GRATEFUL DEAD
That the Dead's records never really took off here was probably a combination of Pye's inability to realise that there were other markets besides 'family listening,' the usual failure of disc jockeys (apart from the obvious few) to recognise good music, the general lack of publicity and media exposure, and the incompetence of various promoters who were just too inefficient to bring the band over. You see, no-one in England really knew much about the Dead...the pop press weren't pushed to write about them, and probably knew nothing about their music, lifestyle, attitude, or anything anyway. And a lot of what filtered across the Atlantic; ie the only bits and pieces that one could base any knowledge on, was either wildly inaccurate, wildly exaggerated, or else merely opinion...and more often than not, the opinion of someone more qualified to discuss Bing Crosby, or at least the music of a different generation.
For example, one of the first references to the group that I can remember was a mention on the Third Programme. Kenneth Rexroth, one of the speakers in a series about "America Today," in a programme about dissent, bracketed the Dead with the Sopwith Camel (certainly one of the weakest of the SF groups) and dismissed their music with a few sweeping generalisations about the ineffectuality of revolution in rock lyrics.
Then, in his review of the '67 Monterey Festival, Downbeat's Barret Hansen talked about "uncontrolled cascades of notes building up to the threshold of pain." "Certainly it mesmerizes the freaks, which is what the Dead get paid for doing," he said, "but it's kind of a slipshod, lazy way to play music." Quite amazing. He completely misconstrued the attitude and entire approach of the band.
All in all, then, we had to rely on their music to tell us about them.
So, what about the Dead?
I got chatting with PigPen, organist, percussionist, and vocalist extraordinaire, at the reception Warner Brothers held for them when they came over for the Hollywood Festival, and he was delighted to sit and talk rather than do the tiresome rounds of introductions which the others were going through. "We never get involved in anything like this at home...all these people look like they've been put in here and told how they've got to act."
I've got to admit I was taken aback. I was expecting to see a massive, hairy, bear-like hulk...aggressive and rowdy, as depicted in the legends and stories about them. Nothing of the sort. It looks as thought he's lost about half his bodily bulk, half his facial hair, and altogether I reckon he's one of the most charming, polite, and quiet people I have ever met.
"You're blowing your image," I told him. "Everyone's expecting you to leap around like a brawling wild man."
"Oh I can get wild sure enough," he said, "but usually it's with the rest of the band." I'd read about these internal arguments that threatened to break the group up every so often. "Oh we've got past the stage of thoughts of breaking up. What usually happens is that we go into town, to a saloon, shoot some pool or play cards. Then we accuse one another of cheating and start fighting."
All this sounds a bit like a Virginian TV addict's fantasy, but the Dead are like a bunch of cowboys. 3 of them have ranches and all ride horses a lot. They all wear these excessively pointed, stout leather boots. PigPen took pains to explain how they were pointed to enter a stirrup with minimum difficulty, and the high cut-back heels were to prevent the foot slipping through. "I wear them all the time - you can't beat a good, solid pair of boots; I've had these for 2 years and the soles are hardly worn at all. I like them to be functional. I mean, look at those snakeskin boots that guy's got on; you might just as well wrap your feet in paper. Like, if I was on the run from the police who were chasing me through the forest," (a very bizarre piece of fantasy, I thought) "I'd be OK because I'd be dressed in the right clothes. That's why I wear the same stuff all the time." The back of his denim Levi jacket was ornately decorated, he had a little stash bag hanging from his belt, this battered corduroy Rambling Jack cowboy hat, and his hair was pulled into an elastic banded pigtail. (Compare the appearance of today's rock star with those of the fifties; there's Jerry Garcia looking like something out of the Bowery, with his dark stubbled face and paunch. Then remember Frankie Avalon.)
PigPen was tired. They'd flown direct from San Francisco to London, over the North Pole ("just an ordinary TWA flight") and he hadn't had much sleep. He hadn't seen much of London either, but he'd got the hang of our monetary system - to a degree. "Well the first thing you've got to do, is the Sonny and Cher trip," I told him. "All the Americans do that so that they can tell the papers about it...that means seeing Buckingham Palace (bonus points if you see the Queen), a London policeman with his funny hat, a double decker bus, Carnaby Street..." "I don't want to see any of that stuff," he replied, "but I do want to find a good cutler; I want to get a nice long, open-out razor...and a shaving mug."
PigPen.
How did it all begin? Well, towards the end of the 'folk era' of 62-65, a lot of folkies started forming groups - John Sebastian, the Mamas and Papas, Country Joe and the Fish, Jim McGuinn; and in Palo Alto, a community of about 30,000 on the road between San Francisco and San Jose, 3 such musicians, Ron McKernan (PigPen), Bob Weir, and Jerry Garcia did likewise, starting a band called The Warlocks. Previously they had been Mother McCree's Uptown Jug Champions (a similar set up to Country Joe's jug-style band style before they plugged in to become the Fish), but gigs were falling off, until a music store owner volunteered to sponsor their electrification. But the Warlocks, when they started in mid 1965 didn't exactly fit into, or dig the available work, which was the Byrds type Hollywood club circuit, so it was fortunate, just when they found the limitations of conventional venues becoming an unbearable drag, that they met up with, and got mixed up with Ken Kesey's bunch of LSD disciples, the Merry Pranksters, and Owsley Stanley III.
In his book "The Electric Cool Aid Acid Test" (an essential book to anyone who is interested in San Franciscan music, but still only available here in hardback), Tom Wolfe describes how the Warlocks, or the Grateful Dead as they became a few months later, became the Pranksters' travelling band, playing at the Acid Tests where they invited the world (or the people of Southern California anyway) to sample the esoteric delights of LSD.
Kesey had first run into Jerry Garcia in 1962, soon after he had discovered the beneficial effects of acid. Garcia was one of the local beatniks who used to crash the parties where LSD laced venison stew was the main dish, followed by a summer night on a mattress, stuffed into the fork of an oak tree, watching the stars and the sky. But because of his youth and his inability to contribute to the parties, he was an unwelcome guest.
It was another story towards the end of 1965 when Garcia's group supplied all the music for Kesey's Acid Tests, and instigated the music which was aptly termed "acid rock." Everyone was happy - the heads really dug the music and the Dead really dug the freedom of playing what they wanted for as long as they wanted.
The series of Acid Tests culminated in the Trips Festival of January 1966, which was the start of the Haight Ashbury era. The festival was a 'huge wild carnival' which inspired Bill Graham to open the Fillmore a fortnight later, and a new multi media, weekly psychedelic dance hall genre was initiated. "The heads," says Wolfe, "were amazed at how big their own ranks had become - and euphoric at the fact that they could come out in the open, high as baboons, and neither the sky nor the law would fall down on them."
Acid remained legal in California until October 1966, and Augustus Owsley Stanley III, or Owsley as he was notoriously known throughout America, manufactured millions of dollars worth; several million capsules and tablets. His tabs were the perfection by which others were judged, and as well as becoming the legendary 'White Rabbit,' he became very rich. A lot of his bread, he channeled into the Grateful Dead - as well as being a chemical genius, his hands had a way with electricity - and bought them more equipment than they knew how to handle...every device on the market became part of their sound. Says Wolfe, "The sound went down so many microphones and hooked through so many mixers and variable lags and blew up in so many amplifiers and rolled around in so many speakers and fed back down so many microphones, it came on like a chemical refinery. There was something wholly new and deliriously weird in the Dead's sound."
When Kesey split for Mexico, to evade American 'justice,' the Dead went off to LA to live with Owsley, but discovered that his way was too erratic for the partnership to succeed. Owsley had a strange past: he had been expelled from school for consuming alcohol, been busted for issuing rubber cheques, arrested for disorderly conduct, and subsisted on unemployment money for some time before insinuating himself into the nascent hippie scene with his project to benefit the community by manufacturing as much acid as possible.
To the Dead, Owsley was a financial angel as well as supervising their sound at gigs, but things didn't go too well and they split back to Marin County near San Francisco in mid 1966, reverting to standard Fender amps and allowing Owsley to cart away all his speakers, amps, tapes, and mikes. I asked PigPen about the split, and the equipment, because I'd heard that the Owsley stuff produced a very loud but very muddy sound anyway.
"Well, when it was working properly, it was really good...the best in the world, literally. But that wasn't too often. You see, Owsley had this time lag - it took him so long to get things sorted out, and we couldn't put up with that if we were to function as a band. Even now our equipment is standard stuff, but we've had it altered around a bit to make it more reliable."
As well as that, the Californian authorities were passing legislation to make LSD illegal and the Dead didn't want Owsley's business to be too closely connected with the band's work. But there's no rancour separating them; he still hangs around with the Dead periodically and gets credited on their albums, but PigPen hadn't seen him for some time, he said.
In the last half of 1966, the Dead moved into a big house at 710 Ashbury, right in the middle of San Francisco's growing head centre, by which time Garcia (then popularly known as Captain Trips) was practically the local patron saint, and they'd become one of the city's three most popular bands, but one still without a recording contract. Their attitude to this side of the business was shared by Quicksilver, whose manager Ron Polte, when questioned, said, "We're all waiting for an honest record company that we can talk with," and they resisted all the offers of the slick-suited LA record company executives who came up snooping for lucrative contracts. Another thing: "If the industry wants us, they're gonna take us the way we are"...Bob Weir, 1966.
Their first album eventually appeared on Warner Brothers in early 1967, and though one could assume that they had found their honest company, all but a few critics either attacked it, or wondered where the excitement of their live performances had gone. Typical comments read: "For some reason it succeeded in capturing only a small fraction of the excitement they shower on the listener in a concert performance." Loyal Crawdaddy Magazine loved it of course: "pure energy flow...West Coast kineticism developed to a fine art."
Their second album "Anthem of the Sun" was very long in appearing (Summer 68) and it leaked out that the Dead and Warner Brothers were at loggerheads, with much dissatisfaction and animosity on both sides. In the course of recording, the Dead sacked their producer Dave Hassinger and finished the production themselves, using over 20 taped performances to achieve what they wanted.
Aoxomoxoa, their third album (readers of Zap Comix will know that Rick Griffin is a palindrome freak - hence the nonsense title), was presented to Warners as a completed entity, sleeve and all; but their last to be released here, Live Dead, is probably the most successful in terms of capturing their live excitement. "It completely eclipses the faults of their previous albums...well mixed, completely non commercial in approach, and completely free flowing," said the LA Free Press.
What was the cause of the mutual displeasure between them and Warners? PigPen: "Well they wanted us to give them a hit and we didn't, and we wanted them to stop advising us and promote us more than they did. Let's say that was basically it; but I try to keep clear of those kind of hassles."
"We're not singing psychedelic drugs, we're singing music. We're musicians, not dope fiends," said Bob Weir back in the past. But what about their supposed overt use of euphoriants? The Dead have been endlessly described as drug freaks (or experimenters, let's say) of the first order. The Rolling Stone article gave detailed descriptions of cocaine snorting and nitrous oxide inducing, and they were involved in mass dope busts in late 67 and just recently in New Orleans.
"Were you arrested in New Orleans?" I asked Pig.
"No, I wasn't," he replied.
"How was that?"
"Because they didn't find anything in my room. They came in and went over the place, then searched me, then the room again, but they didn't find anything. I told them that I didn't use drugs, and eventually they went away saying that I was either telling the truth, or else I was mighty sneaky."
"Were you telling the truth?"
"Yes, I just don't use drugs anymore, because it just doesn't help me at all. Marijuana makes me act stupid, and the few times I've taken LSD weren't too good. So now I stick to drinking and cigarettes...they're my only vices."
PigPen, amazing character who almost left the Dead a couple of years ago, but got persuaded to stay.
PigPen, asking me how far the Festival site is, and how near it is to Manchester. His grandmother was born there, he tells me...used to make military uniforms in the First World War. And how can he get to Dublin...because a lot of his ancestors came from there.
"There's a lot of Irishman in me," he says.
Articles you read about Dead performances are invariably based on comparison with previous appearances - like "they were sloppy and didn't get it on like they did last time they played the park" and "as usual, they took about half of their marathon set to warm up." Well at the Hollywood Music Festival, most of us in the audience were witnessing the spectacle of a Dead set for the first time in our lives, and only the records, played till the grooves had worn out, served as a foretaste or comparison.
Of course, the music they played was for the most part completely different. "Wait till you hear our new things," PigPen had told me, "we've gone right back to simpler, more straight forward type of stuff." And so they had. The traditional Americana that has always been peeping through their music has suddenly become prominent; traditional blues ('I know you Rider' - variously known as Woman Blues and Circle Round the Sun), traditional folk (a 900 Miles derivative), traditional type country ('Riding that train, high on cocaine' - well I said traditional type), neo-traditional cowboy epics (Me and My Uncle, the John Phillips/Dino Valente classic), traditional pop (Good Lovin', Too hot to handle). Most of this material represents the new style Dead music and will presumably comprise the new album "Working Mans Dead." The pop stuff, they've always been doing - I remember them saying in an interview, "We'll play our half hour version of 'In the Midnight Hour' for anyone who'll listen."
Then they played a superb "medley" consisting of most of the Live Dead album. Incredible. And I don't use that word lightly. It was incredible...the awe, the music, the excitement, the whole scene.
Sure, vocally they are weak; Garcia, who does most of the singing, has a reedy, most unforceful, undistinguished voice, and neither Lesh nor Weir are too hot either. On the other hand, Pig Pen, almost totally obscured by his giant organ (that sounds suspicious), swings into his vocals with tremendous gusto and turns cruddy ancient pop songs into driving, classic performances. But musically they cut other rock bands to ribbons.
The solid red Gibson looked so small and flimsy in Jerry Garcia's hands - like it would just break like balsa if he squeezed it - but it seemed that every time he touched it, beautiful, clear, ringing notes poured out; and on 'Me & My Uncle' he was just fucking fabulous. Phil Lesh's bass playing was superbly inventive, and Bob Weir was nice as a complementary lead guitarist. As they began each piece, the three of them zigzagged from the back to the mikes at the front of the stage, squeezing past the two drummers, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, who hammered phrases at each other and occasionally attacked us with other percussive devices like gongs and pistol shots.
I can't really agree with one appraisal of the Dead - that their music is "a synaesthetic assemblage of disparate ingredients and tonal colours whose progression from start to finish is non-focused but dynamic" - because I don't really know what all that means, but I do know that I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon.
Before the festival, I'd spoken to this San Franciscan cat who had told me he was dubious about attending. There had been a full moon a couple of days before, and now, with the moon in Capricorn, things were bound to go wrong; at least, he reckoned, it would be freaky if not disastrous. "The last time the signs were like this," he said, "Quicksilver's roadie nearly hanged himself with an amp cord." Well, Wall Street had its worst day for seven years, but the Dead were totally magnificent.
Further reading:
Rolling Stone No 40 (the best ever article on the Dead)
The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe.
Questions
Who is Robert Hunter?
Where is Tom Constanten?
Who was Reddy Killowatt?
Why did Bill Sommers become Bill Kreutzmann?
Who are Mcgannahan Skjellyfetti?
The best answer wins prizes!
(by Mac Garry, from Zigzag no. 13, June/July 1970)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com
See also:
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2012/07/may-24-1970-hollywood-festival-england.html
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2014/02/may-24-1970-hollywood-festival-uk.html
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2013/06/may-24-1970-hollywood-festival-britain.html
Feb 6, 2019
November 17, 1968: Eagles Auditorium, Seattle
THE DEAD AND THE INDIANS
Re-tribalization will be the keyword Sunday afternoon from 3 to 9 when the Grateful Dead rock group moves into the Eagles Auditorium (7th and Union) for a benefit concert to help Indian fisherman in their battle to retain traditional netting rights on the Nisqually and other Washington rivers.
Admission is a flat $2 per head. Children under 12 will be admitted free.
Al Bridges, an Indian leader who has led numerous fish-in protests at Frank's Landing near Olympia, will introduce the Dead.
Suzette Bridges, a vivacious and articulate young lady, will present the tribes' side of the fishing feud.
Backing the Dead will be the Bryon Pope Ensemble from Los Angeles, Easy Chair, Light, and Papa Bear. The Retina Circus light artists will provide illuminations.
Part of the funds from the benefit will be used to establish a bail fund for Indians and others arrested for allegedly illegal fishing. This year alone there have been 27 gill-netting arrests. Bail - formerly set at $250 - has been raised to $1000.
The Indians also must replace nets confiscated by the state. They cost between $60 and $100 apiece.
Some 40 persons, Indians and non-Indians, have established a communal colony at Frank's Landing on the Nisqually. Some live in teepees; others in tents and crude hogans. They contend that the Medicine Creek treaty of 1854 gave the Indians the right to fish in "their usual and accustomed places" for "as long as the sun shall rise, the streams shall flow and the grass shall grow."
The state, on the other hand, claims the treaty is invalid and that the Indians must adhere to seasonal regulations.
The colony at Frank's Landing is seeking to re-tribalize, to return to the bounty of Nature. But it hasn't been easy. They've been tear-gassed, terrorized and hassled by citizenry and officialdom alike.
Now they've dug in for the winter. It promises to be a long, wet one.
Their choice of the Dead for Sunday afternoon's gig is an apposite one. The Dead more or less started the whole concept of group tribalization on a musical level. Beginning with Ken Kesey and his early Acid test prankstering, the Dead (originally called the Warlocks) have solidified under their Chief, Gerry Garcia, as a sub-tribe with something to say - and the sound and talent to give their message a voice.
The Dead and the Indians. Far out!
(by Bob Houston, from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, November 15, 1968)
*
GRATEFUL DEAD
by Roger Downey:
From Herodotus to Stanley, Pizarro to Powell, mankind has loved explorers. And not only seekers in space; Nietzsche, Beethoven, Buddha, William Burroughs; what fascinates us is not their discoveries, but the risks taken to make them. We are an adventurous race at second hand.
At Eagles' Sunday the Grateful Dead mounted an expedition into the unknown, using portions of the work-in-progress called Anthem for the Sun as navigational charts. Define it as a problem (and you can't, for a problem suggests an answer): given, the universe determined by the instruments, the players' physical endurance, their creative energies: to transcend that universe by devouring it, filling it up, shattering it by pressure from within, and thus reaching Somewhere Else. Now if Somewhere Else were really the goal, and not the journey of exploration, the Dead would fail: beyond the limits of music is not Somewhere Else, but only Not-music. The end of the journey comes at the point where the senses can absorb no more, the mind can no longer comprehend, hold together, the experience; as in orgasm, things fly apart, returning to their separateness; but not unchanged. The terrain defined has been used up, thoroughly experienced, exhausted; and in the process, as in the art of love, the musicians, and the audience, so far as it can follow them, are used up, exhausted, as well.
