Ross Warner's Blog: Drunk On Sunday
January 2, 2025
December 17, 2024
October 7, 2020
DANCE THE NIGHT AWAY
It's only a small part of my book, but Van Halen was one of the first bands I heard in high school that really opened my eyes to how great music can be. Yes, they were the soundtrack to California backyard parties and their lyrics didn't plumb the depth of the human condition. But that was just fine, they were the best at what they did. I was lucky enough to see them live with Diamond Dave in 2007 and 2008 at Madison Square Garden after I found a new appreciation for them in my 30s. Here's my account of that first show. Rest in peace, Edward.
https://glidemagazine.com/10674/van-h...
https://glidemagazine.com/10674/van-h...
August 27, 2020
RAINBOWS END DOWN THAT HIGHWAY
2020’s “Deadissance”: How, Why, And Does It Matter Anyway?
There’s a great scene at the end of the vastly-underrated movie The To Do List (2013) where Bill Hader’s “Willy McLean” says goodbye to the film’s heroine “Brandy Klark,” played by Aubrey Plaza. He’s her stoner boss at the local Boise pool and has just hit the jackpot by bedding her sister Amber (Rachel Bilson)
“I tasted a little cheddar and I realized, like what the fuck am I doing in Boise? So I’m gonna get out. I’m gonna see the world and I’m gonna better myself.”
“Well, I respect that. I actually think that’s very mature of you.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna follow the Dead. You know, Jerry’s health isn’t doing too well and I’m not getting any younger, so…totally making the right decision.”
The Dead aren’t mentioned once in the film, written and directed by Hader’s then-wife Maggie Carey. What makes the moment so great is that you’re led to believe Willy is going have some epiphany that he’s finally going to grow up. Amber, by the way, decides to spontaneously sleep with him after her Phish-loving boyfriend, Chip (Adam Pally) has flaked out on her one too many times. No, I don’t think the film is making some comment on the two bands even if the character is named “Chip.” But what’s great about Hader’s comment about going on tour is that we know that there weren’t too many shows left for Jerry Garcia in 1993, even if he only suspects it. That was the tour right after my graduation from the University of Rochester and the one that I tried to use to keep my own adulthood from closing in.
Jerry was actually relatively healthy in 1993, but that’s beside the point. Two years later would be the last summer tour ever and I’d see my 138th and final show in Deer Creek. August 9, was of course the 25th anniversary of his death and countless remembrances and recollections came with it. Variety ran a whole week of pieces leading up to the day itself. When did the Dead become so respectable? I never stopped listening and I know many other Heads fall into the same category. 2009 is as good a demarcation as any. As “The Dead” prepared for their first tour since 2004, the New York Times ran an article entitled Dissecting the Grateful Dead, Forever Live. Readers of the Times could now learn about the Betty Boards, Cornell ’77, Harpur College, and the Springfield Creamery Benefit at Veneta. There was even a nod to the Grateful Dead Tape Compendium, which I wrote a few reviews for.
Three years later, Nick Paumgarten wrote a New Yorker piece called Deadhead: The Afterlife which delved even further to the “subculture” that is so familiar to many of us. Paumgarten provided more background on the missing “Betty Boards,” which had yet to be returned to the Grateful Dead vault. He colorfully described getting hooked on the Dead at prep school and Jerry’s condition throughout the mid-1980s. He specifically explained his love for the 11/30/80 Atlanta show, which he had only heard an audience copy of the second set. A year later the band officially released the entire show as “Dave’s Picks, Volume 8.” However, there was still a void for Deadheads when it came to recapturing life on tour. “Furthur,” with Bob Weir and Phil Lesh, played their last show that year in Red Rocks with Branford Marsalis. By this time, those that had seen the actual Grateful Dead in concert pretty much made their peace with what they wanted from the surviving members. Personally, I thought the first incarnation of “The Dead” was the best. In 2003, Joan Osborne and Jimmy Herring allowed the band to be original enough that it didn’t feel like they were copying too much. Listen to the Jones Beach shows to decide for yourself.
I’ve written several articles for Glide Magazine praising the guitar and vocal work Warren Haynes, but playing with Bob and Phil always seemed to hamstring him. For me, the Symphonic Celebrations of 2013 and 2016 were the most effective vehicles for Warren to play these songs. For the mainstream population, though, the Grateful Dead didn’t really resurface until the “Fare The Well” shows in 2015. Steven Hyden did a nice job of recapping the shows for Grantland and has been trying to get the Dead some mainstream love as far back as 2009. However, I take issue with any reference to those being the “final shows” of the Dead. There are people that think the band truly ended as far back as Pigpen’s passing, but we can all agree that they left the stage for the last time in 1995.
Once it was announced that the shows would only be in Santa Clara and Chicago, I elected NOT to go. Had there been East Coast shows, as were originally attempted, I am sure I would have. But in retrospect it worked out for the best. With the exception of some of show on July 3 (yes, I know Bruce Hornsby cut off Trey during Scarlet Begonias) there was nothing I thought I had to be there for. Phish has always been too noodly for me, though I met them briefly when they played the University of Rochester’s Douglass Dining Center on 4/20/91. A cool tidbit that did NOT make it into my book Drunk On Sunday was that some of my fraternity brothers worked security and we were allowed in early. I had just finished a beer with my funnel, which had a picture of Jerry taped on it. As I looked through my glassy eyes at Phish standing before me, I thought that maybe someday someone would view this moment as I do every time I hear about someone meeting the Dead in the early days.
Many people said they needed closure with “Fare Thee Well,” including those who hadn’t been to Dead shows long before Jerry died. I, of course, didn’t need to say goodbye since I never stopped listening. It’s a pretty big character trait of mine. You can see all sorts of examples of that in my book. But it was also at those Chicago shows that the idea of “Dead and Company” began to emerge. When I first saw the band at Citi Field in 2016, I wrote that the music needed John Mayer as much as he needed the music. I won’t rehash that piece or the argument I make, but you cannot deny that he has been acutely respectful and deferential to the legacy of the Grateful Dead. His Sirius/XM guest DJ spot on Jerry’s birthday was particularly fitting. I can’t imagine Jerry’s reaction to Mayer’s sexual escapades before finding the Dead’s music, however. Since that time, Dead and Company has admittedly had its ups and downs onstage. Yes, I think the slow tempos can be a problem and of course I know that Trey commented about it after he played with Bobby. If you need evidence of what I believe the best of what that band has to offer, check out this clip from the Folsom Field shows in 2017. I did not attend, but have felt since first hearing the Sirius simulcast that night that it was damn impressive.
https://youtu.be/sdAHXcg-CUE
Of course another huge impact of Dead and Company was the reintroduction of summer tour. The very same lot scene that had become so unruly in 1995 was something we all missed. It was now far more legitimate, although the dangerous elements were still there. You can’t have that many people partying with so many different things without those pitfalls. It was also at “Fare Thee Well” that we started to hear about the Martin Scorsese produced Dead documentary. With Long Strange Trip, Amir Bar-Lev clearly wanted to tell a specific story about the band. I reviewed it immediately after watching it. You can read it here. I won’t bore you with what I know is already a long article.
The 25th anniversary of Jerry’s passing also coincided with the COVID lockdown of the last 5 months. The result is that Deadheads (and those who maybe stopped listening) realized even more how much the music and the community of others that love it means to them. The band’s Friday “Shakedown Streams” on YouTube gave people a different type of interaction than they would have gotten from a Phil and Friends or Dead and Company show in 2020. Not only have they gotten to see Bob Weir, Mickey Hart, David Crosby, John Mayer, Oteil Burbridge and more in Zoom pre-stream sessions, but they’ve been able to see HD video of shows in the privacy of their own home. However, social media and the comments section of the streams have allowed people to connect in an entirely new way. I’ve loved seeing the Mystery Science Theater-style riffing on shows. We’ve all laughed at the band’s questionable fashion choices, although the panning of the crowds revealed that we all have outfits to answer for. I for one, was happy that the Buckeye Lake footage didn’t reveal me with my T shirt tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, complete with a belt. For the record the funniest comments I saw were during the Foxboro 89 stream and were “lesbian librarian Phil Lesh” and “I need Ja Rule to make sense of all of this.” I hope no one found the former one homophobic, since I didn’t.
In true 2020 fashion, the Dead now have not one but two podcasts. The “official” one is hosted by Jesse Jarnow, who has done an excellent job of documenting (and broadening with his writing) the band’s legacy. Check out his article on the 2016 “Day of the Dead” tribute project. I spoke to Jesse briefly that summer at the Dark Star Orchestra show at Coney Island which I covered for Glide. I realized very quickly that besides being younger than me, he’d seen a lot less Dead shows. However, it’s that perspective that has allowed him to bring a different take to his writing. He’s done the liner notes for a number of official live releases for the band and they all do a great job of telling tangential stories about what went on outside of the shows themselves.
Jarnow’s “Day of the Dead” piece asked how long the “Dead revival” could last. 2016 was right before Dead and Company started their first summer tour. Steve Hyden got destroyed in the comments section in 2009 for trying to convince the A.V. Club crowd about the appeal of the Dead. I don’t know if he received similar heat for applauding the marriage of Mayer and the music. I know I many weren’t thrilled with my praise of the union. Hyden now hosts the second Dead podcast (along with Rob Mitchum) doing deep dives into all 36 installments of the “Dick’s Picks” releases, recently asked “Why Do So Many People Like The Grateful Dead Now?” What was so interesting about the piece was not that he had answers to that question. He doesn’t just as I don’t. However, it’s the close-minded qualities of the aforementioned that pushed him into an appreciation of the band long after Jerry died. Of course, he also gets to see the limitations and biases that come with being obsessed with the band’s recorded legacy of live shows. But what shines through in Hyden’s piece and the central question we are both asking, is the doors that great music can open for you. His description of discovering the music in his mid-30s reminded me of the story I tried to tell in my first book, Drunk On Sunday.
Tonight the Dead will finish their summer Shakedown Stream series with “Sunshine Daydream,” at one point the most bootlegged video in band history. Like 5/8/77 Cornell, it seemed like it would never be released officially. The fact that it has and that so many people can enjoy it at the same time is really all that matters. 25 years ago, I wondered if I’d ever want to hear the Dead’s music again. Even though I never let go of it, its meaning has evolved and changed for all of us. So let’s collectively enjoy the ride and if you haven’t seen The To Do List, check it out immediately.
Check out the aforementioned pieces:
https://glidemagazine.com/164694/dead...
https://www.instagram.com/tv/CDZ2hyzJ...
https://thesportsdaily.com/2017/06/08...
https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/...
https://glidemagazine.com/167697/dark...
https://music.avclub.com/gateways-to-...
https://uproxx.com/music/john-mayer-d...
https://uproxx.com/indie/grateful-dea...
There’s a great scene at the end of the vastly-underrated movie The To Do List (2013) where Bill Hader’s “Willy McLean” says goodbye to the film’s heroine “Brandy Klark,” played by Aubrey Plaza. He’s her stoner boss at the local Boise pool and has just hit the jackpot by bedding her sister Amber (Rachel Bilson)
“I tasted a little cheddar and I realized, like what the fuck am I doing in Boise? So I’m gonna get out. I’m gonna see the world and I’m gonna better myself.”
“Well, I respect that. I actually think that’s very mature of you.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna follow the Dead. You know, Jerry’s health isn’t doing too well and I’m not getting any younger, so…totally making the right decision.”
The Dead aren’t mentioned once in the film, written and directed by Hader’s then-wife Maggie Carey. What makes the moment so great is that you’re led to believe Willy is going have some epiphany that he’s finally going to grow up. Amber, by the way, decides to spontaneously sleep with him after her Phish-loving boyfriend, Chip (Adam Pally) has flaked out on her one too many times. No, I don’t think the film is making some comment on the two bands even if the character is named “Chip.” But what’s great about Hader’s comment about going on tour is that we know that there weren’t too many shows left for Jerry Garcia in 1993, even if he only suspects it. That was the tour right after my graduation from the University of Rochester and the one that I tried to use to keep my own adulthood from closing in.
Jerry was actually relatively healthy in 1993, but that’s beside the point. Two years later would be the last summer tour ever and I’d see my 138th and final show in Deer Creek. August 9, was of course the 25th anniversary of his death and countless remembrances and recollections came with it. Variety ran a whole week of pieces leading up to the day itself. When did the Dead become so respectable? I never stopped listening and I know many other Heads fall into the same category. 2009 is as good a demarcation as any. As “The Dead” prepared for their first tour since 2004, the New York Times ran an article entitled Dissecting the Grateful Dead, Forever Live. Readers of the Times could now learn about the Betty Boards, Cornell ’77, Harpur College, and the Springfield Creamery Benefit at Veneta. There was even a nod to the Grateful Dead Tape Compendium, which I wrote a few reviews for.
