My Best Friend, My Drummer

Listen to this, starting at around a minute in. It’s the Stir it Up jam, you know it. But listen again to how the very instant that Garcia picks up the thread that he’s been doodling at, Billy’s right there with him.

Billy gets short shrift. The other chimps built a Wall of Sound around him, (literally*), but Billy was still sitting there like the lost Murray brother with his pervy mustache and dinky little jazz kit. Whenever Mickey wasn’t around to rope Billy into his percussion related…ideas…Billy’s entire kit would fit in the trunk and backseat of an El Dorado. He gets overshadowed, though, partially stemming from the fact that Billy is deliberately kept away from people, especially people who have crotches they don’t want punched.

Billy should be listed along with Charlie Watts and Animal Muppet as one of the greatest drummers of the time, but he labors under the double canopy of Garcia and Phil. Phil, as we have discussed, preferred to play all the notes. Other bassists would play some of the notes. Actually, most bassists would play merely a few notes repeatedly. Not our Phil, so it’s easy to forget The Rule:

The sound of a great band is made by two guys, usually the drummer and the rhythm guitarist, but sometimes the bassist. No exceptions.**

The Stones are Keith and Charlie. Van Halen is those two aging tweakers and whatever hepatitis-infected blond they can rope into screaming, “GLARBLE MONNA HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT!” for a three-month tour that lasts five weeks and ends in recriminations, lawsuits, and, finally, discussion of Wolfgang’s unfortunate resemblance in every single way possible  to A. J. Soprano that was totally uncalled for. Not cool, man.

The sound of the Dead is Garcia and Billy. Dead and gone.

(We do, though, have recordings of the shows, which we may listen to at our leisure. For your enjoyment, and to bolster my pro-Billy stance, listen to the Mind Left Body Jam in this China/Rider. It proves my point: Phil played the bass, but Billy played songs. Man.)

*Billy refused to sit directly under the massive center speaker conglomeration, primarily because he had been up all night doing drugs and shooting at the Invisible Ones with the people who erected the thing.

**I am including Rush in this. The sound of Rush is generated by Geddy and Neil. Lifeson, while technically known in official musician terminology as “a motherfucker,” has always been generic, generally.

ADDENDUM

Recently having written a post about Springsteen, I have come to the realization that the sound of Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band is generated by Roy Bittan and Max Weinberg, making it an ultra-rare piano/drum combo.

You Know Our Love Will

Listen to Not Fade Away, all the way through. Please. I promise you it’s worth your time.

LISTEN TO THE WHOLE THING! LISTEN TO THE WHOLE THING, FUCKER (Sorry for the “fucker,” pal.) NO, I’M NOT! DON’T BE A FUCKER: LISTEN TO THE THING I WANT YOU TO LISTEN TO!

Did you listen to it?

Got something in your eye, buddy?  It’s okay, I got misty, too. Not full-on The Green Mile weeping, the memory of which is still a bit humiliating, but still a suggestion of a tear upon the eye. If you didn’t get a little choked up, then you’re not an Enthusiast, full stop.

This, my fellow obsessives, is what redeems the silliness and utter lack of discipline. The solo albums and the 1972 drum solos with just Billy for six or seven minutes and the fact that, while yes Truckin’ does have tough lyrics, 25 years is enough time to have figured them out–all of these former problems reveal themselves in the true scale of the thing as mere piffle.

Moments that made you remember that, for around 30 years, the Dead were the best house band in the world, no matter how big the house.

Another Dick’s Pick In The Wall

The Wall of Sound. Sweet heavenly Jesus: the Wall of Sound. These befuddled men asked themselves, “How much Sound do we need?” The answer–apparently–was, “A Wall’s worth.”

The problem was not really with the Sound so much as it was with the Wall. It was also an intractable problem, due to the fact that the very definition of ‘wall’ is something you cannot move easily, if at all. Hadrian’s Wall? Great Wall of China? All still there, mostly because of bunch of longhairs and bikers didn’t drag them around the midwest for months at a time. That a wall not be portable is its sine non qua is obvious with even my cursory knowledge of siege warfare, all entirely gleaned from 8th grade World history and whichever Lord of the Rings movie had the big castle fight scene. You know the name: it was the one with the little gay hobbits and the monsters and dragons and it lasts for nineteen fucking hours.  (Although, seriously, what kind of nimrod builds a castle with a drainage canal thing in the FRONT, where is easily accesible to your enemy, provided your enemy is a monster, WHICH HE TOTALLY IS AND YOU KNEW THAT GOING INTO THIS, SO WHY DIDN’T YOU BRICK THAT THING UP, GRAND MOFF TARKIN?)