In music, if anything is possible, and equally likely, the result is necessarily chaos. The Dead maintain a lifeline back to ordinary musical experience by their use of rhythm, refusing to allow the integrity of the line to be disrupted. When it begins to weaken, there is an immediate lessening of other musical tensions until it is re-established. This is not to say that there is anything simple about the Dead's rhythms: the section of WIP (not recorded yet, but played at Eagles' and Sky River) in 11/4 time, subdivided 3+3+3+2 is, with sections of Stravinsky's Soldier's Tale, the most exciting use of rhythm as a creative, not just a sustaining, element that I have ever heard. Over and through the polyphonic rhythmic texture, Garcia, Weir, and Lesh (who is as much a melodic contributor as the two guitar players) create a contrapuntal, ever varying texture of lines that tightens and thickens until disaster seems inevitable, then relaxes only to tighten again. It is always the texture that is important. Melody as such, solos, are secondary. Harmony in the almost defunct traditional sense is nearly absent; it could only get in the way of the development of the primary all-enveloping texture of sound.
The experience I have said, like love, is exhausting; I, and I'm sure many in the audience, longed toward the end for each climactic surge to be the last; but when the last climax came, we realized that it was in fact the only one, necessary and final.
Like good lovers, the Dead do not abandon you at the peak, but return you, not at all quickly, to earth. In the last section, the insistent pulse of rhythm is absent, melody irrelevant; the texture is open, full of yawning vacancies and sudden violent displacements. When you land, the journey seems to have been inevitable from the beginning; your feet touch ground as lightly as leaf falls.
For what it is worth, the Dead succeeded in getting an Eagles' audience on its feet and kept it there for the duration of the piece. When it was over, and the crazy calls of "More!" had died away, someone came out on stage and told us to stick around for the rest of the program. All respects to the others that played, that is like announcing, "You have just been present at the end of the world. Please stay tuned for our next big attraction."
by Max Smith:
The Dead is up there on the stage playing, and they are really looking at us, the audience, and it looks like they love us and if they didn't, wouldn't bother to pretend. And I am surrounded by people I love, and who love me. But still something is wrong. Our blood is rioting, but we're sitting there quietly as if listening to a sermon or watching Chet and Dave. A few people move with the music, but stay seated.
Karma and I are sitting there wanting to dance, wanting to pulse with that music, wanting to tell what we know and feel.
So we dance, and yippee, everyone is dancing. And the Dead is dancing with us.
Right in front of the stage is Floyd Turner, dancing like there's no tomorrow, a combination whirling dervish, Charleston and twist with extraordinary virtuosity. He is expressing what he has been wanting to express all this time and we in a circle around him, clapping, feel his expression, real and powerful. Communication achieved. A cataclysmic orgasm is no better.
Then I notice the performers up there above our heads, on a stage five and one half feet high, and I realize that I envy them; I want to be up there. The stage belongs to the people. I feel the collective power of the people behind me and I feel my own ego, a monster engaged all these years in a puritanical society where "showing off" is a high taboo.
I dance toward the stage, then retreat. This several times; then riding the crest of the music, leap to the stage, pulling Karma up behind me. We are met by angry beard heads. "You're not supposed to be here." Fire regulation.
But they don't want everybody up here. O.K. then: two at a time. We get off the stage and boost two more up. Everybody can take a turn. Nobody else wants to go up. It seems to me they are afraid of looking silly; I will go up and show them it doesn't hurt to look silly, so I go up and fall on my face and get up, as if nothing happened. "See, it doesn't hurt to look foolish; come on up." Then it occurs to me that this may be another case of someone trying to lead people where they don't want to be led, of someone not knowing the people he's trying to lead.
Floyd and I are backstage after another hassle with the stage crew. He is telling me he has deep love and heavy ideas, but no words to express them. The number ends, and we rush onto the stage to take bows.
I see Mike Watson, who has worn himself slick arranging for the benefit, and I explain I wasn't trying to sabotage the show, but that people as spectators are automatons. He understands, but he explains it is the Indians' benefit, not mine. I agree, but I want to say something to the crowd. I am full of joy at the truths I have discovered, and full of myself. So Mike says I should make the closing remarks, and I agree.
But I am burning to talk. Right then. For too long I have been following leaders and listening to most of them by people who know less and care less about people than I do. So I go to the microphone, at a point when the stage is empty between groups. The microphone is shut off, and I do not have a voice like Norman Mailer.
Another hip looking, angry face orders me to get off the stage now.
"I have something to say."
"You better get off here."
"I just want to say something."
"No."
I leave.
He follows me and asks me who I am. I tell him my name and that I'm a citizen who wants to speak, He tells me his name, Boyd, and explains that I'm not on the program and that there is a schedule.
"But between groups, there's only recorded music."
"You should go to the Helix. They're nice over there. They'll let you write something. Or, speak over station KRAB; it's a good place to air your views."
"Yes, but I want to speak now,. By tomorrow, someone else may have the message or it may be lost."
He's sorry, but the program is running late already. I go back stage to prepare my closing remarks. It will be a soaring epic of the Indians, but I can see that Buffy, Suzette, and the other poetic voices of the Indians have done that as beautifully and powerfully as it can be done. I will tell them in thousands of words how limited words are...I am beginning to have an inkling that I may be just another boring speaker.
Through the curtains I watch the next act, a rock group with a good sound, and a talented mime with a painted clown's face. An angry stage manager stomps up. The curtain must be kept closed for the "continuity of the light show." I can stay, but the curtain must be zipped up, the state K.P. inviolate, the mystique of the performers preserved.
I am thinking of this mystique while I watch the performers perform back stage. It occurs to me that maybe my mind is distorting all of their behavior to fit my new hypothesis, but what I say, as I rap to a performer's woman, seated back stage, seems valid.
"You people are Gods. And you like to keep it that way. You're scared of the audience, 'the masses.' Afraid that they'll find out they can sing and dance and play too, afraid you'll lose your bread and butter. I see what the Mime Troop (San Francisco) meant by wanting to do away with rock bands. They only wanted to do away with labels, album covers, copyrights on music, copyrights on the truth."
She smiles, silent.
I hear applause, so I return to the stage for one more bow.
Later, Byron Pope's jazz group, the last on the program, is playing. At first what they are playing is not pleasant, discordant to my stoned head. I would rather play with my friends than listen, so we make a circle, hand-in-hand, and start a snake dance through the dwindled audience.
Wait a minute. It dawns on me that they are excellent musicians and that they are already mad from having to play to an empty house. I reason: performers aren't Gods, but because of their discipline and mastery, deserve some attention.
But what about Elizabethan audiences? If they didn't like the show, they let the performers know about it. The exchange between them and the actors added to the show.
In this case, it seems to me that Byron Pope's group exchanged for our inattention the most pissed-off music I had ever heard.
But it was honest and when it wasn't hurting my head, beautiful and fresh,
The short set is finished and the house lights are on. The remaining few scuff through the papers and bottles. I am disappointed about not speaking, and I feel for an instant as empty as the hall. But there are all my friends, goofing and smiling. And the Indians have a couple thousand dollars and some new allies for their struggle.
(from the Seattle Helix, November 21, 1968)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com
Alas, no tape!
Re-tribalization will be the keyword Sunday afternoon from 3 to 9 when the Grateful Dead rock group moves into the Eagles Auditorium (7th and Union) for a benefit concert to help Indian fisherman in their battle to retain traditional netting rights on the Nisqually and other Washington rivers.
Admission is a flat $2 per head. Children under 12 will be admitted free.
Al Bridges, an Indian leader who has led numerous fish-in protests at Frank's Landing near Olympia, will introduce the Dead.
Suzette Bridges, a vivacious and articulate young lady, will present the tribes' side of the fishing feud.
Backing the Dead will be the Bryon Pope Ensemble from Los Angeles, Easy Chair, Light, and Papa Bear. The Retina Circus light artists will provide illuminations.
Part of the funds from the benefit will be used to establish a bail fund for Indians and others arrested for allegedly illegal fishing. This year alone there have been 27 gill-netting arrests. Bail - formerly set at $250 - has been raised to $1000.
The Indians also must replace nets confiscated by the state. They cost between $60 and $100 apiece.
Some 40 persons, Indians and non-Indians, have established a communal colony at Frank's Landing on the Nisqually. Some live in teepees; others in tents and crude hogans. They contend that the Medicine Creek treaty of 1854 gave the Indians the right to fish in "their usual and accustomed places" for "as long as the sun shall rise, the streams shall flow and the grass shall grow."
The state, on the other hand, claims the treaty is invalid and that the Indians must adhere to seasonal regulations.
The colony at Frank's Landing is seeking to re-tribalize, to return to the bounty of Nature. But it hasn't been easy. They've been tear-gassed, terrorized and hassled by citizenry and officialdom alike.
Now they've dug in for the winter. It promises to be a long, wet one.
Their choice of the Dead for Sunday afternoon's gig is an apposite one. The Dead more or less started the whole concept of group tribalization on a musical level. Beginning with Ken Kesey and his early Acid test prankstering, the Dead (originally called the Warlocks) have solidified under their Chief, Gerry Garcia, as a sub-tribe with something to say - and the sound and talent to give their message a voice.
The Dead and the Indians. Far out!
(by Bob Houston, from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, November 15, 1968)
*
GRATEFUL DEAD
by Roger Downey:
From Herodotus to Stanley, Pizarro to Powell, mankind has loved explorers. And not only seekers in space; Nietzsche, Beethoven, Buddha, William Burroughs; what fascinates us is not their discoveries, but the risks taken to make them. We are an adventurous race at second hand.
At Eagles' Sunday the Grateful Dead mounted an expedition into the unknown, using portions of the work-in-progress called Anthem for the Sun as navigational charts. Define it as a problem (and you can't, for a problem suggests an answer): given, the universe determined by the instruments, the players' physical endurance, their creative energies: to transcend that universe by devouring it, filling it up, shattering it by pressure from within, and thus reaching Somewhere Else. Now if Somewhere Else were really the goal, and not the journey of exploration, the Dead would fail: beyond the limits of music is not Somewhere Else, but only Not-music. The end of the journey comes at the point where the senses can absorb no more, the mind can no longer comprehend, hold together, the experience; as in orgasm, things fly apart, returning to their separateness; but not unchanged. The terrain defined has been used up, thoroughly experienced, exhausted; and in the process, as in the art of love, the musicians, and the audience, so far as it can follow them, are used up, exhausted, as well.
In music, if anything is possible, and equally likely, the result is necessarily chaos. The Dead maintain a lifeline back to ordinary musical experience by their use of rhythm, refusing to allow the integrity of the line to be disrupted. When it begins to weaken, there is an immediate lessening of other musical tensions until it is re-established. This is not to say that there is anything simple about the Dead's rhythms: the section of WIP (not recorded yet, but played at Eagles' and Sky River) in 11/4 time, subdivided 3+3+3+2 is, with sections of Stravinsky's Soldier's Tale, the most exciting use of rhythm as a creative, not just a sustaining, element that I have ever heard. Over and through the polyphonic rhythmic texture, Garcia, Weir, and Lesh (who is as much a melodic contributor as the two guitar players) create a contrapuntal, ever varying texture of lines that tightens and thickens until disaster seems inevitable, then relaxes only to tighten again. It is always the texture that is important. Melody as such, solos, are secondary. Harmony in the almost defunct traditional sense is nearly absent; it could only get in the way of the development of the primary all-enveloping texture of sound.
The experience I have said, like love, is exhausting; I, and I'm sure many in the audience, longed toward the end for each climactic surge to be the last; but when the last climax came, we realized that it was in fact the only one, necessary and final.
Like good lovers, the Dead do not abandon you at the peak, but return you, not at all quickly, to earth. In the last section, the insistent pulse of rhythm is absent, melody irrelevant; the texture is open, full of yawning vacancies and sudden violent displacements. When you land, the journey seems to have been inevitable from the beginning; your feet touch ground as lightly as leaf falls.
For what it is worth, the Dead succeeded in getting an Eagles' audience on its feet and kept it there for the duration of the piece. When it was over, and the crazy calls of "More!" had died away, someone came out on stage and told us to stick around for the rest of the program. All respects to the others that played, that is like announcing, "You have just been present at the end of the world. Please stay tuned for our next big attraction."
by Max Smith:
The Dead is up there on the stage playing, and they are really looking at us, the audience, and it looks like they love us and if they didn't, wouldn't bother to pretend. And I am surrounded by people I love, and who love me. But still something is wrong. Our blood is rioting, but we're sitting there quietly as if listening to a sermon or watching Chet and Dave. A few people move with the music, but stay seated.
Karma and I are sitting there wanting to dance, wanting to pulse with that music, wanting to tell what we know and feel.
So we dance, and yippee, everyone is dancing. And the Dead is dancing with us.
Right in front of the stage is Floyd Turner, dancing like there's no tomorrow, a combination whirling dervish, Charleston and twist with extraordinary virtuosity. He is expressing what he has been wanting to express all this time and we in a circle around him, clapping, feel his expression, real and powerful. Communication achieved. A cataclysmic orgasm is no better.
Then I notice the performers up there above our heads, on a stage five and one half feet high, and I realize that I envy them; I want to be up there. The stage belongs to the people. I feel the collective power of the people behind me and I feel my own ego, a monster engaged all these years in a puritanical society where "showing off" is a high taboo.
I dance toward the stage, then retreat. This several times; then riding the crest of the music, leap to the stage, pulling Karma up behind me. We are met by angry beard heads. "You're not supposed to be here." Fire regulation.
But they don't want everybody up here. O.K. then: two at a time. We get off the stage and boost two more up. Everybody can take a turn. Nobody else wants to go up. It seems to me they are afraid of looking silly; I will go up and show them it doesn't hurt to look silly, so I go up and fall on my face and get up, as if nothing happened. "See, it doesn't hurt to look foolish; come on up." Then it occurs to me that this may be another case of someone trying to lead people where they don't want to be led, of someone not knowing the people he's trying to lead.
Floyd and I are backstage after another hassle with the stage crew. He is telling me he has deep love and heavy ideas, but no words to express them. The number ends, and we rush onto the stage to take bows.
I see Mike Watson, who has worn himself slick arranging for the benefit, and I explain I wasn't trying to sabotage the show, but that people as spectators are automatons. He understands, but he explains it is the Indians' benefit, not mine. I agree, but I want to say something to the crowd. I am full of joy at the truths I have discovered, and full of myself. So Mike says I should make the closing remarks, and I agree.
But I am burning to talk. Right then. For too long I have been following leaders and listening to most of them by people who know less and care less about people than I do. So I go to the microphone, at a point when the stage is empty between groups. The microphone is shut off, and I do not have a voice like Norman Mailer.
Another hip looking, angry face orders me to get off the stage now.
"I have something to say."
"You better get off here."
"I just want to say something."
"No."
I leave.
He follows me and asks me who I am. I tell him my name and that I'm a citizen who wants to speak, He tells me his name, Boyd, and explains that I'm not on the program and that there is a schedule.
"But between groups, there's only recorded music."
"You should go to the Helix. They're nice over there. They'll let you write something. Or, speak over station KRAB; it's a good place to air your views."
"Yes, but I want to speak now,. By tomorrow, someone else may have the message or it may be lost."
He's sorry, but the program is running late already. I go back stage to prepare my closing remarks. It will be a soaring epic of the Indians, but I can see that Buffy, Suzette, and the other poetic voices of the Indians have done that as beautifully and powerfully as it can be done. I will tell them in thousands of words how limited words are...I am beginning to have an inkling that I may be just another boring speaker.
Through the curtains I watch the next act, a rock group with a good sound, and a talented mime with a painted clown's face. An angry stage manager stomps up. The curtain must be kept closed for the "continuity of the light show." I can stay, but the curtain must be zipped up, the state K.P. inviolate, the mystique of the performers preserved.
I am thinking of this mystique while I watch the performers perform back stage. It occurs to me that maybe my mind is distorting all of their behavior to fit my new hypothesis, but what I say, as I rap to a performer's woman, seated back stage, seems valid.
"You people are Gods. And you like to keep it that way. You're scared of the audience, 'the masses.' Afraid that they'll find out they can sing and dance and play too, afraid you'll lose your bread and butter. I see what the Mime Troop (San Francisco) meant by wanting to do away with rock bands. They only wanted to do away with labels, album covers, copyrights on music, copyrights on the truth."
She smiles, silent.
I hear applause, so I return to the stage for one more bow.
Later, Byron Pope's jazz group, the last on the program, is playing. At first what they are playing is not pleasant, discordant to my stoned head. I would rather play with my friends than listen, so we make a circle, hand-in-hand, and start a snake dance through the dwindled audience.
Wait a minute. It dawns on me that they are excellent musicians and that they are already mad from having to play to an empty house. I reason: performers aren't Gods, but because of their discipline and mastery, deserve some attention.
But what about Elizabethan audiences? If they didn't like the show, they let the performers know about it. The exchange between them and the actors added to the show.
In this case, it seems to me that Byron Pope's group exchanged for our inattention the most pissed-off music I had ever heard.
But it was honest and when it wasn't hurting my head, beautiful and fresh,
The short set is finished and the house lights are on. The remaining few scuff through the papers and bottles. I am disappointed about not speaking, and I feel for an instant as empty as the hall. But there are all my friends, goofing and smiling. And the Indians have a couple thousand dollars and some new allies for their struggle.
(from the Seattle Helix, November 21, 1968)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com
Alas, no tape!
Feb 3, 2019
October 23, 1970: McDonough Gym, Georgetown U, Washington DC
SEVEN THOUSAND CRAM MCDONOUGH FOR DEAD
One of the finest rock performances to hit the Washington area happened last weekend. The Grateful Dead and their sidekick band, The Riders of the Purple Sage, played to a jam-packed audience at McDonough Gymnasium Friday night.
Possibly McDonough was the only place available for the concert, but the promoters couldn't have chosen any place worse, for at the 8:30 p.m. starting time, the hall was already packed to well over capacity. Meanwhile, over a thousand people waited outside to get in. Tickets were sold out, and all entrances were sealed and guarded by police, some with dogs. Those waiting outside were afforded the opportunity to at least hear the Dead by means of several speakers set up outside. That crowd, partially made up of ticket-holders, was not satisfied with merely listening however. They wanted to see, too. Their solution was a simple one. They clambered in open windows, smashed closed ones, and shouted obscenities at the innocent guards.
