Ethan Hein's Blog

See also a post about the Dead and electronic music.

Whenever I play guitar, it comes out sounding a lot like Jerry Garcia. I can’t help it. From the ages of fifteen to twenty, my guitar-learning years, there was no musician I cared more about in the world than Jerry. It’s not about drugs. I’ve never tripped on anything. I really did like the music, a lot.

The biggest lesson Jerry taught me was to play at slow to medium tempos using beats you can dance to. He did his best work over one-chord or two-chord Afrocentric grooves with a free jazz flavor. He played okay country and white R&B, and I guess he very infrequently rocked. But mostly he was a groove player.

I went to see the Dead a bunch of times in high school and a few increasingly depressing times my freshman year of college. Jerry was completely phoning it in at that point and the rest of the guys were uneven at best. And yet, those shows were still pretty magical. There was a lot of audience participation, group singing and dancing and clapping. I’m a nerdy white guy who spends a lot of time alone or with strangers. I don’t do a lot of group singing and dancing and clapping. Those activities are an essential social vitamin, and I feel the absence of them in my life now, I play in bands and produce tracks to try and make up for it.

The best thing the band was doing during the years I went to see them was closing shows with “Not Fade Away” by Buddy Holly. This song is a modal I7-IV groove over a distinctive beat: clap, clap, clap, clap clap; clap, clap, clap, clap clap. It’s an Afro-Cuban pattern called son clave. Rock musicians call it the Bo Diddley beat. Jerry loved the Bo Diddley beat and used it in about every sixth song. By the end of “Not Fade Away”, the band had taught the entire crowd to clap son clave. During the very extended tag out, while singing “Love is real, and not fade away” over and over, the band would pull the volume back quieter and quieter until all you could hear was the crowd’s clapping and singing. Then they’d simply wave goodnight and walk offstage as the crowd continued. I remember one show at Giants Stadium in high school, the crowd kept the chant going all the way down the ramps and across the parking lot.

The Dead never tried very hard to be liked. They could never be bothered to sing in key. They wrote convoluted arrangements and didn’t rehearse them, so they routinely trainwrecked. The music was ad-hoc and messily indifferent a lot of the time. Some of the lyrics are pretty, but a lot of them are empty stoner poetry. And yet. For brief intervals during their long and checkered career, the Dead could be the greatest band in the world. Widely scattered though these intervals might be, they’re all easily available on the web. Just about every public note that Jerry Garcia ever played is meticulously archived and available. The professionally-mastered high points can be downloaded commercially and the band lets the fans give the rest away free. From the beginning, the Dead had a famously relaxed attitude toward concert taping. At shows there was a special seating area reserved for tapers, who were invited to plug directly into the soundboard for maximum recording quality. Jerry was inspired by a similar custom at the bluegrass festivals he attended as a young guy. This practice of letting people tape Dead shows and later even encouraging it started as a bit of hippie idealism. It turned out to be a brilliant viral marketing strategy. In high school one of my most treasured possessions was my cassette copy of 5/8/77 set II with its labels in my friend Ellie’s handwriting. The encore cut off halfway through. A lot of tapes like this circulated through the hands of a lot of obsessive Dead fans like me, spreading the band’s music through word of mouth until by the 1980s they were one of the biggest moneymakers in the live music industry.

The Dead concert tape trading network got a lot more efficient once it got a hold of the internet, but even before the web it was surprisingly robust. Using snail mail and word of mouth, it was possible to get your hands on pretty much any of the most widely-traded shows. You mailed cassettes off in padded mailers with return postage and a few weeks later, there would be your fresh tapes. It was like a very slowly-paced mp3 blog. By insisting on giving away so much of his recorded music for free, Jerry died much wealthier than he was born.

The band’s popularity peaked at a time when they were the least telegenic bunch of rock musicians imaginable. They were middle-aged, homely and flamboyantly uncharismatic. Onstage, Bob Weir made an effort to look alive, move around, engage the crowd a little, but the rest of the band just looked at the floor, Jerry especially. The Dead’s pointed indifference to their look was a big part of what drew me into listening to them in the first place. I figured that they must have been kind of badass to have that kind of celebrity with so little image. I didn’t yet understand that lack of image is itself an extremely compelling image.

Here’s how I remember Jerry looking those years I was going to shows.

Jerry had a cult leader quality that he tried to discourage, without any success. Americans are suckers for a messianistic beard. The New Yorker once aptly described Jerry’s look as “an unmade bed.” Other likenesses: Santa, Gandalf, Jesus, a grandpa, a caveman, a guru, a homeless person, a hermit. The main thing he looks is old. Jerry was only fifty-three when he died, but due to his hard living he looked more like eighty-three. He may not have been the first geriatric rock star, but he most looked the part. He’s the only major rock star I can think of who became more popular and influential as his hair got whiter. His wardrobe was mostly limited to black t-shirts, with black sweats or black jeans. The rest of the band were even less fashion-conscious. Phil Lesh would perform in red-white-and-blue wristbands, a tie-dyed t-shirt tucked into khaki slacks and running shoes. Taken together, the late-period Dead looked like my parents’ friends, or the English department at a small liberal arts college.

