The Miami Dark Star Show

Thirty years ago today, the Grateful Dead ended what was arguably their best tour of the 1980s. What began in Hampton, Virginia 18 days before with two unannounced shows that included the reintroduction of foundational songs like Dark Star, Attics of My Life, and the return of the three-part suite of Help on the Way > Slipknot > Franklin’s Tower then traversed up I-95 for five nights in East Rutherford, New Jersey (including a no-doubt-about-it candidate for show of the year on Weir’s birthday), down to Philly for a three-night run that found the band commenting on an earthquake that hit their home town of San Francisco, to a quick two night stint in Charlotte, had landed at the water’s edge in Miami. 

Much has been written about what happened on that final night - murmurings of dark energy that caused fans to flee the arena, itself parked in a dicey part of town, and we will get to that, but the hints of anything other than a capable ending to an exceptional three weeks of music were not present when the band opened with a cheerful version of Foolish Heart. This late-era addition to the band’s repertoire was still finding its place within the set list but Weir’s cover of Little Red Rooster offered a counter point to the show opener’s upbeat tempo. Brent Mydland’s verse turn and B-3 leads gave the song a menacing tone and Garcia’s selection of Stagger Lee - a revenge tale with a bad ending - picked up on the theme. Weir’s cowboy combo of Me and My Uncle > Big River offered more tales of loss and duplicity with a rollicking beat and frisky interplay among the musicians. 

After a perfunctory Brown-Eyed Women the band took up Victim or the Crime, the point at which many people who have written about the Miami Dark Star show point to as the guidepost for the insanity to come. To be sure, Victim which, like Foolish Heart, was a song the band was still figuring out musically (they would receive a fair amount of criticism for playing it immediately after midnight on January 1, 1990, essentially heralding the new decade with a downer of a song that freaked people out) but its weirdness was already well-established. This night would be no different, with nearly two minutes of spacey feedback that lands on a breezy version of Don’t Ease Me In. It was as if the band was giving the audience a taste of its power without overwhelming it. 

Whatever restraint the band showed in closing out the first set was nowhere to be found when they waltzed out to some brief Finniculi tuning and then plowed into a muscular version of Estimated Prophet, in a rare second set opening position. Here, we see the band in peak fighting shape, a sharpened blade of musical force honed over the dozen shows that preceded it, every lead landed, every musical handoff flawless, with a splash of Healy-inspired vocal creepiness as another bread crumb of whatever psychic vibe was passing through South Florida. The outro jam led into Mydland’s signature tune Blow Away, a divisive song among Heads at the time and one that the manic-eyed keyboardist performed with an intensity that could only come from a source of pain and anguish, which made sense, considering the song was about his crumbling marriage. 

At this point, things come to a bit of a halt. This would be the first and only time the band opened a second set with Estimated > Blow Away and the extended pause taken to consider their options suggests they might not have been entirely sure what to do. That they chose Dark Star was fitting. This iconic song had been in mothballs since 1984, but the band’s revival of it at the beginning of the East Coast tour in Hampton became a touchstone for the legend that grew around this five-city romp. The Hampton version was strong although not overly ambitious, as if the band wanted to make sure it had a proper foundation before stretching it out to celebrate Weir’s 42nd birthday in New Jersey seven days later. Each of these three versions is revered for different reasons, but the words most associated with the Miami Dark Star are some iteration of “out there.” 

The band’s performance is strong from the start. The musicians’ confidence in both the melody and the detours they could take to explore different themes is evident soon after the two minute instrumental melts into the first verse. Garcia sets the tone with various MIDI-influenced notes that his band mates circle around and comment on. And just as it appears the jam might flag, the band segues back toward firmer ground, finding the second verse in a way that might leave you thinking perhaps they had decided to cut the proceedings short, but it is then that the real freak show begins. 

For the next ten minutes, the band engages in what one reviewer called a sonic drive by shooting, as if they were unloading every creepy sound effect and negative piece of energy that had been stored within their beings. It is at best uncomfortable to listen to, and at worst, a hair raising aural adventure that I can understand people walking out on (especially if they were dosed). It is more than a simple Space, less benevolent and experimental and more hostile and aggressive. This Dark Star is not meant to be tripped out to, it is meant to be freaked out on - a direct challenge to the listener to see how much they can take. The tone is unremitting and unrelenting, loud, ugly, and in your face. 

To call it white knuckle listening does not do full justice to the musical carnage that the band leaves in its wake. Clocking in at nearly thirty minutes, the entire version is exhausting and the Drums > Space that follows suggests the band needed to catch its collective breath. Even The Wheel that rounds the bend toward home is modest, while Watchtower picks up the intensity level, that too is short-lived. Garcia’s reading of Stella Blue is traditional, with a few lovely, shimmering leads as the song builds to its conclusion. The set closes with a free spirited (albeit MIDI-heavy) Not Fade Away that cleanses the palate, as if the windows were opened to air out whatever dark forces still remained. The band ended the night spiritually with We Bid You Goodnight, another Hamptons “bust out” that had not been heard live in almost two decades. The mellow vibe and a cappella rendering providing a final salve of redemption and call for love during a night when neither was in much supply. 

