To my ears, the performances held up, and the music, on repetition, began to feel like something composed, rather than improvised. It took on a life of its own, apart from my experience of having witnessed its creation.
The tapes themselves are long gone, but I still listen to those shows from time to time. The Grateful Dead occupy a curious spot in the canon. Their music has turned out to be extremely resilient, considering that they were primarily a live act and effectively ceased to exist seventeen years ago, when Garcia died, and that for many of the years prior to that how many is just Stink - Leader Sun - Leader Sun (Cassette) the most debated question in Deadland they were a weak incarnation of themselves.
They made a lot of studio albums, but few memorable ones, and had just one Top Forty hit in thirty years, and not for lack of trying. History, admittedly, is short. The band has released a hundred archival concert recordings, under various rubrics, but they also often though not always tolerated the taping of their concerts by people in the audience, as long as the tapes were traded, not sold. This spring, the Library of Congress announced that it was adding a Dead recording to its National Recording Registry.
But because a good audience tape of it circulated right after the show, and because a particularly clean soundboard version materialized, in the eighties, with the appearance of the first batch of Betty Boards, and because it is a polished and accessible example of the band at a high point, it became a mainstay of most tape collections and is possibly their most beloved piece of work.
Blair Jackson, a Grateful Dead historian and biographer, estimates that it has been copied two million times. Some believe that the show never happened, that the tape is just a collection of performances culled from other shows. It is very easy, and in many circles compulsory, to make fun of the Dead.
Even the fanatic can admit to a few things. The Dead were musically self-indulgent, and yet, to some ears, harmonically shallow. They played one- and two-chord jams that went on for twenty or thirty minutes. Oh, to have been in Rotterdam! Even their straightforward songs could go on for ten or twelve minutes. Pop-craft buffs, punkers, and anyone steeped in the orthodoxy of concision tend to plug their ears to the noodling, while jazz buffs often find it unsophisticated and aimless.
For those attracted to the showy side of rock, the Dead were always an unsightly ensemble, whose ugliness went undiminished in middle age—which happened to coincide with the dawn of MTV, Stink - Leader Sun - Leader Sun (Cassette). They were generally without sex appeal. Even the high-tech light shows of later years and the spaceship twinkle of their amplifiers could not compensate for a lumpy stage presence.
They could be sloppy, unrehearsed. They forgot lyrics, sang out of key, delivered rank harmonies, missed notes, blew takeoffs and landings, and laid down clams by the dozen.
Their lyrics were often fruity—hippie poetry about roses and bells and dew. They resisted irony. They were apolitical. They bombed at the big gigs. They unleashed those multicolored dancing bears.
Most objectionable, perhaps, were the Deadheads, that travelling gang of phony vagabonds. As unironic as the Dead may have been, Deadheads were more so. Not for them the arch framings and jagged epiphanies of punk. They dispensed bromides about peace and fellowship as they laid waste to parking lots and town squares. Many came by the stereotypes honestly: airheads and druggies, smelling of patchouli and pot, hairy, hypocritical, pious, ingenuous, and uncritical in the extreme.
They danced their flappy Snoopy dance and foisted their hissy bootlegs on roommates and friends, clearing dance floors and common rooms. They bought into the idea, which grew flimsier each year, that following a rock band from football stadium to football stadium, fairground to fairground, constituted adventure of the Kerouac kind. This is not to say that adventures were not had. Consider the preppy Deadhead, in his new Jetta, and his counterpart, the Jewish Deadhead, with his boxes of blank Maxells.
The goyish trustafarians lacked that excuse. The tough guys seasoned the scene with authenticity and menace. When the Dead stopped touring, many of the fans moved on to other travelling carnivals—often to the so-called jam bands that had drawn inspiration and a music-industry approach though not quite a musical vocabulary from the Dead. This, too, was often taken to be a kind of indictment: the Dead are sometimes damned by the company their fans keep. The conflation of the Dead with, say, the Dave Matthews Band—incongruous as the two may be musically—can really smart.
