The Grateful Dead

[Moe_Syzlak]

I'll go ahead and say it - HC Sunshine probably shouldn't have been reintroduced to the rotation. I LOVE this song in its original construction. Every version I've heard from '73 is wonderful. When it came back out ('92? '93?) it just did nothing for me - aside from the vocal harmonies being great the lack of a jam was a big bring down for me. I saw a half-dozen or so of the latter takes and generally it was a ho-hum affair.

By and large I agree with you. But after traveling through a SERIOUS snow storm to get to this show, I have to say it was pretty sweet to see.

[Lammycat]

I don't know, I liked being able to catch a few HC Sunshines, myself. I appreciated the fact that they brought it back after 20 years of it laying dormant. Of course it's different than the early version and all but a lot of tunes from then were re-worked/abbreviated/re-interpreted. I'm not sure it's really fair to compare the two versions of Sunshine, either. We're talking comparing a time when they were still full of youth and vigor to a time when the road had been bumpy for awhile.

 

Either way, I agree that the early versions smoke compared to the '92 and onward ones. I still enjoyed the efforts and sounds (as well as Garcia's high-pitched timbre) in the late versions, though.

[mountain bed]

By and large I agree with you. But after traveling through a SERIOUS snow storm to get to this show, I have to say it was pretty sweet to see.

Oh hell yeah. The first one - I'll bet folks went bananas!

[Analogman]

Link

 

December 8 - December 14, 2008

 

Tapers Section By David Lemieux

 

Greetings, and welcome back to our second week of December here at the Tapers' Section, where we

[NightOfJoy]

Found this on a GD related site.........thought I'd share....

 

Echoes and Reverberations: The Night of the Tripping Dead

 

 

The 11th grade Biology teacher once shared this insightful observation

aimed specifically at those of us with long hair: "Sons, this country

is divided into three groups of people: the people who shower before

work (re: white collar workers); the people who shower after work (see

"blue collar"); and the people who don't shower at all because they

just don't want to work.

 

 

Thirty years ago this month, a band called the Grateful Dead came to

Dallas and did a concert at Memorial Auditorium (aka Dallas County

Convention Center)--and served as my informal introduction to the

walking sewage people who were out reppin' that last group during the

winter of late '78.

 

 

At 16 years old, I was still pretty new to arena rock shows; I wasn't

at all familiar with the Dead's music, either, but I assumed that,

with a name like "Grateful Dead", they had to be a heavy metal band

like Black Sabbath or Led Zeppelin.

 

 

It was my sister's first concert, too. She's always been a straight

arrow. In retrospect, her even going to this show still makes no sense

at all. But let's just set that aside for a moment and ponder if,

indeed, everything does happen for a reason.

 

 

First, let's set the scene in the parking lot before the show: lots of

old VW vans with out-of-state license plates; barefooted women selling

beaded necklaces and incense; and inebriated bikers burnin' rubber on

the sidewalk. It looked like a traveling circus.

 

 

Where did these people come from? They didn't dress like us, or talk

like us.

 

 

So my sister and I find a parking place and start to get out of the

car. Ten seconds later a couple of bearded guys in green Army jackets

head us off at the pass. Both are apparently very happy about

something.

 

 

(This is probably a good place to context the limited cumulative

totality of my experimental recreational drug use by this particular

time, which really wasn't much: I had smoked pot a handful of times

and nothing had ever happened. At least I didn't think so. I was a

freak rookie; still new to everything, but open to almost anything. A

blank slate and a clean brain. Bad grades and the lack of a hot

girlfriend had shown me that sobriety was clearly pushing me in the

wrong direction. But let's get back to the Army Jacket guys...)

 

 

One of them asked me, "Hey man, are you cool?"

 

 

How do you even answer a question like that? Who am I? The fuckin'

Fonz?

 

 

I leaned way back and gave him the double thumbs up. Me: "Ayyyyy..."

 

 

Guy #1: "You need any Donald Duck?"

 

 

Me: "Uh, what was that?"

 

 

Guy#2: "Dude, Donald Duck!"