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Diamonds in the Rough - The Grateful Dead in 1986

Ask a deadhead what they think is the band’s best year of performances and the answers you get will vary greatly. Some will point to a primal year like 1968; others love the jazz-era of 1973 or 1974; 1977 and its mind-bending level of proficiency will always rank near the top, and other years, like 1979 (after Brent joined the band), 1981, and 1990 are likely to garner some votes too. 

On the other hand, ask a deadhead what they think is the band’s worst year of performances and the answer you get will almost uniformly be the same - 1986. [1] It was a year of low points. Shows that lasted less than two hours were played with little vigor or life. Jerry, having cleaned up for much of 1985, relapsed and, combined with his ballooning weight and poor health, was barely a presence on stage most nights. He missed lyrics left and right, his playing was subpar at best and downright awful at worst. He and Weir were rarely on the same page and many nights sounded like the band was simply going through the motions (and quickly!). 

1986 also saw the final Lost Sailor (3/24/86), a less-than-six-minute Terrapin (4/13/86), and one of the worst-rated shows in the band’s 30-year history (6/26/86). The capper was Jerry collapsing three days after the end of the band’s summer tour and lapsing into a diabetic coma that nearly killed him.

But even in the worst of times, the Dead were able to produce moments of sheer brilliance. Having combed through this fallow part of the band’s musical canon, I found a few performances worth a spin or two (in ascending date order, click on the song name for a link to the show at archive.org):

1. Visions of Johanna (Hampton Coliseum, March 19, 1986): The band’s first crack at this Dylan classic is letter perfect. Garcia has it all going on, from the lyrical phrasing to his guitar leads. It is apparent the band put the time in the studio to get this song “just exactly perfect.”

2. Uncle John’s Band (Hampton Coliseum, March 21, 1986): Closing out a strong three-night run in Hampton, the Dead opened the second set with this neat little version of UJB. Sure, Jerry flubs some lyrics, but the musical phrasing, particularly the outro-jam that starts at around five minutes, is well articulated, with Weir pushing a Supplication Jam line hoping Jerry will bite (he does not). The Terrapin>Playin’ that follows is not shabby either. 

3. Playing in the Band (Cal Expo, May 4, 1986): At this just-over-two-hour show, the band coughed out only two songs before the drums/space segment in the second set, but one of them was this super spacey 15-minute version of PITB. Garcia is not just present throughout but leading the band into dark corners of the musical universe. Lesh bops along, matching Jerry note-for-note while Brent embellishes the jam with his twinkling keys and Weir tosses out his own unique rhythmic phrasing. 

4. Fire on the Mountain (Greek Theater, June 22, 1986): This is probably my favorite version of Fire other than Cornell. It is a stand alone version that opened the second set with a slinky groove, that signature Dead anachronism (Weir coming in early on the chorus, a wildfire burning in the distance) and hypnotizing Mydland keyboard work. 

5. (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction (RFK Stadium, July 7, 1986): Had Jerry not made it, this would have been the final song the band ever performed, and a fitting ending it would have been because this is a deeply weird version of the Rolling Stones classic. The song is played at a frenetic pace with Phil dropping bombs left and right. Toward the end, Weir ad-libs band introductions, referring to Brent as a man of “much action but very few words,” referring to Jerry as “old Jer,” (who throws out a  few chords in appreciation) and Jerry returning the favor in his reedy voice by describing Bobby as “one of my favorite people in the whole world.” It is just SO Grateful Dead.

If there is a silver lining, once Jerry came out of his coma, relearned the guitar, and started taking care of himself, the come back shows at the Oakland Coliseum in mid-December 1986 heralded a new era in the band’s history. I do not consider the handful of post-coma shows as even part of the same year as the pre-coma shows, because it really is like listening to two different bands. 

If you want a sense of the euphoria fans felt that Jerry had survived his brush with death, I suggest you listen to Candyman (Oakland Coliseum, December 15, 1986). When Jerry hits the “hand me my old guitar” line, the eruption from the crowd will send chills up and down your spine. 

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END NOTE

1. I know, I know. Some of you are going to argue for 1984, others for 1994 and/or 1995. A few points. While Jerry’s appearance in 1984 was appalling, his playing was still at a high level, and indeed, as I wrote here, the year in toto is highly underrated. By 1986, not only did he look terrible, his playing had fallen off as well. On the other hand, while Jerry was flagging in those last two years, the rest of the band consistently elevated their collective game to make up for his shortcomings. Not so in 1986, where the whole band was limping along. 

Cornell - 5/8/77

May Eighth is practically a religious holiday for Deadheads. To the converted, no more needs to be said. The mere utterance of this phrase immediately calls to mind a live show of such technical precision it is now immortalized in the Library of Congress’s National Recording Registry. But to paraphrase from the Hagaddah, “what makes Cornell different from all other nights?” 

Cornell long ago secured its place atop the ranking of greatest Dead shows of all-time, but even in that rarefied air, opinions vary. Declaring something as “the best” on a topic as subjective as music, and particularly among a rabid fan base that runs the spectrum from octogenarians to Millenials, is impossible. 