Three years later, Nick Paumgarten wrote a New Yorker piece called Deadhead: The Afterlife which delved even further to the “subculture” that is so familiar to many of us. Paumgarten provided more background on the missing “Betty Boards,” which had yet to be returned to the Grateful Dead vault. He colorfully described getting hooked on the Dead at prep school and Jerry’s condition throughout the mid-1980s. He specifically explained his love for the 11/30/80 Atlanta show, which he had only heard an audience copy of the second set. A year later the band officially released the entire show as “Dave’s Picks, Volume 8.” However, there was still a void for Deadheads when it came to recapturing life on tour. “Furthur,” with Bob Weir and Phil Lesh, played their last show that year in Red Rocks with Branford Marsalis. By this time, those that had seen the actual Grateful Dead in concert pretty much made their peace with what they wanted from the surviving members. Personally, I thought the first incarnation of “The Dead” was the best. In 2003, Joan Osborne and Jimmy Herring allowed the band to be original enough that it didn’t feel like they were copying too much. Listen to the Jones Beach shows to decide for yourself.
I’ve written several articles for Glide Magazine praising the guitar and vocal work Warren Haynes, but playing with Bob and Phil always seemed to hamstring him. For me, the Symphonic Celebrations of 2013 and 2016 were the most effective vehicles for Warren to play these songs. For the mainstream population, though, the Grateful Dead didn’t really resurface until the “Fare The Well” shows in 2015. Steven Hyden did a nice job of recapping the shows for Grantland and has been trying to get the Dead some mainstream love as far back as 2009. However, I take issue with any reference to those being the “final shows” of the Dead. There are people that think the band truly ended as far back as Pigpen’s passing, but we can all agree that they left the stage for the last time in 1995.
Once it was announced that the shows would only be in Santa Clara and Chicago, I elected NOT to go. Had there been East Coast shows, as were originally attempted, I am sure I would have. But in retrospect it worked out for the best. With the exception of some of show on July 3 (yes, I know Bruce Hornsby cut off Trey during Scarlet Begonias) there was nothing I thought I had to be there for. Phish has always been too noodly for me, though I met them briefly when they played the University of Rochester’s Douglass Dining Center on 4/20/91. A cool tidbit that did NOT make it into my book Drunk On Sunday was that some of my fraternity brothers worked security and we were allowed in early. I had just finished a beer with my funnel, which had a picture of Jerry taped on it. As I looked through my glassy eyes at Phish standing before me, I thought that maybe someday someone would view this moment as I do every time I hear about someone meeting the Dead in the early days.
Many people said they needed closure with “Fare Thee Well,” including those who hadn’t been to Dead shows long before Jerry died. I, of course, didn’t need to say goodbye since I never stopped listening. It’s a pretty big character trait of mine. You can see all sorts of examples of that in my book. But it was also at those Chicago shows that the idea of “Dead and Company” began to emerge. When I first saw the band at Citi Field in 2016, I wrote that the music needed John Mayer as much as he needed the music. I won’t rehash that piece or the argument I make, but you cannot deny that he has been acutely respectful and deferential to the legacy of the Grateful Dead. His Sirius/XM guest DJ spot on Jerry’s birthday was particularly fitting. I can’t imagine Jerry’s reaction to Mayer’s sexual escapades before finding the Dead’s music, however. Since that time, Dead and Company has admittedly had its ups and downs onstage. Yes, I think the slow tempos can be a problem and of course I know that Trey commented about it after he played with Bobby. If you need evidence of what I believe the best of what that band has to offer, check out this clip from the Folsom Field shows in 2017. I did not attend, but have felt since first hearing the Sirius simulcast that night that it was damn impressive.
https://youtu.be/sdAHXcg-CUE
Of course another huge impact of Dead and Company was the reintroduction of summer tour. The very same lot scene that had become so unruly in 1995 was something we all missed. It was now far more legitimate, although the dangerous elements were still there. You can’t have that many people partying with so many different things without those pitfalls. It was also at “Fare Thee Well” that we started to hear about the Martin Scorsese produced Dead documentary. With Long Strange Trip, Amir Bar-Lev clearly wanted to tell a specific story about the band. I reviewed it immediately after watching it. You can read it here. I won’t bore you with what I know is already a long article.
The 25th anniversary of Jerry’s passing also coincided with the COVID lockdown of the last 5 months. The result is that Deadheads (and those who maybe stopped listening) realized even more how much the music and the community of others that love it means to them. The band’s Friday “Shakedown Streams” on YouTube gave people a different type of interaction than they would have gotten from a Phil and Friends or Dead and Company show in 2020. Not only have they gotten to see Bob Weir, Mickey Hart, David Crosby, John Mayer, Oteil Burbridge and more in Zoom pre-stream sessions, but they’ve been able to see HD video of shows in the privacy of their own home. However, social media and the comments section of the streams have allowed people to connect in an entirely new way. I’ve loved seeing the Mystery Science Theater-style riffing on shows. We’ve all laughed at the band’s questionable fashion choices, although the panning of the crowds revealed that we all have outfits to answer for. I for one, was happy that the Buckeye Lake footage didn’t reveal me with my T shirt tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, complete with a belt. For the record the funniest comments I saw were during the Foxboro 89 stream and were “lesbian librarian Phil Lesh” and “I need Ja Rule to make sense of all of this.” I hope no one found the former one homophobic, since I didn’t.
In true 2020 fashion, the Dead now have not one but two podcasts. The “official” one is hosted by Jesse Jarnow, who has done an excellent job of documenting (and broadening with his writing) the band’s legacy. Check out his article on the 2016 “Day of the Dead” tribute project. I spoke to Jesse briefly that summer at the Dark Star Orchestra show at Coney Island which I covered for Glide. I realized very quickly that besides being younger than me, he’d seen a lot less Dead shows. However, it’s that perspective that has allowed him to bring a different take to his writing. He’s done the liner notes for a number of official live releases for the band and they all do a great job of telling tangential stories about what went on outside of the shows themselves.
Jarnow’s “Day of the Dead” piece asked how long the “Dead revival” could last. 2016 was right before Dead and Company started their first summer tour. Steve Hyden got destroyed in the comments section in 2009 for trying to convince the A.V. Club crowd about the appeal of the Dead. I don’t know if he received similar heat for applauding the marriage of Mayer and the music. I know I many weren’t thrilled with my praise of the union. Hyden now hosts the second Dead podcast (along with Rob Mitchum) doing deep dives into all 36 installments of the “Dick’s Picks” releases, recently asked “Why Do So Many People Like The Grateful Dead Now?” What was so interesting about the piece was not that he had answers to that question. He doesn’t just as I don’t. However, it’s the close-minded qualities of the aforementioned that pushed him into an appreciation of the band long after Jerry died. Of course, he also gets to see the limitations and biases that come with being obsessed with the band’s recorded legacy of live shows. But what shines through in Hyden’s piece and the central question we are both asking, is the doors that great music can open for you. His description of discovering the music in his mid-30s reminded me of the story I tried to tell in my first book, Drunk On Sunday.
Tonight the Dead will finish their summer Shakedown Stream series with “Sunshine Daydream,” at one point the most bootlegged video in band history. Like 5/8/77 Cornell, it seemed like it would never be released officially. The fact that it has and that so many people can enjoy it at the same time is really all that matters. 25 years ago, I wondered if I’d ever want to hear the Dead’s music again. Even though I never let go of it, its meaning has evolved and changed for all of us. So let’s collectively enjoy the ride and if you haven’t seen The To Do List, check it out immediately.
Check out the aforementioned pieces:
https://glidemagazine.com/164694/dead...
https://www.instagram.com/tv/CDZ2hyzJ...
https://thesportsdaily.com/2017/06/08...
https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/...
https://glidemagazine.com/167697/dark...
https://music.avclub.com/gateways-to-...
https://uproxx.com/music/john-mayer-d...
https://uproxx.com/indie/grateful-dea...
August 17, 2020
POLKVILLE, 13101
As my powder blue 1987 Subaru GL wagon sped down Interstate 81, I pondered the significance of the past weekend. I was a year out of college and still hadn’t recovered from my breakup with Kerry. I was in Manhattan to stay, but hadn’t really shifted gears towards the dating scene. Of course, the only scene to speak of was the “meat markets” that were the post-college bars on the Upper East Side. But while my fraternity helped give me the confidence to navigate the second half of my time at Rochester, I had no such influence on my post-graduation life. That was why I found myself clinging to anything that felt comfortable. I still kept in touch with some of the girls I hooked up with when Kerry and I had a brief
“trial breakup” during my senior year. On my first trip up to Rochester, I decided to pay one of them a visit.
Gina was the complete opposite of Kerry. The only characteristic they shared was that they were both from Western New York. Gina grew up about ten minutes from the U of R campus and was a tall Italian girl with brown hair that went halfway down her back. She was pretty, but tough. She reminded me of my boyhood crush on Nancy McKeon’s “Jo Polniaczek” from Facts of Life. She wasn’t a tomboy, but a girl whose unrefined demeanor was a major turn on. Gina and I had fun with each other but were too different to have a real adult relationship. Fortunately, I didn’t see myself as anything approaching a real adult at that point.
My weekend with her went well and neither of us spoke about its significance. It was downright refreshing and exactly what I needed. I was having a real tough time with what I saw as the pretentiousness of the girls I met in New York City. Looking back, that feeling was probably a combination of me meeting the wrong girls and my inability to adapt to my new surroundings. But I wasn’t thinking about any of that as I was driving home that Sunday. Both of the car's front windows were open and the cool air whipping me in the face left me feeling invigorated on my trip down Route 81. As I peeked at the mid-afternoon sun hovering over Cortland, I felt like things were finally looking up for me. I was on my way to drop my car off at my parents’ house in time for me to get back to the city before 8PM. I wasn’t so worried about being fresh for work as I was the fact that the Chargers had a nationally televised game on that night. I had the radio on and the local FM station was playing one of Cheap Trick’s nuggets from their Budokan II album. The song told me that “Sunday was calling and that I’d be number one.”
CLICK! I was suddenly yanked back to earth when my car emitted a highly unnatural sound. I immediately glanced down and noticed the red glow of that light at the left end of the dashboard. I had always wondered what that light was for and now I was about to find out. The car, dubbed both “The Stuporu” and “The Soberu” by my fellow Delts, had never let me down during all those long trips to Dead shows and Charger games. But as I could feel the life being sucked from my car, I helplessly pumped the gas pedal. My failed attempts yielded only the sound of fireplace bellows futilely trying to reignite a flame.
As the car slowed to a stop, I checked my surroundings. Suddenly, getting back to my apartment for kickoff seemed like an increasingly remote possibility. I had just passed the exit for Polkville, wherever the hell that was. With that red light on the end of my dashboard still on, I feared that I was about to learn more than I ever wanted about this town. I pulled the gearshift out of "Park" and coasted backwards on the shoulder as far as I could in order to get a closer look. I saw a Mobil station and a huge neon sign for a diner. The car had been at my parents’ house since graduation. I didn’t have the reason or the funds to keep it in the city. My dad had lent me his “mobile phone” for the trip in case of emergency. Unfortunately, it needed to be charged if the car wasn’t running and I, of course, had neglected to do so during my time in Rochester. I elected to try my luck at the diner and began walking on the shoulder of the road.
The second I walked through the door of the “Skyliner Diner,” I could feel the pace of life inside slow down. It was as though someone had pulled the switch on a record player from 45 RPMs to 33 and everything sputtered accordingly. A couple at the counter was chatting with the waitress, but had immediately stopped. I think they could immediately sense that I was an outsider. I was wearing my buffalo plaid jacket, a pair of khakis, and a grubby Chargers hat, but was somehow still instantly identified. I ordered a hot chocolate and spoke to a man who looked strikingly similar to Cooter from The Dukes of Hazzard. But my preconceived notions that he was a mindless hick proved wrong. Polkville and auto repairs were what he knew and he knew them well. I was truly surprised by his generous offer to look at my car.
After some vain attempts to jump the engine, my new friend stated: "Well, you're done for today."
These were not words I was prepared to hear. The Chargers were schedule to kick off against the Packers in five hours. I wasn’t at all concerned about missing a day of work or about the possibility that the car would cost me a lot of money to be fixed. But once I remembered that the game would nationally be televised, I stopped stressing. I’d get a cheap hotel room, buy a six-pack, and get the car repaired in the morning. Clearly, I was looking for any excuse not to start my work week. I was only six months into my position as a corporate legal assistant and was already bored.
On the walk back to the diner with “Cooter,” I tried figure out how I was going to explain to my dad why I wouldn’t be parking the car in his garage that night.
"What the hell did you do to the car?"
"Don't worry, Dad. I'll be able to watch the game here."
"Believe it or not, Rob, the game is not my primary concern."
"Dad, it just stopped right on I-81. It was like running out of gas, except the tank is full.”
“Have you ever gotten that thing looked at? It just sits in our driveway with all those Dead, Chargers and fraternity stickers on it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had some hippie honk at me the few times I’ve needed to drive it. They just drive up alongside me to flash the peace symbol. I’m assuming they’re not big football fans.”
I was beginning to think that maybe my dad’s frustration was about something other than the car.
It took longer than expected to calm him down. After the good people of AAA helped me bring the car to the nearest garage, I asked the driver to drop me off at the Econo Lodge that I had spotted from the Interstate. I would have to be at the garage when it opened at 8:00 AM, but there was nothing else I could do about the situation today. As I checked in, I asked the elderly woman behind the counter the obvious question:
"Does the room get ESPN?"