On the inside, many people, near collapse from the ninety degree heat and the 100% humidity, tried in vain to escape the unbearable discomfort. Despite their efforts, guards would not open any doors for fear of those outside charging in. Finally the guards and the management gave in. When the doors were opened, a great rush of people streamed in. At this point, McDonough Gym was not fit for human beings. Nevertheless, on "Honky Tonk Woman," Jerry Garcia's slide-guitar work and Bill Krentzmann's drumming evoked the entire mass of people to stand up and dance wildly.
Following the Riders' set, they and The Dead went back to their hotel in Washington for an hour, leaving everyone just sitting there. But the crowd, used to long delays typical of Claude Jones and Company, made good use of the time by tossing around the inevitable Frisbee. While the crowd cheered and booed the Frisbee-throwers, the Mother Truckers made their usual idiotic announcements and remarks like "Keep it Cool." There were also those who kept telling everyone to move away from the front of the stage. Because there was obviously no room, no one moved.
Finally, at eleven o'clock the Grateful Dead walked onto the stage and opened with "Casey Jones." On this through their next five songs they displayed a togetherness and musicianship that made this writer wonder why they haven't enjoyed as much success as they deserve. But it was when they went into their seventh number, "Good Lovin," that they sent the crowd wild. Garcia's five minute introduction along with Bob Weir's fine rhythm guitar work and the beat of two drummers brought the crowd to an ecstatic frenzy. Through 25 minutes of that song, Garcia and Weir swapped leads and harmonized with organist "Pignpen" McKennan and bassist Phil Lesh.
The Dead's thirty minute finale, "That's It for the Other One," was interesting, but anti-climactic after "Good Loving" and many of their earlier songs. Stomping and chanting, the audience brought The Dead back from their dressing room to encore with "Uncle John's Band," from their current album, "Workingman's Dead."
Although the music was excellent, all were relieved to get out of McDonough. Many swore they would never go to another rock concert at that place again. Again, Washington came close to ruining its concert scene.
(by Rowland Teape-Davis, from the Spur, late October 1970)
https://archive.org/details/gd1970-10-23.aud.wolfson.motb-0004.85071.flac16
See also:
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2014/08/october-23-1970-mcdonough-gym.html
https://deadsources.blogspot.com/2019/08/october-23-1970-mcdonough-gym.html
Thanks to Michael Backhouse.
One of the finest rock performances to hit the Washington area happened last weekend. The Grateful Dead and their sidekick band, The Riders of the Purple Sage, played to a jam-packed audience at McDonough Gymnasium Friday night.
Possibly McDonough was the only place available for the concert, but the promoters couldn't have chosen any place worse, for at the 8:30 p.m. starting time, the hall was already packed to well over capacity. Meanwhile, over a thousand people waited outside to get in. Tickets were sold out, and all entrances were sealed and guarded by police, some with dogs. Those waiting outside were afforded the opportunity to at least hear the Dead by means of several speakers set up outside. That crowd, partially made up of ticket-holders, was not satisfied with merely listening however. They wanted to see, too. Their solution was a simple one. They clambered in open windows, smashed closed ones, and shouted obscenities at the innocent guards.
On the inside, many people, near collapse from the ninety degree heat and the 100% humidity, tried in vain to escape the unbearable discomfort. Despite their efforts, guards would not open any doors for fear of those outside charging in. Finally the guards and the management gave in. When the doors were opened, a great rush of people streamed in. At this point, McDonough Gym was not fit for human beings. Nevertheless, on "Honky Tonk Woman," Jerry Garcia's slide-guitar work and Bill Krentzmann's drumming evoked the entire mass of people to stand up and dance wildly.
Following the Riders' set, they and The Dead went back to their hotel in Washington for an hour, leaving everyone just sitting there. But the crowd, used to long delays typical of Claude Jones and Company, made good use of the time by tossing around the inevitable Frisbee. While the crowd cheered and booed the Frisbee-throwers, the Mother Truckers made their usual idiotic announcements and remarks like "Keep it Cool." There were also those who kept telling everyone to move away from the front of the stage. Because there was obviously no room, no one moved.
Finally, at eleven o'clock the Grateful Dead walked onto the stage and opened with "Casey Jones." On this through their next five songs they displayed a togetherness and musicianship that made this writer wonder why they haven't enjoyed as much success as they deserve. But it was when they went into their seventh number, "Good Lovin," that they sent the crowd wild. Garcia's five minute introduction along with Bob Weir's fine rhythm guitar work and the beat of two drummers brought the crowd to an ecstatic frenzy. Through 25 minutes of that song, Garcia and Weir swapped leads and harmonized with organist "Pignpen" McKennan and bassist Phil Lesh.
The Dead's thirty minute finale, "That's It for the Other One," was interesting, but anti-climactic after "Good Loving" and many of their earlier songs. Stomping and chanting, the audience brought The Dead back from their dressing room to encore with "Uncle John's Band," from their current album, "Workingman's Dead."
Although the music was excellent, all were relieved to get out of McDonough. Many swore they would never go to another rock concert at that place again. Again, Washington came close to ruining its concert scene.
(by Rowland Teape-Davis, from the Spur, late October 1970)
https://archive.org/details/gd1970-10-23.aud.wolfson.motb-0004.85071.flac16
See also:
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2014/08/october-23-1970-mcdonough-gym.html
https://deadsources.blogspot.com/2019/08/october-23-1970-mcdonough-gym.html
Thanks to Michael Backhouse.
Feb 1, 2019
1970: Myths of the Dead
GRATEFUL DEAD
It has only been in the last year that the Grateful Dead have started to make the same impact nationally that they have enjoyed for years in San Francisco.
The band's popularity has grown to startling proportions, especially on the East Coast, where their concerts habitually sell out, no matter how frequently they play the area. Even the records are starting to sell in reasonable quantities - while they are not yet in the Gold Record class, both "Workingman's Dead" and "American Beauty" have done very well.
A straightforward success story of hippie capitalism in action, or so it would seem.
And yet, and yet, the Dead are not entirely what they seem to be - more than any other band, they are the victims of many myths. Some of the myths once had a bit of truth to them, but time goes on, and no one, least of all a band as fluid and experimental as they, can remain unchanged and untouched in their music and their lives.
Perhaps the time has come to explode some of these myths, for they not only distort and detract from the central point of any band - its music - but they can also cause definite harm.
Everyone is interested in the beginnings of the Grateful Dead and how they grew; everyone, that is, except the Dead themselves. Their description of how they finally formed their band is loose and vague - a jug band in San Francisco, then the Warlocks, then the Grateful Dead. It doesn't really matter how they finally got together, the important thing is that they did. Jerry Garcia and Phil Lesh have been friends for nearly ten years, but Jerry was playing with Bobby Weir in an earlier group long before Phil ever joined them. And Jerry and Pigpen McKernan played together in a totally different band. All the members of the Grateful Dead were in San Francisco and part of the cultural explosion going on there at the start of the 1960's.
And it is here that the myths come into full bloom. Tom Wolfe, in his book, "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," puts the Grateful Dead as central figures in Ken Kesey's Trips Festivals, but the truth is that at the time, the band members (not yet joined into the band) were teenagers who had little to offer Kesey and his friends in the way of intellectual experimentation that they wanted. Phil Lesh remembers going to Kesey's parties with any girl he wanted particularly to impress. But Kesey was likely to throw them out, since they were just kids unable to contribute to the evening. True, they actually participated in one Merry Pranksters trip to the extent that they travelled with them on a truck for 200 miles. Then the truck broke down. So much for that. The involvement was never any more serious than it was for many others who were involved in the music and art scene in Berkeley at the time.
But the memory, the distorted memory lingers on, compounded by the fog of "acid rock" that was bestowed in the group in the famous "summer of love" in 1967. And it is this misnomer which has so often caused trouble for the band, for their audiences, which misinterpret just exactly what that means.
Phil Lesh described acid rock as "rock you listen to while you are tripping on acid." It does not mean that the musicians are tripping. Actually, it would be most difficult for any band to play good music while stoned out of their minds.
Bobby Weir said it: "You must remember that as musicians, we must be temperate. Of all the people who get carried out of our concerts on bad trips, the Grateful Dead are never among them." But the connection remains in too many minds of people who think that the only possible way to truly understand the music is to hear it while they are wrecked on some sort of drugs. So the Dead are faced with audiences who are much more prone to trip out than is generally found. The problem is compounded by the generosity of those who are more than happy to share their acid, good or bad, with anyone who wants it. The Grateful Dead do not give out acid - another myth, that they enjoy "electrifying" their audiences. They don't have to. They know that their music can stand on its own merits and can afford to be heard by people who are unstoned.
But that belief of constant drug-taking continues to intrude. You can also find Hell's Angels around the Dead - a friendship that goes back to the days when they were both persecuted minorities in San Francisco. It all seems to indicate more of an open-mindedness that sometimes borders on the naive, a contradiction in light of their genuine intelligence. And it is the intelligence that counts in the music. The group knows that temperance is a necessity, that good music does not suddenly and magically appear without a tremendous investment of time, self-discipline, and effort.
It is called paying dues.
And the Dead are still paying dues. More than any other group of comparable stature, they continue to tour and play. In 1969 [sic], they played 20 separate engagements in the New York area alone - not 20 shows, but 20 different series of dates ranging from two to four nights. Jon MacIntire, the group's manager, complains that they are now more of a New York group than a San Francisco group, purely in terms of numbers of concerts given in either city.
And the concerts themselves have a whole set of myths clinging to them like barnacles. The myth of a free concert - no myth, actually, for the Dead, in effect, invented the free rock concert and did many in parks all over the country. But that requires permits which the change of political climate now makes excessively difficult to get. And unfortunately, it has led some kids to believe that they should never have to pay to see a Dead concert. But music is their livelihood. They have to do lots of paid dates to support themselves and the "family," which now numbers more than 50 persons. In addition, there is the staggering cost of life on the road for a show that must take at least 15 people in order to function properly.
Free concerts are a gift, they are not something that can be demanded, but because they have made these gifts before, the Dead are now faced with serious problems of gate-crashers and would-be rioters who try and force their way into the concerts. All the band members I talked to viewed with distaste the kid who, as Pigpen put it, "thinks that rock and roll owes him a living." Neither rock nor the Dead owe anyone a living. Nevertheless, this attitude [of] a certain percentage of their audience is creating real difficulties for the band. They are now in a situation where they are being forced to play bigger halls than they like, just to have the extra money needed to pay for larger security forces that the promoters are demanding as insurance against damage to their property.
It would probably be a severe shock to any fan who thinks of the Dead as the ultimate in anti-Establishment thinking to hear their views on the police at most of the concerts. While Jerry and Phil and Bobby all agree that it is unwise to make generalized statements, they concur that for the most part, the police have behaved with great dignity and restraint in the face of extreme provocation. They have seen gross exceptions, but mostly they have handled themselves extremely well when pitted against that small segment of the audience who are more interested in making trouble than in listening to the music. Jerry Garcia remembers happily that an Irish cop of about 45 came up to him after a concert in Boston and shook his hand and told him how much he enjoyed the music. Jerry found it heartening that his work was more inclusive in appeal than he otherwise supposed.
And yet, and yet - for the Grateful Dead are nothing if not honest, and therefore full of contradictions - when asked what they thought of their fans, Phil Lesh said, "I love each and every one of them." The tone was slightly facetious, but then later he repeated the statement and added, "You can quote me." The group does appreciate their fans - those famous "Dead freaks" who have been known in their excess of enthusiasm to travel 14 hours to find one of their concerts, and all those who show up whenever and wherever they play the neighborhood, no matter how often that is. Music without an audience is not music, and the Grateful Dead know this.
Where you are depends on where you have been. The Dead used to live together in a communal house in San Francisco, but times have changed and the family has expanded. Now that most of the band members have old ladies, and more and more people are added to this extended family system, a communal house is no longer practical or desirable. As a result, each one has his own house or ranch in Marin County, north of San Francisco, although family members do tend to float from house to house, staying at each for periods ranging from several weeks to several months. The arrangement is fluid and informal, but still gives everyone space to breathe, as well as a sense of roots. But it is this new direction to homes and land surrounding them that prompted Bobby Weir to make his comment that "We are neo-rednecks. Mr. and Mrs. America, that's us now." Bobby went on to explain that his nearest neighbor is the local sheriff, and that they get along very nicely on a rancher to rancher basis.
But then, as I have said before, the Grateful Dead are not ever what you expect them to be. We have all had a hand in distorting their image. They get confused with the "new politics" in spite of the fact that they refuse to support any specific politician or candidate. And then become upset when people expect them to get out and support the revolution in ways that are inimical to them. They feel, and rightly, that their music is making a revolutionary statement and that that should be enough. But they do help when they find an individual whose ideas impress them. For instance, on a recent plane trip across country, the band met Huey Newton, leader of the Black Panthers.
He told them his philosophy; they were impressed by what he said, as well as his personality. As a result, they agreed to do a benefit for the Panthers that was held in New York on Christmas Eve. They were questioned about this, and asked why, the explanation was simple and a good demonstration of how the group operates. They were impressed by Newton himself and felt that his philosophy was humanistic and benevolent. So they chose to disregard the several and conflicting Panthers credos that have been published on the grounds that all media deal in second-hand information and are therefore likely to be inaccurate. Not just inaccurate as far as groups like the Panthers are concerned, but distorted overall. Jerry Garcia would like to talk face to face with President Nixon, just to find out what his opinions really are.
But no one should give the band a group personality. Each is his own man, and they do not always agree with each other. There is a wide divergence of opinion on politics ("Are you all pacifists?" "No. The drummers are the most violent."), promoters, and music. Phil Lesh originally studied classical violin and trumpet, and even now retains an interest in Renaissance choral music and "any music that is used to get people high." Old church music, which was played in conjunction with incense and highly theatrical liturgy, is thus a prime interest. Jerry's musical beginnings are diametrically opposed to that. His first guitar was electric and his first loves were straight 50's rock. A later interest in country music was developed when he met country musicians in the army. Jerry Garcia in the army? Yes. And yet, two such diversified beginnings can blend and complement each other. There is mutual respect and a shared interest in extending themselves as musicians. Phil's bass playing is now at the stage where he can combine both rhythm and melody simultaneously ("stasis and motion" is the way he describes it). Jerry, more than any of the others, spends his spare time playing sessions on the albums of his friends - Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Jefferson Airplane's "Volunteers," Paul Kantner's solo LP, and Howard Wales' album for Douglas.
What they all care about is the music.
Life-styles, as such, should really be their own business. When they were told that someone who had heard them on both coasts considered that no matter how good [they] ever were in New York, it couldn't compare to a good night in San Francisco, they disagreed strenuously. Bobby Weir stated that some of their best concerts had been done in New York. Basically, the group likes to get off with their music, and since the more they play the higher their standards become, they have to play better and better to satisfy themselves. Result: the best shows are the most recent shows. Usually. They are the first to admit that their off-nights are totally irrevocably off. And it still sometimes happens, especially when they are tired from too much touring. They hate touring. Well, who doesn't? The only consolation is the music, so they feel compelled to make that as good as possible, for their own sakes, as well as the audience's.
The music gets better and more varied. Originally an all-electric set, the Dead have, in the last six months, expanded the format into "An Evening With The Grateful Dead." Now they can include more of the things that interest them, and in addition, leave themselves free to play with different people. The result is a three-part program that starts with an acoustic set, moves on to the New Riders of the Purple Sage - a country-rock group that includes Jerry on pedal-steel guitar and Mickey Hart on drums, as well as a tiny dynamo of a singer called Marmaduke (who has been a member of the Dead family for years) - and finally ends with the electric Dead that everyone loves. The whole concert frequently runs for five hours. How long will they continue to use this format? Phil says that they usually work in cycles that last about a year, so this one has another few months to go, before a further stretch of their talents and energies will be needed to make them happy.
Certainly this latest expansion has brought a wonderful new dimension to the group. Where previously they were noted for their instrumental work, they now do some fine singing. The three part harmonies remind many of Crosby, Stills and Nash, and not without reason. Crosby and Stills have both been long-time close friends of the group, and the story is that they have helped them with their singing. This, in turn, has brought Robert Hunter's lyrics into the foreground as never before, showing them for the integral part of the band's magic that they are. Hunter has been with the group since the beginning and frequently travels with them, although he never performs. The performers envy him the option of going on the road or not, as he wants, and cannot wait for the day when they do not have to tour quite as much as they do now.
Their plans for the future include any number of ideas that they recognize as fantasy. The proto-fantasy would be an independent record company encompassing the Dead, the Airplane, and Quicksilver Messenger Service. Another is finally having the financial means to play only when and where they want. The reality though is getting better. The group have full control over the production and packaging of their records. The albums are self-produced, and they have at last learned through their mistakes how to do good records as well as good live performances. And Warner Brothers Records is now looking for land in the Frisco area to build them a recording studio - a rare honor, since it will be the first studio built and owned by the company.
The only recent record about which they are unhappy is one called "Vintage Dead." This contains old tapes of the group as they were recorded at the Avalon Ballroom in 1966. When they signed a contract to allow the tapes to be used, it was intended to be one of a 10-record set covering the early history of San Francisco rock. Unfortunately, the company which had bought the tapes went bankrupt, sold its catalogue to another company, which then released a record containing not only a portion of those tapes, but also some other tapes they had acquired. In the group's estimation, both they and the prospective buyers have been burned. But they are philosophical about the whole thing and plan no legal action, since in all likelihood, the record would be on the market for at least a year before any judgment could be handed down. By then, it will have been bought by most of the people who are interested in having it in their collection.
They would like to do more television in the future, but on their own terms, as they did in the instance of the local San Francisco educational station which broadcast a live four hour performance of quintessential S.F. rock - the Dead, the Airplane, and Quicksilver. Any further programming of that type would ideally be "live" since they feel that even videotape weakens the immediacy of the music. But they are realistic enough to know that this will be some time coming, if at all. Certainly the commercial networks are loath to try and tackle anything as spontaneous and uncertain as the music of the Grateful Dead. But another fantasy in which they indulge is the one where they get to play a live show on New Year's Eve and keep wishing everyone a Happy New Year each hour as it comes in across the country. Just a nice cheery standard five or six hour concert with the Grateful Dead. Well, it would be [a] refreshing change from Guy Lombardo!
So they go on their way - still in debt after all these years from supporting so many people. Presumably, they could get clear financially, but that would mean giving up their help to those whom they believe should be helped. For example, they are the sole support of an experimental electronics firm in San Francisco. And they are trying to raise the money to get their friend and former sound man, Owsley Stanley, out of jail. But these are gifts, freely given, with love from the Grateful Dead. They are in some ways a most surprising collection of people, but in others just what you would expect. Good ol' Grateful Dead.
(by Penelope Ross, from Hit Parader, June 1971)
Picture caption: "By and large, some of our policemen are wonderful."