It took 12 hours to set the Wall up. The Amish can knock off 6, 7 barns in that amount of time. If something takes you twelve hours to build, it should be permanent. These facts, though, pale in comparison to the fact that they chose to do this during a gas crisis. You cannot haul 75 tons of anything around during a gas crisis and expect to turn a profit: it’s one of the first things they teach you at Wharton, right after, “mention Trump and you fail.”

The Wall didn’t stop at the speakers, all of which were custom-built at a special facility in Daly City, CA that lights its workshop with burning cash. No, the boys also had new space-age instruments made up for themselves, most famously Garcia’s Wolf. Phil also got a new bass, so heavy and laden with doom it looked like the melee weapon of Phil-Garr the Grateful.

I will break my own iron held rule about research to quote at length:

Phil is using a new quadraphonic bass, the electronics of which were designed and built by George Mundy and the body and pickups by Rick Turner. The new bass has the same versatile qualities as the old bass: three pickups (bass and treble pickups covering all the strings, and a quad pickup which has a separate signal for each string); on each of the bass and treble pickups there are controls which enable him to select 1) the band-width of the filter, 2) the center frequency of the filter, 3) the kind of filter being used and 4) mix unequalized unfiltered direct sound with the filtered sound. The variety of sounds which can be achieved on the bass is the result of the many different combinations of these variables which can be used. The new bass has a frequency response with a crisper tone, and two quad pickups instead of one, the new one being a frequency-detector pickup. The main addition to the new bass is a Digital Decoding Circuit such that ten push buttons on the bass allow Phil to select any one of sixteen quad spatial arrangements of his speakers, and eight in stereo mode

I DARE you to make sense of any of that. And then factor in the fact that this is all to play Chuck Berry tunes. You can see how the Hiatus was, maybe, a necessary and inevitable thing–what comes after the wall of Sound, after all? The band made a brief and desultory attempt to build an exact replica of Versailles out of speakers, drugs, and promissory notes, but after spending $200,000 and Mickey burning down the model, the boys lost interest.

It all sounded different after they came back. The music held less secrets, but it would have been good to hear the Wall with Mickey, too. Imagine this Samson coming through a sound system that in Olden Days would have been worshipped as a god, perhaps even two gods and a saint. The Wall had that much impressive in it: pilgrims would often leave notes in the cracks of the Wall, which was a horrible, horrible idea for two reasons. First, members of the band would invariably mistake the folded-up paper prayers for bindles of narcotics and savagely knock you to the ground trying to get to them; second, Steve Parrish had a strict policy about punching anyone who touched the Wall.

Record Shmecord

Terrapin Station is majestic. Its lineage, probably, is the Weather Report Suite, but it also resembles in its twists and turns the early songs, with their crudely welded-together bits (Looking at you, New Potato Caboose.) Not Terrapin: each section flows logically from the previous theme, like a an elegantly proven math equation. It slaloms like whatever louche aristo is the skiing champion this year. It requires finesse and exquisite timing to pull it off; some nights they had neither. But when they did it was the emotional highlight of any show. It is a grand entry into the canon.

Terrapin Station, a bit less. This was the album wherein, no longer able to generate drug addicts in-house, were forced to draft a drug addict from another band. They also tried to trade Keith for a speed freak and an alcoholic to be named later, but the deal fell through.

Terrapin Station was produced by Lowell George from Little Feat Keith Olsen, as much as anyone can produce the Grateful Dead. He tried to erase a percussion track of Mickey’s, and if you’ve been a loyal reader of this blog, you’ll know what happened next: everybody’s favorite fun game, Mickey Physically Assaults Business Associates. None of their records were any good. Common knowledge.

So: we can either spend 400 more words mocking In the Dark, or we can check out Phil (with GREAT HAIR!) leading the way through a 1972 China>Rider in some city that had been occupied by Nazis within the decade.

Good choice:

Addendum: In the comments below, a Fellow Enthusiast points out that I originally conflated Lowell George, who was actually the producer for Shakedown Street with Keith Olsen, the true producer of Terrapin Station. This commenter is correct and wins a year’s supply of  “Brent Mydland’s Silky!” The hair products for men with silky hair. Keep it Silky, boys!

The Wheel Is Turning

Ever listen to the Dead and your attention slips just as they start to jam and then you come back to the music and realize you have absolutely no idea what song they’re playing? And then you realize, they don’t know, either.  THAT’S why it’s all worth it: the clams, the time signature disagreements, the tuning, I Fought the Law–it all rolls away when they hit that Moment.

…and…

I have, for the past two weeks, not downloaded a single show. Not one. But have I received the intended grace for my absolution? Has there been even a dent in the backlog of shows taking up space on my full-to-bulging* hard drive that I haven’t gotten to yet?

No. Of course not. I have begun listening to the streams at archive.org.

*This was Billy’s constant rejoinder to the question, “How are you, Billy?” It would go like this:

“How are you, Billy?”