She told me that it did not and I was instantly crushed. This was 1993, December 12 to be exact, but ESPN was still part of every basic cable channel in the country. However, she told me that the local bar, "Night Birds,” might have it. I checked in and looked at the room for about 30 seconds. At that point there could have been only three things that would cause me to elect for different lodging. If there was a) a corpse, b) a couple having sex, or c) a couple having sex with a corpse, then I might have deemed the room unacceptable.
Although the room looked clean, it was the same clean that your house had when your parents came home for the weekend and you had trashed the house while partying in it. Somewhere beneath the recently vacuumed carpet and the smell of bathroom cleaner, something was pretty unsavory. Like The Overlook Hotel in The Shining, I’m sure it held some secrets but I didn’t have time think about what they were. I decided to call Night Birds to get the lowdown. The Polkville phone book was literally the size of a leaflet. When I asked the female voice on the phone whether they received ESPN, she replied with an unconvincing "I think so.” When I then asked if the game would be shown if they did, she told me that I’d have to come down there to ask the bartender myself. No problem. It's Sunday. Everybody loves football.
I decided to call New York to tell Hollywood what was going on.
"That's really fucked up," he said.
"Don't worry. I'm going over to Night Birds. I'll watch the game there."
"Night Birds? You do realize you're going to die there."
I thought he was exaggerating a bit. After all, I had done time in every rural corner of New York state. Sure, I was still a Jewish kid from Chappaqua, but I could fit in at an unfamiliar bar as well as anyone. As I walked past the front desk, the elderly woman asked me where I was going. I guess it was a natural question. It's not as though I knew anyone in Polkville. After I informed her of my destination, I realized that I hadn’t bothered to ask how to get there. I walked over to the adjacent Mobil Mart to get directions. When I asked the kid behind the counter how to get to Night Birds, he shot me a potent look of intrigue. I could almost hear the sound of “Dueling Banjos” from Deliverance at that moment.
As I walked along what seemed to be the main road, the chilly winter darkness only revealed a few nondescript houses showing no activity. This struck me as the type of town where bad things rarely happened, but when they did they were really bad. It was at this moment that snow started to fall. Through the large flakes, I saw a neon sign with two birds that looked a bit like owls. As I approached, I saw that one of them was holding a jug of what looked like moonshine.
The interior was exactly what you'd expect. I instantly noticed a television mounted in a wooden cabinet directly opposite the doorway. To its left, was a miniature version of the sign I saw outside. The second I sat down at the bar, the action at seemed to pause for a second. The bar's scattered patrons peered in my direction as I ordered a dirty longneck of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I think it was the only brand served in Night Birds. Directly to my left, sat a grizzled man in his mid-40's, wearing a weathered plaid shirt and a down vest. Perched atop his head was a mesh "Mack Truck" hat. Through his drunken slurs, I deciphered that his name was Clyde. Clyde asked if I had come from the city. I decided to lighten the mood with a little humor.
“By the city, I take it you’re not talking about Cortland?”
Clyde just squinted at me in confusion. He paused in silence and then started talking as if I had never made that joke to begin with. He must have known where I was all weekend, because with no warning he began doling out advice on women. I couldn't make it all out, but I did notice the word "pussy" used at least four times. A weak feeling shot through my body. Maybe Hollywood was right. I ordered another PBR in order to refocus on my mission.
I saw that the Cowboys/Vikings game, which had kicked off at 4PM, was well into the second half. I took the opportunity to confirm with the bartender that the late game would indeed be on next. I didn’t want to lose my life for nothing. I turned towards Clyde and decided to be a more active participant in our conversation. This was the one guy in the bar who was willing to talk to me and if shit went down, I was going to need someone to get my back. I still held onto those lessons from in college. I told Clyde that my car had stalled and that I was getting it fixed first thing in the morning. He asked me what garage it was at and when I told him he replied: "Oh those guys don't know shit about cars! It's probably the coil."
To my right, a few of the patrons were engaged in one of those arcade bowling games with the metal puck and the hollow half-pins at the other end. Clyde told me that he lived in the motel next door where he did repairs and that he'd be happy to take a look at my car. If he could fix it, I'd save my fuming father the cost of the repairs. I could just pick Clyde up a bottle of bourbon or something on the way out of town in the morning. As Clyde and I walked out of the bar one of the women at the bowling game shouted: "Clyde, are you playin' or what?"
Nah. I'm gonna fix this boy's car," he said as the door to Night Birds slammed behind us.
As we walked into the snow, I instantly noticed how much it had picked up since I’d gone inside. I reminded Clyde that I'd have to be back in ninety minutes so I wouldn't miss kickoff. I don’t think he even acknowledged me or understood what I was talking about. His motel room liked like a bunker. Amidst the stained maroon rug and fake wood paneled walls were all sorts of military souvenirs. A black and yellow "Don't Tread On Me" flag hovered directly over his cot as if to protect it. There was a camouflage helmet, a faded picture of him in uniform, and what I hoped was a disarmed hand grenade. Clyde pulled his toolbox out from behind the ancient Sony Trinitron with the silver plate reading "Property of Econo Lodge, Polkville" bolted to it. I couldn’t even imagine how one would steal the television from one motel and reinstall it in another. I thought it was best not to let my mind go there.
“Now, let's get a look at that car of yours."
As the jagged metallic edges peered out of the toolbox, my heart sank into my stomach. Clyde was not only very drunk, but holding an implement that appeared capable of snipping any of major arteries. My parents probably wouldn't even be able to find this town on a map to identify my body.
Then, like being hit by one of the loose pieces of plaster hanging from the ceiling, I was struck with by a moment of clarity. What was I so scared of? Had six months in the city made me that cynical? Here was a guy living in what seemed like the most desolate corner of the world, working as the local handyman, and living next to a dive bar. But he was content. To him, like “Cooter” earlier, that defined success. I was a paralegal at some sweatshop of a law firm in midtown Manhattan and I wasn't even good at it. The worst part was that I knew I had no desire to be good at it. I used to be pretty creative. I read a lot of books and was a pretty good writer for my high school newspaper. I wanted to feel superior to guys like Clyde because I was bright and sharp-witted. But that the hell had I done with it? Clyde was someone who had lived. He had experienced things. Maybe it was the Pabst talking, but I felt like I needed to be learning something from this moment. Still, I decided it was best not to pry deeper into his advice on relationships.
Despite all I had gained from our meeting, Clyde wasn't able to fix the car. In fact, he had trouble even getting the hood open, no doubt a result of the six PBRs he consumed during our time together. I popped the hood from inside the car. After getting back up, Clyde just waved his flashlight over the engine and shouted: "It's gotta be the coil! These damn foreign cars!"
He tinkered with a few things as I tried to turn over the engine. After five minutes of this, he stuck to his original diagnosis. I wasn’t sure what the coil was or if my car even had one, but I wasn't in a position to get a second opinion. Clyde obviously viewed our attempt as a success as he motioned for me to join him back at the bar. Anyway, kickoff was in 30 minutes.
When we had reentered Night Birds, it became clear the scene had gotten decidedly uglier. The late game was finished and the bar’s attention was now focused on the arcade bowling. With his examination of my car complete, Clyde rejoined his posse. Initially I felt a surge of rejection, given the mini-epiphany I had just had. But that feeling quickly changed to panic when I remembered that I was all alone in a place that I had no business in. Country music was blaring, so I walked over to the jukebox in an effort to look a little more natural. I didn't recognize a single artist in the machine. Now I'm hardly a connoisseur of the genre, but I would have recognized any of the major names. As I eased over to the bar, I also noticed that the TV was out. The screen was filled with snow and I could feel my entire body sag instantly sag in disappointment. The life lessons were nice and all, but this is why I came here in the first place. When I asked the bartender, he told me that the heavy winds had knocked out the cable for the entire town. They were already aware of the problem and were trying to get it fixed. After all, he reminded me, televised rodeo was on at midnight.
That was all I needed to hear to confirm that our priorities were in different places. I decided to make a break for it. Clyde had just bowled a “strike” so the bar’s attention was diverted. I decided to slip out the back door.
With only fifteen minutes to kickoff, I decided use my backup plan, the radio. But as I approached my car, I realized that I couldn’t use the radio if the car wouldn’t start. Then I remembered that I left a cheap portable radio under the passenger seat for Dead shows. I grabbed it and started running towards the Econo Lodge. The frigid air shooting through my throat left me short of breath, but I didn't care. I had come too far to miss the game at this point. As I neared the motel, I realized that I didn't have any beer. I had all of my money invested in Pabst Blue Ribbon and I wasn’t about to go looking for an ATM. But after spotting the Mobil Mart next to the motel, I remembered that I did still have a gas card.
As I whizzed past the front desk, I heard an elderly female voice shout: "How was Night Birds..."
As the storm raged outside, I lay nestled for the next three hours under a shield of beige velour. The heat in the room wasn’t quite doing the job, so I only got out from under the covers to take a slug from one of my beers. I listened as a last-second Stan Humphries interception killed the Chargers’ chances. The Packers won 20-13 and the Bolts were eliminated from playoff contention. As my eyelids began shutting, I realized I had hit the trifecta of despair. I was sad, lonely and drunk.
As it turned out, the car had suffered a broken timing belt. My father had neglected to get it fixed after his mechanic warned him that it might snap. He never apologized, but the fact that circumstances called for him to do so was more than enough. Plus, I got one hell of a story out of it.
“trial breakup” during my senior year. On my first trip up to Rochester, I decided to pay one of them a visit.
Gina was the complete opposite of Kerry. The only characteristic they shared was that they were both from Western New York. Gina grew up about ten minutes from the U of R campus and was a tall Italian girl with brown hair that went halfway down her back. She was pretty, but tough. She reminded me of my boyhood crush on Nancy McKeon’s “Jo Polniaczek” from Facts of Life. She wasn’t a tomboy, but a girl whose unrefined demeanor was a major turn on. Gina and I had fun with each other but were too different to have a real adult relationship. Fortunately, I didn’t see myself as anything approaching a real adult at that point.
My weekend with her went well and neither of us spoke about its significance. It was downright refreshing and exactly what I needed. I was having a real tough time with what I saw as the pretentiousness of the girls I met in New York City. Looking back, that feeling was probably a combination of me meeting the wrong girls and my inability to adapt to my new surroundings. But I wasn’t thinking about any of that as I was driving home that Sunday. Both of the car's front windows were open and the cool air whipping me in the face left me feeling invigorated on my trip down Route 81. As I peeked at the mid-afternoon sun hovering over Cortland, I felt like things were finally looking up for me. I was on my way to drop my car off at my parents’ house in time for me to get back to the city before 8PM. I wasn’t so worried about being fresh for work as I was the fact that the Chargers had a nationally televised game on that night. I had the radio on and the local FM station was playing one of Cheap Trick’s nuggets from their Budokan II album. The song told me that “Sunday was calling and that I’d be number one.”
CLICK! I was suddenly yanked back to earth when my car emitted a highly unnatural sound. I immediately glanced down and noticed the red glow of that light at the left end of the dashboard. I had always wondered what that light was for and now I was about to find out. The car, dubbed both “The Stuporu” and “The Soberu” by my fellow Delts, had never let me down during all those long trips to Dead shows and Charger games. But as I could feel the life being sucked from my car, I helplessly pumped the gas pedal. My failed attempts yielded only the sound of fireplace bellows futilely trying to reignite a flame.
As the car slowed to a stop, I checked my surroundings. Suddenly, getting back to my apartment for kickoff seemed like an increasingly remote possibility. I had just passed the exit for Polkville, wherever the hell that was. With that red light on the end of my dashboard still on, I feared that I was about to learn more than I ever wanted about this town. I pulled the gearshift out of "Park" and coasted backwards on the shoulder as far as I could in order to get a closer look. I saw a Mobil station and a huge neon sign for a diner. The car had been at my parents’ house since graduation. I didn’t have the reason or the funds to keep it in the city. My dad had lent me his “mobile phone” for the trip in case of emergency. Unfortunately, it needed to be charged if the car wasn’t running and I, of course, had neglected to do so during my time in Rochester. I elected to try my luck at the diner and began walking on the shoulder of the road.
The second I walked through the door of the “Skyliner Diner,” I could feel the pace of life inside slow down. It was as though someone had pulled the switch on a record player from 45 RPMs to 33 and everything sputtered accordingly. A couple at the counter was chatting with the waitress, but had immediately stopped. I think they could immediately sense that I was an outsider. I was wearing my buffalo plaid jacket, a pair of khakis, and a grubby Chargers hat, but was somehow still instantly identified. I ordered a hot chocolate and spoke to a man who looked strikingly similar to Cooter from The Dukes of Hazzard. But my preconceived notions that he was a mindless hick proved wrong. Polkville and auto repairs were what he knew and he knew them well. I was truly surprised by his generous offer to look at my car.
After some vain attempts to jump the engine, my new friend stated: "Well, you're done for today."
These were not words I was prepared to hear. The Chargers were schedule to kick off against the Packers in five hours. I wasn’t at all concerned about missing a day of work or about the possibility that the car would cost me a lot of money to be fixed. But once I remembered that the game would nationally be televised, I stopped stressing. I’d get a cheap hotel room, buy a six-pack, and get the car repaired in the morning. Clearly, I was looking for any excuse not to start my work week. I was only six months into my position as a corporate legal assistant and was already bored.
On the walk back to the diner with “Cooter,” I tried figure out how I was going to explain to my dad why I wouldn’t be parking the car in his garage that night.