They may be brain surgeons, lawyers, bartenders, or even punk-rock musicians. No two shows were the same, although many were similar. Even on good nights, they might stink it up for a stretch, and on bad ones they could suddenly catch fire—a trapdoor springs open. Then, there were the weird inimitable gigs, the yellow lobsters. Variation was built into the music. They played their parts as if they were inventing them on the spot, and sometimes they were.
The music, even in the standard verse-chorus stretches, often had a limber, wobbly feel to it that struck many listeners as slovenly but others as sinuous and alive, open to possibility and surprise. It came across as music being made, rather than executed. Seldom do rhythm guitar, keyboard or drum parts vary at the same time as the bass and lead guitar. Still more infrequently are all six parts being improvised. Or you could chalk it up to taste. The musicians were not virtuosos, in the sense of technical skill.
But each was unique, peerless, sui generis. His was the tone that launched a thousand vans. You could argue that his decline infused the lyrics with Appalachian gloom and added to his allure, at least until it became depressing.
The guys always maintained that the band was leaderless, but that was bull. He was also the only one who really did much outside the band. Other musicians loved hanging out with him and having him sit in.
He recorded jazz, fusion, gospel, soul, Motown, bluegrass, funk, and folk. He was also probably the most prolific and assured interpreter of Bob Dylan.
He would make connections between disparate thoughts and make them fit in harmonious ways. And his music was a lot like that also. It was paradoxical. He had that shit-between-the-toes, barnyard, down-home funkiness, and at the same time he could play the farthest-out spacey shit.
He was always a source of wonder. When he played, it would be this endless stream of glorious melody. He did not like to repeat things, which is rare for an instrument usually charged with keeping time.
He played around the root and the beat, often skewing the pocket, skipping the one, holding off on the changes, bubbling up around it, or playing a melodic counterpoint. He studied composition with Luciano Berio Steve Reich was a friend and classmatewrote avant-garde polyorchestral compositions, and played trumpet in a jazz band inspired by Count Basie. Bob Weir, the rhythm guitarist, has a sense of melody and harmony that can seem slightly unhinged. Weir has had little success playing with anyone else, but he found a home in the harmonic space between Lesh and Garcia.
He often astonished them, and ameliorated their tendency toward prettiness. As for the drummers, they had their work cut out, given the extemporizing, not to mention the drugs. The need to stay loose occasionally left them slack. Four died, over the years; playing keys in the Dead was a little like playing drums in Spinal Tap. The Grateful Dead, more than most, is a band of eras. Each year has a distinct sound to it.
An educated Head can usually, within a couple of bars, identify what year a concert recording was made. Some might love every era, but in different ways, as a polygamist might his wives; others dismiss entire decades. In the beginning, inthey were essentially a blues-dance band, fronted by Ron McKernan, known as Pigpen, for his general state of dishevelment. Pigpen, the son of a blues d. Pigpen was a boozer he died inat the age of twenty-seven, of cirrhosis and steered clear of LSD, but for the rest of the band acid was the crucible in which their peculiar approach to group improvisation took shape, and the agent that enabled their first fans, and many later ones, to catch on.
Their best years—as performers, innovators, and songwriters—were And then their experimental jams turned jazzier, and their songwriting more assured. The verses of Robert Hunter, their chief lyricist, who did not perform with the band, were elliptical, by turns vivid and gnomic. Garcia did not like to sing anything that was too on the nose. He and Hunter composed phantasmagoric reworkings of folk songs, recasting American mythologies in a way that often seemed to suggest that Garcia was singing about himself and his mates, or about our experience of following along.
Inthe band took a year-and-a-half-long hiatus from touring, owing to the crushing expense of their tour operation and a bit of burnout, and returned in with some new prog-rock material and a gentler sound.