I prefer to think of Cornell as the best example of that era of the Dead’s music - which is no small thing. The band had “retired” in October 1974 amid financial problems, burn out, and an interest among the members in pursuing solo projects. A four night Winterland run closed this chapter of what is known as “Jazz-era” Dead - shows punctuated by lengthy improvisational jams, trumpet and saxophone accompaniment, and a numbing perfection that makes one show indistinguishable from the other in the high quality of the musicianship. At times, these shows stretched to nearly four hours, and signature versions of songs like Dark Star, Eyes of the World, and Stella Blue abound. 

But even in retirement, the band never quite left the stage. A sui generis show in March 1975 stands as a lone example of what can best be described as Prog Rock on LSD, a 40 minute set comprising the entire album Blues For Allah featuring Merl Saunders on keyboard and jams so thick you feel like you are being sucked into a black hole. 

When the band emerged fully in 1976, the sound changed too. With Mickey Hart back in the fold, the group moved away from five-piece jazz influences and into a more traditional rock ’n’ roll sound splashed with a light coating of pop exemplified in the early 1977 album Terrapin Station. The band also settled on what would become the standard format for their live shows (but for some acoustic/electric sets in 1980) until Garcia’s passing in 1995: two sets with a “drums/space” segment midway through the second set, and a single encore. 

By early 1977, with the tour rust shaken off, the Dead alit for a spring tour for the ages, invading the Northeast with hot warm up shows in New York City, New Haven, Passaic, Boston and Springfield before landing in Ithaca, New York on the night of May 8th. The band burst out of the gate with an aggressive version of New Mingelwood Blues featuring hard charging leads by Garcia and speaker-rattling bass bombs by Lesh. First sets allowed the band to root through its back catalogue of musical influences - rhythm and blues, bluegrass, country, and folk, and Cornell is no different. Be it the ragtime feel of Deal or the country standard Mama Tried (with Weir giving a “thanks, Mom” nod on Mother’s Day). The band is on point and as will be clear when the fireworks really start later, the unsung hero of the night is Betty Jackson-Cantor, whose mix is sheer perfection - the instruments blending so seamlessly you would be excused for thinking the band was in a studio, the vocals clear as a bell. Of course, the band was not above contemporary influences and the stretched out set closer, Dancin’ in the Streets, a song of protest and resistance in the 60s, is rearranged in a hypnotic disco tempo that just will not stop. 

For those of us who grew up on Cornell via cassette tape, the second set starts anachronistically. Can we rate different versions of Take A Step Back and deem this one the best? There is something in Jerry’s “horribly smashed” comment that always makes me chuckle and Bob’s admonition that you don’t want all your friends up front to be “real bug eyed” is just so Bobby. The band must have been satisfied with the crowd’s response, because Scarlet>Fire starts with a musical explosion that floods your eardrums in a way that every time I hear it, I mutter to myself “perfect from note one.” And it is. There is sheer joy in Garcia’s voice and magic in his finger tips as he leads the band through this staple of the Dead’s canon. Jerry’s leads are matched by Lesh’s throbbing bass and Keith Godchaux’s rich piano counterpoint. 

The thing you notice is how effortless the playing sounds, like the notes are arranged in front of them and the band is simply following a chart, but what you are experiencing instead is a group performing at a creative peak. The transition from Scarlet into Fire is extended, as Garcia starts playing the line until Lesh decides to join. While latter-day Heads are familiar with the coupling of these two songs, this was all new territory back in ’77. The band brings the funk as Phil lays down a groove that will get your toes tapping, with Jerry picking up on the beat and away we go through verses and soaring guitar solos. Fire is also a perfect example of Weir’s unconventional but “just exactly perfect” (for the Dead) rhythm guitar playing. He does not play the rhythm so much as embellish Garcia’s leads, punctuating the musical themes while allowing Garcia’s brilliance to take center stage. 

Weir’s Estimated Prophet was a newcomer to the live rotation and was played frequently throughout 1977, including at Cornell. But even after a few months, the band was already stretching the relatively straight-forward studio version into a slinkier live performer, with Garcia leaning into his wah-wah pedal and the song taking on a bit of a reggae feel. 

As events unfolded, it is easy to see Estimated as a sort of palate cleanser before the St Stephen > NFA > St Stephen main course. Part of what makes Cornell so memorable is even the minor hiccups are perfect, as in Donna’s too-soon entry into the “lady fingers” stanza of St Stephen, her voice ephemeral and drifting off as if it was always planned that way. The band barrels into Not Fade Away with gusto. Of course, Not Fade Away in the 70s was not the second-set crowd pleasing love letter from the band to the audience it became in later years. No, in Ithaca, New York, NFA was a balls-out rocker, stretched through and through and left hung out to dry, an orgy of musicianship that gives you hammer throwing guitar leads, room-rattling bass drops, and piano playing that will assault your senses in ways you did not think possible. 