Much of this article was drawn from these November 1970 interviews:
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2014/01/november-23-1970-band-interview.html
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2014/03/november-1970-band-interview-nyc.html
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2018/06/november-1970-band-interview.html
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com.
It has only been in the last year that the Grateful Dead have started to make the same impact nationally that they have enjoyed for years in San Francisco.
The band's popularity has grown to startling proportions, especially on the East Coast, where their concerts habitually sell out, no matter how frequently they play the area. Even the records are starting to sell in reasonable quantities - while they are not yet in the Gold Record class, both "Workingman's Dead" and "American Beauty" have done very well.
A straightforward success story of hippie capitalism in action, or so it would seem.
And yet, and yet, the Dead are not entirely what they seem to be - more than any other band, they are the victims of many myths. Some of the myths once had a bit of truth to them, but time goes on, and no one, least of all a band as fluid and experimental as they, can remain unchanged and untouched in their music and their lives.
Perhaps the time has come to explode some of these myths, for they not only distort and detract from the central point of any band - its music - but they can also cause definite harm.
Everyone is interested in the beginnings of the Grateful Dead and how they grew; everyone, that is, except the Dead themselves. Their description of how they finally formed their band is loose and vague - a jug band in San Francisco, then the Warlocks, then the Grateful Dead. It doesn't really matter how they finally got together, the important thing is that they did. Jerry Garcia and Phil Lesh have been friends for nearly ten years, but Jerry was playing with Bobby Weir in an earlier group long before Phil ever joined them. And Jerry and Pigpen McKernan played together in a totally different band. All the members of the Grateful Dead were in San Francisco and part of the cultural explosion going on there at the start of the 1960's.
And it is here that the myths come into full bloom. Tom Wolfe, in his book, "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," puts the Grateful Dead as central figures in Ken Kesey's Trips Festivals, but the truth is that at the time, the band members (not yet joined into the band) were teenagers who had little to offer Kesey and his friends in the way of intellectual experimentation that they wanted. Phil Lesh remembers going to Kesey's parties with any girl he wanted particularly to impress. But Kesey was likely to throw them out, since they were just kids unable to contribute to the evening. True, they actually participated in one Merry Pranksters trip to the extent that they travelled with them on a truck for 200 miles. Then the truck broke down. So much for that. The involvement was never any more serious than it was for many others who were involved in the music and art scene in Berkeley at the time.
But the memory, the distorted memory lingers on, compounded by the fog of "acid rock" that was bestowed in the group in the famous "summer of love" in 1967. And it is this misnomer which has so often caused trouble for the band, for their audiences, which misinterpret just exactly what that means.
Phil Lesh described acid rock as "rock you listen to while you are tripping on acid." It does not mean that the musicians are tripping. Actually, it would be most difficult for any band to play good music while stoned out of their minds.
Bobby Weir said it: "You must remember that as musicians, we must be temperate. Of all the people who get carried out of our concerts on bad trips, the Grateful Dead are never among them." But the connection remains in too many minds of people who think that the only possible way to truly understand the music is to hear it while they are wrecked on some sort of drugs. So the Dead are faced with audiences who are much more prone to trip out than is generally found. The problem is compounded by the generosity of those who are more than happy to share their acid, good or bad, with anyone who wants it. The Grateful Dead do not give out acid - another myth, that they enjoy "electrifying" their audiences. They don't have to. They know that their music can stand on its own merits and can afford to be heard by people who are unstoned.
But that belief of constant drug-taking continues to intrude. You can also find Hell's Angels around the Dead - a friendship that goes back to the days when they were both persecuted minorities in San Francisco. It all seems to indicate more of an open-mindedness that sometimes borders on the naive, a contradiction in light of their genuine intelligence. And it is the intelligence that counts in the music. The group knows that temperance is a necessity, that good music does not suddenly and magically appear without a tremendous investment of time, self-discipline, and effort.
It is called paying dues.
And the Dead are still paying dues. More than any other group of comparable stature, they continue to tour and play. In 1969 [sic], they played 20 separate engagements in the New York area alone - not 20 shows, but 20 different series of dates ranging from two to four nights. Jon MacIntire, the group's manager, complains that they are now more of a New York group than a San Francisco group, purely in terms of numbers of concerts given in either city.
And the concerts themselves have a whole set of myths clinging to them like barnacles. The myth of a free concert - no myth, actually, for the Dead, in effect, invented the free rock concert and did many in parks all over the country. But that requires permits which the change of political climate now makes excessively difficult to get. And unfortunately, it has led some kids to believe that they should never have to pay to see a Dead concert. But music is their livelihood. They have to do lots of paid dates to support themselves and the "family," which now numbers more than 50 persons. In addition, there is the staggering cost of life on the road for a show that must take at least 15 people in order to function properly.
Free concerts are a gift, they are not something that can be demanded, but because they have made these gifts before, the Dead are now faced with serious problems of gate-crashers and would-be rioters who try and force their way into the concerts. All the band members I talked to viewed with distaste the kid who, as Pigpen put it, "thinks that rock and roll owes him a living." Neither rock nor the Dead owe anyone a living. Nevertheless, this attitude [of] a certain percentage of their audience is creating real difficulties for the band. They are now in a situation where they are being forced to play bigger halls than they like, just to have the extra money needed to pay for larger security forces that the promoters are demanding as insurance against damage to their property.
It would probably be a severe shock to any fan who thinks of the Dead as the ultimate in anti-Establishment thinking to hear their views on the police at most of the concerts. While Jerry and Phil and Bobby all agree that it is unwise to make generalized statements, they concur that for the most part, the police have behaved with great dignity and restraint in the face of extreme provocation. They have seen gross exceptions, but mostly they have handled themselves extremely well when pitted against that small segment of the audience who are more interested in making trouble than in listening to the music. Jerry Garcia remembers happily that an Irish cop of about 45 came up to him after a concert in Boston and shook his hand and told him how much he enjoyed the music. Jerry found it heartening that his work was more inclusive in appeal than he otherwise supposed.
And yet, and yet - for the Grateful Dead are nothing if not honest, and therefore full of contradictions - when asked what they thought of their fans, Phil Lesh said, "I love each and every one of them." The tone was slightly facetious, but then later he repeated the statement and added, "You can quote me." The group does appreciate their fans - those famous "Dead freaks" who have been known in their excess of enthusiasm to travel 14 hours to find one of their concerts, and all those who show up whenever and wherever they play the neighborhood, no matter how often that is. Music without an audience is not music, and the Grateful Dead know this.
Where you are depends on where you have been. The Dead used to live together in a communal house in San Francisco, but times have changed and the family has expanded. Now that most of the band members have old ladies, and more and more people are added to this extended family system, a communal house is no longer practical or desirable. As a result, each one has his own house or ranch in Marin County, north of San Francisco, although family members do tend to float from house to house, staying at each for periods ranging from several weeks to several months. The arrangement is fluid and informal, but still gives everyone space to breathe, as well as a sense of roots. But it is this new direction to homes and land surrounding them that prompted Bobby Weir to make his comment that "We are neo-rednecks. Mr. and Mrs. America, that's us now." Bobby went on to explain that his nearest neighbor is the local sheriff, and that they get along very nicely on a rancher to rancher basis.
But then, as I have said before, the Grateful Dead are not ever what you expect them to be. We have all had a hand in distorting their image. They get confused with the "new politics" in spite of the fact that they refuse to support any specific politician or candidate. And then become upset when people expect them to get out and support the revolution in ways that are inimical to them. They feel, and rightly, that their music is making a revolutionary statement and that that should be enough. But they do help when they find an individual whose ideas impress them. For instance, on a recent plane trip across country, the band met Huey Newton, leader of the Black Panthers.
He told them his philosophy; they were impressed by what he said, as well as his personality. As a result, they agreed to do a benefit for the Panthers that was held in New York on Christmas Eve. They were questioned about this, and asked why, the explanation was simple and a good demonstration of how the group operates. They were impressed by Newton himself and felt that his philosophy was humanistic and benevolent. So they chose to disregard the several and conflicting Panthers credos that have been published on the grounds that all media deal in second-hand information and are therefore likely to be inaccurate. Not just inaccurate as far as groups like the Panthers are concerned, but distorted overall. Jerry Garcia would like to talk face to face with President Nixon, just to find out what his opinions really are.
But no one should give the band a group personality. Each is his own man, and they do not always agree with each other. There is a wide divergence of opinion on politics ("Are you all pacifists?" "No. The drummers are the most violent."), promoters, and music. Phil Lesh originally studied classical violin and trumpet, and even now retains an interest in Renaissance choral music and "any music that is used to get people high." Old church music, which was played in conjunction with incense and highly theatrical liturgy, is thus a prime interest. Jerry's musical beginnings are diametrically opposed to that. His first guitar was electric and his first loves were straight 50's rock. A later interest in country music was developed when he met country musicians in the army. Jerry Garcia in the army? Yes. And yet, two such diversified beginnings can blend and complement each other. There is mutual respect and a shared interest in extending themselves as musicians. Phil's bass playing is now at the stage where he can combine both rhythm and melody simultaneously ("stasis and motion" is the way he describes it). Jerry, more than any of the others, spends his spare time playing sessions on the albums of his friends - Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Jefferson Airplane's "Volunteers," Paul Kantner's solo LP, and Howard Wales' album for Douglas.
What they all care about is the music.
Life-styles, as such, should really be their own business. When they were told that someone who had heard them on both coasts considered that no matter how good [they] ever were in New York, it couldn't compare to a good night in San Francisco, they disagreed strenuously. Bobby Weir stated that some of their best concerts had been done in New York. Basically, the group likes to get off with their music, and since the more they play the higher their standards become, they have to play better and better to satisfy themselves. Result: the best shows are the most recent shows. Usually. They are the first to admit that their off-nights are totally irrevocably off. And it still sometimes happens, especially when they are tired from too much touring. They hate touring. Well, who doesn't? The only consolation is the music, so they feel compelled to make that as good as possible, for their own sakes, as well as the audience's.
The music gets better and more varied. Originally an all-electric set, the Dead have, in the last six months, expanded the format into "An Evening With The Grateful Dead." Now they can include more of the things that interest them, and in addition, leave themselves free to play with different people. The result is a three-part program that starts with an acoustic set, moves on to the New Riders of the Purple Sage - a country-rock group that includes Jerry on pedal-steel guitar and Mickey Hart on drums, as well as a tiny dynamo of a singer called Marmaduke (who has been a member of the Dead family for years) - and finally ends with the electric Dead that everyone loves. The whole concert frequently runs for five hours. How long will they continue to use this format? Phil says that they usually work in cycles that last about a year, so this one has another few months to go, before a further stretch of their talents and energies will be needed to make them happy.
Certainly this latest expansion has brought a wonderful new dimension to the group. Where previously they were noted for their instrumental work, they now do some fine singing. The three part harmonies remind many of Crosby, Stills and Nash, and not without reason. Crosby and Stills have both been long-time close friends of the group, and the story is that they have helped them with their singing. This, in turn, has brought Robert Hunter's lyrics into the foreground as never before, showing them for the integral part of the band's magic that they are. Hunter has been with the group since the beginning and frequently travels with them, although he never performs. The performers envy him the option of going on the road or not, as he wants, and cannot wait for the day when they do not have to tour quite as much as they do now.
Their plans for the future include any number of ideas that they recognize as fantasy. The proto-fantasy would be an independent record company encompassing the Dead, the Airplane, and Quicksilver Messenger Service. Another is finally having the financial means to play only when and where they want. The reality though is getting better. The group have full control over the production and packaging of their records. The albums are self-produced, and they have at last learned through their mistakes how to do good records as well as good live performances. And Warner Brothers Records is now looking for land in the Frisco area to build them a recording studio - a rare honor, since it will be the first studio built and owned by the company.
The only recent record about which they are unhappy is one called "Vintage Dead." This contains old tapes of the group as they were recorded at the Avalon Ballroom in 1966. When they signed a contract to allow the tapes to be used, it was intended to be one of a 10-record set covering the early history of San Francisco rock. Unfortunately, the company which had bought the tapes went bankrupt, sold its catalogue to another company, which then released a record containing not only a portion of those tapes, but also some other tapes they had acquired. In the group's estimation, both they and the prospective buyers have been burned. But they are philosophical about the whole thing and plan no legal action, since in all likelihood, the record would be on the market for at least a year before any judgment could be handed down. By then, it will have been bought by most of the people who are interested in having it in their collection.
They would like to do more television in the future, but on their own terms, as they did in the instance of the local San Francisco educational station which broadcast a live four hour performance of quintessential S.F. rock - the Dead, the Airplane, and Quicksilver. Any further programming of that type would ideally be "live" since they feel that even videotape weakens the immediacy of the music. But they are realistic enough to know that this will be some time coming, if at all. Certainly the commercial networks are loath to try and tackle anything as spontaneous and uncertain as the music of the Grateful Dead. But another fantasy in which they indulge is the one where they get to play a live show on New Year's Eve and keep wishing everyone a Happy New Year each hour as it comes in across the country. Just a nice cheery standard five or six hour concert with the Grateful Dead. Well, it would be [a] refreshing change from Guy Lombardo!
So they go on their way - still in debt after all these years from supporting so many people. Presumably, they could get clear financially, but that would mean giving up their help to those whom they believe should be helped. For example, they are the sole support of an experimental electronics firm in San Francisco. And they are trying to raise the money to get their friend and former sound man, Owsley Stanley, out of jail. But these are gifts, freely given, with love from the Grateful Dead. They are in some ways a most surprising collection of people, but in others just what you would expect. Good ol' Grateful Dead.
(by Penelope Ross, from Hit Parader, June 1971)
Picture caption: "By and large, some of our policemen are wonderful."
Much of this article was drawn from these November 1970 interviews:
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2014/01/november-23-1970-band-interview.html
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2014/03/november-1970-band-interview-nyc.html
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2018/06/november-1970-band-interview.html
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com.
Jan 30, 2019
1970: Bob Weir Interview
THE GRATEFUL DEAD
BOB WEIR:
"WE'RE NOTHING MORE THAN AN EXTENSION OF ROCK & ROLL"
An interview by Bud Scoppa & David Reitman
Some things flow along so organically, you hate to interrupt them or bring them to an end. Like the Dead's music on a good night. So you just lie back and let yourself get carried along. When I showed up at the hotel room to talk to Bob Weir, I found Bud Scoppa there doing just that. What they were discussing was so startlingly real (for a change) that I couldn't bring myself to break it up. So Bud and I decided to combine our interview right there and I oozed into it at that point.
Talking with Bob Weir, and the assorted New Riders and friends that were present, was like hearing the Dead verbally. Maybe it was those chocolate-chip cookies, I don't know. I do know that I and Thou had their first good discussion for a long time, and since Bud was doing such a good job as Thou, I kept my questions/comments to a bare minimum. I hope this edited version of that marathon makes you feel as good as it made me feel. Or at least gives you some insights into the Dead's music.
D.R.
BS: What is your relationship with Warner Brothers like now?
BW: We finally caught on to how to make a commercial, or more commercial, record. And with that came their renewed interest in marketing us, and with their renewed interest in marketing us came a renewed relationship between them and us.
BS: But even prior to that, the "put on the Dead and spread" thing...
BW: They were without a doubt trying before that thing...
BS: It might be hard to separate these two elements, but on the one hand you've got Warner Brothers' need for a salable product and on the other hand you've got this whole vocal-traditional thing working itself out. Did those things just come together? Was it more one than the other? Did you consciously strive to make a salable record?
BW: No, not really. You try to make it as good as you can and hope that it'll be salable. Workingman's Dead came out with ten cuts on it as opposed to 3 or 4...
BS: Well, the first one was like that...
BW: Yeah.
BS: Is that the kind of thing that was just before its time?
BW: That was the kind of material we were doing at that point. Then later we got into more extended improvisational stuff. Then after doing a couple of years of that we found sort of a happy medium, where we could do both extended improvisational stuff and songs. From a record company standpoint and the way the media's set up these days, it's easier to sell songs than it is to sell improvisational long pieces.
BS: That's even more substantially true now than it was a year ago. It seems to me to be awfully tight.
BW: That's one of the restrictions of the art of making a record. The art of making a record encompasses the music, how long the piece is going to be, how appealing and how accessible it is to the audience. By accessible I mean easily understood. As opposed to John Coltrane, who played some dynamite music, I mean some really fantastic music, but he was never any superstar. And he had not much of an audience, because not many people could understand what he was playing.
BS: So accessibility was really the problem with your music...
BW: Yeah, I would think so. It bugs you if you are playing music the best you can play it, and not many people are listening, and just because you want people to listen, because you're a performer, and a performer wants people to listen, generally, you might consider changing your material or finding a new sort of material that more people will be interested in listening to, and at the same time you will still be interested in playing it. And that's kind of where we settled down, at least with Workingman's Dead.
BS: Do you prefer one way to the other? You're involved more in the improvisational aspect, aren't you?
BW: Not when I write songs. It's hard to say; I like them both. Generally when I write a song I think first of the record, of the recording of the song. It can grow from that point, in live performance. So these days I think of an encapsulated song and I try to state all the possibilities and avoid repetition and try to keep within a short space of time a whole lot of movement and to build a relatively cohesive unit out of the song. So I live in both those worlds...
BS: Complementary, in your case...
BW: Yeah, because say in a single for instance, two minutes and twenty-five seconds, if you can state a theme that could be a jam, if you can state a theme that can suggest everything that could go on for 20 minutes in that theme in 15 seconds, you've really created something...
BS: I've always thought that singles were pretty highly evolved art forms...
BW: I feel the same way.
BS: And the other thing is, not on your earlier records, but especially in live performance, it seemed what you were doing was 2:20 singles surrounded by transitions, you know, going away and coming back again. It's like when the people get up and start dancing and scream their heads off, that's when you hit that recognizable part...
BW: Right...
BS: ...and that's kind of the exciting thing.
BW: That all falls in the realm of accessibility once again.
BS: It seems like a successful formula. Like the Byrds did it with "Eight Miles High."
BW: Right. That's a really graphic example of what I was just saying...
BS: Is anybody else doing that specific process?
BW: Well, Buffalo Springfield were doing it a long time ago and so were we. A lot of bands have been doing it for a long time. You can go out at any given point and then come back and there's a flash of recognition, and that's the onstage excitement syndrome where everybody used generally the same ploys. That's a ploy where the audience gets off a whole bunch and retrospectively you get off, where you've gone out for an extended improvisational period of time, shall we say, and you flash back in on the song and everybody goes "Oh wow!"
BS: That's the thing that makes it transcendent, because it isn't really planned...