The balance of the seventies is widely beloved, but it marked a turn away from experiment, and toward grander, more conventional rock gestures. By this time, their cultural presence had waned. Still, the carnival travelled on, a marginal anachronism shuffling in the shadow of punk and New Wave. The early and mid-eighties are problematic. Some nights, he was a mess. Others, he was a better player and singer than he had ever been. The Dead had a set routine; the music put on muscle; the audience grew.
This is where I came aboard. Stink - Leader Sun - Leader Sun (Cassette) say that the music you liked when you hit puberty is the stuff that sticks with you. I love this period. Others cringe at it. In the summer ofGarcia fell into a diabetic coma and nearly died. When he came to, he had to relearn the guitar. Some people, including some of his bandmates, seem to prefer this period to the pre-coma years.
It just came out. It is one of the central ironies of the Grateful Dead that this group of virtual anarchists, playing their ragged, improvisational amalgam of old-timey American music, fronted what may have been the most technically sophisticated sound operation in the music business.
They amplified their loosey-goosey music with determined particularity. He also had an idiosyncratic but fierce interest in sound quality, and, while his technical contributions were not always practicable, his early financial support, near-evangelical dedication to sonic fidelity, and steady supply of acid created an atmosphere of experimentation and advancement that culminated, first, in the creation of a groundbreaking company called Alembic and, later, in the so-called Wall of Sound. It has been called the greatest vessel for the amplification of sound in history.
Every modern P. It was also so cumbersome, and took so long to unload and assemble, that it nearly bankrupted the band. Kesey and his Merry Pranksters had also inculcated them with the ethos of taping and filming everything. A taping regimen took root, even as the band members stopped paying attention. The other irony is that the very sharpness of live sound and variety in performance that led people to begin compulsively taping the band created a brisk and far-reaching trade in tapes, which, as they were copied, often came to sound like mud.
So a drug-addled, rehearsal-averse, error-prone band of non-virtuosos perfected a state-of-the-art sound system that created a taping community that distributed a gigantic body of work that often came to sound as sloppy as some of the performances. Each had a character and odor of its own, a terroir.
Jerry Garcia claimed to be a synesthete—he said that he perceived sound as color. Somehow, I and others came to perceive various recordings, if not as colors, as having distinct odors or auras.
In the nineties, the band moved its collection from San Rafael to a state-of-the-art strongroom in Novato, with five-layered walls, various alarms, and a system that would suck all the oxygen from the room in the event of fire.
It housed more than ten Stink - Leader Sun - Leader Sun (Cassette) tapes. Latvala was a young gospel and R. Latvala discovered concert tapes inin the early days of the taping scene, when the invention of portable tape decks made it possible to get passable audience recordings. He worked at a zoo in Hawaii and grew marijuana, which he often sent, along with boxes of blank reels, to the established tapers and collectors on the mainland.
Gradually, he amassed a collection of eight hundred reel-to-reel tapes and worked his way into the upper echelons of the taper hierarchy. He took out the garbage, fetched coffee, and plied the crew with a steady supply of Maui Wowie. Theirs was a tough scene to crack, and he endured a fair amount of abuse. But one day inas he was pressing a tape of some primal Dead on the office manager, Phil Lesh appeared, and Latvala somehow got Lesh to sit down and listen.
Lesh liked it, and Latvala asked him whether anyone was taking care of the tapes. Latvala got the job. During the next couple of years, he organized the tapes and catalogued them. After a while, the Dead began paying him. The idea had always foundered on concerns about quality control and economics. Then Lesh, chiefly, scuttled further releases, because he and the band, to their credit, perhaps, were pickier than most of their fans.
All it does is remind me of what I was trying to do. Early on, everyone agreed that band members would stay out of the process. Out of sheer enthusiasm, Latvala surreptitiously slipped digital copies of other vault recordings to his taper friends. He died, of a heart attack, inand after that his friends felt free to pass the copies around. Before long, almost everything in the vault was in circulation. And then came the Internet.