This photo comes from the liner notes to In The Dark, which contains the Dead’s one and only top ten hit song, “Touch Of Grey.”

As people, the Dead may not have been very image-conscious, but they had exquisitely good taste in graphic designers. They had a killer logo, the Stealie, so named because it appeared on the cover of the Steal Your Face album. It’s a classic cover but a dreadful album, possibly the band’s worst.

The logo was designed by the Dead’s sound engineer and in-house LSD provider, Owsley “Bear” Stanley. He originally came up with it for stickers that he put on the band’s equipment, making it easier to tell it from the other bands’ gear in dark backstage areas. Why did I draw this symbol on my notebooks in high school about forty thousand times? For one thing, it’s fun to draw. It’s an easy little visual algorithm to memorize, but you have to really pay attention to get the execution right. It looks dangerous and occult, ancient yet modern, funny yet sinister, symmetrical yet asymmetrical. It’s a play on the American flag, the bones of the head, the lightning strike of inspiration. Its meaning is, as my shrink would say, highly multiply-determined.

The Dead’s skull logo is a stupendously successful meme. You can put anything in it in place of the lightning bolt: a dancing bear, a turtle, Jerry’s face or the name of your frat. Some clever person did a t-shirt that had an infinitely recursive series of smaller skulls-within-skulls. The skull can anchor all kinds of cool new designs and adventurous typography, like on this t-shirt I wore once a week through high school and into college.

I was exposed to the Dead’s iconography long before I heard any of the music. My stepbrother stored a bunch of his records in our apartment’s closet when I was growing up, and eventually I got curious and started poking around them. Along with the Allman Brothers and Steely Dan, there were a couple of Dead albums whose covers practically radiated menace.

When I finally worked up the nerve to listen to one of them, I was surprised to hear not the death metal I was expecting, but instead, agreeable spacy jazzy-country-rock. Here’s a much less frightening album cover from Europe ’72, a Stanley Mouse painting nicknamed Ice Cream Boy:

I get a MAD Magazine vibe from this image, a Don Martin meets R Crumb flavor. Jerry was an avid MAD reader as a kid, as was I.

Along with eye-catching album covers and t-shirts, the Dead also put out some gorgeous books. A standout is this book of lovingly hand-lettered transcriptions of every tune on American Beauty and Workingman’s Dead:

But so all the graphical intrigue aside, the main thing that kept me so interested in Jerry for all those years was the music. What sets jam bands apart from the rock mainstream isn’t so much the jamming — every flavor of halfway decent American music has improvisation. The Dead are distinctive because of their loose, laid-back, non-urgent feel, a vibe that has more in common with jazz or country than rock. The Dead didn’t kick much ass, but there are things a band can do other than kick ass. For such a big lumbering animal, the Dead could play remarkably quietly. On the Jerry ballads like “He’s Gone” or “High Time” they could bring two electric guitars, a six-string bass, one or two keyboards and one or two full drum kits down to total silence at the end of each measure, in a stadium packed with people. No small accomplishment. Playing loud and hectic is easy; playing restrained and quietly is hard. The Dead could play slower than any other all-white band I can think of. Ask any musician how tough it is to play slow tempos without losing energy. The ambling pace of tunes like Sugaree, He’s Gone and High Time annoyed me as a teenager, but the older I get, the more sense the unhurried, conversational tone makes.

The musical story of the Grateful Dead is a series of snapshots of Jerry’s psyche, variously bouyed and hindered by his bandmates, variously bouyed and hindered by himself. The mid-seventies were a crisis point for the band, the closest they came to hanging it up, and the consensus is that they never recovered. But I have a particular fondness for the Dead’s music of this period. The bloom was off the rose by that point, as the band slid from hallucinogens into cocaine, heroin and alcohol, but they still had the essential sound together. The tempos were nice and rubbery, the emphasis was on groove and polyrhythm, and when Jerry was paying attention, he did some of his best playing during the long, languid jams.

Jerry’s greatness as a guitarist isn’t so much a matter of technical skill. He had good chops by rock standards, but he was no virtuoso. What he had going for him was touch and phrasing. He massaged and squeezed individual notes into curvy shapes, in a style informed by his pedal steel playing. (Jerry’s most-heard recording is probably his pedal steel part on “Teach Your Children” by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.) Rockers tend to lean ahead of the beat, but Jerry played behind the beat, sometimes way behind, like a jazz or country guitarist. His tone was mostly clean and nondemonstrative, sometimes even hesitant. Guitar heros playing to packed stadiums usually aren’t so quietly unobtrusive. Jerry’s improvising was harmonically adventurous, spiced with ninths, elevenths, thirteenths, microtones and intentional “wrong” notes like the natural seventh against dominant seventh chords. He favored a spicy diminished scale lick that he learned straight from Coltrane.