And then, after a brief segue back into St Stephen, Jerry throws out Morning Dew, a 14-minute masterpiece of music that has within it moments of hushed silence, where you can hear a pin drop in a venue filled with 4,800 people, interspersed with rich instrumentals that punctuate the lyrics as the song builds toward a crescendo that if heard under the proper influence, may literally make you feel like you are seeing God. It all comes to a head as Jerry goes for ever more ambitious leads, his fingers fanning his guitar at such a speed the room starts to spin; and, as he bellows the final song’s final line, “I guess it does not matter . . . anyway” Keith hits a piano run that puts an exclamation point on the proceedings. The song will literally take your breath away, Weir’s meek “thank you” not nearly doing justice to what may be the greatest single song performance in the band’s 30-year career. The night ends with a quintessential Dead coda - One More Saturday Night - played on Sunday. 

Whew. Much has been written about Cornell, particularly with its “official” release last year around the time of the 40th anniversary of the concert. For me, the show has been a part of my life for going on 25 years. I know every note, from the wonky one Jerry hits to bring the band back into St Stephen to the one Phil plays signaling the full transition into Fire on the Mountain. I have played “air piano” as Keith closes out Morning Dew and mimicked Weir’s A-YOW during One More Saturday Night. Whether Cornell is the band’s greatest performance or not is a dorm room debate for music lovers, many of whom are well into their fifth (or sixth) decade of living and beside the point of simply appreciating a band playing at the height of their powers on a night that is now part of musical history. 

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Other posts about the Grateful Dead

The Dead in 1984

3/29/90

6/17/91

Giants Stadium - 6/17/91

When I walked (stumbled?) out of RFK Stadium on July 12, 1990, my mind was fully blown. The three hours I had just spent having my brain bent by the Grateful Dead had far less to do with anything I inhaled or imbibed and far more to do with the sheer brilliance of their performance, capped by a near 25-minute Dark Star that left me scrambling to pick my jaw up off the ground. That show was its own capper to a near year-long run of excellence I had witnessed, from East Rutherford, New Jersey and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania the previous October to Landover, Maryland four short months before, the Dead were in peak form.

About two weeks later, I got a call at home from a friend of mine telling me that Brent Mydland had died. It was a body blow to every Deadhead. I immediately flashed to the prior summer’s shows at RFK, when, during I Will Take You Home the big screens zoomed in on Brent and the small photos of his two young daughters he kept nestled on his keyboard. What would happen now? 

In the pre-Internet age, information did not move at the speed of light. The musician asked to take Brent’s seat, Vince Welnick, was unknown to most of us (and you couldn’t pull up a Wikipedia page to find out more) and we had no idea someone far better known - Bruce Hornsby - had rebuffed the band’s request to join them full-time, but agreed to come on temporarily while Vince got his sea legs. 

And so it was, eight weeks after walking out of a sweltering RFK, I boogied into the Spectrum having no idea what to expect. I was less than floored, but understood Welnick was new and the pressure on him enormous. I missed the MSG shows that included Hornsby’s debut (and included two other standout performances - 9/19 and 9/20) but by the time Spring 1991 rolled around, I was dutifully impressed. The shows I saw at the Capital Center and particularly the three nights at the Omni in Atlanta, were intense, creative, and thoroughly enjoyable. That the band remade itself on the fly, with two new members occupying similar musical space, was a testament not just to the surviving five, but the new guys too. 

For me, the stage was set for what is, in my opinion, the best show of the post-Brent Mydland era - the June 17, 1991 performance at Giants Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. To borrow from Reggie Jackson, as the “straw that stirred the drink,” Garcia’s centrality to the quality (or lack thereof) of the Dead’s live performances cannot be overstated, and on this night, he was firing on all cylinders. Garcia is engaged and engaging from the show’s beginning - his graying hair blown back by stage fans, the band cozied into the first Eyes of the World show opener since 1975. It is possible this was done as a simple nod to the ABC broadcast recording being done of the show, but regardless, it is one of the band’s standout performances of this foundational tune.  

Unlike other shows where the band takes a few songs to get in gear, things click quickly. Thanks to the ABC recording you can see the band’s interactions and engagement with the music. Jerry’s appreciative nods in Bruce’s direction during Eyes are telling. Like a proud papa seeing his favored son succeed, Bruce’s touch-feel for the Dead’s music provided the band’s members - and particularly Garcia - with a newfound energy after Mydland’s passing. And unlike Welnick, Hornsby was confident in his ability to push the music. Part of what makes this show so special is Hornsby’s assertiveness. It is not just his and Garcia’s melodic interludes during Eyes, it is his playfulness with the music - Dark Star teases right before Masterpiece, Truckin’ and China Doll, his piano leads during the first set closer Might As Well landing like waves on the shore, his frisky Space jam as the band tuned up for the second set and his intuitive sense of transition deep into the second set from Truckin’ into New Speedway Boogie - separate this night from so many others of the post-Mydland era.  

And that is not to short change Welnick, who was being put in an impossible spot. On the one hand, he was being asked to replace the band’s longest-serving keyboardist while knowing he was (at best) the band’s second choice (behind Hornsby, who he had to play next to every night). On top of that, he was entering a world of incredibly devoted fans who were also unremitting in their criticism (the “Don’t Let Brent Sing” movement was well underway when I started touring with the Dead in 1987. After his passing, people came around to his talent. Go figure.) 