"What the hell did you do to the car?"
"Don't worry, Dad. I'll be able to watch the game here."
"Believe it or not, Rob, the game is not my primary concern."
"Dad, it just stopped right on I-81. It was like running out of gas, except the tank is full.”
“Have you ever gotten that thing looked at? It just sits in our driveway with all those Dead, Chargers and fraternity stickers on it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had some hippie honk at me the few times I’ve needed to drive it. They just drive up alongside me to flash the peace symbol. I’m assuming they’re not big football fans.”
I was beginning to think that maybe my dad’s frustration was about something other than the car.
It took longer than expected to calm him down. After the good people of AAA helped me bring the car to the nearest garage, I asked the driver to drop me off at the Econo Lodge that I had spotted from the Interstate. I would have to be at the garage when it opened at 8:00 AM, but there was nothing else I could do about the situation today. As I checked in, I asked the elderly woman behind the counter the obvious question:
"Does the room get ESPN?"
She told me that it did not and I was instantly crushed. This was 1993, December 12 to be exact, but ESPN was still part of every basic cable channel in the country. However, she told me that the local bar, "Night Birds,” might have it. I checked in and looked at the room for about 30 seconds. At that point there could have been only three things that would cause me to elect for different lodging. If there was a) a corpse, b) a couple having sex, or c) a couple having sex with a corpse, then I might have deemed the room unacceptable.
Although the room looked clean, it was the same clean that your house had when your parents came home for the weekend and you had trashed the house while partying in it. Somewhere beneath the recently vacuumed carpet and the smell of bathroom cleaner, something was pretty unsavory. Like The Overlook Hotel in The Shining, I’m sure it held some secrets but I didn’t have time think about what they were. I decided to call Night Birds to get the lowdown. The Polkville phone book was literally the size of a leaflet. When I asked the female voice on the phone whether they received ESPN, she replied with an unconvincing "I think so.” When I then asked if the game would be shown if they did, she told me that I’d have to come down there to ask the bartender myself. No problem. It's Sunday. Everybody loves football.
I decided to call New York to tell Hollywood what was going on.
"That's really fucked up," he said.
"Don't worry. I'm going over to Night Birds. I'll watch the game there."
"Night Birds? You do realize you're going to die there."
I thought he was exaggerating a bit. After all, I had done time in every rural corner of New York state. Sure, I was still a Jewish kid from Chappaqua, but I could fit in at an unfamiliar bar as well as anyone. As I walked past the front desk, the elderly woman asked me where I was going. I guess it was a natural question. It's not as though I knew anyone in Polkville. After I informed her of my destination, I realized that I hadn’t bothered to ask how to get there. I walked over to the adjacent Mobil Mart to get directions. When I asked the kid behind the counter how to get to Night Birds, he shot me a potent look of intrigue. I could almost hear the sound of “Dueling Banjos” from Deliverance at that moment.
As I walked along what seemed to be the main road, the chilly winter darkness only revealed a few nondescript houses showing no activity. This struck me as the type of town where bad things rarely happened, but when they did they were really bad. It was at this moment that snow started to fall. Through the large flakes, I saw a neon sign with two birds that looked a bit like owls. As I approached, I saw that one of them was holding a jug of what looked like moonshine.
The interior was exactly what you'd expect. I instantly noticed a television mounted in a wooden cabinet directly opposite the doorway. To its left, was a miniature version of the sign I saw outside. The second I sat down at the bar, the action at seemed to pause for a second. The bar's scattered patrons peered in my direction as I ordered a dirty longneck of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I think it was the only brand served in Night Birds. Directly to my left, sat a grizzled man in his mid-40's, wearing a weathered plaid shirt and a down vest. Perched atop his head was a mesh "Mack Truck" hat. Through his drunken slurs, I deciphered that his name was Clyde. Clyde asked if I had come from the city. I decided to lighten the mood with a little humor.
“By the city, I take it you’re not talking about Cortland?”
Clyde just squinted at me in confusion. He paused in silence and then started talking as if I had never made that joke to begin with. He must have known where I was all weekend, because with no warning he began doling out advice on women. I couldn't make it all out, but I did notice the word "pussy" used at least four times. A weak feeling shot through my body. Maybe Hollywood was right. I ordered another PBR in order to refocus on my mission.
I saw that the Cowboys/Vikings game, which had kicked off at 4PM, was well into the second half. I took the opportunity to confirm with the bartender that the late game would indeed be on next. I didn’t want to lose my life for nothing. I turned towards Clyde and decided to be a more active participant in our conversation. This was the one guy in the bar who was willing to talk to me and if shit went down, I was going to need someone to get my back. I still held onto those lessons from in college. I told Clyde that my car had stalled and that I was getting it fixed first thing in the morning. He asked me what garage it was at and when I told him he replied: "Oh those guys don't know shit about cars! It's probably the coil."
To my right, a few of the patrons were engaged in one of those arcade bowling games with the metal puck and the hollow half-pins at the other end. Clyde told me that he lived in the motel next door where he did repairs and that he'd be happy to take a look at my car. If he could fix it, I'd save my fuming father the cost of the repairs. I could just pick Clyde up a bottle of bourbon or something on the way out of town in the morning. As Clyde and I walked out of the bar one of the women at the bowling game shouted: "Clyde, are you playin' or what?"
Nah. I'm gonna fix this boy's car," he said as the door to Night Birds slammed behind us.
As we walked into the snow, I instantly noticed how much it had picked up since I’d gone inside. I reminded Clyde that I'd have to be back in ninety minutes so I wouldn't miss kickoff. I don’t think he even acknowledged me or understood what I was talking about. His motel room liked like a bunker. Amidst the stained maroon rug and fake wood paneled walls were all sorts of military souvenirs. A black and yellow "Don't Tread On Me" flag hovered directly over his cot as if to protect it. There was a camouflage helmet, a faded picture of him in uniform, and what I hoped was a disarmed hand grenade. Clyde pulled his toolbox out from behind the ancient Sony Trinitron with the silver plate reading "Property of Econo Lodge, Polkville" bolted to it. I couldn’t even imagine how one would steal the television from one motel and reinstall it in another. I thought it was best not to let my mind go there.
“Now, let's get a look at that car of yours."
As the jagged metallic edges peered out of the toolbox, my heart sank into my stomach. Clyde was not only very drunk, but holding an implement that appeared capable of snipping any of major arteries. My parents probably wouldn't even be able to find this town on a map to identify my body.
Then, like being hit by one of the loose pieces of plaster hanging from the ceiling, I was struck with by a moment of clarity. What was I so scared of? Had six months in the city made me that cynical? Here was a guy living in what seemed like the most desolate corner of the world, working as the local handyman, and living next to a dive bar. But he was content. To him, like “Cooter” earlier, that defined success. I was a paralegal at some sweatshop of a law firm in midtown Manhattan and I wasn't even good at it. The worst part was that I knew I had no desire to be good at it. I used to be pretty creative. I read a lot of books and was a pretty good writer for my high school newspaper. I wanted to feel superior to guys like Clyde because I was bright and sharp-witted. But that the hell had I done with it? Clyde was someone who had lived. He had experienced things. Maybe it was the Pabst talking, but I felt like I needed to be learning something from this moment. Still, I decided it was best not to pry deeper into his advice on relationships.
Despite all I had gained from our meeting, Clyde wasn't able to fix the car. In fact, he had trouble even getting the hood open, no doubt a result of the six PBRs he consumed during our time together. I popped the hood from inside the car. After getting back up, Clyde just waved his flashlight over the engine and shouted: "It's gotta be the coil! These damn foreign cars!"
He tinkered with a few things as I tried to turn over the engine. After five minutes of this, he stuck to his original diagnosis. I wasn’t sure what the coil was or if my car even had one, but I wasn't in a position to get a second opinion. Clyde obviously viewed our attempt as a success as he motioned for me to join him back at the bar. Anyway, kickoff was in 30 minutes.
When we had reentered Night Birds, it became clear the scene had gotten decidedly uglier. The late game was finished and the bar’s attention was now focused on the arcade bowling. With his examination of my car complete, Clyde rejoined his posse. Initially I felt a surge of rejection, given the mini-epiphany I had just had. But that feeling quickly changed to panic when I remembered that I was all alone in a place that I had no business in. Country music was blaring, so I walked over to the jukebox in an effort to look a little more natural. I didn't recognize a single artist in the machine. Now I'm hardly a connoisseur of the genre, but I would have recognized any of the major names. As I eased over to the bar, I also noticed that the TV was out. The screen was filled with snow and I could feel my entire body sag instantly sag in disappointment. The life lessons were nice and all, but this is why I came here in the first place. When I asked the bartender, he told me that the heavy winds had knocked out the cable for the entire town. They were already aware of the problem and were trying to get it fixed. After all, he reminded me, televised rodeo was on at midnight.
That was all I needed to hear to confirm that our priorities were in different places. I decided to make a break for it. Clyde had just bowled a “strike” so the bar’s attention was diverted. I decided to slip out the back door.
With only fifteen minutes to kickoff, I decided use my backup plan, the radio. But as I approached my car, I realized that I couldn’t use the radio if the car wouldn’t start. Then I remembered that I left a cheap portable radio under the passenger seat for Dead shows. I grabbed it and started running towards the Econo Lodge. The frigid air shooting through my throat left me short of breath, but I didn't care. I had come too far to miss the game at this point. As I neared the motel, I realized that I didn't have any beer. I had all of my money invested in Pabst Blue Ribbon and I wasn’t about to go looking for an ATM. But after spotting the Mobil Mart next to the motel, I remembered that I did still have a gas card.
As I whizzed past the front desk, I heard an elderly female voice shout: "How was Night Birds..."
As the storm raged outside, I lay nestled for the next three hours under a shield of beige velour. The heat in the room wasn’t quite doing the job, so I only got out from under the covers to take a slug from one of my beers. I listened as a last-second Stan Humphries interception killed the Chargers’ chances. The Packers won 20-13 and the Bolts were eliminated from playoff contention. As my eyelids began shutting, I realized I had hit the trifecta of despair. I was sad, lonely and drunk.
As it turned out, the car had suffered a broken timing belt. My father had neglected to get it fixed after his mechanic warned him that it might snap. He never apologized, but the fact that circumstances called for him to do so was more than enough. Plus, I got one hell of a story out of it.
August 13, 2020
Sometimes We Live No Particular Way But Our Own: An Introduction
The story you are about to read is true at its core. So why does our hero bear the name of “Rob Gross” rather than that of the author? Does this make for a novel? Rob is an extension of me. The authors of many of my favorite books have used “alter egos” in those works. Was Hunter S. Thompson actually Dr. Raoul Duke? Should Sal Paradise be seen as simply Kerouac in disguise? Like “Fred Exley” in A Fan’s Notes or “Rob Fleming/Rob Gordon” from High Fidelity, (book/movie), Drunk On Sunday could be classified as a “fictional memoir.” However, the essence of the story is true. There are moments where Rob says and does as I wish I could have. But like the best books (many of which I just mentioned), movies and songs, the writer is the subject in the most important sense.
So why change anything? I also thought it responsible (not always my or Rob’s strong suit) to create characters so as not to alienate any of the former friends, girlfriends or employers they represent. Plus, where the writer ends and his “stand in” begins is where the art of a great story lies. What have been left unchanged are the things that I and Rob value most. The names of the books, bands, movies, and teams are left intact. Since so much of the tale that follows is about the struggle to keep adulthood, and the responsibility that accompanies it at bay, the real names of my wife and children remain. They are the end results of this story and represent its fairytale ending. Despite Rob’s best efforts to stave off the life a grown up, he’s left with the very things that make life worthwhile. Of course, it takes forty-two years for him to figure that out. The music, films and gridiron contests may not be considered vital by some, but they undoubtedly assist Rob towards his most gradual of epiphanies.
But I’ll let Rob speak for himself from here on in. These days, you can get all of a person’s vital “statistics” on their Facebook page. But Rob more likens this format to that of a football card.
Full Name: Robert Loren Gross. Yeah, I know the middle name’s not great.
Height: 5 Feet, 10 Inches. That’s what I’ve been putting down since I was 18.
Weight: 189 pounds at present, but within two years of college graduation I was up to 205. Apparently, eating and drinking like you are still in school will cause your head to swell up like a pumpkin. Seriously, I almost needed to have my face letterboxed on my driver’s license.
Favorite Film: What’s the best movie ever made? The Godfather. But if you ask me what’s my favorite movie? The Godfather, Part II. Actually, it’s really the Tahoe, Cuba and Washington scenes I love. If I could only watch 1 hour of something before the world ended, all the stuff that happens after the first film (and the stuff that wasn’t even in the book) would be it. Even with all its tragedy, many people think you can live your life by following the lessons learned from The Godfather. But real life is more like the sequel. It can get confusing and you don’t always know what things mean until later on. Lines can get drawn and then blurred. Shit can get a little murky, which is why you need to find your fun in life.
Favorite Band: The Grateful Dead, but not in the way that you’re thinking. You’ll need to forget all your preconceptions (negative ones, undoubtedly) about Deadheads. I also love, in no particular order, the Allmans, the Stones, the Boss, Zevon, Skynyrd, and Hendrix. Dylan and the Beatles are already implied, right? I’m a fan of any music that’s got a point to it. It could be jazz, blues, Sinatra or rap.