The Internet Archive which is also known by its Web address, Archive. You can find old speeches, comedy routines, TV ads, government documents, academic treatises, entire books. You can browse the recordings by year, so if you click on, say, you will see links to two hundred and ninety-four recordings, beginning with four versions of a February 9th concert at Stanford and ending with several versions of December 19th in Tampa. But you can download some of it, too. Anything the Dead release commercially gets removed from the Archive.
A mediocre recording of an unremarkable gig at Madison Square Garden has been downloaded almost seven hundred thousand times.
Suddenly, a fan who may have once had a degraded and haphazard collection had access to thousands of gigs. You could spend a week listening to a year. You could say there are two kinds of Deadheads: those who discriminate and those who think it is sacrilegious to do so. You will generally see three kinds of comments.
One is an evaluation of the performance. Another is an assessment of the recording. The third is a personal firsthand recollection of the night itself. Such chronicles are as tedious as recounted dreams. One starts to seek out certain commenters. It turned out that Crazycatpeekin was one of my closest old friends, just repeating our youthful effusions. Lemieux was sixteen, and he attended the show in Hartford. His mother drove him there. He became a taper for a while, but later moved on to other music he likes Pearl Jam, Wilco, David Bowie, and Blur and an academic career as a film archivist.
Inwhile working for the British Columbia provincial archives, he wrote the Dead offices a letter requesting a photograph, and Latvala asked him to help catalogue their video and film holdings. He spent a summer in the vault, and when Latvala died the band invited Lemieux to take his place. He is not a creature of the vault, as Latvala was. He lives on Vancouver Island but travels to Burbank every few months. Get one of your own. Earlier this year, Lemieux flew down to retrieve some video in preparation for a theatrical concert screening.
He invited me to tag along. I met him at the Tangerine Hotel. The archivist, with an Abbey Road coffee mug and a David Crosby physique, led us into the warehouse, where we came upon another building, made of reinforced concrete. It is the size of a city block and has a rubber-covered roof, to repel leaking water. We passed through a door into a vast climate-controlled hangar of shelves loaded with boxes containing the reel-to-reel multitrack recordings of studio sessions and concerts of hundreds of artists.
There was a smell of vinegar—the disintegration of old magnetic audiotape. We wandered the aisles, tunnelling through music. He pointed to a rack of reel-to-reels: Otis Redding, live,never circulated. Another set of shelves contained hours and hours of Aretha Franklin songs that have never been released. It was a vault within a vault—a Holy of Holies. Every year, new old music gushes forth.
He opened a padlock. We stepped inside. There were two long aisles, with a line of bays on either side. There were fifty-four bays. Each bay was about four feet wide and nine shelves high, with as many as a hundred tapes per shelf.
There were big reels and small ones, cassettes and digital audiotapes. The system was arcane. Certain dates summoned sounds, configurations, set lists.
Last year, the Dead released the entire tour: a seventy-three-disk boxed set containing all twenty-two concerts and more than seventy hours of music. It came in a small steamer trunk and cost four hundred and fifty dollars. A run of twelve thousand two hundred sold out in four days. But one can luxuriate in a library of new liner notes, which are full of revelations about the difficulty of capturing it all on tape. Sometimes things get a little technical. One of them was dated November 30,from the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.
Among my school cohort, a tape of the second set of this show, recorded from the audience, had been a sacred object.
In the Den, you had to follow the Four Commandments, which were inscribed on a board. None of us had attended the concert, but the performance, to our ears, was an idiosyncratic marvel.
In the wider world of tape collectors, the Fox had no profile at all and remains, for the most part, just one among multitudes. The Fox in the vault was not ours, exactly. It was a soundboard recording. I knew this version, too. Many of us had found it sterile. Without the reverberations of the hall, the music lost its grandeur and chime. The prized aud was made by a taper named Bob Wagner. Wagner is now a doctor who specializes in occupational medicine.
When I called him, at his home in the East Bay, to ask about the Fox, he stepped out for a long walk, so as not to subject his wife to Dead talk. Wagner estimates that he attended four hundred Dead shows. It appealed to me in the way it gave me some participation in the music. The decisions you make: the microphone, the tape deck, your levels, the editing, where you position your microphones, how high.