 

 

Me: "Like the cartoon character? Why would I need him?"

 

 

I had no idea what he was talking about. Didn't really like cartoons

that much. Donald Duck just wasn't that cool to me. Didn't exactly

know where the Army Jacket guy was going with this.

 

 

Guy #1: "Yeah, dude. Donald Duck."

 

 

He then reached into one of the pockets in his camo gear and produced

a sheet of paper with dozens of tiny Donald Ducks in perforated

squares.

 

 

Me: "What is that?"

 

 

Guy #2: "It's three bucks."

 

 

My sister: "Jeff, let's go."

 

 

Guy #1: "Dude, you can't fuck with the Duck."

 

 

Me: "I'm not giving you three bucks for a piece of paper with a bunch

of Donald Ducks on it."

 

 

Back then, three bucks was a lot of money, see.

 

 

Guy#1: "No, man. Each one is three dollars."

 

 

Me: "What? Why would I buy a tiny postage stamp for three dollars?

Stamps are like a dime."

 

 

Guy #2: "I thought you said you were cool."

 

 

Me: "Dude, I'm sure as fuck not a stamp collector."

 

 

Guy #1: "You know what? Fuck it."

 

 

He started to tear off one of the tiny little Donald Ducks.

 

 

Guy #1: "Here, man. Open your mouth."

 

 

Me: "How come?"

 

 

Him: "Just open your mouth."

 

 

Me: "Do I have to?"

 

 

Guy #2: "Yeah, man. Here. Eat this. Put it on your tongue."

 

 

Guy #1: "Come on, brother. Open wide."

 

 

I opened my mouth and he placed the tiny cardboard stamp inside.

 

 

Me: "This doesn't taste like anything."

 

 

Guy #2: "It's not supposed to."

 

 

Me: "When did people start eating postage stamps?"

 

 

My sister: "Let's go."

 

 

Guy#1: "Man, just find us again in a couple of hours and just slip me

three bucks then, alright? Everything is beautiful. We're all in this

together."

 

 

What was this guy even talking about? This shit was gonna bug me all

night. I didn't wanna have to run into this yankee later and have him

hit me up for three bucks to pay for the postage stamp he made me

eat.

 

 

Me: "OK, yeah. Thanks or whatever. We're gonna go inside now."

 

 

Balcony tickets were like eight bucks. The floor section was all

general admission and just looked weird to me. There were no rows of

chairs. Where was everybody going to sit? The security guards weren't

checking ticket stubs, so I ditched my balcony seat and headed

downstairs to check out the scene.

 

 

My eyes started playing tricks on me. Stuff started to blend together

in spastic fluidity. There was way too much love here. That made me

restless and uncomfortable. And thirsty. And slightly scared. All

that.

 

 

And why was there no opening act? Did we miss them? Why were all of

these people so happy? Where were all the people who usually wear the

black concert t-shirts? What was all this paisley tie-dye shit? Why

are all of these people barefoot? Do they not own shoes? Do these

people drink their own pee?

 

 

God fuck me if it didn't look like Woodstock on some end-of-the-world

shit. Everything around me started to throb and vibrate. Then dots.

Circles and dots. I remember looking up at the lights in the round

ceiling and thinking we were all in a giant spaceship. Gravity and

inertia gave way to a bizarre rack focus vertigo. Then more dots. Each

step forward seemed to feel like a high-wire balancing act. Lots of

randomly grabbing strangers and spilling their beer.

 

 

"I'm so sorry, my head is on fire," I'd say to each of the freshly

tackled.

 

 

Alien Pancho People passed burning joints my way and I had a hard time

judging the distance between our hands. My arms felt really long. A

woman who looked like a fat Janis Joplin offered me some popcorn. I

stood there mesmerized; holding it my hand, amazed at how light is

was. "Wow, man," I remember bleating out loud towards no one in

particular. "When it's a solid kernel of corn, it's heavier. You can

really feel it. Then you throw it in some oil, heat it up, and it

becomes... this. This amazing thing. It's bigger, but it's lighter.

Dude, it's atomic. It's like a little bomb."