Favorite Sports Team: San Diego Chargers. The short version is that I saw quarterback Dan Fouts throw for more yards in a season that anyone before him. That’s what got me into football and the Chargers themselves. They seemingly passed on every down and no pickup game played at recess had running plays or blockers, anyway.
Lots of kids decide to like a team for far more insignificant reasons. But when they grow up, they trade in their “fan card” to become a follower of their home team. In New York, I even had two football teams to choose from. But being a fan that had never lived beyond the borders of New York became part of my identity. Plus, I have a hard time with letting go of things.
That’s one of the reasons for writing this book. When I read, watch or hear something I either think that it’s talking to me or about me. I guess you could say that makes me a bit of a romantic. Subconsciously, I’ve always felt like the things I’ve seen and done would make a great story. I still wear my favorite article of clothing from college, a buffalo plaid lumberjack jacket. I’ve had it for so long, it doesn’t even feel as itchy and unbreathable as it probably still is.
Actually, you could say that it’s the unofficial uniform of a wanderer. Brando wore it in On The Waterfront, even though that movie was shot in black in white. When they finally turned On The Road into a movie, Sal Paradise wore it throughout the film. I think they were just trying to remind the audience of Kerouac’s French-Canadian roots. But teenage Clark Kent even wears it in Superman: The Movie before he figures out who he really is. There’s no greater wanderer than Kal-El in secular storytelling.
Incidentally, I didn’t think that On The Road was half bad. I thought it was pretty faithful to the book. What really pisses me off is the constant remaking of movies that were good to begin with. What’s next, a “premake” of a film that hasn’t even been released yet? I’m also not a fan of the constant talk of “rebooting” a “franchise.” But, as the song says, you ain’t gonna learn what you don’t want to know.
So why change anything? I also thought it responsible (not always my or Rob’s strong suit) to create characters so as not to alienate any of the former friends, girlfriends or employers they represent. Plus, where the writer ends and his “stand in” begins is where the art of a great story lies. What have been left unchanged are the things that I and Rob value most. The names of the books, bands, movies, and teams are left intact. Since so much of the tale that follows is about the struggle to keep adulthood, and the responsibility that accompanies it at bay, the real names of my wife and children remain. They are the end results of this story and represent its fairytale ending. Despite Rob’s best efforts to stave off the life a grown up, he’s left with the very things that make life worthwhile. Of course, it takes forty-two years for him to figure that out. The music, films and gridiron contests may not be considered vital by some, but they undoubtedly assist Rob towards his most gradual of epiphanies.
But I’ll let Rob speak for himself from here on in. These days, you can get all of a person’s vital “statistics” on their Facebook page. But Rob more likens this format to that of a football card.
Full Name: Robert Loren Gross. Yeah, I know the middle name’s not great.
Height: 5 Feet, 10 Inches. That’s what I’ve been putting down since I was 18.
Weight: 189 pounds at present, but within two years of college graduation I was up to 205. Apparently, eating and drinking like you are still in school will cause your head to swell up like a pumpkin. Seriously, I almost needed to have my face letterboxed on my driver’s license.
Favorite Film: What’s the best movie ever made? The Godfather. But if you ask me what’s my favorite movie? The Godfather, Part II. Actually, it’s really the Tahoe, Cuba and Washington scenes I love. If I could only watch 1 hour of something before the world ended, all the stuff that happens after the first film (and the stuff that wasn’t even in the book) would be it. Even with all its tragedy, many people think you can live your life by following the lessons learned from The Godfather. But real life is more like the sequel. It can get confusing and you don’t always know what things mean until later on. Lines can get drawn and then blurred. Shit can get a little murky, which is why you need to find your fun in life.
Favorite Band: The Grateful Dead, but not in the way that you’re thinking. You’ll need to forget all your preconceptions (negative ones, undoubtedly) about Deadheads. I also love, in no particular order, the Allmans, the Stones, the Boss, Zevon, Skynyrd, and Hendrix. Dylan and the Beatles are already implied, right? I’m a fan of any music that’s got a point to it. It could be jazz, blues, Sinatra or rap.
Favorite Sports Team: San Diego Chargers. The short version is that I saw quarterback Dan Fouts throw for more yards in a season that anyone before him. That’s what got me into football and the Chargers themselves. They seemingly passed on every down and no pickup game played at recess had running plays or blockers, anyway.
Lots of kids decide to like a team for far more insignificant reasons. But when they grow up, they trade in their “fan card” to become a follower of their home team. In New York, I even had two football teams to choose from. But being a fan that had never lived beyond the borders of New York became part of my identity. Plus, I have a hard time with letting go of things.
That’s one of the reasons for writing this book. When I read, watch or hear something I either think that it’s talking to me or about me. I guess you could say that makes me a bit of a romantic. Subconsciously, I’ve always felt like the things I’ve seen and done would make a great story. I still wear my favorite article of clothing from college, a buffalo plaid lumberjack jacket. I’ve had it for so long, it doesn’t even feel as itchy and unbreathable as it probably still is.
Actually, you could say that it’s the unofficial uniform of a wanderer. Brando wore it in On The Waterfront, even though that movie was shot in black in white. When they finally turned On The Road into a movie, Sal Paradise wore it throughout the film. I think they were just trying to remind the audience of Kerouac’s French-Canadian roots. But teenage Clark Kent even wears it in Superman: The Movie before he figures out who he really is. There’s no greater wanderer than Kal-El in secular storytelling.
Incidentally, I didn’t think that On The Road was half bad. I thought it was pretty faithful to the book. What really pisses me off is the constant remaking of movies that were good to begin with. What’s next, a “premake” of a film that hasn’t even been released yet? I’m also not a fan of the constant talk of “rebooting” a “franchise.” But, as the song says, you ain’t gonna learn what you don’t want to know.
August 6, 2020
March Winds Blow Through Nassau
Seeing all those Dead shows during school meant that I didn’t have typical college vacations. At least I never had to scramble for spring break plans. For instance, 1992’s spring tour took me from Atlanta to Hampton, Washington, and Long Island. My itinerary included flights, rental cars, and a stop at my parents’ house before heading out to the Nassau Coliseum shows. Beforehand, I celebrated my 21st birthday at the Capital Centre out-side of DC. Deadheads always claimed that if you mailed a photocopy of your driver’s license along with your ticket request, you’d be rewarded with great seats. I had been drinking on a fake ID since high school, but it was nice to be able to leave it in the car as I sat nine rows from the stage.
After crashing in a nearby hotel, I took off the following morning for Chappaqua. My parents were taking me out for dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant for my birthday. Unfortunately, there was a message on my parents’ answering machine from the Delt who was supposed to go with me to the first Nassau show. He had family plans that he couldn’t get out of. He was from Manhattan and his parents wanted to take him out to dinner. It wasn’t his birthday or anything, but I couldn’t really be mad. I was a little disappointed and not sure who to ask to the show. My mom must have overheard me on the kitchen phone when I got the news.
“Why don’t you ask your father to go with you?”
I wasn’t prepared for her suggestion.
“I mean, I can always get someone. It’s the first show of the run and I’m sure a lot of people would love to go.”
“That’s not the point. You think he took you to all those games when you were younger because he loves football? Who takes you every time the Chargers play in New York?”
“But how do you know he’d even want to go?”
“Just ask him, please.”
Sure enough, she was right. His face lit up when I invited him. I also got the sense he and my mom might have discussed it be-forehand. It was a cool March day, so I didn’t know how much of a scene there would be in the parking lot. It would really be just about attending the show.
“Just treat it like any other one of your concerts. I’ll buy us some sandwiches,” he assured me.
Like any other concert? I had no idea how to do that. After he loaded up my cooler with two Italian subs and a six-pack of Becks, we took off for Long Island. While he drove, I tried to give him a crash course on what he might see that night. I played him a tape from the previous tour to get him up to speed.
“I’ve heard their music before, Rob. It’s been coming out of your room for years. It usually sounds like one long song, though. They don’t take breaks or announce what they’re playing?”
“They don’t stop when they’re jamming. Everybody knows what they’re playing after a few notes, anyway.”
“Jamming?”
This was going be a little harder than I thought.
“Maybe it’ll make sense when they’re on stage playing.”
By the time we got to the Coliseum, the weather was pretty raw. The wind was whipping through the parking lot, so we decided to sit in the open trunk of my parents’ Subaru GL station wagon. It felt like we were in a luxury box seat for the Grateful Dead parking lot scene. Sitting side by side, it was cramped yet warm.
“So what do you usually do before the show?”
“When it’s not freezing, I might explore the lot.”
“What for?”
“I usually buy a beer, a shirt, or something to eat.”
“We have all that here, though. Plus, you have so many shirts.”
“Yeah, but the ones in the lot change depending on the tour. As for the food, where else are you going to get ‘Rasta Pasta?’”
He started laughing and said, “I guess you’re right.”
I was about to continue trying to explain the normal pre-show scene, when a kid in a Mexican pancho and knit hat with braided tassels approached our car.
“You guys need any doses?”
“No, we’re set. We’ve both got sandwiches,” he replied.
The kid was so confused that he just stared at us in disbelief. Of course, he was clearly tripping his brains out as well. All I wanted was for him to move on to another car before I had to explain to my dad that he wanted to sell us acid. But before I could respond, my dad asked him if he wanted one of our beers.
“Absolutely,” he said.
My dad pulled one out of the cooler for him.
His eyes got even wider when he saw the label. “Becks, an import.”
He asked my dad if he’d seen any other shows on the tour.
“No, but you might want to talk to my son. He’s the expert.”
I couldn’t believe how proud my father sounded saying that. I’d always assumed he viewed my love of the Dead as an annoyance.
“Dude, you brought your dad to the show? That’s actually pretty cool.”
I was starting to realize how right he was. Our new friend finished his beer and told us to have a good show. I looked down at my watch and realized it was time to head in. As we walked toward the gate, my dad put his hand on my shoulder.
“He seemed like a nice kid, don’t you think?”
I just had to smile. My dad sweetly saw the good in things. I could only hope I got some of that from him.
“Yeah, Dad. He did.”
For once, I didn’t really care what songs the band picked that night or how they played them. They opened with an appropriately selected “Cold Rain & Snow.” When they played “It’s All Over Now,” my dad proudly told me he recognized the song as a cover from the Rolling Stones’ early days.
“This isn’t so wild, Rob. I don’t know what I was expecting.”
I told him to reserve judgment until the second set. “That’s when the songs get a lot longer.”
During the set-opening jam from “China Cat Sunflower” into “I Know You Rider,” the band really caught fire. As the roar of the crowd built, he looked over at me. He had to scream for me to hear.
“I think I kind of get it!” Once again, I couldn’t believe how proud he sounded. What I thought was going to be a chore turned out to be amazing. When things eventually did get a little too spacey for him, he just sat down. But he was tapping his feet the whole time, even during the drum solo. As if to reward him, the band played more covers by the Stones, Chuck Berry, and Bob Dylan to close things out. His review of the show confirmed how much he had enjoyed himself.
“They’re basically just a dance band, except for that psychedelic stuff. Also, I haven’t smelled that much pot since I took your mother to that bluegrass festival.”
My dad was full of surprises.
After the houselights came on, we started putting on our jackets for the cold walk back to the car. I spotted a guy with a tape recorder walking up the stairs. He took one look at us and asked if we were father and son. When I said yes, he told us he was from Newsday.
“Was this your father’s first Grateful Dead concert?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
The reporter pointed the microphone at my dad. “That’s pretty amazing for you to come out on a night like this just for him.”
“That’s just it,” my dad said. “I think he thought I was coming for him, but I think it ended up being more for me.”
We never found out whether we made the article, but the best part was that I don’t think either of us cared.
After crashing in a nearby hotel, I took off the following morning for Chappaqua. My parents were taking me out for dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant for my birthday. Unfortunately, there was a message on my parents’ answering machine from the Delt who was supposed to go with me to the first Nassau show. He had family plans that he couldn’t get out of. He was from Manhattan and his parents wanted to take him out to dinner. It wasn’t his birthday or anything, but I couldn’t really be mad. I was a little disappointed and not sure who to ask to the show. My mom must have overheard me on the kitchen phone when I got the news.
“Why don’t you ask your father to go with you?”
I wasn’t prepared for her suggestion.
“I mean, I can always get someone. It’s the first show of the run and I’m sure a lot of people would love to go.”
“That’s not the point. You think he took you to all those games when you were younger because he loves football? Who takes you every time the Chargers play in New York?”
“But how do you know he’d even want to go?”
“Just ask him, please.”
Sure enough, she was right. His face lit up when I invited him. I also got the sense he and my mom might have discussed it be-forehand. It was a cool March day, so I didn’t know how much of a scene there would be in the parking lot. It would really be just about attending the show.
“Just treat it like any other one of your concerts. I’ll buy us some sandwiches,” he assured me.
Like any other concert? I had no idea how to do that. After he loaded up my cooler with two Italian subs and a six-pack of Becks, we took off for Long Island. While he drove, I tried to give him a crash course on what he might see that night. I played him a tape from the previous tour to get him up to speed.
“I’ve heard their music before, Rob. It’s been coming out of your room for years. It usually sounds like one long song, though. They don’t take breaks or announce what they’re playing?”