In November,the Dead did a swing though Florida and Georgia. Wagner, then a medical student at Chapel Hill, packed up his taping gear and drove down to Lakeland, Florida, in his Mercury Cougar. He did not have especially long hair. He liked to be alert while taping, to keep an eye on his levels. The night of the concert at the Fox, he discovered that he had just about the worst seat in the house—the second-to-last row of the balcony, in the corner.
He recorded the first set there, but afterward made his way down to the third row of the balcony, just right of center, and set up his deck in the aisle. He sat throughout the set, holding a microphone in his hand. There was such wide stereo range on the P. It translated to the tape. Healy just went for it. Tapers listen differently. In the trunk were some reels from and video masters of a few concerts inwhich he had pulled from the vault.
When we stopped for gas, Lemieux made sure one of us stayed in the car, to guard the tapes. Crank it up. Hello, Wall of Sound. Lemieux and I bobbed our heads in unison, like Wayne and Garth. We sped through orange groves and then the reeking feedlots of Fresno. I wanted to try the Fox on him. Right away, the recording sounded odd and the performance flawed. Hearing it through his ears, I tensed up.
It starts slowly, I muttered. He noted an absence of Weir in the mix a Healy tendency and also what he called phase problems. As we were getting to the good parts, Lemieux got distracted and started talking about some old guitars that were bound for a Grateful Dead exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, in Cleveland. I turned up the volume a bit. He talked through the transition. Even in the company of the keeper of the vault, being a freak for the Fox was a lonely business. Perhaps because of his musical education and his exacting mind, Phil Lesh has been the band member most concerned about how the Dead come across on their live releases.
He blocked early attempts to put out old concerts in the vault. A few years ago, Lesh and his wife, Jill, bought an apartment nearby, in part to be near the younger of their two sons, who just graduated from Princeton. Lesh walked in alone. He got a liver transplant in He was wearing jeans and an untucked button-down. He ordered beets. Lesh has in recent months been hosting West Coast Rambles, with a rotating cast. So that they can then play this music not the same way but with the same spirit, with the same perspective and goals that we did.
And when I think about that piece, when I listen back to it in my mind, that bobble is there. So recordings have always seemed to me, personally, to be kind of a fly in amber, which was contrary to the spirit of the Grateful Dead.
What happens, though, if one has dozens upon dozens of versions of a song? But we never thought about that in the beginning. There was never a plan. We just ass-backwardsed into everything. If in a hundred years people are still singing these songs back and forth to one another on the back porch, in a night club, a bar or the living room, that would be great.
After Garcia died, Lesh was briefly involved in vetting the live releases from the vault. He also spent a great deal of time listening to the output of the final years, hoping to find material worth releasing, but came across little that made the grade. Everything seemed better at the time than it turns out to be on tape. Brad Paisley.
I may as well have been a Ukrainian Trekkie accosting Leonard Nimoy on the street. The eighties dates in particular provoked a curdled look. It was a living organism of several people.
It was Homo gestalt. Did you ever read Theodore Sturgeon? So what un-bleshed them? His phone rang. It was his wife. After a moment, Lesh put his hand over the phone and asked me if I knew how to get to Sloan-Kettering. A friend of his had just been taken off life support, after a long battle with cancer. It was Levon Helm. Lesh rushed out and strode unnoticed through the throngs on Prince Street, looking for a cab. For the past twelve years, Rob Eaton, the sound engineer who cleaned up the Betty Boards, has been the rhythm guitarist in the Dark Star Orchestra, a Grateful Dead tribute band.
They reproduce the set list, with the particular song arrangements and sonic configurations that the Dead employed that night. There are legions of bands that faithfully replicate the work of their heroes. The Dark Star Orchestra does Dead shows. That means they have thousands of units of existing material to choose from, and they have yet to repeat one. It is a peculiar form of repertory.
