginning?” It may have been the end of a colossal concert, but for the band and their fans, it was the dawn of a new Dead era. With the mass exodus out of Raceway Park underway, thousands upon thousands of fans marched to their cars as the majestic “Terrapin” refrain echoed in the hot Jersey night. It was an experience that any rookie or seasoned Deadhead would never forget. They would pass on tales of this day to anyone who would listen. Being at Englishtown was a badge of honor that they would wear

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proudly. And as the radio and audience recordings of this show multiplied, a new crop of Deadheads were ripe for picking. Although Englishtown might not be the best show of the 1977, it’s one of the defining events of Grateful Dead mythology. Before they stepped on stage, a baby was busy being born in a sea of hippies. By the time they were finished with Englishtown, the Grateful Dead had turned on a new generation of fans. Terrapin Nation was busy being born. 
For more on Englishtown and a year beyond description, check out:
 Grateful Dead 1977: The Rise of Terrapin Nation