“They don’t stop when they’re jamming. Everybody knows what they’re playing after a few notes, anyway.”
“Jamming?”
This was going be a little harder than I thought.
“Maybe it’ll make sense when they’re on stage playing.”
By the time we got to the Coliseum, the weather was pretty raw. The wind was whipping through the parking lot, so we decided to sit in the open trunk of my parents’ Subaru GL station wagon. It felt like we were in a luxury box seat for the Grateful Dead parking lot scene. Sitting side by side, it was cramped yet warm.
“So what do you usually do before the show?”
“When it’s not freezing, I might explore the lot.”
“What for?”
“I usually buy a beer, a shirt, or something to eat.”
“We have all that here, though. Plus, you have so many shirts.”
“Yeah, but the ones in the lot change depending on the tour. As for the food, where else are you going to get ‘Rasta Pasta?’”
He started laughing and said, “I guess you’re right.”
I was about to continue trying to explain the normal pre-show scene, when a kid in a Mexican pancho and knit hat with braided tassels approached our car.
“You guys need any doses?”
“No, we’re set. We’ve both got sandwiches,” he replied.
The kid was so confused that he just stared at us in disbelief. Of course, he was clearly tripping his brains out as well. All I wanted was for him to move on to another car before I had to explain to my dad that he wanted to sell us acid. But before I could respond, my dad asked him if he wanted one of our beers.
“Absolutely,” he said.
My dad pulled one out of the cooler for him.
His eyes got even wider when he saw the label. “Becks, an import.”
He asked my dad if he’d seen any other shows on the tour.
“No, but you might want to talk to my son. He’s the expert.”
I couldn’t believe how proud my father sounded saying that. I’d always assumed he viewed my love of the Dead as an annoyance.
“Dude, you brought your dad to the show? That’s actually pretty cool.”
I was starting to realize how right he was. Our new friend finished his beer and told us to have a good show. I looked down at my watch and realized it was time to head in. As we walked toward the gate, my dad put his hand on my shoulder.
“He seemed like a nice kid, don’t you think?”
I just had to smile. My dad sweetly saw the good in things. I could only hope I got some of that from him.
“Yeah, Dad. He did.”
For once, I didn’t really care what songs the band picked that night or how they played them. They opened with an appropriately selected “Cold Rain & Snow.” When they played “It’s All Over Now,” my dad proudly told me he recognized the song as a cover from the Rolling Stones’ early days.
“This isn’t so wild, Rob. I don’t know what I was expecting.”
I told him to reserve judgment until the second set. “That’s when the songs get a lot longer.”
During the set-opening jam from “China Cat Sunflower” into “I Know You Rider,” the band really caught fire. As the roar of the crowd built, he looked over at me. He had to scream for me to hear.
“I think I kind of get it!” Once again, I couldn’t believe how proud he sounded. What I thought was going to be a chore turned out to be amazing. When things eventually did get a little too spacey for him, he just sat down. But he was tapping his feet the whole time, even during the drum solo. As if to reward him, the band played more covers by the Stones, Chuck Berry, and Bob Dylan to close things out. His review of the show confirmed how much he had enjoyed himself.
“They’re basically just a dance band, except for that psychedelic stuff. Also, I haven’t smelled that much pot since I took your mother to that bluegrass festival.”
My dad was full of surprises.
After the houselights came on, we started putting on our jackets for the cold walk back to the car. I spotted a guy with a tape recorder walking up the stairs. He took one look at us and asked if we were father and son. When I said yes, he told us he was from Newsday.
“Was this your father’s first Grateful Dead concert?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
The reporter pointed the microphone at my dad. “That’s pretty amazing for you to come out on a night like this just for him.”
“That’s just it,” my dad said. “I think he thought I was coming for him, but I think it ended up being more for me.”
We never found out whether we made the article, but the best part was that I don’t think either of us cared.
August 3, 2020
Jerry Week, Day 3
Every Deadhead has the story about their first show, which I just posted. This is the story of how I ended up at Madison Sqaure Garden on 9/18/87.
AN OBSESSION THAT'S PLEASIN'?
“Dude, check this out.”
With that, the kid from the lower bunk opened his briefcase. It was brown vinyl, but made to look like leather. There were stickers plastered all over it. These were either bands he’d seen in concert or whose shows were stacked inside. The Who, The Stones, The Police, as well as guitar gods like Eric Clapton and Carlos Santana caught my eye instantly. Some of the stickers were promos from FM stations welcoming these acts to places like Madison Square Garden, Brendan Byrne Arena, or Nassau Coliseum.
But the briefcase’s exterior was nothing compared to what I saw after he flipped open those two latches. If hanging with Greeny and Tap was musically illuminating, this was fucking mind blowing. The tapes were in alphabetical order, with each artist identified by a different font. When you flipped the cassette over, you found the source of the tape and “generation” of the recording. The bands I listened to driving around in high school weren’t still playing together, but this kid had recordings of them in their prime. The Doors, Led Zeppelin, David Lee Roth-era Van Halen: they were all there. I also noticed a lot of Bruce Springsteen shows. During the summer a few years before when Born in the USA was everywhere, I decided he wasn’t worth exploring. I mentioned this to the curator of the collection.
“You need to see The Boss live. His early albums were amazing and the shows after Darkness on The Edge Of Town were fucking legendary,”
“So can I...like…borrow these to copy?”
“Sure, Rob. We share the same bunk bed. I’m not worried you won’t give them back. But I’d prefer to do the dubbing myself.”
He then reached under his bed and pulled out two single tape decks, connected by a gold-plated cable.
“They make these high-speed double decks, but they can’t copy for shit.”
“So how can I get copies of the tapes I want?”
“Just have your parents send blanks to camp. I’d recommend Maxell XLII-90s.”
As I thought about how I could get my mom to go to Crazy Eddie’s and buy me a case of cassettes, I noticed about fifteen Grateful Dead shows in the middle of the collection. I was about to ask about them, but figured there was only so much I could absorb in a day.
My love of the Dead didn’t take shape until later that summer, the last one I spent at Camp Birchwood. Like many Northeast summer camps, Birchwood was nestled in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. The summer of ’87 was my “waiter” year, which was a position of prestige at Birchwood. We were the oldest kids at the camp and all the other campers looked up to us. We also received a small paycheck for our work in the mess hall, and our parents even received a discount for the summer.
What really made being a waiter so great, however, was the freedom and privileges that came with the job. We woke up early to serve breakfast and were therefore allowed to go back to sleep while the other kids had to go to their first “period.” In fact, our entire schedule was essentially voluntary. If we wanted to take out a sailboat when we were supposed to be at basketball, we could. Mostly, though, we would use that freedom to do nothing at all. The counselors were just a year or two older than we were, so we’d often get high or drunk with them during the day.
But it was the music once again that truly opened doors. I finally came to understand the genius of Springsteen’s aforementioned Darkness tour, but the Dead spoke to me the most. It wasn’t the beer or weed that caused me to appreciate their music, although I’m sure it made me a little more open. Even after hearing my counselors play them every day the previous summer, I still couldn’t quite get a handle on them. Sometimes they would sound like a country band, other times blues, and sometimes I had no idea what style they were playing in. Everyone told me the only way to really appreciate the Dead was at a show. They not only allowed taping at their concerts, but even encouraged it with a special section behind the soundboard. Once again, it seemed like everyone else who appreciated it was in on some amazing inside joke. To get the best Dead tapes at Birchwood you needed to go to “Arby.”
Richard Arbogast was the counselor in charge of all of Birchwood’s waterfront activities. During one of my free periods, I waded down to the lake to pay him a visit. As I neared the boathouse, I heard music blasting from two speakers set up outside. I climbed the wooden stairs and got a whiff of strongest pot I had ever smelled. I knocked on the door, but it just swung open with a giant creak.
Arby had a blue bandana covering his head like a pirate. His red hair spilled out from underneath. He was leaning back in a rocking chair as I entered the room.
“Heeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy…you’re that Gross kid, right?”
“Yeah, I uh, wanted to copy a few Dead tapes from you.”
“Sure. What are you into?”
I had no idea what he meant.
“There are all sorts of Dead, Rob. There’s the crazy psychedelic stuff of the ‘60s, the countrified period of the early ‘70s, the intricateness of ’72, and the jazzy playing of 1974.”
I had no idea Arby had such an extensive vocabulary and could never imagine all these adjectives describing the same band.
“The Dead are the most documented group ever. Practically every show has been recorded by someone. But at the end of the day, they’re just America’s greatest dance band.”
When I didn’t respond, Arby reached under a table to grab a cassette.
“You look like a ’77 guy, at least to start. Play it from ‘Bertha’ all the way through.”
I looked at the tape in the scratched plastic case. All it said was “Englishtown 9/3/77, II.”
I put the tape in my Walkman for my walk back to my bunk. As Arby predicted, the freight train of drums and crunchy chords that signaled the opening of “Bertha” sucked me right in. When the pianist slid his fingers across the keys, they really did sound like America’s greatest dance band before they even sang a note. With the Adirondacks laid out before me, I knew I needed to hear more of this stuff. I spent the rest of the summer borrowing and copying Arby’s collection after asking my parents to make a few more trips to Crazy Eddie’s.
Finding the best tapes was like collecting baseball cards or comic books, except these treasures didn’t lose value outside their packaging. The music within was recorded in places I’d never heard of, like Winterland Ballroom or the Fillmore East. These were foreign lands as far as I was concerned, although I was unaware at the time that the Dead had actually played in Alaska, Hawaii, and even Egypt.
They believed in magic that could only be made in the moment. It didn’t happen every night, but when it did, it was more potent by far than anything that could be cooked up in a recording studio. That’s why people tried to see (and tape) every show. How else could you be sure to capture the magic when it happened? Like my promise to become a Chargers fan, I had to see the Dead when they played Madison Square Garden that fall. I didn’t know how I would get tickets or who I would go with, but I knew I had to be there.
Fortunately, two of my fellow waiters were getting a “Deaducation” at the same time I was. Arby told me about them during one of my visits to the boathouse. Stoney was a sandy-haired kid from Long Island who could funnel beers faster than anyone at Birchwood. Rose was a pint-sized kid who also lived in Westchester, although a little farther south in Scarsdale. We were drinking Genesee Lights in the camp’s weight room, which was more like a gazebo with dumbbells and benches, when we decided to all go together. The “Shakedown Street” from Philadelphia ‘85 was blasting while we talked.
“Some kid at my high school scalps tickets,” Stoney said. “We’ll just need to pay like fifty bucks to get ‘em.”
Rose spoke next. “But don’t they only cost like eighteen fifty? That seems like a lot.”
“No way,” I interrupted. “We’ve gotta do this. I think they’re playing on the weekend, so my parents will let me go. Let’s drink to it.”
All three of us drained our Genny Lights and knew we had a plan for that fall. However, I still hadn’t met a girl. Fortunately, Birchwood had always had weekly “socials” with its sister camp across the lake. As waiters, we got daily “porch nights.” If you couldn’t find a girl to talk with, you’d have nothing to do for two hours. At least you could boost your confidence with Genny Lights and there was always music playing.
I was leaning against the railing one night when one of the more popular waitresses approached. Maybe the confidence I was gaining from all my new “interests” was apparent when Wendi finally introduced herself. Somehow, the fact that it was spelled with an “i” made her that much more alluring to me.
She was Jewish, as were almost all the girls at Birchwood’s “sister camp,” but had all the features of the classic shiksa. She had dirty hair, blue eyes, and the slightest sprinkling of freckles on her sun-kissed skin. Most importantly, she had the firmest set of breasts my young eyes had ever seen
“So, uh, where are you from Wendi?”
“Long Island. You’re Rob, right? Where do you live?”
“Chappaqua. It’s north of the city, if you know anything about Westchester.”
“I don’t.”
I wasn’t sure how to counter the resulting awkwardness, but she luckily had a solution.
“Do you want to take a walk with me?”
As we went towards the road that led back to the boys’ camp, she grabbed my hand and shoved her tongue into my mouth. We kissed for a while after that and then she sent me back to my bunk walking on air. We never spoke about our feelings and she never even revealed why she came up to me. I couldn’t have cared less. Almost every night we engaged in what I would later come to know as foreplay. Animal House, and all those awful rip-offs that followed, taught me that I had reached rarified territory. When Wendi eventually let me move my hand under the cups of her bra and later put hers inside the waistband of my boxers, I felt like my team had won the Super Bowl. Of course, I could only assume it felt like, given my choice of football team. My physical satisfaction was intensified by the fact that I was finally living the life I saw on the screen.
When I lost my virginity to Wendi later that summer, I naively assumed we were getting serious. The sex seemed great, but how would I be able to tell? Movies had taught me that just getting a girl was the goal. My mom always told me, “You like to put things on an imaginary shelf so you can forget about them, but that’s not how life works.” Maybe this was why I never considered that Wendi wasn’t really that into me. I was just happy to be having sex.
Predictably, we lost touch after the summer. I was disappointed at the time, but mainly because I’d have to find another girl who’d pay attention to, let alone sleep with, me. Maybe my mom was right. At least I was going into my junior year no longer a virgin and had a Grateful Dead concert on the horizon.
AN OBSESSION THAT'S PLEASIN'?
“Dude, check this out.”
