MOG

[Prefatory Note: The song attached hereto lacks any relevance to the post whatsoever, thematic or otherwise, but I thought you might like it.]

I've noticed a recent increase in posts about The Grateful Dead, and although I suspect the iron has cooled a bit by now, it might still be a good time to share my own thoughts and impressions. Let me note that these impressions are generally negative, and that to my experience, when I criticize music someone else likes, they usually defend it spiritedly, or get angry with me, but fans of the Dead often look genuinely hurt, which I never like to do to anyone. But the truth must out.

I have labored long and hard to find merit in The Grateful Dead's endless, lethargic shuffles, their idiotic lyrics, their vapid efforts at soulfulness. I could make no sense of the most basic facts about them. How could a band so famously steeped in drugs remain so pedestrian and unimaginative? How could a band standing almost at the dead center of ground zero during the most audacious period of social, cultural and artistic experimentation America has ever known produce nothing but this blurry treacle while bands like Jefferson Airplane, QMS, and Big Brother & The Holding Company surrounded them? The mind reels.

The one Grateful Dead show I’ve been to is, from what I gather, regarded as one of their landmarks, and is referred to by deadheads in hushed, awestruck whispers, as "The Closing of Winterland," on the New Year's Eve that ushered out 1978 and welcomed 1979. I was 13 years old, accompanied by my mother, and had no clue what to expect. My favorite bands at the time were The Beatles, Queen, and Roxy Music. All I knew about The Grateful Dead was that their name was genius.

My parents, to fill in a bit more background, were close friends with the late Bill Graham, who ran San Francisco's live music scene with something approaching monarchical authority, and had graciously provided us with backstage passes (the first I'd ever seen - I couldn't take my eyes off it; it seemed like an amulet that conferred godlike powers on me, and I preserved it lovingly for several years before it disappeared during a move). With your indulgence, in fact, I'd like to devote a paragraph to Mr. Graham, which, if he holds no interest for you, you are welcome to skip.

To me, Bill Graham was one of the very few grownups I found interesting when I was that age. He had a deep, gruff voice that very quickly became incredibly loud when he raised it, and his natural, relaxed expression, even when he was feeling happy, looked angry. He scared people. On several occasions I watched in fascination as he struggled to produce a natural-looking smile when being photographed. He had to struggle into it, like a girl shimmying her way into a tight pair of jeans. It looked completely unnatural, as if it hurt his face physically. I have never seen anything else like his volcanic ferocity when he chewed out someone for their ineptitude, and it didn't have to be an employee of his, either. If a waiter in a restaurant was neglectful of his station, or a cashier had to get in a few more words on the phone before dealing with you – KER-BLAMMO. It was art. I don't believe the sort of power he exercised over San Francisco's rock scene has ever been known by anyone else in his profession, and could only have been attained by someone possessing incredible energy, very keen intelligence, a natural air of authority, and an instinctively utilitarian mindset, concerned first and foremost, at all times, with the greatest happiness (to borrow Jeremy Bentham’s phrase) for the greatest number of people. To this day, club owners, musicians, and even concertgoers in SF who are old enough to remember his reign - I kid you not - lower their voices and clean up their language when they speak of him. Even his detractors. When The Sex Pistols played their last concert at Winterland, one of The Avengers got into a fistfight with him. From that night on, "wipe punk rock completely from San Francisco" was a fixture on his To Do list. His stance softened gradually over the years, but for a long time, punk rock in SF was played only at the Mabuhay Gardens an Indian restaurant. One of Led Zeppelin's strongmen tried to bully him when they played there in 1975. Never again would he permit the band within city limits. And finally, let me wrap this up by noting that he was always very nice to me; never visited the house without bringing me a poster for some concert, or a record I might like. He always wanted to talk about music with me, and I never noticed any difference between our conversations and the ones he had with other grown-ups. I’m grateful that I got to know him, and I miss the hell out of him.

We return you now to December 31, 1978: Ten minutes or so into the show, I could no longer deny the evidence. The Grateful Dead had wasted a great name. I asked my mother for permission to wander into the crowd and explore a bit, and was surprised to receive it – I think the backstage pass was a factor. The crowd – and this should tell you something – was more interesting than the band (and they weren’t all that interesting). Most of them, I noticed, were gathered in separate knots, talking to each other, getting stoned – looking cheerful, no doubt, but showing no signs I could see of paying any attention to the music – no tapping their feet or bobbing their heads, very little looking toward the stage.

As I think about it now, perhaps these were the people I later was told, to my amazement, actually followed the band from town to town, catching every show.

Take a moment to think about that. Think of your very favorite album of all time, and imagine listening to it every single night, over and over, for four, five, maybe six straight hours. Could you do that? Of course not. Repetition would strip the music of its beauty and meaning after only a few nights; over a few weeks, it would become intolerable, and after a few months, it would lose its very audibility. I bet the people in those groups were speaking to one another in a normal tone of voice. Incidentally; this testifies to the that The Grateful Dead made music for people who don’t like music. Sadly, these poor wretches can almost never be made to understand this; they believe that because they have a fun time at these concerts, they Q.E.D. must like music, and would – quite understandably - resist accepting the idea that they lack such sensitivity.

I remember being tapped on the shoulder at one point, and turning to see a (very pretty) hippie chick smiling at me, who asked if she could paint my face. Well, I didn’t think I was going to get her number or anything, but if it would give me a few minutes’ diversion from this all, let’s do it, right? What, she asked me, did I want her to paint? After a few moments’ thought, I replied “Devo,” the name of my favorite new band at the time. She’d never heard of them, but obliged me cheerfully. I wandered back to Mom backstage, and at some point one of the concert staff came up and asked us if we’d like to watch from the stage (not, like, the middle of the stage, obviously, but off to the side), and we both thought it might be fun, and he escorted us there. I mention this because a year or so ago, a friend of mine who knew I’d attended it gave me a DVD of the concert (such a thing actually exists, and is commercially distributed). Sure enough, I can be seen in one shot, next to dear old Mom, off stage left. My face isn’t really discernible, but it’s me.

We didn’t stay for the whole show, but wanted to remain long enough to see the new year brought in, which was marked by the appearance of a bearded Santa Claus with a skull face, riding a wire-suspended funicular shaped like a giant joint.

We went back home shortly afterwards, and I went to bed, thinking I need no longer worry about this band; they sucked, and that was the end of the matter. Besides, there was no way any act with such hopeless music could possibly stay in business for more than another year or two. No way.

TOMORROW (OR AT MY EARLIEST CONVENIENCE): PART II