“Full to bulging.”

And then he would fake punch you in the dick and then he would actually punch you in the dick because Billy’s nickname on the road was Dickpunchin’ Billy and a man without a name is nothing, nothing at all.

Good Lovin’

The Dead used to masturbate together. Not just in the old days, when Pig would whip out his thick, greasy hog and announce, “Let’s put our hands IN our pockets!” No, it was a constant throughout the years. Lineup changes, health problems, financial chaos? The music got them through, along with regular sessions of group masturbation. It was men being men together and, occasionally, all over each other. And what could be wrong with that?

Oh, hell, I can’t hold on to this horrible knowledge any longer: the Dead were gay. Very, very gay. And much like metal fans with Rob Halford and Ronnie James Dio, we had absolutely no idea. This the kind of thing that Dead.net won’t tell you, my friends! LOOK AT THE EVIDENCES!

Do I even have to make the joke about Garcia being a bear and Bobby being a twink and Phil being the guy at the orgy still wearing socks?

Ramrod. His name was Ramrod. No matter where on the planet you are, if you get into a taxi and say “Ramrod,” you will be taken to a gay bar.

Mustaches, mustaches, mustaches.

(Okay, this has to stop: I’m just taking out some frustration on you, Fellow Enthusiast. Sitting here listening to 2/23/93–Ornette Coleman sits in for the last half of the second set and they open up with a Mardi Gras-infused Iko Iko and IT’S AWESOME except I’m breaking rules all over the place: a Vince? Listening to a Vince, even with Ornette Coleman? PLUS, I’m listening to drums->space and IT’S AWESOME, TOO and now I’m worried that I’m turning into one of those drums->space people and the only step after that is quibbling about different recordings of the same show. That’s no life at all.)

(Oh, right: the Dead are, of course, not actually practicing homosexuals, which, of course, would be perfectly fine and would probably be real good for Mickey. He needs some masculine energy around. Not Billy, though. Let’s face it, Billy was gonna be punching anyone you placed in front of him. Also, I don’t think Dio’s gay: like always, I will be sticking to my ban on research of any sort. If Dio were gay, though, he’d be roaming around the fantasy world of Homoslavia with his giant penis sword, riding on top of a penis dragon, and penising everything around him with his penis. Penis.)

1977 and Bobby Jokes: You Know, The Usual

Why hasn’t Barton Hall been released commercially? Not that I’m looking for it, obviously: I can still remember the all-black Maxxell with 5/8/77!!! written on the tag in red ink. Since then, I’ve never not listened to this show. Even though the boys and I drifted apart during the first decade of the new millennium, that second set still called to me. “Just the first little bit,” I would tell myself. “Just the opening to Scarlet: dat dat dat–bom ba WHOOOM!” And then, of course, it would be seventy minutes later and the Dead would have destroyed and rebuilt the world with Morning Dew.

But no official release. They have the tapes, obviously, along with a fondness for releasing Spring/Fall ’77 shows–there have been 5 Dick’s Picks, one Road Trip, one Digital Download, To Terrapin, and the 10 CD Winterland ’77 box set. (Swear I did that by memory, so if I’m wrong, then…I don’t know: nothing, I guess. Carry on wasting time reading this nonsense.)

There’s a great book that came out last year, Love Goes to Buildings on Fire by Will Hermes. It might be the definitive history of one of the most fertile musical scenes in history, New York in the 70’s. The author is mugged taking the subway to the train for Cornell and loses not only his money, but also his Dead tickets. The New York Times wrote an article recently about the archive and the sheer volume of shows available nowadays and its effect on ranking shows and whether or not the band should be appreciated show-by-show or by tour. Quite honestly, I think the author of the article was assigned an article covering The Dead’s weary arrival into Manhattan and just couldn’t interview Bobby again. True, there had been no dickpunching since Billy went back to the ocean, but still, you try asking Bobby  any other question other than, “When did you start looking like Dad Wolf from Teen Wolf?

So, who was on Style’s Woof-mobile?

Anyway, what I’m saying is that 5/8/77 is kind of almost vaguely “out there.” And we’re coming up on the 35th anniversary, but no one’s talking advantage of it. New members, fresh blood. Think I haven’t seen hobbies die? I used to work in a comic book shop, man: Hell holds no terrors for me.

Play It Slow

This game thing…this goddamn game thing. I would rather have Billy speedbag my nuts while tie-dyed ninjas force me to watch them delete all the beautiful Shows from my computer and replace them with audience tapes of 1995 than have anything to do with this goddamn game thing.

First off, the site looks like CompuServe’s Brazilian-raised clone, flashy and zitty and with music that starts playing when the page opens. Genocides have been started for lesser insults than playing music I didn’t ask for when the page opens and then HIDING THE FUCKING MUTE BUTTON IN YOUR PASTEL NIGHTMARE OF A WEBSITE.