With that, the kid from the lower bunk opened his briefcase. It was brown vinyl, but made to look like leather. There were stickers plastered all over it. These were either bands he’d seen in concert or whose shows were stacked inside. The Who, The Stones, The Police, as well as guitar gods like Eric Clapton and Carlos Santana caught my eye instantly. Some of the stickers were promos from FM stations welcoming these acts to places like Madison Square Garden, Brendan Byrne Arena, or Nassau Coliseum.
But the briefcase’s exterior was nothing compared to what I saw after he flipped open those two latches. If hanging with Greeny and Tap was musically illuminating, this was fucking mind blowing. The tapes were in alphabetical order, with each artist identified by a different font. When you flipped the cassette over, you found the source of the tape and “generation” of the recording. The bands I listened to driving around in high school weren’t still playing together, but this kid had recordings of them in their prime. The Doors, Led Zeppelin, David Lee Roth-era Van Halen: they were all there. I also noticed a lot of Bruce Springsteen shows. During the summer a few years before when Born in the USA was everywhere, I decided he wasn’t worth exploring. I mentioned this to the curator of the collection.
“You need to see The Boss live. His early albums were amazing and the shows after Darkness on The Edge Of Town were fucking legendary,”
“So can I...like…borrow these to copy?”
“Sure, Rob. We share the same bunk bed. I’m not worried you won’t give them back. But I’d prefer to do the dubbing myself.”
He then reached under his bed and pulled out two single tape decks, connected by a gold-plated cable.
“They make these high-speed double decks, but they can’t copy for shit.”
“So how can I get copies of the tapes I want?”
“Just have your parents send blanks to camp. I’d recommend Maxell XLII-90s.”
As I thought about how I could get my mom to go to Crazy Eddie’s and buy me a case of cassettes, I noticed about fifteen Grateful Dead shows in the middle of the collection. I was about to ask about them, but figured there was only so much I could absorb in a day.
My love of the Dead didn’t take shape until later that summer, the last one I spent at Camp Birchwood. Like many Northeast summer camps, Birchwood was nestled in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. The summer of ’87 was my “waiter” year, which was a position of prestige at Birchwood. We were the oldest kids at the camp and all the other campers looked up to us. We also received a small paycheck for our work in the mess hall, and our parents even received a discount for the summer.
What really made being a waiter so great, however, was the freedom and privileges that came with the job. We woke up early to serve breakfast and were therefore allowed to go back to sleep while the other kids had to go to their first “period.” In fact, our entire schedule was essentially voluntary. If we wanted to take out a sailboat when we were supposed to be at basketball, we could. Mostly, though, we would use that freedom to do nothing at all. The counselors were just a year or two older than we were, so we’d often get high or drunk with them during the day.
But it was the music once again that truly opened doors. I finally came to understand the genius of Springsteen’s aforementioned Darkness tour, but the Dead spoke to me the most. It wasn’t the beer or weed that caused me to appreciate their music, although I’m sure it made me a little more open. Even after hearing my counselors play them every day the previous summer, I still couldn’t quite get a handle on them. Sometimes they would sound like a country band, other times blues, and sometimes I had no idea what style they were playing in. Everyone told me the only way to really appreciate the Dead was at a show. They not only allowed taping at their concerts, but even encouraged it with a special section behind the soundboard. Once again, it seemed like everyone else who appreciated it was in on some amazing inside joke. To get the best Dead tapes at Birchwood you needed to go to “Arby.”
Richard Arbogast was the counselor in charge of all of Birchwood’s waterfront activities. During one of my free periods, I waded down to the lake to pay him a visit. As I neared the boathouse, I heard music blasting from two speakers set up outside. I climbed the wooden stairs and got a whiff of strongest pot I had ever smelled. I knocked on the door, but it just swung open with a giant creak.
Arby had a blue bandana covering his head like a pirate. His red hair spilled out from underneath. He was leaning back in a rocking chair as I entered the room.
“Heeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy…you’re that Gross kid, right?”
“Yeah, I uh, wanted to copy a few Dead tapes from you.”
“Sure. What are you into?”
I had no idea what he meant.
“There are all sorts of Dead, Rob. There’s the crazy psychedelic stuff of the ‘60s, the countrified period of the early ‘70s, the intricateness of ’72, and the jazzy playing of 1974.”
I had no idea Arby had such an extensive vocabulary and could never imagine all these adjectives describing the same band.
“The Dead are the most documented group ever. Practically every show has been recorded by someone. But at the end of the day, they’re just America’s greatest dance band.”
When I didn’t respond, Arby reached under a table to grab a cassette.
“You look like a ’77 guy, at least to start. Play it from ‘Bertha’ all the way through.”
I looked at the tape in the scratched plastic case. All it said was “Englishtown 9/3/77, II.”
I put the tape in my Walkman for my walk back to my bunk. As Arby predicted, the freight train of drums and crunchy chords that signaled the opening of “Bertha” sucked me right in. When the pianist slid his fingers across the keys, they really did sound like America’s greatest dance band before they even sang a note. With the Adirondacks laid out before me, I knew I needed to hear more of this stuff. I spent the rest of the summer borrowing and copying Arby’s collection after asking my parents to make a few more trips to Crazy Eddie’s.
Finding the best tapes was like collecting baseball cards or comic books, except these treasures didn’t lose value outside their packaging. The music within was recorded in places I’d never heard of, like Winterland Ballroom or the Fillmore East. These were foreign lands as far as I was concerned, although I was unaware at the time that the Dead had actually played in Alaska, Hawaii, and even Egypt.
They believed in magic that could only be made in the moment. It didn’t happen every night, but when it did, it was more potent by far than anything that could be cooked up in a recording studio. That’s why people tried to see (and tape) every show. How else could you be sure to capture the magic when it happened? Like my promise to become a Chargers fan, I had to see the Dead when they played Madison Square Garden that fall. I didn’t know how I would get tickets or who I would go with, but I knew I had to be there.
Fortunately, two of my fellow waiters were getting a “Deaducation” at the same time I was. Arby told me about them during one of my visits to the boathouse. Stoney was a sandy-haired kid from Long Island who could funnel beers faster than anyone at Birchwood. Rose was a pint-sized kid who also lived in Westchester, although a little farther south in Scarsdale. We were drinking Genesee Lights in the camp’s weight room, which was more like a gazebo with dumbbells and benches, when we decided to all go together. The “Shakedown Street” from Philadelphia ‘85 was blasting while we talked.
“Some kid at my high school scalps tickets,” Stoney said. “We’ll just need to pay like fifty bucks to get ‘em.”
Rose spoke next. “But don’t they only cost like eighteen fifty? That seems like a lot.”
“No way,” I interrupted. “We’ve gotta do this. I think they’re playing on the weekend, so my parents will let me go. Let’s drink to it.”
All three of us drained our Genny Lights and knew we had a plan for that fall. However, I still hadn’t met a girl. Fortunately, Birchwood had always had weekly “socials” with its sister camp across the lake. As waiters, we got daily “porch nights.” If you couldn’t find a girl to talk with, you’d have nothing to do for two hours. At least you could boost your confidence with Genny Lights and there was always music playing.
I was leaning against the railing one night when one of the more popular waitresses approached. Maybe the confidence I was gaining from all my new “interests” was apparent when Wendi finally introduced herself. Somehow, the fact that it was spelled with an “i” made her that much more alluring to me.
She was Jewish, as were almost all the girls at Birchwood’s “sister camp,” but had all the features of the classic shiksa. She had dirty hair, blue eyes, and the slightest sprinkling of freckles on her sun-kissed skin. Most importantly, she had the firmest set of breasts my young eyes had ever seen
“So, uh, where are you from Wendi?”
“Long Island. You’re Rob, right? Where do you live?”
“Chappaqua. It’s north of the city, if you know anything about Westchester.”
“I don’t.”
I wasn’t sure how to counter the resulting awkwardness, but she luckily had a solution.
“Do you want to take a walk with me?”
As we went towards the road that led back to the boys’ camp, she grabbed my hand and shoved her tongue into my mouth. We kissed for a while after that and then she sent me back to my bunk walking on air. We never spoke about our feelings and she never even revealed why she came up to me. I couldn’t have cared less. Almost every night we engaged in what I would later come to know as foreplay. Animal House, and all those awful rip-offs that followed, taught me that I had reached rarified territory. When Wendi eventually let me move my hand under the cups of her bra and later put hers inside the waistband of my boxers, I felt like my team had won the Super Bowl. Of course, I could only assume it felt like, given my choice of football team. My physical satisfaction was intensified by the fact that I was finally living the life I saw on the screen.
When I lost my virginity to Wendi later that summer, I naively assumed we were getting serious. The sex seemed great, but how would I be able to tell? Movies had taught me that just getting a girl was the goal. My mom always told me, “You like to put things on an imaginary shelf so you can forget about them, but that’s not how life works.” Maybe this was why I never considered that Wendi wasn’t really that into me. I was just happy to be having sex.
Predictably, we lost touch after the summer. I was disappointed at the time, but mainly because I’d have to find another girl who’d pay attention to, let alone sleep with, me. Maybe my mom was right. At least I was going into my junior year no longer a virgin and had a Grateful Dead concert on the horizon.
July 31, 2020
Welcome To The Days Between
Welcome to the Drunk On Sunday Goodreads page. I figured I would start this blog off with a topic that's pretty central to my book, the Grateful Goddamned Dead (Fillmore East Introduction By Zacherle, 2/14/70 Late Show)
Tomorrow would have been Jerry Garcia's 78th birthday. It's hard to imagine Jerry at 78, since he looked 78 in his 40s. But the Dead are still a central part of my life. My book is autofiction, but my love of their music is not. As my book states, I did see 138 Grateful Dead concerts. I thought I'd start the week between his birth and passing with my account of my first one. It was September 18, 1987. It appears in the book as "Shakedown On Seventh Avenue," but was originally titled "When I Can Hear It Beat Out Loud," which are lyrics from the song. I hope you enjoy.
I could hardly contain my anticipation at school as I tried to make it through my daily schedule. It was September 18th, 1987. I never before realized how many kids had skeletons, dancing bears, or drawings of Jerry Garcia on their binders and backpacks before that day. It was no surprise that there were a lot less kids in the smoking section than usual that Friday.
I don’t think any of the Deadheads at Horace Greeley High School suspected that I would be joining them that night, let alone end up attending more Dead shows than they ever did. But once I got into something, I didn’t know how to do it halfway. With my short brown hair and khaki pants, I looked more like a T.G.I. Friday’s employee than a guy about to see his first Grateful Dead concert. I considered the rule about not wearing the shirt of the band you were going to see, but wasn’t making a conscious effort to not be a poser worse than actually being one? I didn’t own a tour shirt, anyway. My magenta tie-dye commemorating Ben and Jerry’s brand new “Cherry Garcia” ice cream flavor would have to do.
After spending the day squirming at my desk, I was more than ready to get the fuck out of dodge. As soon as school ended, I drove my parents’ silver Volvo GL to the Chappaqua train station. Fortunately, there was a deli across from the platform that didn’t proof you for beer, so I got a six-pack of Bud for me and Rose. Stoney, who had the tickets, was meeting us at the Garden. As I waited for the train, I wondered if it would be okay to drink on the train. As soon the doors to the car opened, however, I knew there was nothing to worry about.
I would soon recognize this as the “scene” that accompanied all Grateful Dead concerts. However, it would usually be spread out over numerous parking lots, rather than a single train car. There were people smoking joints, passing around liquor bottles, and blasting tapes. I was even able to identify a few bootlegs from my growing collection. After finding a seat, I took a long gulp of my beer and waited for the train to hit Scarsdale. When it finally did, however, Rose wasn’t standing in the doorway. That was okay. He must just have gotten on via another car. I wondered if they were all as wild as this one, but as soon as I saw him walking down the aisle with his mouth agape I knew the answer.
“Wow,” he said. “It’s a circus already.”
I handed him a beer in agreement. We each polished off two more in the thirty minutes it took to get to Grand Central. As the car emptied out, we decided to walk to the Garden to temper our buzz a bit. As we reached the top of the staircase, a kid with dirty blond hair and a hooded poncho sidled up next to me. I must have given off the scent of the uninitiated since he immediately asked me if this was my first show.
“Yeah, it is.”
“You’re so lucky, dude. Get ready for a greeeeaaaat time.”
I was lucky? I mistakenly assumed any seasoned veteran would look down on me. This was nothing like any of the high school cliques I had been exposed to. It was almost as if this kid knew what I was thinking because as he turned away he reassured me on my choice of attire.
“Cool shirt, dude. I haven’t seen that one on tour.”
The scene outside the Garden was similar to what I saw on the train, except it had now spilled onto the streets of Manhattan. The police were everywhere, but seemed to be observing rather than trying to control the action. It was at this point that I realized that there wasn’t even a conductor to take tickets on the train. All the authority figures were hanging back tonight.
That appeared to be the only way to handle the circus on 7th Avenue. There were people selling handmade T-shirts, asking for extra tickets, and handing out flyers with the setlists from recent shows. I even saw someone selling a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches. I had no idea where or when they cooked them and didn’t want to find out. In the middle of all this stood Stoney with a huge smile underneath his mop of light brown hair.
“How awesome is this?”