Even so, there were times on that sultry evening when he was given a chance to shine. Unlike Mydland’s bluesy growl, Welnick’s voice was more harmonious, and Hornsby wisely stepped back to give Vince opportunities during the stunning Saint of Circumstance second set opener to display both his musical and vocal chops.  At other points, like the extended Uncle John’s Band that closed out the first part of an equally extended second set, you can see the kernels of knowledge beginning to form, the muscle memory Vince was starting to develop, as he picks up hints of The Other One and Dark Star Garcia and Lesh flirt with during the meltdown jam that flows into the Drums segment. 

In all of this, there is clear joy and a desire for experimentation. The show stretches for almost three hours without feeling bloated. The nearly hour-long beginning to the second set comprised of Saint>Ship of Fools>Truckin’>New Speedway>Uncle John’s Band is both seamless in its transitions (Hornsby tries to goad the band into Dark Star again just prior to Truckin’ and gets about a minute’s worth of interest before the band abandons things) and well jammed without feeling indulgent. If that was not enough, the back end is equally muscular - with a rare (and eerie) China Doll rolling out of Space, followed by by Weir taking a double dip with a reprise of Playin’ in the Band and a set closing Sugar Magnolia that absolutely brings the house down. 

The Weight encore feels fitting. That song, performed with each band member taking a verse, is also in its way, an opportunity for them to take a small bow for what they had just produced. For those of us who cut our teeth watching Brent on the proverbial “hot seat,” it was also a chance to reflect on how far the band had come in the 11 months since his passing. Instead of curling into a shell, the band, as it had done so many times before, had, at least for a short time, reinvented itself and was stronger than ever. 

Of course, as I’ve noted before, that reinvention proved to be short-lived. The Fall 1991 tour, while ambitious in scope, failed to meet the high level of Giants Stadium or the other stand out performances during that summer in Washington, D.C., Chicago, Illinois and Bonner Springs, Kansas. Hornsby played his last show as an unofficial member in early 1992 and the quality tailed off as Garcia’s heroin addiction reared its head again and the band flagged. But on this night in New Jersey, that denouement was far off in the distance and the band played what may have been its greatest show of the era. 

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A Dark Star Shines In Nassau

In the Grateful Dead’s 30 year history, there are a handful of shows known simply by the date they were played. Five-Eight-Seventy-Seven, Ten-Nine-Eighty-Nine, and Two-Fourteen-Sixty-Eight are among a select few performances that any Deadhead recognizes immediately. Today marks the anniversary of another of those shows: Three-Twenty-Nine-Ninety. Over a second set of absolute gems, the band, joined by the famed jazz saxophonist Branford Marsalis, would put together a seamless 90 minutes of music that wore out tape decks, CD players, and iPods long before the band’s archivists got around to officially releasing the entire show nearly 25 years later. 

When Branford joined the band at the Nassau Coliseum they were at a creative peak that began six months before that fateful night on Long Island. The Fall 1989 tour was one for the books, starting with two unannounced shows in Hampton, Virginia on October 8th and 9th that saw breakouts of “Dark Star” (first in more than 5 years), “Help>Slip>Franklins” (ditto), and the first east coast performances of “We Bid You Goodnight” and “Attics of My Life” since 1970. The tour picked up speed as the band went up and down I-95, playing stand out shows on Weir’s birthday in East Rutherford on the 16th, in Philly on the 20th, and ending with a mind-bender of weirdness (even for the Grateful Dead) in Miami on the 26th. 

The energy on stage was also palpable in the parking lots. I attended a lot of shows during the fall of 1989 and the spring of 1990 and there was a feeling that anything was possible. In the pre-internet, pre-social media world, you relied on the four-page “Dupree’s Diamond News” and parking lot gossip to divine possible set lists and speculate about the next big break out performance. The music was self-assured but also exploratory, with Garcia dipping into a new bag of tricks courtesy of MIDI technology that could transform his guitar into a variety of other instruments or he could simply link up with Mydland’s muscular blues riffs on organ and throaty backups. Lesh was the absolute backbone of the band, while Weir’s mastery of the rhythm guitar, the notes not played as he famously put it, made him the perfect foil for Garcia’s brilliance. 

When the Dead pulled into Landover, Maryland in unseasonably warm weather on March 14th, 1990, the stage was set for more magic. The three-night run at the Capital Center would see more break-outs, “Loose Lucy,” “Easy to Love You” and “Black-Throated Wind” all rejoined the band’s repertoire for the first time since the mid/late-1970s and Lesh’s 50th birthday was punctuated by a killer “Terrapin Station” that is acclaimed as one of the band’s finest. Subsequent stops in Hartford and Albany provided more evidence that the band was firing on all cylinders, with the former providing stand out versions of “Shakedown Street” and “Morning Dew” and the latter being of such good quality, large portions would be released commercially under the sobriquet “Dozin’ at the Knick.” 