BW: We've been doing that pretty consistently on the Other One, the song with the "tiger paws" rhythm that Billy and me came up with, and the other night it was getting slowed down and convoluted and there was really no direction it was headed, and all of a sudden I had a flash of inspiration and I kind of half remembered a Coltrane riff from Africa Brass that I was particularly fond of, but I couldn't remember it all, so I made up my own tonal structure for it and I came in with a rather slow, lazy African shuffle, and Phil picked up on it real quick, and underneath it all the time was the other rhythm, because they were synchronized...
BS: You're really doing two things at once...
BW: We're playing one thing and suggesting the other, and then intuitively at one point we both made Garcia feel it; Garcia was playing in between the two. So me and Phil and I think Bill came crashing back with the other rhythm and the crowd of course stood on its head... That's a great feeling, because I look over at Garcia, before all that went down everybody was tense, trying to get it on, nobody was smiling much, and at the point that we came back into the Other One rhythm the bottom half of my face just about fell off and Garcia, well he was more grin than beard, which is unusual.
BS: And you can really avoid that whole thing about being on Broadway for 500 shows because you can make it whatever you want it, within some context.
BW: There's a lot of factors there - how much sleep we've had, how particularly inspired we are...
BS: Well that's the danger I guess. You are taking a risk every time you go out on the stage.
BW: I don't think we'll ever be at the point where we can go out there and rip off a really professional show behind playing just set music, because none of us can get off behind it any more. Because of that fatal first flash of when you get into some really far out intuitive stuff, and it's so electrifying when it works right...
BS: As much from you as the guys out in the audience...
BW: Oh, probably more, because we feel it really deeply. It's so electrifying and satisfying when it works right that we can no longer get off performing anything set. So in any of our given songs, there's very, very little structure. The structure can go only as far as chord changes and at our best, we even intuit chord changes. That's pretty far out. That hasn't been done in music yet, where people are cohesively intuiting chord changes together, and that's happened to us and that's just some amazing stuff.
BS: It really mates the mind and the body, doesn't it; it's really like coming I suppose...except in your head.
BW: Sixfold. Cause there's six of us doing it.
BS: In our all-encompassing need to classify things, it seems as though there's a movement afoot to classify the music you've been playing as something other than rock, whatever that means.
BW: It's nothing more than an extension of rock and roll, a logical, I would think, extension of rock and roll.
BS: I was thinking that calling that rock rather than calling it jazz, let's say, has as much to do with the response to the music... That's the kind of response that jazz might find it handy to imbue upon an audience, bring a kind of warm excitement back rather than a cool appreciation. Am I being simplistic?
BW: We played with Miles Davis at the Fillmore West and he started playing amplified music and, lo and behold, it's still jazz. I think there is a fine line there. One of the fine lines is that Miles Davis has been playing for how many years and he can play 32nd notes until his nose turns blue, and each one's more beautiful, more perfectly timed and well placed than the next. He has so much more technique and there's so much more going by; generally there's not too much time to get really worked up. Though he has the same effect on me that a really good rock band does, he really gets me off. He's got a lot of young people in his band and when I was listening to him at the Fillmore West, he'd take a solo and split and some other soloist would come in, but they're all younger guys, pretty much in our range. They're pretty well versed and certainly musically know a lot about what they're doing, but they didn't get off - I know they didn't get me off - like Miles got me off; as soon as he stepped back up to the microphone and started doing what he was up to, playing his trumpet...
DR: Didn't jazz in a sense get away from the people, during the bebop era; as you said, they ripped off a whole bunch of 32nd and 64th notes and it was very hard to know what was going on, unless you were a musician, whereas what you're doing is a little more accessible because you don't play as many notes.
BW: Well, it depends what you're going after. Of course what you're going after depends on who you are. Like I say about accessibility, I can appreciate Coltrane - Phil turned me on to Coltrane as a matter of fact - but how many people can appreciate Coltrane? I guess it's a shame Coltrane sacrificed accessibility for something else - whatever else he was doing. And the result was he had little audience and great music.
DR: You seem to be trying to get an audience and make great music.
BW: Well, we try to learn by example, and Coltrane set a really striking example of that possibility where you can get just too far out... He brings me up and I start playing stuff I didn't know I could play, and I imagine when I'm 30 years old, I'll be doing that to somebody else. So we have a scene where we have people who know where to go and people who can follow, but it gets turned around - sometimes I have the far-out idea - generally it's Garcia or Phil - but sometimes I have the far-out idea and it goes that direction, but in that we have so many people playing together and a sort of a basic commitment to make it understandable to everybody in the band - and by taking in everybody in the band you can generally reach everybody who's listening - it seems to work.
BS: It seems like every X factor you add, you multiply the number of levels you can reach, because you're bringing in all the levels each person is capable of and all the levels they're capable of getting to with each other's help.
BW: Right. But somehow it didn't work that way with Coltrane, where he had a lot of people, he had Pharaoh Sanders, McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison, and of course Elvin Jones, and the combination of Trane and Jones was the musical happening of that decade for certain, probably the musical happening of the quarter century, for that matter. But they were all too well versed, there wasn't enough diversity in what they were all into. They were all pretty much conservatory trained musicians and they started right there on a level that's beyond the man on the street's, and of course they got better and better, more proficient in their realm, and left more and more men on the streets being men on the streets instead of enlightened individuals, like they left a few.
BS: I guess it's all in the way you look at music, like if you define music as that which is played and that which is heard...
BW: Right, right...
BS: Then Coltrane is less valid than, let's say, the Beatles.
BW: For sure, in that sense.
BS: It seems to me that, as you move up the line, that if you keep one hand locked onto what you started with...
BW: We started with something different because our roots are completely different than Coltrane's. Jazz obviously came out of the blues and into what Coltrane was doing. But our roots are American country music, and a little bit of country blues, as exemplified by the jug band. Seeing as though we've been playing around those forms of music for a long time, we understand them best and work within those modes, and those modes are really ingrained on people's psyches. They've heard blues, rehashed and rehashed, to the point that none of it can get by them; so we're relatively safe if we keep working in that area, for the next few years, in terms of getting over people's heads.
DR: Why do you suppose that older country musicians never took it in the direction you're going in, that is take it as a basis and then stretch it out?
BW: Well, I would say probably economic reasons. If you're a Nashville studio musician you play Nashville studio music, that's how you make your living, and I imagine they get together and jam. I've heard stories of rooms full of pedal steel guitar players, and as early as 1964 - 1963 actually - the big rage down there was playing Charlie Parker riffs, on the pedal steel guitar, getting them perfect, sounding like a horn. If they can do that, they can fuckin' do anything. And the pedal steel guitar is an amazing instrument anyway. And there's other perfectly capable musicians down there, I don't have to start running off examples among those musicians, there must be some supermen who can do anything, and I imagine they've done pretty much anything you can imagine down there in their own spare time. You don't hear it because there's apparently no market for it.
BS: Well, maybe you'll help them indirectly.
BW: The restrictions of their art are how far you can get within the 3-chord or 4-chord restrictions of country music. And that's a meaningful restriction. And a restriction like that makes the form a fine art. They've done some really amazing stuff behind those limitations.
BS: Strict limitations don't always hurt. I think in some cases they kind of compress and challenge artists who ordinarily might be too lazy to challenge themselves.
BW: Either that or they have a tendency to force scenes you can't spread out, they have a tendency to force you higher. If we're playing in a country mode, you won't hear us going off into Coltrane licks and that's understood; in order to appreciate the art form, the country music art form, you have to appreciate its limitations, you have to play within it. At the age of 23 I can't say I'm going to be the innovator that's going to melt these two together, because I can't say that I've got enough experience or proficiency or anything to be that innovator until I'm sixty years old.
BS: And you do keep them distinctively separate.
BW: We at least try to.
BS: By having two separate parts of the show, with the New Riders of the Purple Sage, rather than one in the middle of the other, let's say, and by using certain musicians in each...
BW: Right...
BS: By adding that to what you already have it's kind of like a natural completion. You've been giving them post-rock and roll and now you're giving them pre-rock and roll, and the middle is the core and the core is just the distance. That kind of leaving a no man's land between them. Which is the body of what they've been hearing for the last few years.
BW: You can suggest all that by giving them the roots and giving them the logical completion, not the completion but the extension of where they're going, and you can suggest easily all the distance in between. A lot of times we play Coasters songs and "Good Lovin'" for instance, and stuff like that.
DR: Weren't the New Riders born out of necessity as much as just pleasure?
BW: Pleasure.
DR: But doesn't that experience enhance what you do elsewhere? You can bring things back from it.
BW: It's an attempt to bring more different music to the people...
BS: You know, what you have is a close parallel to Kubrick's "Space Odyssey." You know, the ape throws the bone into the air and it turns into a rocket ship. The bone turning into a rocket ship and becoming all those thousands of years that went in between, you know, in a much compressed sense...
BW: You know we've suggested much more music than we can possibly between all of us play in one night...
BS: When I first heard American Beauty I really liked it instantly a lot better than Workingman's Dead, like I always liked some tracks on it, but I never could get behind the whole album. I thought Live Dead was the one that should have been shouted about instead, or should have sold, but this one is really good. I don't know what the difference is. I think you do sound a little tighter vocally now.
BW: That, as a matter of fact, has been instrumental in the change. The change that has been the most noticeable to the record buying public. Well, we all decided that we'd like to sing, because singing is a lot of fun and we'd been glossing over it for a long time, and all of a sudden we delved into it. That was pretty much maybe like Crosby's and Stills' influence on us, cause they were hanging out for a while with us back around this time last year, and they were really good singers and they never directly got together with us and coached us on our singing, but perhaps their influence...whatever it was, we began singing together.
DR: Why do you suppose the Dead have lasted as long as they have? Is it because you have been denied the ego conflicts brought about by super-stardom?
BW: If I get to be rich I'll be glad. If, on the other hand, I get to be a rock and roll star, it'll probably bum kick me. Because that makes it impossible to relate to people. It's to the point now where it would be very difficult for me or any one of us really to fall into a scene here in New York, for instance, because most everybody knows our faces now and we just cannot relate to people on a person-to-person level. The time-honored bitch of the star.
BS: Well, it's as valid as it ever was.
BW: Like we had a whole myth and we actually supported that myth in the eventuality that someday we might make it big. We supported that myth in the hopes that even if we did make it big, that we could still be real people and still have the fun that real people have and still have the trips that real people have. And apparently that's not possible with the arrangement the media have got for promoting music.
BS: It's funny. Groups will come into town for the first time and I'll talk to them and they'll be just like you and me [and the next time] they'll have a best-selling record and they'll be changed.
BW: It's hard not to.
BS: Well, I guess you get protective of your own time.
BW: I know very few people who have achieved any success who've gotten a big head behind it or anything like that. But you do get defensive and you do get a lot of shit laid on you. Like, for instance, along with success comes responsibility and people assume that you should be owned up to the responsibility, and that of course is a great weight on you. Like for instance I've got to be right on with whatever I say, and I've got to be as universal in my thinking as I can possibly be, and if I'm ever pursued to make a statement about a given subject it's got to be like I say, right on. Or I'm going to start factionalizing people. If I said "Kill the pigs" or came across with that philosophy, then all of a sudden you find there's a bunch of people that are on that trip and, "So and so from so and so group are big stars, and they say that, so that must be where it's at." You start scenes like that and you can easily create a whole lot of unrest. It gets beyond music into political philosophy. And I'm a musician, not a political philosopher. And generally I say, "I just play the guitar" or words to that effect. I may have the feelings on any given subject, but a lot of times I'm not at liberty to express them.
BS: Well, you're pretty much acting out your political philosophy.
BW: Exactly. This is my bitch: that people don't see I'm living and acting out any political or social philosophy that I may have. I'm not a perfect example of the way I think and the way I feel about things, because the way I think and feel about things hasn't come to completion yet. So you can only see it half way and you can misconstrue what you see, easily. So I have to be very evasive. And that's generally the case for most everybody...
(by Bud Scoppa & David Reitman, from Rock, 15 February 1971 - also partially reprinted in Sounds (UK), 15 May 1971)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com.
BOB WEIR:
"WE'RE NOTHING MORE THAN AN EXTENSION OF ROCK & ROLL"
An interview by Bud Scoppa & David Reitman
Some things flow along so organically, you hate to interrupt them or bring them to an end. Like the Dead's music on a good night. So you just lie back and let yourself get carried along. When I showed up at the hotel room to talk to Bob Weir, I found Bud Scoppa there doing just that. What they were discussing was so startlingly real (for a change) that I couldn't bring myself to break it up. So Bud and I decided to combine our interview right there and I oozed into it at that point.
Talking with Bob Weir, and the assorted New Riders and friends that were present, was like hearing the Dead verbally. Maybe it was those chocolate-chip cookies, I don't know. I do know that I and Thou had their first good discussion for a long time, and since Bud was doing such a good job as Thou, I kept my questions/comments to a bare minimum. I hope this edited version of that marathon makes you feel as good as it made me feel. Or at least gives you some insights into the Dead's music.
D.R.
BS: What is your relationship with Warner Brothers like now?
BW: We finally caught on to how to make a commercial, or more commercial, record. And with that came their renewed interest in marketing us, and with their renewed interest in marketing us came a renewed relationship between them and us.
BS: But even prior to that, the "put on the Dead and spread" thing...
BW: They were without a doubt trying before that thing...
BS: It might be hard to separate these two elements, but on the one hand you've got Warner Brothers' need for a salable product and on the other hand you've got this whole vocal-traditional thing working itself out. Did those things just come together? Was it more one than the other? Did you consciously strive to make a salable record?
BW: No, not really. You try to make it as good as you can and hope that it'll be salable. Workingman's Dead came out with ten cuts on it as opposed to 3 or 4...
BS: Well, the first one was like that...
BW: Yeah.
BS: Is that the kind of thing that was just before its time?
BW: That was the kind of material we were doing at that point. Then later we got into more extended improvisational stuff. Then after doing a couple of years of that we found sort of a happy medium, where we could do both extended improvisational stuff and songs. From a record company standpoint and the way the media's set up these days, it's easier to sell songs than it is to sell improvisational long pieces.
BS: That's even more substantially true now than it was a year ago. It seems to me to be awfully tight.
BW: That's one of the restrictions of the art of making a record. The art of making a record encompasses the music, how long the piece is going to be, how appealing and how accessible it is to the audience. By accessible I mean easily understood. As opposed to John Coltrane, who played some dynamite music, I mean some really fantastic music, but he was never any superstar. And he had not much of an audience, because not many people could understand what he was playing.
BS: So accessibility was really the problem with your music...
BW: Yeah, I would think so. It bugs you if you are playing music the best you can play it, and not many people are listening, and just because you want people to listen, because you're a performer, and a performer wants people to listen, generally, you might consider changing your material or finding a new sort of material that more people will be interested in listening to, and at the same time you will still be interested in playing it. And that's kind of where we settled down, at least with Workingman's Dead.
BS: Do you prefer one way to the other? You're involved more in the improvisational aspect, aren't you?
BW: Not when I write songs. It's hard to say; I like them both. Generally when I write a song I think first of the record, of the recording of the song. It can grow from that point, in live performance. So these days I think of an encapsulated song and I try to state all the possibilities and avoid repetition and try to keep within a short space of time a whole lot of movement and to build a relatively cohesive unit out of the song. So I live in both those worlds...
BS: Complementary, in your case...
BW: Yeah, because say in a single for instance, two minutes and twenty-five seconds, if you can state a theme that could be a jam, if you can state a theme that can suggest everything that could go on for 20 minutes in that theme in 15 seconds, you've really created something...
BS: I've always thought that singles were pretty highly evolved art forms...
BW: I feel the same way.
BS: And the other thing is, not on your earlier records, but especially in live performance, it seemed what you were doing was 2:20 singles surrounded by transitions, you know, going away and coming back again. It's like when the people get up and start dancing and scream their heads off, that's when you hit that recognizable part...
BW: Right...
BS: ...and that's kind of the exciting thing.
BW: That all falls in the realm of accessibility once again.
BS: It seems like a successful formula. Like the Byrds did it with "Eight Miles High."
BW: Right. That's a really graphic example of what I was just saying...
BS: Is anybody else doing that specific process?
BW: Well, Buffalo Springfield were doing it a long time ago and so were we. A lot of bands have been doing it for a long time. You can go out at any given point and then come back and there's a flash of recognition, and that's the onstage excitement syndrome where everybody used generally the same ploys. That's a ploy where the audience gets off a whole bunch and retrospectively you get off, where you've gone out for an extended improvisational period of time, shall we say, and you flash back in on the song and everybody goes "Oh wow!"
BS: That's the thing that makes it transcendent, because it isn't really planned...
BW: We've been doing that pretty consistently on the Other One, the song with the "tiger paws" rhythm that Billy and me came up with, and the other night it was getting slowed down and convoluted and there was really no direction it was headed, and all of a sudden I had a flash of inspiration and I kind of half remembered a Coltrane riff from Africa Brass that I was particularly fond of, but I couldn't remember it all, so I made up my own tonal structure for it and I came in with a rather slow, lazy African shuffle, and Phil picked up on it real quick, and underneath it all the time was the other rhythm, because they were synchronized...
BS: You're really doing two things at once...
BW: We're playing one thing and suggesting the other, and then intuitively at one point we both made Garcia feel it; Garcia was playing in between the two. So me and Phil and I think Bill came crashing back with the other rhythm and the crowd of course stood on its head... That's a great feeling, because I look over at Garcia, before all that went down everybody was tense, trying to get it on, nobody was smiling much, and at the point that we came back into the Other One rhythm the bottom half of my face just about fell off and Garcia, well he was more grin than beard, which is unusual.
BS: And you can really avoid that whole thing about being on Broadway for 500 shows because you can make it whatever you want it, within some context.
BW: There's a lot of factors there - how much sleep we've had, how particularly inspired we are...
BS: Well that's the danger I guess. You are taking a risk every time you go out on the stage.
BW: I don't think we'll ever be at the point where we can go out there and rip off a really professional show behind playing just set music, because none of us can get off behind it any more. Because of that fatal first flash of when you get into some really far out intuitive stuff, and it's so electrifying when it works right...
BS: As much from you as the guys out in the audience...
BW: Oh, probably more, because we feel it really deeply. It's so electrifying and satisfying when it works right that we can no longer get off performing anything set. So in any of our given songs, there's very, very little structure. The structure can go only as far as chord changes and at our best, we even intuit chord changes. That's pretty far out. That hasn't been done in music yet, where people are cohesively intuiting chord changes together, and that's happened to us and that's just some amazing stuff.
BS: It really mates the mind and the body, doesn't it; it's really like coming I suppose...except in your head.