We didn’t even need to answer as he handed us our tickets. We were in the upper deck of the Garden, but we didn’t care. We were so fired up after going through the turnstiles that none of us partook as joints were passed our way. After finishing our climb to our seats, I looked at my watch. It was 8:00 PM, thirty minutes after the scheduled start. Everyone said that the Dead never began on time, anyway. This was just another way the band defied convention, which held obvious appeal.
As we waited for the lights to go down, I looked at the gear already on the stage. There was a giant rug which looked like it belonged in my grandparents’ condominium. Speakers were stacked on both sides, but there were no other identifiers as to which band was playing that night. The air of anticipation inside the building made it perfectly clear that everybody knew who would be taking the stage. At about 8:30, the Garden finally went dark and a huge roar erupted. The band walked out and took what I would come to learn were their usual spots. Under us on stage left was Phil Lesh, who looked like a high school shop teacher. His glasses seemed to support his Lego-like helmet of brown hair and his rainbow tie-dye was the only evidence that he was in a band. The guy next to us assured us that, even this high up, “Phil’s side always has the best sound.” Bob Weir, the youngest band member and the closest thing the Dead had to a rock star, occupied the middle microphone. He was wearing black Converse hi-tops, a black T-shirt ripped around the collar, and cut-off jean shorts. This was an odd look even in 1987. Jerry Garcia occupied the last slot and wore his usual black T-shirt and corduroy pants.
I knew that the band didn’t say very much to the audience. They let the music do the talking. The video footage I had seen of them suggested that they were really working on the fly. The looks the band gave each other also hinted that there were many times that they couldn’t get it going at all. Luckily for us, this wasn’t one of those nights.
They didn’t introduce a single song, but the crowd recognized each one within a few notes. When they played, they looked like they were all soloing at once. Jerry’s guitar was undoubtedly the catalyst, but he never acted like a rock star playing to a sold-out crowd. When one of his solos caused the crowd to explode, his only response was to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. This seemed like another outlaw move to me. After all, this was the band who once tried to get Warner Brothers to let them call one of their albums Skull Fuck. (It was the one with the skeleton and roses on the cover.)
When the lights came on to signal the end of the first set, the first thing we saw was the guy at the end of our row snorting a line of coke off the armrest of his chair. Before we could even react, he sprung up to give us his assessment thus far:
“Hot set, but short. They’re really gonna tear shit up from here on in.”
He was right. When they reemerged from backstage, you could already tell that the second set was going to be where they really delivered. We all sat in the smoky darkness in anticipation as they tuned up. Jerry’s fingers ran up and down his fretboard and the crowd immediately recognized “Shakedown Street.” As a roar came up from the audience, both drummers erupted in what sounded like firecrackers.
WOOWWWWWWWWWWWWHHHHHHH!
With that, Jerry’s guitar started the set in earnest. Stoney, Rose, and I stood slack-jawed as a massive spotlight panned across the crowd. This thing literally looked like the size of the Bat Signal and yet I hadn’t noticed it until that moment. The song sounded like “Disco Dead” when it was recorded back in 1978, but on stage they had boiled it down to its essence. It was a funky, yet sinister, bad ass kind of a song.
But it was the version of “Morning Dew” they played about an hour later that really made the night legendary. Jerry may have looked like Santa Claus by 1987, but he sang this ballad with all the emotion of a screaming child. You could tell by the looks of the other band members and the shrieking crowd that he didn’t get this raw very often. His solo was even better, as he poured even more emotion into the notes than the words. There were times that it even sounded like the guitar cracked like a creaky voice from being played so fast. This isn’t just hyperbole. This version of “Dew” is universally considered one of the best ever. The whole show was later released in the career-spanning box set that featured one concert from each of the band’s 30 years.
By the time it was all over, we three knew we’d be back. I looked at Rose and Stoney and knew none of us were thinking about our respective train rides home. We went to more shows together, but they eventually tapered off. I, of course, couldn’t exercise such moderation.
I’m glad I didn’t. I saw other shows that were so good that they became live albums and others that were average or downright disastrous. That only made the special ones better because I saw what it took to get there. I went to as many concerts as I could to maximize the chances of seeing “the one.” When the band was in front of me, I knew that for one night I wouldn’t have to wonder what or how they played.
However, it became about more than just the music. Dead shows gave me a sanctuary when it seemed like the real world was closing in too fast. I didn’t need to worry about responsibility on tour. I could just be. Years later, the shows themselves became the responsibility. By that time, I was no longer taking vacations, but hiding from reality. On that Friday however, I still had 137 shows to go. I boarded the train to Chappaqua only thinking about the next one and how I was going to track down a tape of what I’d just experienced.
Tomorrow would have been Jerry Garcia's 78th birthday. It's hard to imagine Jerry at 78, since he looked 78 in his 40s. But the Dead are still a central part of my life. My book is autofiction, but my love of their music is not. As my book states, I did see 138 Grateful Dead concerts. I thought I'd start the week between his birth and passing with my account of my first one. It was September 18, 1987. It appears in the book as "Shakedown On Seventh Avenue," but was originally titled "When I Can Hear It Beat Out Loud," which are lyrics from the song. I hope you enjoy.
I could hardly contain my anticipation at school as I tried to make it through my daily schedule. It was September 18th, 1987. I never before realized how many kids had skeletons, dancing bears, or drawings of Jerry Garcia on their binders and backpacks before that day. It was no surprise that there were a lot less kids in the smoking section than usual that Friday.
I don’t think any of the Deadheads at Horace Greeley High School suspected that I would be joining them that night, let alone end up attending more Dead shows than they ever did. But once I got into something, I didn’t know how to do it halfway. With my short brown hair and khaki pants, I looked more like a T.G.I. Friday’s employee than a guy about to see his first Grateful Dead concert. I considered the rule about not wearing the shirt of the band you were going to see, but wasn’t making a conscious effort to not be a poser worse than actually being one? I didn’t own a tour shirt, anyway. My magenta tie-dye commemorating Ben and Jerry’s brand new “Cherry Garcia” ice cream flavor would have to do.
After spending the day squirming at my desk, I was more than ready to get the fuck out of dodge. As soon as school ended, I drove my parents’ silver Volvo GL to the Chappaqua train station. Fortunately, there was a deli across from the platform that didn’t proof you for beer, so I got a six-pack of Bud for me and Rose. Stoney, who had the tickets, was meeting us at the Garden. As I waited for the train, I wondered if it would be okay to drink on the train. As soon the doors to the car opened, however, I knew there was nothing to worry about.
I would soon recognize this as the “scene” that accompanied all Grateful Dead concerts. However, it would usually be spread out over numerous parking lots, rather than a single train car. There were people smoking joints, passing around liquor bottles, and blasting tapes. I was even able to identify a few bootlegs from my growing collection. After finding a seat, I took a long gulp of my beer and waited for the train to hit Scarsdale. When it finally did, however, Rose wasn’t standing in the doorway. That was okay. He must just have gotten on via another car. I wondered if they were all as wild as this one, but as soon as I saw him walking down the aisle with his mouth agape I knew the answer.
“Wow,” he said. “It’s a circus already.”
I handed him a beer in agreement. We each polished off two more in the thirty minutes it took to get to Grand Central. As the car emptied out, we decided to walk to the Garden to temper our buzz a bit. As we reached the top of the staircase, a kid with dirty blond hair and a hooded poncho sidled up next to me. I must have given off the scent of the uninitiated since he immediately asked me if this was my first show.
“Yeah, it is.”
“You’re so lucky, dude. Get ready for a greeeeaaaat time.”
I was lucky? I mistakenly assumed any seasoned veteran would look down on me. This was nothing like any of the high school cliques I had been exposed to. It was almost as if this kid knew what I was thinking because as he turned away he reassured me on my choice of attire.
“Cool shirt, dude. I haven’t seen that one on tour.”
The scene outside the Garden was similar to what I saw on the train, except it had now spilled onto the streets of Manhattan. The police were everywhere, but seemed to be observing rather than trying to control the action. It was at this point that I realized that there wasn’t even a conductor to take tickets on the train. All the authority figures were hanging back tonight.
That appeared to be the only way to handle the circus on 7th Avenue. There were people selling handmade T-shirts, asking for extra tickets, and handing out flyers with the setlists from recent shows. I even saw someone selling a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches. I had no idea where or when they cooked them and didn’t want to find out. In the middle of all this stood Stoney with a huge smile underneath his mop of light brown hair.
“How awesome is this?”
We didn’t even need to answer as he handed us our tickets. We were in the upper deck of the Garden, but we didn’t care. We were so fired up after going through the turnstiles that none of us partook as joints were passed our way. After finishing our climb to our seats, I looked at my watch. It was 8:00 PM, thirty minutes after the scheduled start. Everyone said that the Dead never began on time, anyway. This was just another way the band defied convention, which held obvious appeal.
As we waited for the lights to go down, I looked at the gear already on the stage. There was a giant rug which looked like it belonged in my grandparents’ condominium. Speakers were stacked on both sides, but there were no other identifiers as to which band was playing that night. The air of anticipation inside the building made it perfectly clear that everybody knew who would be taking the stage. At about 8:30, the Garden finally went dark and a huge roar erupted. The band walked out and took what I would come to learn were their usual spots. Under us on stage left was Phil Lesh, who looked like a high school shop teacher. His glasses seemed to support his Lego-like helmet of brown hair and his rainbow tie-dye was the only evidence that he was in a band. The guy next to us assured us that, even this high up, “Phil’s side always has the best sound.” Bob Weir, the youngest band member and the closest thing the Dead had to a rock star, occupied the middle microphone. He was wearing black Converse hi-tops, a black T-shirt ripped around the collar, and cut-off jean shorts. This was an odd look even in 1987. Jerry Garcia occupied the last slot and wore his usual black T-shirt and corduroy pants.
I knew that the band didn’t say very much to the audience. They let the music do the talking. The video footage I had seen of them suggested that they were really working on the fly. The looks the band gave each other also hinted that there were many times that they couldn’t get it going at all. Luckily for us, this wasn’t one of those nights.
They didn’t introduce a single song, but the crowd recognized each one within a few notes. When they played, they looked like they were all soloing at once. Jerry’s guitar was undoubtedly the catalyst, but he never acted like a rock star playing to a sold-out crowd. When one of his solos caused the crowd to explode, his only response was to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. This seemed like another outlaw move to me. After all, this was the band who once tried to get Warner Brothers to let them call one of their albums Skull Fuck. (It was the one with the skeleton and roses on the cover.)
When the lights came on to signal the end of the first set, the first thing we saw was the guy at the end of our row snorting a line of coke off the armrest of his chair. Before we could even react, he sprung up to give us his assessment thus far:
“Hot set, but short. They’re really gonna tear shit up from here on in.”
He was right. When they reemerged from backstage, you could already tell that the second set was going to be where they really delivered. We all sat in the smoky darkness in anticipation as they tuned up. Jerry’s fingers ran up and down his fretboard and the crowd immediately recognized “Shakedown Street.” As a roar came up from the audience, both drummers erupted in what sounded like firecrackers.
WOOWWWWWWWWWWWWHHHHHHH!
With that, Jerry’s guitar started the set in earnest. Stoney, Rose, and I stood slack-jawed as a massive spotlight panned across the crowd. This thing literally looked like the size of the Bat Signal and yet I hadn’t noticed it until that moment. The song sounded like “Disco Dead” when it was recorded back in 1978, but on stage they had boiled it down to its essence. It was a funky, yet sinister, bad ass kind of a song.
But it was the version of “Morning Dew” they played about an hour later that really made the night legendary. Jerry may have looked like Santa Claus by 1987, but he sang this ballad with all the emotion of a screaming child. You could tell by the looks of the other band members and the shrieking crowd that he didn’t get this raw very often. His solo was even better, as he poured even more emotion into the notes than the words. There were times that it even sounded like the guitar cracked like a creaky voice from being played so fast. This isn’t just hyperbole. This version of “Dew” is universally considered one of the best ever. The whole show was later released in the career-spanning box set that featured one concert from each of the band’s 30 years.
By the time it was all over, we three knew we’d be back. I looked at Rose and Stoney and knew none of us were thinking about our respective train rides home. We went to more shows together, but they eventually tapered off. I, of course, couldn’t exercise such moderation.
I’m glad I didn’t. I saw other shows that were so good that they became live albums and others that were average or downright disastrous. That only made the special ones better because I saw what it took to get there. I went to as many concerts as I could to maximize the chances of seeing “the one.” When the band was in front of me, I knew that for one night I wouldn’t have to wonder what or how they played.
However, it became about more than just the music. Dead shows gave me a sanctuary when it seemed like the real world was closing in too fast. I didn’t need to worry about responsibility on tour. I could just be. Years later, the shows themselves became the responsibility. By that time, I was no longer taking vacations, but hiding from reality. On that Friday however, I still had 137 shows to go. I boarded the train to Chappaqua only thinking about the next one and how I was going to track down a tape of what I’d just experienced.
Drunk On Sunday
Welcome to the official blog for Drunk On Sunday, my first book from No Frills Buffalo.
Rob Gross is a pop culture junkie whose life had been long guided by his obsessions for the Grateful Dead, Anima ...more
Rob Gross is a pop culture junkie whose life had been long guided by his obsessions for the Grateful Dead, Anima ...more
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