So it was that on the first night in Nassau Coliseum, the band had another treat in store. A premiere performance of “The Weight,” a mournful ballad that saw the Dead hand off verses to each other in a letter perfect way that showed they had taken the time to practice this performance, as opposed to their more common tactic of half-assing cover tunes like “Blackbird,” “Stir It Up,” and “So What.” 

The following night started off unexceptionally, if professionally with a solid first set of standards like “Jack Straw” and newer material like “We Can Run.” But when Marsalis took the stage for “Bird Song,” March 29th began its ascent into the history books. This Bird Song does indeed soar, with Marsalis’s addition turning it into an ephemeral, almost dream-like sequence of music that puts your head in the clouds and a smile on your face. The chemistry was there, the playing lush, rich, and textured, fitting neatly within the many other moments of beauty the band had produced over the prior two weeks. 

Instead of sticking around for the set-ending “Promised Land,” Marsalis alit from the stage, and one could have assumed his star turn was over. However, when he walked out on stage for the second set, Branford and the Dead created a masterpiece that would come to be seen as one of the best hours-and-a-half (give or take) of music they ever performed. 

The set opens with “Eyes of the World,” performed in a jazzy tempo that mixed perfectly with Marsalis’s soaring alto saxophone. This version takes flight from the get go, as the crowd roars with approval at the first notes Marsalis adds to the mix. Stretched out over more than 16 minutes, the interplay between Garcia and Marsalis is not just literal music to the ears, but the grainy video bootlegs that circulate online show the two in spirited harmony, Garcia clearly enjoying the younger man’s presence and the saxophonist sliding into Garcia’s musical conversation like an old friend. Eyes has many stand out moments, but the one I always come back to is a note Marsalis hits at 6:35 and holds for a few seconds that sends chills up my spine every time I hear it and resulted in an appreciative “you-believe-this-guy” look from Garcia to Weir. It is the “x” factor Deadheads would speak of but rarely see, in miniature. The shift to “Estimated Prophet” in tempo and feel shows Marsalis capably following the band’s lead. He intuits the reggae/funk vibe to the song, switching from alto to soprano sax and laying down a solo at the 8:15 mark that culminates in a wicked blues riff at 9:19 that is stunning coming from a musician who had never heard the song before performing it on stage. 

This sets the stage for another in the list of post-Hampton Dark Stars that shine with an authority and confidence that became a signature of these 89-90 performances. Jerry leads the band through a loose, nicely articulated intro jam that Marsalis picks up on instantly, intermingling with Mydland’s twinkling keyboards and Weir’s anachronistic rhythm guitar. It is gooey and warm like a fudge brownie laced with LSD and after the brief verse, dissolves into a long, exploratory jam that careens around tight corners like a sports car before stopping on a dime for the Drums/Space segment.  

The set’s back end picks up right where the band left off, tidying up the second verse of Dark Star before shifting into a solid Wheel > Throwing Stones and a pitch perfect Lovelight that gives everyone an opportunity to take a bow - none more so than Marsalis, who is showered with applause as he takes a lead at the three minute mark that stretches for close to 90 seconds and will get you out of your seat and shaking your bones. 

Aside from the high quality of the musicianship, the Nassau Dark Star show also fits in with the Dead’s mythology. Rumor has it that Lesh popped into a Marsalis show in New York City and extended the invitation to the saxophonist. After joining the band for Bird Song, Marsalis reports that he was ready to leave, but the band implored him to sit in for the second set. The rest, as they say is history. While it may be apocryphal, it has been said Branford knew none of the Dead’s music when he stepped on stage. Perhaps, but even if the grain of truth is there and not the whole kernel, the show instantly entered the band’s pantheon, widely acclaimed as one of their greatest performance and rightly so. 

Of course, for a band that could reach such heights, the Dead also had a stubborn self-destructive streak. The remaining nights in Nassau and the Atlanta shows that closed the tour retained the high quality of the era and the Summer 1990 tour was an absolute monster of epic proportions and performances. At a time when the band appeared to be at the height of its powers, tragedy was just around the corner. Mydland died of an overdose less than a week after the Summer 1990 tour ended and while Garcia remained clean for a little while, by 1993 his decline was noticeable and the band soldiered on, a shell of itself, for two more years before his death in 1995. Marsalis would go on to play four more gigs with the band (12/31/90, 9/10/91, 12/10/93 and 12/16/94) but none matched the creativity or improvisation of that special night on Long Island. It remains a touchstone of the Dead canon and a show I return to time and again to recall those days of my youth and the special bond I still share with all those who call themselves Deadheads.

Follow me on Twitter - @scarylawyerguy 

* Note: Time references are from the commercial release “Wake Up To Find Out” 

Why I Did Not Go To Chicago

More than 200,000 people trekked to Chicago this weekend to see the original, surviving members of The Grateful Dead perform what have been billed as the band's farewell concerts. I was not among the throng who made the pilgrimage to the site of the band's final shows with lead singer Jerry Garcia. It had less to do with the shameless cash grab (though anyone who mail ordered tickets in the 80s or 90s eye rolled at the face value for a ticket) and a lot more to do with the appropriation of the band's name for something that could have been done under a different guise. 