BW: Sixfold. Cause there's six of us doing it.
BS: In our all-encompassing need to classify things, it seems as though there's a movement afoot to classify the music you've been playing as something other than rock, whatever that means.
BW: It's nothing more than an extension of rock and roll, a logical, I would think, extension of rock and roll.
BS: I was thinking that calling that rock rather than calling it jazz, let's say, has as much to do with the response to the music... That's the kind of response that jazz might find it handy to imbue upon an audience, bring a kind of warm excitement back rather than a cool appreciation. Am I being simplistic?
BW: We played with Miles Davis at the Fillmore West and he started playing amplified music and, lo and behold, it's still jazz. I think there is a fine line there. One of the fine lines is that Miles Davis has been playing for how many years and he can play 32nd notes until his nose turns blue, and each one's more beautiful, more perfectly timed and well placed than the next. He has so much more technique and there's so much more going by; generally there's not too much time to get really worked up. Though he has the same effect on me that a really good rock band does, he really gets me off. He's got a lot of young people in his band and when I was listening to him at the Fillmore West, he'd take a solo and split and some other soloist would come in, but they're all younger guys, pretty much in our range. They're pretty well versed and certainly musically know a lot about what they're doing, but they didn't get off - I know they didn't get me off - like Miles got me off; as soon as he stepped back up to the microphone and started doing what he was up to, playing his trumpet...
DR: Didn't jazz in a sense get away from the people, during the bebop era; as you said, they ripped off a whole bunch of 32nd and 64th notes and it was very hard to know what was going on, unless you were a musician, whereas what you're doing is a little more accessible because you don't play as many notes.
BW: Well, it depends what you're going after. Of course what you're going after depends on who you are. Like I say about accessibility, I can appreciate Coltrane - Phil turned me on to Coltrane as a matter of fact - but how many people can appreciate Coltrane? I guess it's a shame Coltrane sacrificed accessibility for something else - whatever else he was doing. And the result was he had little audience and great music.
DR: You seem to be trying to get an audience and make great music.
BW: Well, we try to learn by example, and Coltrane set a really striking example of that possibility where you can get just too far out... He brings me up and I start playing stuff I didn't know I could play, and I imagine when I'm 30 years old, I'll be doing that to somebody else. So we have a scene where we have people who know where to go and people who can follow, but it gets turned around - sometimes I have the far-out idea - generally it's Garcia or Phil - but sometimes I have the far-out idea and it goes that direction, but in that we have so many people playing together and a sort of a basic commitment to make it understandable to everybody in the band - and by taking in everybody in the band you can generally reach everybody who's listening - it seems to work.
BS: It seems like every X factor you add, you multiply the number of levels you can reach, because you're bringing in all the levels each person is capable of and all the levels they're capable of getting to with each other's help.
BW: Right. But somehow it didn't work that way with Coltrane, where he had a lot of people, he had Pharaoh Sanders, McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison, and of course Elvin Jones, and the combination of Trane and Jones was the musical happening of that decade for certain, probably the musical happening of the quarter century, for that matter. But they were all too well versed, there wasn't enough diversity in what they were all into. They were all pretty much conservatory trained musicians and they started right there on a level that's beyond the man on the street's, and of course they got better and better, more proficient in their realm, and left more and more men on the streets being men on the streets instead of enlightened individuals, like they left a few.
BS: I guess it's all in the way you look at music, like if you define music as that which is played and that which is heard...
BW: Right, right...
BS: Then Coltrane is less valid than, let's say, the Beatles.
BW: For sure, in that sense.
BS: It seems to me that, as you move up the line, that if you keep one hand locked onto what you started with...
BW: We started with something different because our roots are completely different than Coltrane's. Jazz obviously came out of the blues and into what Coltrane was doing. But our roots are American country music, and a little bit of country blues, as exemplified by the jug band. Seeing as though we've been playing around those forms of music for a long time, we understand them best and work within those modes, and those modes are really ingrained on people's psyches. They've heard blues, rehashed and rehashed, to the point that none of it can get by them; so we're relatively safe if we keep working in that area, for the next few years, in terms of getting over people's heads.
DR: Why do you suppose that older country musicians never took it in the direction you're going in, that is take it as a basis and then stretch it out?
BW: Well, I would say probably economic reasons. If you're a Nashville studio musician you play Nashville studio music, that's how you make your living, and I imagine they get together and jam. I've heard stories of rooms full of pedal steel guitar players, and as early as 1964 - 1963 actually - the big rage down there was playing Charlie Parker riffs, on the pedal steel guitar, getting them perfect, sounding like a horn. If they can do that, they can fuckin' do anything. And the pedal steel guitar is an amazing instrument anyway. And there's other perfectly capable musicians down there, I don't have to start running off examples among those musicians, there must be some supermen who can do anything, and I imagine they've done pretty much anything you can imagine down there in their own spare time. You don't hear it because there's apparently no market for it.
BS: Well, maybe you'll help them indirectly.
BW: The restrictions of their art are how far you can get within the 3-chord or 4-chord restrictions of country music. And that's a meaningful restriction. And a restriction like that makes the form a fine art. They've done some really amazing stuff behind those limitations.
BS: Strict limitations don't always hurt. I think in some cases they kind of compress and challenge artists who ordinarily might be too lazy to challenge themselves.
BW: Either that or they have a tendency to force scenes you can't spread out, they have a tendency to force you higher. If we're playing in a country mode, you won't hear us going off into Coltrane licks and that's understood; in order to appreciate the art form, the country music art form, you have to appreciate its limitations, you have to play within it. At the age of 23 I can't say I'm going to be the innovator that's going to melt these two together, because I can't say that I've got enough experience or proficiency or anything to be that innovator until I'm sixty years old.
BS: And you do keep them distinctively separate.
BW: We at least try to.
BS: By having two separate parts of the show, with the New Riders of the Purple Sage, rather than one in the middle of the other, let's say, and by using certain musicians in each...
BW: Right...
BS: By adding that to what you already have it's kind of like a natural completion. You've been giving them post-rock and roll and now you're giving them pre-rock and roll, and the middle is the core and the core is just the distance. That kind of leaving a no man's land between them. Which is the body of what they've been hearing for the last few years.
BW: You can suggest all that by giving them the roots and giving them the logical completion, not the completion but the extension of where they're going, and you can suggest easily all the distance in between. A lot of times we play Coasters songs and "Good Lovin'" for instance, and stuff like that.
DR: Weren't the New Riders born out of necessity as much as just pleasure?
BW: Pleasure.
DR: But doesn't that experience enhance what you do elsewhere? You can bring things back from it.
BW: It's an attempt to bring more different music to the people...
BS: You know, what you have is a close parallel to Kubrick's "Space Odyssey." You know, the ape throws the bone into the air and it turns into a rocket ship. The bone turning into a rocket ship and becoming all those thousands of years that went in between, you know, in a much compressed sense...
BW: You know we've suggested much more music than we can possibly between all of us play in one night...
BS: When I first heard American Beauty I really liked it instantly a lot better than Workingman's Dead, like I always liked some tracks on it, but I never could get behind the whole album. I thought Live Dead was the one that should have been shouted about instead, or should have sold, but this one is really good. I don't know what the difference is. I think you do sound a little tighter vocally now.
BW: That, as a matter of fact, has been instrumental in the change. The change that has been the most noticeable to the record buying public. Well, we all decided that we'd like to sing, because singing is a lot of fun and we'd been glossing over it for a long time, and all of a sudden we delved into it. That was pretty much maybe like Crosby's and Stills' influence on us, cause they were hanging out for a while with us back around this time last year, and they were really good singers and they never directly got together with us and coached us on our singing, but perhaps their influence...whatever it was, we began singing together.
DR: Why do you suppose the Dead have lasted as long as they have? Is it because you have been denied the ego conflicts brought about by super-stardom?
BW: If I get to be rich I'll be glad. If, on the other hand, I get to be a rock and roll star, it'll probably bum kick me. Because that makes it impossible to relate to people. It's to the point now where it would be very difficult for me or any one of us really to fall into a scene here in New York, for instance, because most everybody knows our faces now and we just cannot relate to people on a person-to-person level. The time-honored bitch of the star.
BS: Well, it's as valid as it ever was.
BW: Like we had a whole myth and we actually supported that myth in the eventuality that someday we might make it big. We supported that myth in the hopes that even if we did make it big, that we could still be real people and still have the fun that real people have and still have the trips that real people have. And apparently that's not possible with the arrangement the media have got for promoting music.
BS: It's funny. Groups will come into town for the first time and I'll talk to them and they'll be just like you and me [and the next time] they'll have a best-selling record and they'll be changed.
BW: It's hard not to.
BS: Well, I guess you get protective of your own time.
BW: I know very few people who have achieved any success who've gotten a big head behind it or anything like that. But you do get defensive and you do get a lot of shit laid on you. Like, for instance, along with success comes responsibility and people assume that you should be owned up to the responsibility, and that of course is a great weight on you. Like for instance I've got to be right on with whatever I say, and I've got to be as universal in my thinking as I can possibly be, and if I'm ever pursued to make a statement about a given subject it's got to be like I say, right on. Or I'm going to start factionalizing people. If I said "Kill the pigs" or came across with that philosophy, then all of a sudden you find there's a bunch of people that are on that trip and, "So and so from so and so group are big stars, and they say that, so that must be where it's at." You start scenes like that and you can easily create a whole lot of unrest. It gets beyond music into political philosophy. And I'm a musician, not a political philosopher. And generally I say, "I just play the guitar" or words to that effect. I may have the feelings on any given subject, but a lot of times I'm not at liberty to express them.
BS: Well, you're pretty much acting out your political philosophy.
BW: Exactly. This is my bitch: that people don't see I'm living and acting out any political or social philosophy that I may have. I'm not a perfect example of the way I think and the way I feel about things, because the way I think and feel about things hasn't come to completion yet. So you can only see it half way and you can misconstrue what you see, easily. So I have to be very evasive. And that's generally the case for most everybody...
(by Bud Scoppa & David Reitman, from Rock, 15 February 1971 - also partially reprinted in Sounds (UK), 15 May 1971)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com.
Jan 29, 2019
October 19, 1971: Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh & John Dawson Interviews
OCTOBER 19, 1971
Northrop Auditorium, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis
KQRS-FM Broadcast
PART I - JERRY
DJ: We'll be back with more of the Grateful Dead in a moment. This afternoon John Peet talked with Jerry Garcia, and it went like this.
Q: //during the Grateful Dead concert, we are doing it before the Grateful Dead concert. Jerry Garcia here. You'll notice that there's a lot of noise in the background, it's due to the fact that people are setting up the equipment, getting ready for the program to go on tonight. Jerry, you've been on the road for so long now, I'm sure that you're pretty used to this sort of thing, the pre-concert thing. What does everybody get into from that aspect - I notice a number of the musicians come out, some of them start to tune, some of them start to play - how much are they getting [into it]?
GARCIA: Well, it's the idea of hanging out where the workers [are], you know what I mean? It's kind of like - it's kind of another version of the sidewalk superintendent trip, you know, when there's guys putting up a building or something like that, there's always people standing around watching - it's kind of like - that's one of the things that's happening - and the other thing that's happening is everybody likes to get into a place to kind of feel what it's like, get in early enough to try - sound out various different ways of playing your instrument, making sure your equipment works, all that kind of stuff. You know, getting used to it.
Q: You were here - it's about 2:00 in the afternoon, you've been here for about an hour and a half now just kind of looking over the hall - what do you do, just pick up how it's going to sound and how it's going to feel?
GARCIA: All that. I just let it hit me - it's like watching TV or something, it's like - I don't have any formula, I just like to hang out.
Q: Does all it depend upon the - we were talking last night about the EQ. (G: Right.) Does that have something to do with it?
GARCIA: Oh yeah. Sure, because - this place is going to be transformed when the show starts, you know, when we get playing tonight, so it's like it's kind of groovy to get an idea of what kind of vehicle is being used, you know what I mean - like a road test.
Q: Do you have any idea how many individual pieces of equipment the Grateful Dead brought with them, along with the New Riders?
GARCIA: How many pieces do we have there, Rod? [Rod answers.]
Q: 150 pieces of equipment. Plus 22 people, nine of whom play - and this is really quite an organization. (G: Right.) I mean it isn't just a couple guys going round the country playing rock & roll...how much different is it from when you started?
GARCIA: Not much.
Q: The trip remains the same.
GARCIA: Yeah, the trip is basically still the same, it's just that, you know, now we've got 150 pieces, you know, and 22 people.
Q: In other words, quite a bit of the bread that you've made over the years has gone back into it.
GARCIA: Yeah, well right, that's our whole scene - I mean, we have faith in what we're doing, so in that sense we kind of like invest in ourselves, or invest in our trip - make it better.
Q: You've appeared now just recently on the Jerry Garcia-Howard Wales Hooteroll album, and I understand that you do - primarily just gig with him just once in a while.
GARCIA: Yeah, I also play with another fella out in San Francisco named Merl Saunders who's an organ player - and Tom Fogerty, he used to play in Creedence Clearwater - and the same rhythm section that was on that Hooteroll record, John Kahn and Bill Vitt. We play around in bars and nightclubs and so on.
Q: Just for kicks?
GARCIA: Yeah.
Q: I just take it you're getting on with each other.
GARCIA: Yeah - my whole trip is that I just enjoy playing, I enjoy playing any context - see, the Grateful Dead being this complex institution - it's like groovy to be able to play in a situation which is not of any great interest to anybody, but just a chance to get off, you know.
Q: How about the other group that you're playing with now, the New Riders of the Purple Sage, was this your idea?
GARCIA: No no no, the New Riders was more or less a spontaneous creation - basically founded on Marmaduke and his songs.
Q: And then you don't regard yourself as the prime mover in that group.
GARCIA: Oh no, I don't regard myself as the prime mover in any group. See, it's like my function, my role as a musician - I work better in a situation where I'm working with somebody else on their - on somebody else's music, [rather than my own], in the sense of - you know, like I've always enjoyed working with Crosby and those guys because they have their own ideas about what music should be and I work well in that complementary context, you know, and that's the way I like to think of myself in any situation - I don't really think of myself as a [musical leader].
Q: Well the New Riders, of course their style is quite a bit different from the Grateful Dead (G: Right), and when you're doing the same concert in the same amount of time with two different groups, do you have to change your frame of mind to get into playing with, you know, a different thing, or does it all just [count]?
GARCIA: Not really, it's all music - although, you know, being in the Grateful Dead is like - is something very far out, you know, it's not - it's just a whole different trip - there's nothing else, no other thing compares to it, you know what I mean, it's unique.
Q: It isn't just music, is it?
GARCIA: No.
Q: Is there a little bit of a family - there's gotta be a family-type relationship with guys like you who've been on the road for quite some time.
GARCIA: Well, definitely, everybody in the whole scene, in fact all these guys that are working here on the stage, you know, we're all - you know, we've all been through a lot together...on our sojourns...
Q: How many people have you picked up over the past say two years now, as far as new people are concerned?
GARCIA: I don't know, I would say about four or five people in the last couple years - it's like, the people who are our scene, we sort of find them and they find us, you know what I mean - it's just, whoever thinks that they can dig it - not unlike a motorcycle club in that respect, you know what I mean, it's not really everybody's cup of tea, but there are some people that it's really right for.
Q: That's an interesting concept, for comparison.
GARCIA: You know, it's turned out to be that way, because we've had people [knowing] that it wasn't really right for, it wasn't the right thing for 'em - you know, it's definitely something some people can get into.
Q: Now your organist is not on this tour (G: We have a new -), you have a new organist.
GARCIA: Right, he plays piano, too.
Q: Now what is happening on the homefront, are you still using Pigpen on the other things?
GARCIA: Well, Pigpen is sick, that's his main reason for not being on this tour - and you know, when he's well, we get into our next set of [practice], whenever that is - Actually, Pigpen didn't really play that much organ on that many tunes or anything like that, he was mostly more into just doing what he does, singing.
Q: Who's your new organist now?
GARCIA: He's Keith Godchaux.
Q: And how did he happen to come to you guys?
GARCIA: Well...he's the guy that thought that he was the right guy for the job, and he came around and we tried playing with him and it seemed to work out real well, and that's just the thing that happened. It's exactly like what I was talking about a while ago, there's some people that are just, that's what they're supposed to be doing, you know.
Q: And it just seems to fit together.
GARCIA: Yeah. Well, you know, it doesn't always, you know, obviously, if there's a lot of people [...] the Grateful Dead, it's not really what's happening, you know what I mean, but there are some times when something just happens and it's mutual and everybody gets off behind it, obviously it's the right thing to do.
Q: Jerry, do you envisage doing anything other than being on the road and being a rock & roll musician?
GARCIA: Well, I'm a musician, y'know - I don't like to define myself any more than just saying that I'm a musician - I don't think of myself as a rock & roll musician, you know, really. That's what I do, music's my life...
Q: Do you plan [on]...branching out into other phases of the arts [...]?
GARCIA: Well, I would like to get into movies sometime, because I enjoy making movies - I mean, that would be like from the standpoint of being someone who might direct, you know, or just put together my own movies for laughs, but not like an actor or anything like that. You know, obviously I'm interested in all those -
Q: I think you'd be very good as an actor.
GARCIA: It's not my cup of tea (laughs), let me put it that way.
Q: Well actually, I suppose when you get up on stage to a certain extent, there's a certain pose -
GARCIA: Well, no - there are people that can do that, but we haven't ever been able to do that - that's one of the things about the Grateful Dead that makes it weird also, is we don't make any attempt to put on a show, we don't make any attempt to be in any way really theatrical, you know what I mean?
Q: The British groups seem to be really into that.
GARCIA: Right, they're much more conscious of all that - but see, we come from the background of where, you know, you play and it's the music that comes out that's important, not what you seem to be doing.
Q: Is there still what you'd call a San Francisco scene?
GARCIA: Oh yeah, more than ever, I would say - especially in music, you know - I mean, I would say that it wasn't - that San Francisco is probably an inappropriate title or label, because really what scene there is is much more spread out than just in San Francisco - the city itself, it's more like in the Bay area [...] Marin county, especially where we're at.
Q: Van Morrison I understand is now out in that area.
GARCIA: Yeah, same as everybody else - I mean, really a lot of musicians are there - that's one of the reasons that there's a consistent musical thing coming out of San Francisco, you know.
Q: Is it because of the vibes from the city itself or -
GARCIA: No, I think the city is not what's happening, I think it's the fact that there's just - that all the turmoil, changes and stuff that the Bay area's gone through traditionally like two or three years ahead of everyone else, like the whole Berkeley scene, the whole violence trip, all that stuff, the whole Haight-Ashbury and all that, represents experience which has now been assimilated into the culture out there, in the sense that now, you know, it's like very free for most people. And so artists naturally would gravitate toward that, musicians especially, just because it's real nice out there.