They may in fact be a freak show. Such is the verisimilitude that their first keyboardist, a founding member, died suddenly, seven years ago. But they are also excellent musicians, with a wide variety of credits and tastes. I saw D. That night, they played something from It was embarrassing and pathetic, perhaps, to be going to see a tribute band unironically—my wife calls them the Dork Star Orchestra—yet it was a thrill to hear the music played well in a small room.
Three years ago, Bob Weir and Phil Lesh decided to go out on the road together. Lesh had been performing in various configurations under the rubric Phil Lesh and Friends; Weir had a group called Ratdog. Weir and Lesh named their new incarnation Furthur, after the bus Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters drove cross-country in They needed a guy who could hold down the Garcia role, so, after years of resisting the idea of a Garcia clone, they poached the Garcia clone in the Dark Star Orchestra.
His name was John Kadlecik. He knew the licks. He had the tone and the phrasing. He could sing the parts. He had a big head of black hair. Furthur booked bigger venues. The imitators suddenly found themselves being bigfooted by the remnants of the originals, as augmented by one of their own. Mattson, with his potbelly, lank hair, and black beard, certainly looked the part, and quickly demonstrated that he sounded it, too.
As it happens, Mattson was my first fake Jerry. Inwhen Garcia was in his coma and there was no live Dead to see, I began going to see a Dead tribute band called the Volunteers, who performed a regular Saturday night gig at a dive bar called the Right Track Inn, in the Long Island town of Freeport. Mattson was the Garcia guy. He played the old stuff, with an indulgence that the Dead had at that time forsworn. It was funny to have Mattson back, delivering the methadone once more.
Eaton and the others in D. As a teen-ager, on an ill-fated maiden trip to California to see the Dead the coma intervenedI imagined that the Bay Area would be one big Grateful Dead parking lot, a shrine to the Acid Tests, and was surprised to discover a modern city as indifferent to Captain Trips as it was to Jack London or Natalie Wood. Most of the surviving band members still live there, but the presence of the Dead, as a commercial enterprise and cultural force, has diminished.
It was a dismal rainy day. This is where Latvala had his vault. It is now a mountain-bike company. Lemieux and the band were hoping to clear it all out and give up the space. Nicholas Meriwether, the curator of a new Grateful Dead archive, which the band had donated to U.
Santa Cruz, had already been through the place to mine it for worthy artifacts and memorabilia. Bacardi light, 1 qt.
Bombay Gin, 48 clean towels. These days, she is the sound and recording engineer at Glide Memorial, a progressive Methodist church downtown that is known for its gospel choir. Outside the church, sodden homeless men and women stood in line, waiting their turn in the soup kitchen.
Cantor-Jackson greeted me and led me up through a passageway into the sanctuary, where, just offstage, she has a little room for all her sound equipment. She had on a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, and a pair of reading glasses propped on her head. She has long brown hair parted in the middle, a warm melancholic smile, and an air of broad-mindedness tinged with resentment.
She grew up in the East Bay as a math and science whiz. Her high school, she says, ran out of things for her to do, so she took courses at a community college. She got work helping around at the Family Dog, the hippie collective that put on happenings at the Avalon Ballroom, and then joined the sound crew at the Carousel Ballroom, alongside a crewman named Bob Matthews.
After Matthews went to work for the Dead, he brought Betty along. She worked on most of their live and studio albums, Stink - Leader Sun - Leader Sun (Cassette). She claims to have been the first female recording engineer in rock and roll. Although Jerry never was, really. So she held on to her recordings, which is how they wound up rotting in a storage locker. She was happy when her tapes began to circulate. My sound is beefy. My recordings are very stereo, very open, with a lot of air in them.
My feeling is everyone wants to play in the band. These days, she listens mainly to country music, soul, and gospel. When she started taping every Dead show, she intended, like Owsley Stanley before her, to make a kind of instant snapshot. But as time went by, and as the band stopped listening back, she began to have posterity in mind. I thanked her for the music, and she gave me a hug. In the car, I sat a moment, wondering what to play next.
