“Remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy.”
The Fourth Commandment suddenly came to mind recently as I happened upon Larissa Phillips’ Free Press article about the Grateful Dead. It is all about following the Dead and how the whole thing was like a giant, mobile, joyous church.
I concur.
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Standing among thousands of fellow Deadheads, especially at the goosebump-inducing peak of a transcendent Jerry Garcia guitar solo, I would look around the mesmerized crowd and think, “If this isn’t a religion, what is?” A religion without a phony, overrated, massively disappointing “God,” and with real, talented, flesh-and-blood musicians to worship: Who could ask for anything more?
Eric Clapton, Jerry Garcia, Elton John and Carlos Santana are my four musical gods. Broadly speaking, those of us who hop on planes and fly across the country or over oceans to see music belong to what I call the First Church of Song.
Seeing and following the Grateful Dead was part of this faith. I was fortunate enough to catch the Dead for in-town shows in the New York City area and Los Angeles. I rode in cars to see individual venues in Foxboro, Massachusetts; Oakland and Ventura, California; Oxford Speedway, Maine; and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I flew to see them in Buffalo and Chicago (twice).
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And then there were the “follows” — journeys to multiple cities and locations: The Meadowlands, New Jersey, to Washington, D.C. (with an intermittent stop at the Garden State Arts Center, where the Neville Brothers opened for Jimmy Buffett) and the best follow of all: Berlin to Frankfurt to Paris. Following the Dead across Europe in 1990 was among the highlights of my life.
I am eternally grateful to my old junior-high-school friends John Adams, Gill Ilanit and Chris Wessling, who dragged me to my first Dead show — fittingly enough — on Good Friday 1987. The bones, skulls and skeletons abundant in Grateful Dead iconography led me to conclude, with staggering inaccuracy, that this involved some sort of satanic death metal. I envisioned something like Black Sabbath, but even more diabolical.
I strongly resisted my friends’ invitations, but they persisted. Finally, to stop their nagging, I made them a deal: “OK. I will see your Grateful Dead. Just this once. And after that, I do not want to hear another word about them!”
“OK. OK. OK,” they agreed, likely giggling behind my back at the worm-adorned hook that was about to snag my upper lip.
So off we went to the now-defunct Irvine Meadows Amphitheatre on a sunny Southern California afternoon. We spent hours in a vast parking lot, thoroughly entertained, as our fellow young Americans in tie-dyed outfits played hacky sack, flung Frisbees and danced with their dogs to bootleg concert tapes. The faithful revered these like the Dead Sea Scrolls.
In her Free Press article headlined “Who Needs God When There’s the Grateful Dead?” Phillips perfectly captured the historical moment when this colorful afternoon among the Deadheads unfolded:
“I imagine if you were deeply invested, it would’ve been hard to watch the Dead go mainstream, after so many years of being a sort of secret society. In 1987, they produced their first Top 10 song, and things went crazy from there. MTV began playing the ‘Touch of Grey’ video. I saw frat-boy types wearing tie-dyes, and preppy kids from my suburban high school started going to shows.”
Yup — preppy kids, like many of my friends at Palisades High School in suburban Los Angeles. (We were college students and recent graduates by then.) I was the preppiest among my crew that April 17, but I was not — by far — the only guy out there in Top-Siders.
About this time, Jerry Garcia responded to his band’s finally entering Billboard’s Top 10 club: “I am appalled.”
Back in Irvine, the all-encompassing parking-lot festivities felt like the entire attraction. In fact, it was just the overture. Already sated, my friends reminded me that we were there to see a concert.
As dusk approached, we finally headed in for the Dead show. Rather than harmonies from hell, I heard the delightful sounds of what I call “psychedelic country rock.” The music was fun, upbeat, happy and beautiful.
It also was familiar. I remember hearing “Estimated Prophet” and asking, “Oh, that’s a Grateful Dead song?” Also on the set list: “Truckin’.” I said, “I know this one. I’ve heard it on the radio. The Dead do this?”
Other tunes were brand-new to me. “Deal” was a raucous first-set closer that I immediately embraced and still cherish. “Friend of the Devil” and “Samson and Delilah” became instant favorites.
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The recently departed Bob Weir was a standout on rhythm guitar and vocals. I instantly fell in love with the keyboard wizardry and raspy voice of the late Brent Mydland. The late Phil Lesh quietly kept things together on bass. Not one drummer but two — Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, both still alive — kept the percussion popping.
And then, of course, there was the first among equals, the late lead guitarist Jerry Garcia. Although he was just 44 at that time, decades of less-than-pristine living made him look about 80. He was our rock ’n’ roll grandpa, and we were his grandchildren. His croaky voice, soaring leads and peaking crescendos fueled pure, unfiltered ecstasy. With Persian rugs on stage among the wooden guitars and gear, the scene felt like Jerry’s living room. He was playing just for us. And even among some 16,000 fellow fans, the place could not have felt cozier or more intimate.
At the end of the show, Gill asked me, “What did you think?”
I laughed and replied, “Why didn’t you bring me sooner?”
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“I remember dragging you to that show, then catching you twirling around in the parking lot!” John Adams later recalled. “Hilarious. Hooked for life.”
That was my maiden voyage with the Grateful Dead.
I returned for 70 more shows.
If this isn’t a religion, what is?