PART II - PHIL
Q: Once again, you're hearing this during the concert, we're doing it before the concert, because it's the afternoon, about 4:00, and we've been here now for about two hours, people have been setting up, some of the musicians have already been here, one of them is Phil Lesh. Phil, you've been with the Grateful Dead for a long time, and we talked to Jerry Garcia about his feelings going into the concert - now you get out and play, now there's gotta be a reason for it in the afternoon, are you just picking up or what?
LESH: You mean playing in the afternoon? Before the concert - well, because we have to get the sound of the place right. Every hall is unique, you know, every acoustic environment is unique.
Q: And what happens when you get into a place like this, you're totally alien to it, I mean to begin with, so when you get into it before the concert starts -
LESH: That's what we're trying to do. Sometimes we can, sometimes we can't, it depends on the hall. A place like this, matter of fact you could say it's very easy to get into.
Q: Just judging from some very nice things that are happening around town today, for instance the fact that the weather cleared up -
LESH: That's the reason we bring the rain with us - especially this time of year.
Q: This is such a nice place to be - as a matter of fact, just 22 people here - it's really quite a big crowd.
LESH: Yeah, it's our normal touring-aid scene, although we've added on - we're now taking on most of it ourselves, rather than splitting it up between the PA company and [--].
Q: Well, with $100,00 worth of equipment, it's rather obvious that everybody's pretty serious about it. Do you guys -
LESH: Yeah, we're investing in it very heavily [...].
Q: Phil, you've been with the group since its inception, back in the early dim dark days -
LESH: Those were pretty bright days, [if I may say so].
Q: How do you think the thing has changed since then, as far as you're concerned?
LESH: Well...for me, it's coming around full circle. We're sort of beginning a new cycle, reveling up a new plateau that's going to climb again soon.
Q: You feel this musically now, or just touring, or everything coming together?
LESH: Everything, on every level, you can't separate the music from what goes on, both going in our heads and in the world.
Q: While talking with Jerry, he said there's no leader to the Grateful Dead, is there a spiritual leader?
LESH: We all consult each other from time to time.
Q: Everybody's into everybody on some level.
LESH: We're all each other's gurus. I know that those guys have always been my gurus. All my friends that I've ever had in my life have been my teachers.
Q: It happens - with the group on the road, you do so many cities in so many days, it's gotta be kind of tough on you physically.
LESH: I guess it is. I definitely have symptoms of physical strain now.
[...]
MUSIC STARTS, INTERVIEW CUTS OFF.
Thanks to Harry Angus.
* * *
THE NEW RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
Roy Rogers had The Sons of The Pioneers. Captain America has The New Riders of The Purple Sage.
They've been called America's best unknown band. But, there's a reason: nobody's ever heard of them. That could change. They are good. The new album - Columbia C30888 - is a good example of a major direction in contemporary music, Country/Rock (but mainly Country). Before their recent concert at the University of Minnesota with The Grateful Dead, I talked with them.
SE: You remind me a lot of the Sons of the Pioneers, that band that used to follow Roy Rogers around and sing great Western music whenever there was a lull in the action. In fact, I almost think you could call yourselves the sons of the Sons of the Pioneers. Agree?
NR: Ya. Although there was an earlier group, the Riders of the Purple Sage.
SE: Would you call what you do Country and Western?
NR: Umm....
SE: I mean besides the fact that music is music no matter what the categorization.
NR: We listen to a lot of country music...old country music. I guess it influences the way we play. But, we're not really country and Western because we're not country people ourselves. Really we're San Franciscans.
SE: I know that Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead had something to do with getting you together.
NR: Well... He was learning the Pedal Steel. A couple of years ago. He'd just picked up on a new Pedal Steel when the Dead was on the road and he was trying to get into it and learn some chops. And ah...I had a few songs that I was playing and I'd go over and pick in the living room with him and just play chords that he could improvise steel stuff behind just as a practice thing. And at the same time I had a little job in a coffeehouse down in Menlowe Park, south of San Francisco which is next to Palo Alto which is where we're all from. Jerry came down...drove all the way down from Marin County every Wednesday.
SE: To take lessons?
NR: No... He just helped me play the gig. And it was practice for him and it was groovy music to add to mine in this little coffeehouse. And then we said, "Hey, that's pretty nice." And we figured we ought to get a bass player and another guitar player and start a band.
SE: Have you always played country music? It's suddenly very hip to put a little country tinge on just about anything today, from Bach to the Beatles.
NR: It's about time.
SE: Who are your favorite country singers?
NR: Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys. The Stanley Brothers. Doc Watson.
SE: I guess I'm a selective bigot, but I like certain things in country very much and I suppose by a purist's standards they're the commercial things. I like Tammy Wynette's music.
NR: Ya. She's good. Dolly Parton. Loretta Lynn.
SE: Ya, she was supposed to be here for the State Fair. By the way, Spencer Dryden, you were with the Jefferson Airplane for five years before you joined the New Riders. What happened? Did you decide to change forms musically, or what?
SD: Ya...I left the Airplane in March of last year. Little over a year ago.
SE: That seems to me like a pretty big jump from one style to another. What prompted the change?
SD: Like...I guess I graduated. If you go to college for four years you learn as much as you think you can and then decide what you want to do. It's like taking different majors. And everybody in the Airplane has kind of gotten off into their own tangents. Marty left and Paul and Grace are doing things. Jack and Jorma have Hot Tuna. They all go into these different directions. It's kind of natural evolution. I'd known Jerry from the Grateful Dead on different things we'd played together. And I liked this band.
SE: People who don't like long-haired musicians could be fooled if they just heard the music and didn't see you. Have you ever played on an authentic country Western bill?
NR: No. That'd be scary. Those are the real guys.
SE: You can't fool them.
NR: No.
SE: You could fool me. Good luck with the album.
NR: Thanks.
(and then they rode off into the sunset)
(by Steve Edstrom, from the "Words and Music" column, the Winona Daily News (MN), 31 October 1971)
Northrop Auditorium, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis
KQRS-FM Broadcast
PART I - JERRY
DJ: We'll be back with more of the Grateful Dead in a moment. This afternoon John Peet talked with Jerry Garcia, and it went like this.
Q: //during the Grateful Dead concert, we are doing it before the Grateful Dead concert. Jerry Garcia here. You'll notice that there's a lot of noise in the background, it's due to the fact that people are setting up the equipment, getting ready for the program to go on tonight. Jerry, you've been on the road for so long now, I'm sure that you're pretty used to this sort of thing, the pre-concert thing. What does everybody get into from that aspect - I notice a number of the musicians come out, some of them start to tune, some of them start to play - how much are they getting [into it]?
GARCIA: Well, it's the idea of hanging out where the workers [are], you know what I mean? It's kind of like - it's kind of another version of the sidewalk superintendent trip, you know, when there's guys putting up a building or something like that, there's always people standing around watching - it's kind of like - that's one of the things that's happening - and the other thing that's happening is everybody likes to get into a place to kind of feel what it's like, get in early enough to try - sound out various different ways of playing your instrument, making sure your equipment works, all that kind of stuff. You know, getting used to it.
Q: You were here - it's about 2:00 in the afternoon, you've been here for about an hour and a half now just kind of looking over the hall - what do you do, just pick up how it's going to sound and how it's going to feel?
GARCIA: All that. I just let it hit me - it's like watching TV or something, it's like - I don't have any formula, I just like to hang out.
Q: Does all it depend upon the - we were talking last night about the EQ. (G: Right.) Does that have something to do with it?
GARCIA: Oh yeah. Sure, because - this place is going to be transformed when the show starts, you know, when we get playing tonight, so it's like it's kind of groovy to get an idea of what kind of vehicle is being used, you know what I mean - like a road test.
Q: Do you have any idea how many individual pieces of equipment the Grateful Dead brought with them, along with the New Riders?
GARCIA: How many pieces do we have there, Rod? [Rod answers.]
Q: 150 pieces of equipment. Plus 22 people, nine of whom play - and this is really quite an organization. (G: Right.) I mean it isn't just a couple guys going round the country playing rock & roll...how much different is it from when you started?
GARCIA: Not much.
Q: The trip remains the same.
GARCIA: Yeah, the trip is basically still the same, it's just that, you know, now we've got 150 pieces, you know, and 22 people.
Q: In other words, quite a bit of the bread that you've made over the years has gone back into it.
GARCIA: Yeah, well right, that's our whole scene - I mean, we have faith in what we're doing, so in that sense we kind of like invest in ourselves, or invest in our trip - make it better.
Q: You've appeared now just recently on the Jerry Garcia-Howard Wales Hooteroll album, and I understand that you do - primarily just gig with him just once in a while.
GARCIA: Yeah, I also play with another fella out in San Francisco named Merl Saunders who's an organ player - and Tom Fogerty, he used to play in Creedence Clearwater - and the same rhythm section that was on that Hooteroll record, John Kahn and Bill Vitt. We play around in bars and nightclubs and so on.
Q: Just for kicks?
GARCIA: Yeah.
Q: I just take it you're getting on with each other.
GARCIA: Yeah - my whole trip is that I just enjoy playing, I enjoy playing any context - see, the Grateful Dead being this complex institution - it's like groovy to be able to play in a situation which is not of any great interest to anybody, but just a chance to get off, you know.
Q: How about the other group that you're playing with now, the New Riders of the Purple Sage, was this your idea?
GARCIA: No no no, the New Riders was more or less a spontaneous creation - basically founded on Marmaduke and his songs.
Q: And then you don't regard yourself as the prime mover in that group.
GARCIA: Oh no, I don't regard myself as the prime mover in any group. See, it's like my function, my role as a musician - I work better in a situation where I'm working with somebody else on their - on somebody else's music, [rather than my own], in the sense of - you know, like I've always enjoyed working with Crosby and those guys because they have their own ideas about what music should be and I work well in that complementary context, you know, and that's the way I like to think of myself in any situation - I don't really think of myself as a [musical leader].
Q: Well the New Riders, of course their style is quite a bit different from the Grateful Dead (G: Right), and when you're doing the same concert in the same amount of time with two different groups, do you have to change your frame of mind to get into playing with, you know, a different thing, or does it all just [count]?
GARCIA: Not really, it's all music - although, you know, being in the Grateful Dead is like - is something very far out, you know, it's not - it's just a whole different trip - there's nothing else, no other thing compares to it, you know what I mean, it's unique.
Q: It isn't just music, is it?
GARCIA: No.
Q: Is there a little bit of a family - there's gotta be a family-type relationship with guys like you who've been on the road for quite some time.
GARCIA: Well, definitely, everybody in the whole scene, in fact all these guys that are working here on the stage, you know, we're all - you know, we've all been through a lot together...on our sojourns...
Q: How many people have you picked up over the past say two years now, as far as new people are concerned?
GARCIA: I don't know, I would say about four or five people in the last couple years - it's like, the people who are our scene, we sort of find them and they find us, you know what I mean - it's just, whoever thinks that they can dig it - not unlike a motorcycle club in that respect, you know what I mean, it's not really everybody's cup of tea, but there are some people that it's really right for.
Q: That's an interesting concept, for comparison.
GARCIA: You know, it's turned out to be that way, because we've had people [knowing] that it wasn't really right for, it wasn't the right thing for 'em - you know, it's definitely something some people can get into.
Q: Now your organist is not on this tour (G: We have a new -), you have a new organist.
GARCIA: Right, he plays piano, too.
Q: Now what is happening on the homefront, are you still using Pigpen on the other things?
GARCIA: Well, Pigpen is sick, that's his main reason for not being on this tour - and you know, when he's well, we get into our next set of [practice], whenever that is - Actually, Pigpen didn't really play that much organ on that many tunes or anything like that, he was mostly more into just doing what he does, singing.
Q: Who's your new organist now?
GARCIA: He's Keith Godchaux.
Q: And how did he happen to come to you guys?
GARCIA: Well...he's the guy that thought that he was the right guy for the job, and he came around and we tried playing with him and it seemed to work out real well, and that's just the thing that happened. It's exactly like what I was talking about a while ago, there's some people that are just, that's what they're supposed to be doing, you know.
Q: And it just seems to fit together.
GARCIA: Yeah. Well, you know, it doesn't always, you know, obviously, if there's a lot of people [...] the Grateful Dead, it's not really what's happening, you know what I mean, but there are some times when something just happens and it's mutual and everybody gets off behind it, obviously it's the right thing to do.
Q: Jerry, do you envisage doing anything other than being on the road and being a rock & roll musician?
GARCIA: Well, I'm a musician, y'know - I don't like to define myself any more than just saying that I'm a musician - I don't think of myself as a rock & roll musician, you know, really. That's what I do, music's my life...
Q: Do you plan [on]...branching out into other phases of the arts [...]?
GARCIA: Well, I would like to get into movies sometime, because I enjoy making movies - I mean, that would be like from the standpoint of being someone who might direct, you know, or just put together my own movies for laughs, but not like an actor or anything like that. You know, obviously I'm interested in all those -
Q: I think you'd be very good as an actor.
GARCIA: It's not my cup of tea (laughs), let me put it that way.
Q: Well actually, I suppose when you get up on stage to a certain extent, there's a certain pose -
GARCIA: Well, no - there are people that can do that, but we haven't ever been able to do that - that's one of the things about the Grateful Dead that makes it weird also, is we don't make any attempt to put on a show, we don't make any attempt to be in any way really theatrical, you know what I mean?
Q: The British groups seem to be really into that.
GARCIA: Right, they're much more conscious of all that - but see, we come from the background of where, you know, you play and it's the music that comes out that's important, not what you seem to be doing.
Q: Is there still what you'd call a San Francisco scene?
GARCIA: Oh yeah, more than ever, I would say - especially in music, you know - I mean, I would say that it wasn't - that San Francisco is probably an inappropriate title or label, because really what scene there is is much more spread out than just in San Francisco - the city itself, it's more like in the Bay area [...] Marin county, especially where we're at.
Q: Van Morrison I understand is now out in that area.
GARCIA: Yeah, same as everybody else - I mean, really a lot of musicians are there - that's one of the reasons that there's a consistent musical thing coming out of San Francisco, you know.
Q: Is it because of the vibes from the city itself or -
GARCIA: No, I think the city is not what's happening, I think it's the fact that there's just - that all the turmoil, changes and stuff that the Bay area's gone through traditionally like two or three years ahead of everyone else, like the whole Berkeley scene, the whole violence trip, all that stuff, the whole Haight-Ashbury and all that, represents experience which has now been assimilated into the culture out there, in the sense that now, you know, it's like very free for most people. And so artists naturally would gravitate toward that, musicians especially, just because it's real nice out there.
PART II - PHIL
Q: Once again, you're hearing this during the concert, we're doing it before the concert, because it's the afternoon, about 4:00, and we've been here now for about two hours, people have been setting up, some of the musicians have already been here, one of them is Phil Lesh. Phil, you've been with the Grateful Dead for a long time, and we talked to Jerry Garcia about his feelings going into the concert - now you get out and play, now there's gotta be a reason for it in the afternoon, are you just picking up or what?
LESH: You mean playing in the afternoon? Before the concert - well, because we have to get the sound of the place right. Every hall is unique, you know, every acoustic environment is unique.
Q: And what happens when you get into a place like this, you're totally alien to it, I mean to begin with, so when you get into it before the concert starts -
LESH: That's what we're trying to do. Sometimes we can, sometimes we can't, it depends on the hall. A place like this, matter of fact you could say it's very easy to get into.
Q: Just judging from some very nice things that are happening around town today, for instance the fact that the weather cleared up -
LESH: That's the reason we bring the rain with us - especially this time of year.
Q: This is such a nice place to be - as a matter of fact, just 22 people here - it's really quite a big crowd.
LESH: Yeah, it's our normal touring-aid scene, although we've added on - we're now taking on most of it ourselves, rather than splitting it up between the PA company and [--].
Q: Well, with $100,00 worth of equipment, it's rather obvious that everybody's pretty serious about it. Do you guys -
LESH: Yeah, we're investing in it very heavily [...].
Q: Phil, you've been with the group since its inception, back in the early dim dark days -
LESH: Those were pretty bright days, [if I may say so].
Q: How do you think the thing has changed since then, as far as you're concerned?
LESH: Well...for me, it's coming around full circle. We're sort of beginning a new cycle, reveling up a new plateau that's going to climb again soon.
Q: You feel this musically now, or just touring, or everything coming together?
LESH: Everything, on every level, you can't separate the music from what goes on, both going in our heads and in the world.
Q: While talking with Jerry, he said there's no leader to the Grateful Dead, is there a spiritual leader?
LESH: We all consult each other from time to time.
Q: Everybody's into everybody on some level.
LESH: We're all each other's gurus. I know that those guys have always been my gurus. All my friends that I've ever had in my life have been my teachers.
Q: It happens - with the group on the road, you do so many cities in so many days, it's gotta be kind of tough on you physically.
LESH: I guess it is. I definitely have symptoms of physical strain now.
[...]
MUSIC STARTS, INTERVIEW CUTS OFF.
Thanks to Harry Angus.
* * *
THE NEW RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
Roy Rogers had The Sons of The Pioneers. Captain America has The New Riders of The Purple Sage.
They've been called America's best unknown band. But, there's a reason: nobody's ever heard of them. That could change. They are good. The new album - Columbia C30888 - is a good example of a major direction in contemporary music, Country/Rock (but mainly Country). Before their recent concert at the University of Minnesota with The Grateful Dead, I talked with them.
SE: You remind me a lot of the Sons of the Pioneers, that band that used to follow Roy Rogers around and sing great Western music whenever there was a lull in the action. In fact, I almost think you could call yourselves the sons of the Sons of the Pioneers. Agree?
NR: Ya. Although there was an earlier group, the Riders of the Purple Sage.
SE: Would you call what you do Country and Western?
NR: Umm....
SE: I mean besides the fact that music is music no matter what the categorization.
NR: We listen to a lot of country music...old country music. I guess it influences the way we play. But, we're not really country and Western because we're not country people ourselves. Really we're San Franciscans.
SE: I know that Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead had something to do with getting you together.
NR: Well... He was learning the Pedal Steel. A couple of years ago. He'd just picked up on a new Pedal Steel when the Dead was on the road and he was trying to get into it and learn some chops. And ah...I had a few songs that I was playing and I'd go over and pick in the living room with him and just play chords that he could improvise steel stuff behind just as a practice thing. And at the same time I had a little job in a coffeehouse down in Menlowe Park, south of San Francisco which is next to Palo Alto which is where we're all from. Jerry came down...drove all the way down from Marin County every Wednesday.