Plus: it’s SHIT music. There’s a drums>space vibe to it, but there are two problems there: 1. That’s what you want to open up with, Grateful Dead Game? The thing that even hard-core fans of the band only barely tolerated? Not, say, an upbeat catchy number? And, 2. IT’S NOT EVEN THE DEAD PLAYING. It sounds like a guy with a Korg M-1.

Okay, fine, the site looks awful. Hell, this site looks awful. But we get to play a game! Except the game doesn’t exist. Not yet. So far, we’ve just voted on the Top Ten Dead Shows Of All Time In The Universe. Guess which show won.

The Book Of Bobby

Grateful Read

Used books on Amazon are, like, a buck. Figure three to ship. Four American dollars can get you a brand-new used book about, concerning, or by the Grateful Dead. These are the ones that are currently in my home. Actually, they’re not just in my home, they’re piled right in front of me, right next to the computer, which is playing the Dead (4/1/88) while I write this nonsense about the Dead. Out of the six tabs I have open, three are in some way Dead-related.

If the cries for help had previously been implicit, they are now made flesh. Yes, on one hand, it’s better than sitting there watching TV, but just barely.

Anyway, so these are the books I own (currently, but we’ll get to that) about the Dead, along with thoughts on the Dead books. (Did you see what I just did there? I worked my brand into the mix and resold it to you. I have mastered the bloggings!)

Here we go:

Long Strange Trip, by Dennis McNally. This one’s the big swingin’ dick of Dead books. The Official Saga.

Garcia by Blair Jackson. This book has sad.

Dark Star: An Oral Autobiography of Jerry Garcia by Robert Greenfield. There’s a great intro by Bobby in my edition. He almost immediately mentions his days ropin’ and a ridin’. Bobby spent a summer on a ranch once. Bobby had gotten thrown out of three boarding schools that year and his parents had had about enough of his bullshit and shipped him off to some friend of their cousin’s cow-shit factory and for 50 years, we’ve had to politely go along with the fact that Bobby actually thinks he’s a fucking cowboy.

Searching for the Sound by Phil Lesh. Very tough to make fun of this book, even though making fun of Phil is so satisfying. He comes off as a sincere Musician and Seeker, who lived through some groovy–but also very dark and sad!–times who was saved by a Waffle House waitress named Jill and is now a devoted family man. Which is, of course, the problem: Phil’s writing the book for his fucking kids. He takes the high road: the word “anal” does not appear anywhere in the book, which is odd because Phil had this thing he liked to do to groupies that was called a Phil Bomb. I want to love Phil’s book; I root for the guy. But, wow, is Scully’s book more fun. Which is sad, because Phil reaches for nobility with some rather lumpy prose while Scully is the worst scumbag that ever managed the Dead. DO YOU REALIZE HOW HIGH THAT BAR IS SET?

Living with the Dead by Rock Scully and David Dalton. In which we learn that Mountain Girl was a Mean Girl, Bobby was a cheesedick, Billy was a ephebophile, and Garcia smelled.  The existence of this noxious gossip is only tempered by the knowledge that Scully wrote this with a gun to his head, an actual thuggish man shoving a Ruger into poor Rock’s temple and demanding that he write the book.  What? He did it for the money? He supplied his friend with heroin for a decade and then wrote a book about his hygiene for a check in the mid-5 figures? There’s a Yiddish word for a guy like that: asshole.

Going Down the Road by Blair Jackson. Interview with the band, plus lots and lots of padding that no one–and I am including the author of said padding–has ever read.

Playing in the Band by David Gans and Peter Simon. Pictures and interviews. Great cover photo: they are all so greasy, unshaven, and surly-looking. They look like a gang rape about to break out. They scare me, but I like it  a little bit; they’re gonna have their way with me, but I’m gonna let them: that sort of vibe. (Did that just get weird? It got weird; I apologize.)

Skeleton Key: A Dictionary for Deadheads by David Shenk and Steve Silberman. A nifty little time capsule from 90’s Deadhead-land. A little skewed towards prep school douchebaggery, but entertaining and charming.

The American Book of the Dead: The Definitive Grateful Dead Encyclopedia by Oliver Trager. So much cool stuff in this thing. I wrote a post about it here.

Dead to the Core: An Almanack of the Grateful Dead by Eric F. Wybenga.  I’m going to write a whole post about this guy’s book, it’s so great.

The Book Full of Nonsense Sam Cutler Wrote by Sam Cutler. This is just a joke. I have read Sam Cutler’s book, and enjoyed it thoroughly without believing for one second that even a plurality of the stories aren’t complete bullshit. But I no longer own it, so looking up the title would require research. And you all know my stance on that.