The music revolution was a vital and integral component of the sixties San Francisco art scene. Herb Greene photographed the rock musicians and other members of San Francisco's cultural milieu during the height of its creative productivity.
Greene, a friend of many of San Francisco's most influential musicians, worked as few photographers have: not as a documenter from the outside, but as a participant within the music scene he was photographing. Many of his photographs have become signature portraits of these musicians. Kesey and his fledgling group the Merry Pranksters, which included Neal Cassady, hosted these legendary counterculture gatherings as public experimentations with LSD. It was the dawn of the San Francisco hippie era, and the Pranksters set the psychedelic scene.
December: Grateful Dead born: The band changes its name after learning of another group called Warlocks. Riding that train 1 more time. Grateful Dead drummer: How Ashbury St. Grateful Dead goes out on a high. When the dull projections took over, as on Friday, it was nowhere. Gleason, who went on to become a founding editor of Rolling Stone. Some came in their 20th century teepees, old school buses, caravans and VW buses, and lined the embankment, overlooking the field.
Two drummers! The pair become known as the Rhythm Devils. All were placed on probation for a year. March 3: Live on Haight Street: The band plays a free show on the back of a flatbed truck for thousands assembled on Haight Street.
Garcia and Weir have said that their microphones kept shocking them. Compiled from concerts recorded in San Francisco between Jan. Other violence during the concert resulted in two deaths. Where are you? How are you? Deadheads, P. BoxSan Rafael, California, July Keith Godchaux dies in car crash: Keith Godchaux dies in a car accident in Marin County, at age 32, about a year after leaving the band.
The sports car he was riding in struck a parked car. April 20 years Dead: The Dead marks its year anniversary with a three-night run at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley.
July Garcia in a coma: Garcia collapses at his Marin County home and falls into a diabetic coma. It would go on to peak at No. One wonders, though. If this is the best from their tour, what can the outtakes sound like? July Mydland overdoses: Mydland dies of a drug overdose in Lafayette at age January: Garcia neckties: In addition to slinging a guitar, Garcia, who briefly studied at San Francisco Art Institute, painted abstract works of art. Beginning inhis works make an unlikely appearance on a line of neckties.
The neckwear, nonetheless, became popular with the 9-to-5 set. August: Garcia cancels tour: Garcia cancels an date East Coast tour scheduled to start in August after he collapses. Louis that summer, the deck at a campground where many fans were staying for a Dead show collapsed, sending people to the hospital. He had checked in two days earlier.
The head Deadhead is immortal. June 2: Welnick commits suicide: Suffering from depression, Welnick takes his own life.
He is the fourth Grateful Dead keyboardist to die. Jerome John Garcia August 1, — August 9, was an American singer-songwriter and guitarist, best known for his work as the lead guitarist and as a vocalist with the band the Grateful Dead, which came to prominence during the counterculture era in the s.
One of its founders, Garcia performed with the Grateful Dead for their entire thirty-year career — He was well known for his distinctive guitar playing and was ranked 13th in Rolling Stone's " Greatest Guitarists of All Time" cover story.
Later in life, Garcia was sometimes ill because of his diabetes, and in went into a diabetic coma that nearly cost him his life. Although his overall health improved somewhat after that, he also struggled with heroin and cocaine addictions, and was staying in a California drug rehabilitation facility when he died of a heart attack in August at the age of Childhood and early life.
Jerry Garcia's ancestors Stink - Leader Sun - Leader Sun (Cassette) his father's side were from Galicia in northwest Spain. His mother's ancestors were Irish and Swedish. Garcia was influenced by music at an early age, taking piano lessons for much of his childhood.
Garcia experienced several tragedies during his youth. At age four, while the family was vacationing in the Santa Cruz Mountains, two-thirds of Garcia's right middle finger was accidentally cut off. Jerry steadied a piece of wood with his finger, but Tiff miscalculated and the axe severed most of Jerry's middle finger.
