He's Gone

It was inevitable. This day had to come. All the tie-dye and patchouli in the world couldn't prevent it. All the VW campers and two dollar hits on this entire planet couldn't keep Jerry Garcia from dying when it was his time to go. And no matter what comes out on the autopsy report, whatever dirt the evening "entertainment" magazines may throw onto his grave, the way the Deadheads feel about him will only grow stronger from this point on. Whatever the addictions or weaknesses were that helped make Jerome Garcia a mortal human being also made him one of the biggest, most unlikely rock stars of all time.

I was delighted when THE AQUARIAN asked me to write a piece in Jerry's memory. Actually, it would seem that the task fell to me because I am the closest thing we have to a Deadhead in the office. While it is true that I've seen about forty shows, I haven't thought of myself as a hardcore fan in quite some time: The last show I saw was a JGB gig at Byrne Arena on Halloween, 1993. I caught a few Dead shows that same year, but they left me very unfulfilled and wondering how may more times I would have to hear "Throwing Stones" before I got to hear "Dark Star" again.

That reminds me of a little story. My friend Scott has literally been kept out of entering shows by some of his buddies. Someone decided Scott was carrying the "Throwing Stones" curse, because whenever he went to see them, the band would play the dreaded song without fail. Scott has attested to the truth behind the curse, although he has stubbornly tried to break it by attending as many shows as possible. Recently, someone sold his ticket on him so he couldn't get in. While Scott waited in the parking lot, his pals enjoyed the concert without "Throwing Stones," otherwise known as "Bobby's Rhapsody."

I attended high school in the ealy 80s. Roughly three-quarters of the kids I knew smoked pot and listened to the Greateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, and Hendrix. My hometown was brimming with second generation hippies. The Dead were one of the few bands we idolized who were still active and touring. We learned to play their songs on guitars and sat in the woods of North Jersey, drinking beer that the older kids bought us. We were mostly interested in having a good time; I remember very little violence. And although we sometimes over-experimented with our brain cells, most of us came out of our teen years just a bit worse for wear and tear. There are a few notable exceptions - Robert has been and out of jail on robbery charges, Tigger fell off the roof of a moving car and cracked his skull, and Rich was found dead with a Bible under one arm and a needle sticking out of the other. We learned about death and life at the same time, the way most children do in twentieth-century North America.

I know some of my friends continue to party now as though they were sill eighteen. Some of them are dabbling in heroin and some of them can't bear to go without that weekly cocaine binge. I'm not jealous of them. I fear for them. A body can only take so much. "Patience runs out on the junkie," sings bobby in "Victim Or The Crime," and "Must I choose to lose or win?"

I'm elaborating on some rather private details because I wish to state once and for all that drugs themselves do not make us less human; it is when we succumb to their influence and allow them to possess us that we lose our determination to live as free-willed individuals respectful of others. But how much is too much? What's right for me (usually four beers and a fat spleef will do it) may slowly drive you over the edge. And what's right for you might get me a one-was ticket into the funny farm. Knowing your party quotient may be the most important self-knowledge you ever gain. Don't laugh - life is full of stupid accidents! Know your limits, plan ahead in case you decide to surpass them, and to thine own self be true!

Thrity years ago, the members of the Grateful Dead played the backdrop for the acid tests and they understood that to truly enjoy yourself, you must be yourself and be comfortable in your evironment. And boy, did those guys know how to make people comfy! "Sure, your can bring in your tape recorders! Put 'em right up front here! And you want to sell tofu burgers n the parking lot? Sure, go ahead!" The band's infectious anything-goes spirit spread fast and slowly but surely became big business.

For years Deadheads were permitted to camp at concert venues between shows. I bet they prevented a lot of accidents that way. The dead's way of life was for years a mellow, relaxed, comfortable alternative to living in one place, getting a job you had to go to everyday, and doing that boring old establishment thing. Ten years ago, I could have told you the names of at least a dozen people I knew who make a semi-living touring with the band, selling jewelry, bumper stickers, shirts and cassette lablels. Imagine subsisting on cassette labels (three or four for a dollar)! If you made enough for dinner and gas to Merriweather or Saratoga, then you made enough for the day. What a delightfully simple life, and no wonder so many people found it so attracive!