I have no problem with the surviving members commemorating the 50th anniversary of the band's formation or, for that matter, touring in celebration of that signal event. What I do mind is the idea that these are "Grateful Dead" shows. Let us be clear. They are not. That band was led by Jerry Garcia and ceased to exist when he passed away on August 9th, 1995. Don't believe me? The surviving members once understood it too. When Jerry died at the height of the band's popularity, when millions were pouring in from tour dates, they could have plucked someone else to play lead guitar, sing Jerry's songs, and carry the banner. But they did not. For the same reason the band could survive the death or departure of Pigpen, Keith and Donna, Brent, and even Mickey Hart for a short spell, they could not survive without Jerry because Jerry was The Grateful Dead. No Jerry. No Grateful Dead. 

In fact, just six short years ago, the now-dubbed "core four" toured together and, but for a few guffaws from the press about old geezers "still truckin'" after all these years, those shows, and that tour, passed without much notice. Why? One key word was omitted from that band's name. "The Dead" filled amphitheaters and smaller venues but none of the sturm und drang, including a shout out from the President of the United States, attended these otherwise unremarkable shows. The side men playing with the band this weekend are also familiar - Bruce Hornsby was a member of The Grateful Dead and Jeff Chimenti has toured for years as part of Bob Weir's band Ratdog. Trey Anastasio, the front man for Phish, has also played with Lesh and has his own jam band credentials. So why feel the need to resurrect a name that you properly retired when the man most associated with it died? 

And I get it. The band was always about a sense of adventure, of young people exploring the world and getting into shenanigans and maybe meeting some friends along the way.  Perhaps the three shows in Chicago and the two in California gave some who never got to see the band the opportunity to experience a Dead show, or at least a pale imitation of what that experience was like, but the truth is, the band has been touring under different names for almost as long as Jerry has been in the ground. The Other Ones. The Dead. Further. Phil Lesh & Friends. But the one thing the band members had the decency to do was not call themselves The Grateful Dead.

This is true for the same reason Nirvana survived half-a-dozen drummers before Dave Grohl but disbanded after Kurt Cobain's suicide, why The Beatles made it past Pete Best and Stu Sutcliffe but The Police called it quits after Sting went solo, and why Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend can still pass themselves off as "The Who" even though Keith Moon has been dead since 1978 and John Entwistle since 2002 (they did a show just four days after their erstwhile bassist went to the great beyond!) Sometimes musicians are so associated with a band and a band is so associated with a particular member, that using that name once they are no longer in the band is just not right. 

Of course, it is the band's name, their music, and their legacy, they can do with it what they please, charge people what the market will bear, sell $700 box sets and crackdown on anyone attempting to share soundboard recordings of their old shows. But it is too bad they have chosen this route because the music they have produced has actually been pretty good, it is just not "The Grateful Dead." To some, this will seem silly or a matter of semantics, but those of us who had the good fortune of seeing the band, of knowing that electric current that passed through the crowd when the lights went down and band took the stage, do not need the band's name resurrected to cherish those memories.

Follow me on Twitter - @scarylawyerguy

The Music Never Stops, But The Playlist Sure Sucks

I am a Deadhead, have been since July 13, 1989 when I saw the band play at RFK Stadium in Washington, DC.  I got 'on the bus' to borrow from Tom Wolfe's book "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" and have been on ever since.  I toured with the group until Garcia's passing in 1995, seeing them in venues all the way up and down the East Coast and deep into the heartland.  My appreciation of the group has withstood the passing of Brent Mydland, Jerry Garcia and Vince Welnick, a marriage (and divorce), life changes both great and small and the passage of more than 22 years.  In fact, I've been a Deadhead for more than half my life, which is why I feel sufficiently qualified to tell the people who program the Grateful Dead channel on Sirius that it sucks - big time.  

In theory, a channel devoted to nothing but the music of the Grateful Dead makes eminent sense.  The band, which played more than 2,000 concerts over 30 years, has a dedicated and loyal fan base that collects its music with passionate obsession, each member had various side projects during the group's existence that generated further material, a number of studio albums were released and even after the passing of Garcia, the surviving band members have participated in various "reunion" tours and shows that keep the Dead's flame burning brightly.  Pulling away from the Dead itself, its influence on modern music has been seen everywhere from MTV's "Unplugged" to drum circles at the Occupy Wall Street protest.  Moreover, the band was very forward thinking in the way it marketed itself by encouraging the recording of its shows from its early days and circulating soundboard recordings to favored tapers over the years.  Indeed, so ubiquitous was the circulation of quality SBD recordings, that by 2004, a website called archive.org had essentially posted the so-called "vault" of the band's entire recorded history (the site, at the request of the surviving members, changed its policy in 2005 to limit access to SBD recordings - (http://www.archive.org/about/faqs.php#215).