Less than a year after he lost most of his finger, his father died. He drowned before other fishermen could reach him. Jackson's evidence: a local newspaper article describing Jose's death failed to mention Garcia was present when his father died. Following the accident, Garcia's mother took over her husband's bar, buying out his partner for full ownership.
As a result, Ruth Garcia began working full-time, sending Jerry and his brother to live nearby with her parents, Tillie and William Clifford. During the five-year period in which he lived with his grandparents, Garcia enjoyed a large amount of autonomy and attended Monroe School, the local elementary school. At the school, Garcia was greatly encouraged in his artistic abilities by his third grade teacher: through her, he discovered that "being a creative person was a viable possibility in life.
His elder brother, Clifford, however, staunchly believed the contrary, insisting that Garcia was "fantasizing all [that] InGarcia's mother married Wally Matusiewicz. However, due to the roughneck reputation of their neighborhood at the time, the Excelsior District, Garcia's mother moved their family to Menlo Park.
King, Hank Ballard, and, later, Chuck Berry. In mid, Garcia began smoking cigarettes and was introduced to marijuana. During the classes, he often encouraged Garcia in his drawing and painting skills.
In June of the same year, Garcia graduated from the local Menlo Oaks school. He then moved with his family back to San Francisco, where they lived in an apartment above the newly built bar, the old one having previously been torn down to make way for a freeway entrance.
After a short stint at Denman Junior High School, Garcia attended tenth grade at Balboa High School inwhere he often got into trouble for skipping classes and fighting. To get to Analy High School, the nearest school, he had to travel by bus thirty miles to Sebastopol, a move which only made him more unhappy. After performing and winning a contest, the band's reward was recording a song—they chose "Raunchy" by Bill Justis. Recording career.
Relocation and band beginnings. The corner of Haight and Ashbury, center of the San Francisco neighborhood where the Grateful Dead shared a house at Ashbury from fall to spring Garcia stole his mother's car inand as punishment he was forced to join the United States Army. He received basic training at Fort Ord. Through Grant, Garcia met Dave McQueen in February, who, after hearing Garcia perform some blues, introduced him to local people and to the Chateau, a rooming house located near Stanford University which was then a popular hangout.
On February 20,Garcia got into a car with Paul Speegle, a sixteen-year-old artist and acquaintance of Garcia; Lee Adams, the house manager of the Chateau and driver of the car; and Alan Trist, a companion of theirs.
The accident served as an awakening for Garcia, who later commented: "That's where my life began. Before then I was always living at less than capacity. Among them was the Equality Act — first introduced in — that would extend the protections of the Civil Rights Act and subsequent similar legislation to Americans on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity.
In the early discussion about the Equality Act, there was some vague talk that African-American leaders might be hesitant about any approach that tinkered with the cornerstone legislation of the Civil Rights Movement. The support of prominent Black members of Congress like Lewis put that worry to rest, and the support of the Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights is likely the most powerful tool in the arsenal of Equality Act advocates.
John Lewis saw politics and social change from an intersectional perspective long before that terminology ever existed. He saw through the specifics of any given human rights question and understood the ignorance, hatred, and evil at the core of opposition to it. Lewis was one of 10 children born to sharecropper parents in rural Alabama in He learned about Martin Luther King, Jr. By the time he was 18, he had met both. For his activism, he was beaten and jailed. By that year,he had also become a close confidant of King, and he was the youngest of the speakers at the March on Washington.
We are tired. We are tired of being beaten by policemen. We are tired of seeing our people locked up in jail over and over again. We want our freedom and we want it now. We do not want to go to jail. But we will go to jail if this is the price we must pay for love, brotherhood, and true peace.
We will march through the South; through the streets of Jackson, through the streets of Danville, through the streets of Cambridge, through the streets of Birmingham. My heart breaks for these men and women, their families, and the country that let them down — again. Nine days later, Lewis joined former President Barack Obama on a Zoom call that included an intergenerational group of African-American activists.
I tell you the past few days been so inspiring to me. But we must help it work out.
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