Maybe even more valuable than his original work was Jerry’s ability to synthesize seemingly disparate sources into single ideas. He drew inspiration not just from rock, but from R&B, blues, swing, bebop, free jazz, bluegrass, assorted world musics, ragtime and electronica (Jerry loved controlling synths with a MIDI guitar.) He would have been an incredible music blogger or DJ. His interviews were an excellent guide into the more obscure corners of American music. For instance, Jerry loved Elizabeth Cotten and covered several of her tunes, both with and without the Dead. Do yourself a favor and check her out, she’s one of my favorite guitarists ever.

Jerry’s recommendations also led me to Howlin’ Wolf, Peter Tosh, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Robbie Robertson, Bill Monroe and Carlos Santana.

Much as I love Jerry, I haven’t been able to get interested in many of the jam bands he inspired. The jammers have Jerry’s amiable eclecticism, but they lack his sinister edge. Taking the darkness out of the sixties misses the point of that troubled and turbulent period of our nation’s history. Bands like Phish prefer to evade the depression at the core of hippiedom. The Dead derived a lot of their power from their surprising nihilism. Jerry mentioned at one point that the name Grateful Dead was specifically chosen to “repel curious onlookers.” Forget the dancing teddy bears; think of the skulls, and the fact that Jerry wore all black all the time.

I was saddened but not surprised to learn that Jerry had a troubled inner life. He was five when his father drowned, and he had a difficult relationship with his mother and stepfather. He was married many times, never happily, and he was visibly indifferent to his own health and well-being. He self-medicated his depression with a variety of increasingly ineffective hard drugs. Maybe Jerry thought he was using heroin and cocaine for pleasure, but it looks more to me like a gradual suicide.

The surviving members of the Dead have mostly cleaned up and will probably live forever, but the band suffered many casualties besides Jerry. Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, the Dead’s original frontman, drank himself to death at age twenty-seven. Brent Mydland, the keyboardist through the eighties, capped off a longstanding cocaine addiction with a fatal overdose. His replacement, Vince Welnick, committed suicide a few years after being edged out of the band. In interviews, some of the band members (Bob Weir and Phil Lesh particularly) come across as spectacularly misanthropic. At no point did the Dead ever convey themselves as a bunch of people you’d want to hang out with. They made a good-faith effort to help the paying customers have a good time, but their music was frequently impersonal, emotionally closed-off and inaccessible.

But Jerry’s playing had a way of transcending his environment. The best musicians take tragedy and transform it into pleasure. Jerry matters to me because he was an extremely unhappy person who nonetheless created some music that could make you happier. Really, what greater contribution to humanity could you ask for?

If you want to check out some Jerry, all the shows are archived here. Here are some high points:

2/28/69 Fillmore West

2/13-14/70 Fillmore East

5/2/70 Harpur College

12/31/71 Winterland Arena – check out “Space” -> “Other One”

4/8/72 London, England – check out “Dark Star” -> “Caution.”

8/24/72 Berkeley, CA

9/27/72 Stanley Theater — “Dark Star” segues smoothly and spontaneously into “Cumberland Blues,” an amazing display of group cohesion.

12/19/73 Tampa, FL — dig “Playing In The Band.”

2/23/74 and 2/24/74 Winterland Arena — The first one is slow to get going, but once they’ve warmed up, wow. The second one pretty much kills all the way through.

5/8/77 Cornell U — a Deadhead cliche for good reason, it’s the bomb. The previous and following nights were good too.

9/3/77 Englishtown, NJ

12/29/77 Winterland

12/26/79 Oakland Auditorium

Any version of “Dark Star,” “Morning Dew” or “The Other One” is going to be worth a spin.

The best albums by far are Live/Dead, American Beauty and Workingman’s Dead.

Blues For Allah is cool too, if you like the weirder, more spaced-out stuff. One From The Vault is Blues For Allah performed in front of an audience, mixed in with some Dead classics played as well as they ever got played.

Reckoning is basically the Grateful Dead Unplugged. There’s a nice version of “Bird Song,” a tribute to Janis Joplin, who the band was friendly with. One of the saddest moments in the documentary Festival Express is a shot of Jerry and Janis, both so drunk they can barely speak, and Jerry is telling Janis how beautiful she is, and you know how soon after that she’ll be dead.

Jerry Garcia Band is a double live album from 1990. Nice choice of material, ranging from the Band to the Beatles to Peter Tosh to Hoagy Carmichael.

Europe ’72 has a few choice cuts: “Cumberland Blues,” “He’s Gone,” “Tennessee Jed” which has some of Jerry’s funkiest playing, “Ramble On Rose,” “Jack Straw.”

Terrapin Station is way uneven, but it has a few tracks worth checking out. “Estimated Prophet” is reggae in seven-four time, with many abrupt key changes. It sounds like a recipe for disaster, and yet it’s easily the best Dead song written post-1975. Bobby gives the lead vocal of his career, Jerry discovers envelope filter, the whole thing hangs right together. The other standout cut is “Samson And Delilah.”

In The Dark is interesting for including “Touch Of Grey,” the band’s only top ten hit. The high point is “West LA Fadeaway” which is within shouting distance of funky. Dig Jerry’s second solo, and Mickey Hart’s triangle part.

Update: check out this artwork made of cassette tape made by iri5. Nice pairing of subject and medium, don’t you think?