SE: To take lessons?
NR: No... He just helped me play the gig. And it was practice for him and it was groovy music to add to mine in this little coffeehouse. And then we said, "Hey, that's pretty nice." And we figured we ought to get a bass player and another guitar player and start a band.
SE: Have you always played country music? It's suddenly very hip to put a little country tinge on just about anything today, from Bach to the Beatles.
NR: It's about time.
SE: Who are your favorite country singers?
NR: Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys. The Stanley Brothers. Doc Watson.
SE: I guess I'm a selective bigot, but I like certain things in country very much and I suppose by a purist's standards they're the commercial things. I like Tammy Wynette's music.
NR: Ya. She's good. Dolly Parton. Loretta Lynn.
SE: Ya, she was supposed to be here for the State Fair. By the way, Spencer Dryden, you were with the Jefferson Airplane for five years before you joined the New Riders. What happened? Did you decide to change forms musically, or what?
SD: Ya...I left the Airplane in March of last year. Little over a year ago.
SE: That seems to me like a pretty big jump from one style to another. What prompted the change?
SD: Like...I guess I graduated. If you go to college for four years you learn as much as you think you can and then decide what you want to do. It's like taking different majors. And everybody in the Airplane has kind of gotten off into their own tangents. Marty left and Paul and Grace are doing things. Jack and Jorma have Hot Tuna. They all go into these different directions. It's kind of natural evolution. I'd known Jerry from the Grateful Dead on different things we'd played together. And I liked this band.
SE: People who don't like long-haired musicians could be fooled if they just heard the music and didn't see you. Have you ever played on an authentic country Western bill?
NR: No. That'd be scary. Those are the real guys.
SE: You can't fool them.
NR: No.
SE: You could fool me. Good luck with the album.
NR: Thanks.
(and then they rode off into the sunset)
(by Steve Edstrom, from the "Words and Music" column, the Winona Daily News (MN), 31 October 1971)
Jan 25, 2019
January 17, 1969: Robertson Gym, UC Santa Barbara
SANTANA, DEAD: GRACEFUL YET POWERFUL
Climaxing four hours of the best concert that has happened on campus this year, the Grateful Dead offered a mind-expanding experience to the 4,000 who crammed into Robertson Gym on Friday night.
As one of the true acid bands originating in 'Frisco, they have survived national success and remained the most outstanding group on the hard-rock scene today.
First on stage was the Travel Agency, who are noted for their numerous originals which feature their fabulous lead singing and harmony back-up. Unfortunately, the P.A. system was not working until after their set, so they jammed for the entire time.
Their music was a fast rhythm and blues along the lines of "Ten Years After." Their drummer appeared to have great ability, but he did not project the rich full sound that Santana's and the Grateful Dead's drummers were able to produce.
After the Agency, the Santana Blues Band came on, feeding their soulful vibes to the eagerly awaiting audience. Their Afro-Blues sound got most of the crowd on its feet, turning on to the violent primitive beat. Sitting still during their set was impossible; their music let everyone release all tensions and frustrations by just letting it carry them.
Using three different conga drums, Santana's conga drummer dominated their presence. In a truly aggressive spirit, he carried the soulful beat throughout their set.
Most of Santana's members were very talented, as was proven in the solos. The conga drummer overwhelmed the audience when he broke into solos, while the organist, in the style of Barry Goldberg, created a mood of his own.
Their drummer took his solo in their fourth number, and really displayed his great talent. "Soul Sacrifice," their concluding number, brought the audience to a peak of excitement as its crude, pulsating beat flooded the gym, which then seemed to be in another world.
Whereas Santana's music was like a rushing torrent cutting deep into the earth, Grateful Dead's sound created visions of the pool of eternal calm, high above the native earth. Their graceful flowing music permeated every object, letting everyone who was receptive experience an emotional ecstasy that cannot be forgotten.
Just as the Grateful Dead began, the power blew and both drummers immediately went into solos as if it was part of the number. When the lights came back on several minutes later, most people suddenly realized what had happened.
Opening with "Shine on Me," they established their easy flowing rhythm. All seven of the Dead are exceptionally talented, and together they produce a mood that can only be experienced, not explained.
As a whole, the concert provided an atmosphere of total environment. The sound system, once it was finally set up, was very good. The visuals, which were provided by Dry Paint, left something to be desired. They had sufficient equipment to do an excellent show, yet they apparently did not know how to utilize it effectively.
The police stationed inside the gym were very "cool" about the whole affair. At the beginning of the concert, they worked diligently to enforce the "no smoking" regulation, but later on in the evening most of the heads were lighting up without any hassle.
Possibly the only disappointment of the evening was when the Grateful Dead were forced to stop playing after the house lights had been rudely blinked on-and-off several times. They probably would have continued for quite some time, as they usually do at their concerts.
Hopefully the great success of the concert will encourage other "organizations" to sponsor a similar happening. Besides being a success financially, this concert provided an exceptionally satisfying and enjoyable evening for all who attended.
(by Jack Evans, from El Gaucho, Santa Barbara, 22 January 1969)
Thanks to Dave Davis.
See also: http://jgmf.blogspot.com/2016/11/dropping-in-robertson-gym-gd1969-01-17.html
https://archive.org/details/gd69-01-17.sbd.miller.89798.sbeok.flac16
Climaxing four hours of the best concert that has happened on campus this year, the Grateful Dead offered a mind-expanding experience to the 4,000 who crammed into Robertson Gym on Friday night.
As one of the true acid bands originating in 'Frisco, they have survived national success and remained the most outstanding group on the hard-rock scene today.
First on stage was the Travel Agency, who are noted for their numerous originals which feature their fabulous lead singing and harmony back-up. Unfortunately, the P.A. system was not working until after their set, so they jammed for the entire time.
Their music was a fast rhythm and blues along the lines of "Ten Years After." Their drummer appeared to have great ability, but he did not project the rich full sound that Santana's and the Grateful Dead's drummers were able to produce.
After the Agency, the Santana Blues Band came on, feeding their soulful vibes to the eagerly awaiting audience. Their Afro-Blues sound got most of the crowd on its feet, turning on to the violent primitive beat. Sitting still during their set was impossible; their music let everyone release all tensions and frustrations by just letting it carry them.
Using three different conga drums, Santana's conga drummer dominated their presence. In a truly aggressive spirit, he carried the soulful beat throughout their set.
Most of Santana's members were very talented, as was proven in the solos. The conga drummer overwhelmed the audience when he broke into solos, while the organist, in the style of Barry Goldberg, created a mood of his own.
Their drummer took his solo in their fourth number, and really displayed his great talent. "Soul Sacrifice," their concluding number, brought the audience to a peak of excitement as its crude, pulsating beat flooded the gym, which then seemed to be in another world.
Whereas Santana's music was like a rushing torrent cutting deep into the earth, Grateful Dead's sound created visions of the pool of eternal calm, high above the native earth. Their graceful flowing music permeated every object, letting everyone who was receptive experience an emotional ecstasy that cannot be forgotten.
Just as the Grateful Dead began, the power blew and both drummers immediately went into solos as if it was part of the number. When the lights came back on several minutes later, most people suddenly realized what had happened.
Opening with "Shine on Me," they established their easy flowing rhythm. All seven of the Dead are exceptionally talented, and together they produce a mood that can only be experienced, not explained.
As a whole, the concert provided an atmosphere of total environment. The sound system, once it was finally set up, was very good. The visuals, which were provided by Dry Paint, left something to be desired. They had sufficient equipment to do an excellent show, yet they apparently did not know how to utilize it effectively.
The police stationed inside the gym were very "cool" about the whole affair. At the beginning of the concert, they worked diligently to enforce the "no smoking" regulation, but later on in the evening most of the heads were lighting up without any hassle.
Possibly the only disappointment of the evening was when the Grateful Dead were forced to stop playing after the house lights had been rudely blinked on-and-off several times. They probably would have continued for quite some time, as they usually do at their concerts.
Hopefully the great success of the concert will encourage other "organizations" to sponsor a similar happening. Besides being a success financially, this concert provided an exceptionally satisfying and enjoyable evening for all who attended.
(by Jack Evans, from El Gaucho, Santa Barbara, 22 January 1969)
Thanks to Dave Davis.
See also: http://jgmf.blogspot.com/2016/11/dropping-in-robertson-gym-gd1969-01-17.html
https://archive.org/details/gd69-01-17.sbd.miller.89798.sbeok.flac16
December 13-14, 1968: The Bank, Torrance CA
GRATEFUL DEAD GIVES CONCERT
The Grateful Dead, one of the original components of the San Francisco sound, journeyed south to the Bank in Torrance over the weekend for what amounted to a progress report on the development of their music.
Unlike other bands of the same era, the Dead's music has survived the pressures of commercial success and popularization.
While other groups were rapidly releasing albums in an attempt to capitalize on a moment, the Dead waited over a year to release their second record, hoping that it would be a further exploration of a territory they were only beginning to discover. The result was nearly fatal with a fickle public.
Their brilliant performance at the Bank this weekend went far toward obliterating any early demise. Guitarist Jerry Garcia displayed his prowess as an innovator capable of sustained solos that are never dull. His strength lies in the lyrical progressions he employs to develop thematic lines.
Bassist Phil Lesh combined with the Dead's two drummers to create a series of exciting contrapuntal bottoms that were highlighted by frequent, but never wanton, variations in time signature. Rhythm guitarist Bob Weir provided catalytic themes from which Garcia and Lesh drew inspiration. Weir would state a theme, wait for Garcia to interpret the statement, and then move on to another idea.
The Grateful Dead seem to function in a musical hinterland that utilizes the potential of its individual members in relationship with its group entity. Each member of the band is concentrically related to the unit, allowing individual freedom of exploration and the security of a fixed position at the same time.
In keeping with the Bank's policy of providing balanced quality booking, Magic Sam, a superb Chicago blues band, also performed.
(by David Mark Dashev, from the Los Angeles Times, 17 December 1968)
Thanks to Dave Davis.
* * *
EARWAX [excerpt]
The Grateful Dead played at one hell of a funeral last weekend as the Bank announced it is closing down.
Main reason for the death of the fifth Los Angeles rock club to close within a year was pressure from the local gendarmes who have done their best for the last four weeks to intimidate Bank patrons. It was not unusual to see a dozen or so cars being searched between the club and the Hamilton Street offramp, a distance of one quarter of a mile.
The scare tactics worked on the less faithful with a subsequent drop in attendance.
The Bank was one of the few nightspots around that maintained an intimate atmosphere so important to the moodiness of most bands. Now smogville is left with the Ash Grove, Troubadour, Whiskey, and the Shrine - with the Ash Grove being the only club where bands can get it on with any frequency.
The Dead's great lead guitarist Jerry Garcia displayed his genius for nearly three hours on Saturday night without boring anybody. Magic Sam and blues guitarist Richard Dennis aided Garcia in making the Bank's farewell a rousing wake. The club's "family" are planning a final "Screw L.A." party for New Year's Eve for the official burial. Sad to say we'll all rest in peace.
(by Bob Barnett, from the Valley State Daily Sundial, 20 December 1968)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com
Alas, no tape!
See also this list of shows at the Bank:
http://rockprosopography101.blogspot.com/2010/08/bank-19840-south-hamilton-avenue.html
The Grateful Dead, one of the original components of the San Francisco sound, journeyed south to the Bank in Torrance over the weekend for what amounted to a progress report on the development of their music.
Unlike other bands of the same era, the Dead's music has survived the pressures of commercial success and popularization.
While other groups were rapidly releasing albums in an attempt to capitalize on a moment, the Dead waited over a year to release their second record, hoping that it would be a further exploration of a territory they were only beginning to discover. The result was nearly fatal with a fickle public.
Their brilliant performance at the Bank this weekend went far toward obliterating any early demise. Guitarist Jerry Garcia displayed his prowess as an innovator capable of sustained solos that are never dull. His strength lies in the lyrical progressions he employs to develop thematic lines.
Bassist Phil Lesh combined with the Dead's two drummers to create a series of exciting contrapuntal bottoms that were highlighted by frequent, but never wanton, variations in time signature. Rhythm guitarist Bob Weir provided catalytic themes from which Garcia and Lesh drew inspiration. Weir would state a theme, wait for Garcia to interpret the statement, and then move on to another idea.
The Grateful Dead seem to function in a musical hinterland that utilizes the potential of its individual members in relationship with its group entity. Each member of the band is concentrically related to the unit, allowing individual freedom of exploration and the security of a fixed position at the same time.
In keeping with the Bank's policy of providing balanced quality booking, Magic Sam, a superb Chicago blues band, also performed.
(by David Mark Dashev, from the Los Angeles Times, 17 December 1968)
Thanks to Dave Davis.
* * *
EARWAX [excerpt]
The Grateful Dead played at one hell of a funeral last weekend as the Bank announced it is closing down.
Main reason for the death of the fifth Los Angeles rock club to close within a year was pressure from the local gendarmes who have done their best for the last four weeks to intimidate Bank patrons. It was not unusual to see a dozen or so cars being searched between the club and the Hamilton Street offramp, a distance of one quarter of a mile.
The scare tactics worked on the less faithful with a subsequent drop in attendance.
The Bank was one of the few nightspots around that maintained an intimate atmosphere so important to the moodiness of most bands. Now smogville is left with the Ash Grove, Troubadour, Whiskey, and the Shrine - with the Ash Grove being the only club where bands can get it on with any frequency.
The Dead's great lead guitarist Jerry Garcia displayed his genius for nearly three hours on Saturday night without boring anybody. Magic Sam and blues guitarist Richard Dennis aided Garcia in making the Bank's farewell a rousing wake. The club's "family" are planning a final "Screw L.A." party for New Year's Eve for the official burial. Sad to say we'll all rest in peace.
(by Bob Barnett, from the Valley State Daily Sundial, 20 December 1968)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com
Alas, no tape!
See also this list of shows at the Bank:
http://rockprosopography101.blogspot.com/2010/08/bank-19840-south-hamilton-avenue.html
Halloween 1969: San Jose State College
GRATEFUL DEAD BRING LIVE MUSIC TO LIVELY SJS HALLOWEEN FLING
This Friday evening SJS is having its own “trick-or-treat,” when it brings out The Grateful Dead to play in the College Union Ballroom.
The Grateful Dead, pioneers of the San Francisco sound, will be making their first appearance at SJS Halloween night.
“The Dead” have added a little country to their blues and psychedelic elements, and the blend works well, according to people who saw them last weekend at Winterland.
“The Dead,” whose music has what many people term a euphoric effect, will play two sets, a total of one and a half to two hours. It is hoped that they will play some of their more famous sets which range from straight country, as in “Mama Tried,” to the blues encore, “Good Morning Little School Girl.” In the former, bass guitarist Phil Lesch produces a good country vocal sound, and in the latter, Ron (Pig Pen) McKernan is at his vocal best.
Lead guitarist Jerry Garcia also has a good set as does organist Tom Constante and rhythm guitarist Bob Weir. The dependable work of drummers William Kreutzman and Mickey Hart is ideal in the country tunes.
Accompanying “The Dead” will be the far out sounds of the “Experimental Flash.” In addition, two color horror films will be shown, “Billy the Kid vs. Dracula” and “Godzilla vs. The Thing.” Both films will be shown silently behind the bands.
The dance will be held from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m. and admission is $2 for students and $3 for the public. Tickets are on sale in [the] Student Affairs Business Office, located on the second level of the College Union.
(by Marty Pastula, from the Spartan Daily, San Jose State College, 29 October 1969)
BANDS TO PLAY AT MASKED BALL IN COLLEGE UNION
The Grateful Dead and Southbay Experimental Flash will perform at 9 p.m. tonight in the College Union to a masked audience.
In keeping with the theme of Halloween, the College Union Program Board (which is sponsoring the dance) has asked that all those attending tonight’s dance wear masks.
It is hoped that the debut of The Grateful Dead at SJS will be a pace-setter for future “name groups,” according to [the] CUPB student director.
The CUPB will provide masks for those who “forget their disguises.”
Tickets are still available in the Student Affairs Business office. [...]
[The] CUPB director added that in case it gets too warm, there will be “bobbing for apples” as refreshing but perhaps “ghostly” fun.
(from the Spartan Daily, 31 October 1969)
https://archive.org/details/gd1969-10-31.141252.sbd.pcm.dalton.miller.clugston.flac1644
This Friday evening SJS is having its own “trick-or-treat,” when it brings out The Grateful Dead to play in the College Union Ballroom.
The Grateful Dead, pioneers of the San Francisco sound, will be making their first appearance at SJS Halloween night.
“The Dead” have added a little country to their blues and psychedelic elements, and the blend works well, according to people who saw them last weekend at Winterland.
“The Dead,” whose music has what many people term a euphoric effect, will play two sets, a total of one and a half to two hours. It is hoped that they will play some of their more famous sets which range from straight country, as in “Mama Tried,” to the blues encore, “Good Morning Little School Girl.” In the former, bass guitarist Phil Lesch produces a good country vocal sound, and in the latter, Ron (Pig Pen) McKernan is at his vocal best.
Lead guitarist Jerry Garcia also has a good set as does organist Tom Constante and rhythm guitarist Bob Weir. The dependable work of drummers William Kreutzman and Mickey Hart is ideal in the country tunes.
Accompanying “The Dead” will be the far out sounds of the “Experimental Flash.” In addition, two color horror films will be shown, “Billy the Kid vs. Dracula” and “Godzilla vs. The Thing.” Both films will be shown silently behind the bands.
The dance will be held from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m. and admission is $2 for students and $3 for the public. Tickets are on sale in [the] Student Affairs Business Office, located on the second level of the College Union.
(by Marty Pastula, from the Spartan Daily, San Jose State College, 29 October 1969)
BANDS TO PLAY AT MASKED BALL IN COLLEGE UNION
The Grateful Dead and Southbay Experimental Flash will perform at 9 p.m. tonight in the College Union to a masked audience.
In keeping with the theme of Halloween, the College Union Program Board (which is sponsoring the dance) has asked that all those attending tonight’s dance wear masks.
It is hoped that the debut of The Grateful Dead at SJS will be a pace-setter for future “name groups,” according to [the] CUPB student director.
The CUPB will provide masks for those who “forget their disguises.”
Tickets are still available in the Student Affairs Business office. [...]
[The] CUPB director added that in case it gets too warm, there will be “bobbing for apples” as refreshing but perhaps “ghostly” fun.
(from the Spartan Daily, 31 October 1969)
https://archive.org/details/gd1969-10-31.141252.sbd.pcm.dalton.miller.clugston.flac1644
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