This is all to say that when Sirius announced it was launching a Grateful Dead channel, I for one was quite excited.  Imagine, all Dead, all the time.  No need to drag CDs into the car or spend hours searching the web for shows now verboten - just turn on the radio and listen.  Unfortunately, the Grateful Dead channel makes no sense from a programming perspective.  Essentially, the channel is an iTunes library on shuffle - regular programming, which comprises the majority of the day, jumps between the bands eras at random - a version of "Around and Around" from 1977 is followed by a "Touch of Grey" show opener from 1990 that bleeds into a studio version of "Easy Wind" from 1970 and may end with an Indigo Girls cover version of "Uncle John's Band."  The channel does air full concerts at 12 noon and 9 P.M. but they make no connection between the two.  The noon concert might be a late-era show from 1993 and the 9 P.M. concert an obscure gig from 1968.  Sometimes a "head set" is played featuring a fan's favorite songs, but even those don't create a logical "set" of music in the way the band ever created music.  There is very little original programming, a once a week "Tales from the Golden Road" where two hosts take calls from fans and incessantly plug upcoming concerts is the closest thing to interactive radio the channel produces. 

If this were not bad enough, the true failure of the channel is in its inability to incorporate the "vault" of music in the band's library.  There's no reason one should stumble across the same version of the same song in the course of a day or even a week, yet that happens with alarming frequency.  It seems as though the access to the vault is limited because much of the "shuffle" in the library comes from officially released material, not tracks from commercially unreleased shows.  This results in almost no music being played from the mid-1980s, when the recording equipment and method of equipment were notoriously troublesome and did not produce nearly the number of full SBD recordings that other eras have.  Indeed, the band has never commercially released a full show from 1984 or 1986 and has released fewer than 5 total from 1982, 1983 and 1985.  This omission is glaring in light of the fact that while *full* SBDs from that era may not be prevalent, enough material exists to incorporate into the rotation of music the channel plays.  Similarly, late era Dead (from the passing of Brent Mydland to the passing of Jerry Garcia) is underrepresented not because of a lack of material (if anything, 1990-95 probably has the most music available) but a seeming bias against recognizing that period as a fertile one in the band's history (which is arguable, but not an unreasonable assertion).  

The channel needs to be overhauled entirely by doing the following:

First, ditch the "shuffle" feature.  This accounts for at least two-thirds of the programming day and is awful.  It not only creates sonic dissonance for those who understand the difference between band periods like "Jazz is Dead"(1973-74) and "Primal Dead" (1968-70), but is inconsistent with the way *the band* played its music.  Bloc programming should be instituted that focuses on eras, as opposed to the random playing of music so that the songs flows more organically. More broadly, use the full library of music contained in the vault instead of relying so much on commercially released live material.  There is no reason an afternoon of programming can't be done around the music of, for example, 1992-95.  

Second, utilize interviews and historical context to pinpoint important shows or experiences in the band's history.  Instead of merely playing say, the first Branford Marsalis show (March 29, 1990) as a full-live concert, why not turn it into a special, weaving in interviews with band members, road crew, even fans who were at the show, into the airing of the concert to discuss that night's experience.  This could also be done in the context of studio albums, much like the VH1 Special that focused on the making of American Beauty and Workingman's Dead.  This could be a once a week, or even once a month event.

Third, air live concerts that connect to one another and air only one concert per day.  For example, why not focus a week of live concerts on a a particular run of shows from one venue (i.e., Omni 1991, Capital Center 1989, Greek Theater 1985, etc.) or tours (Spring 1990, Spring 1977, etc.) so that the band's playing can be appreciated holistically from a particular period of time.  

Fourth, incorporate, as separate and discrete programming, non-Grateful Dead material, including performances and music from spin off bands like Further, The Dead, Phil and Friends, Rat Dog, the Jerry Garcia Band, Legion of Mary, Bobby and the Midnights, etc. and non-Dead artists that have covered Grateful Dead songs, been influenced by the music or are artists whose music the Dead plays (i.e., Bob Dylan). Present this music at scheduled times or within a bloc discussed above instead of randomly sprinkling it in during ordinary programming.  

Fifth, utilize the band's surviving members and organization more often.  Record interviews with Bob Weir or Phil Lesh about the band's history, where the inspiration from songs came from, what the show experience was like in 1971 or 1984 or 1995.  Talk to Mickey Hart or Bill Kruetzmann about "the beam," their Drums segment and what influences them musically.  Highlight the work of David Lemeiux and how he maintains the band's official archive, what goes in to mixing, producing and releasing shows commercially (and how they are selected).  Talk to roadies and ticket sellers, concert promoters and fans about their experiences with the band and what it meant to them.  In short, make the experience more interactive and collective, two things the band worked really hard over the years to do.  

Lastly, consider scaling back the 24 hour-a-day programming to 12 or 18 hours if it results in better programming.  I know, some will kick and scream that content should be new and fresh all the time, but if Howard Stern has proven anything, it's that true fans will accept recycled programming if done well.  Or, run 24 hour-a-day programming Monday-Friday but do "best of" programming on the weekend that condenses the 5 days of original programming into 2 days of music.

The Grateful Dead channel is in desperate need of a makeover.  It fails to take full advantage of the band's rich history of recordings, diverse musical eras and access to members, crew and fans.  By modifying the way in which music is presented to the audience, focusing on eras of the band's career instead of everything at the same time and making the channel more interactive, the Grateful Dead channel would be immeasurably improved.