 

Chewing the popcorn was a major tipping point. I could feel each

individual molecule being ground smaller and smaller between my teeth.

I forgot how to swallow and had to spit it all back out into my hand.

Then I looked at it again and put it back in my mouth.

 

 

I was teaching myself how to eat. In front of a Fat Janis Joplin and a

UFO full of hippies from Up North. This all seemed really profound at

the time for some reason.

 

 

Of course, I had no idea that I was tripping on acid. I wouldn't have

been street smart enough to even make the connection that acid was

actually LSD. Never mind processing the idea that it was Donald Duck

who would eventually help me touch the face of God.

 

 

Life had just taken on new meaning. I was seeing things for what they

really were.

 

 

Did some serious thinking about ice. Did you know that ice is actually

made of really cold water? I know. Hard to fathom.

 

 

Then somebody pointed at my shirt and said, "Oh, man... that's

heavy."

 

 

What was heavy? My shirt? What did he mean by that? Did he mean

literally? I took my shirt off and held it in my hand to see just how

heavy it was. I was convinced that it was going to levitate skyward.

When it didn't, I was profoundly disappointed.

 

 

The universe had failed me.

 

 

The guy came closer and said, "Dude, I'll give you five bucks for that

shirt!"

 

 

Me, in an effort to save the universe and have three dollars on hand

should I run into the Army jacket guys again: "OK, sure!"

 

 

Now I was half-naked in a giant flying saucer, chock full of freak

twerps and twisted hippie chicks. I tried to find somebody who would

sell me their shirt for two bucks, but no one would take me seriously.

The math was unfathomable; in was in debt to a stranger and I had sold

my clothes to cover the nut. I slid into the men's bathroom and

attempted to fashion a crude blazer out of brown paper towels and

dozens of KZEW "Zoo Freak" bumper stickers, but I didn't have much

luck with the sleeves.

 

 

(Note to self: Don't ever sell the shirt off your back. For any

reason. Especially in December.)

 

 

Finally the house lights went down. It felt like all of the blood in

the top half of my body dropped with the darkness straight down to my

legs and feet. Something serious was happening. I didn't know what it

was, but it definitely felt like I was turning into a new form of

plankton. At least it was easier to blend in and hide in the dark.

 

 

The band started lazily tuning up their instruments. I remember

thinking to myself, "Why didn't these guys do this during sound check?

Don't they have roadies?"

 

 

Pling. Pling pling. Pling pling pling. Huge drum set, but nobody

really playing them, just little tinkling bells. It was like they

hated their instruments and didn't want to play them. Pling. Pling

pling. Tinkle tinkle.

 

 

It went on and on and on. For like a week or so.

 

 

I spent that time hurdling the quivering obstacle course of bodies,

artfully weaseling my way through the musty throng and eventually

ending up with both arms draped over the barricade near the front of

the stage. Burly security guards sized me up and unanimously looked to

take me down.

 

 

God, did I ever wanna rock out. Enough of all this dickin' around

already. Strap on your shit and make some noise, you smelly old

hippies! Sheesh!

 

 

But hold on a second. These guys didn't really have long hair or wear

hip-hugger bellbottoms like Tony Iommi or Jimmy Page. One of them was

fat. Another was wearing a tie-dyed Izod shirt. I didn't like the cut

of their jib. They were fucking with us. I could feel it. Pling. Pling

pling...

 

 

This fluid tuning thing was starting to sound like electric running

water. People in the crowd stood there either waiting in rapture or

sleepwalking through the storm. I started thinking that I was going to

drown.

 

 

So this is what it's like when you're glad you're dead. I think I get

it now: the Grateful Dead!

 

 

But can these guys solo like Jimi Hendrix? He was dead, too.

 

 

Come on, dudes. Can I get some distortion up in here? Crank shit up.

Were they ever going to play a real song? Is that fat guy in the band

really wearing glasses onstage? Is he serious? And what happened to my

sister? What were we even doing here anyway? Neither one of us had

ever even heard this band. This was getting stranger by the minute.

 

 

Why does the guitarist in the tie-Zod keep looking over here and

sticking out his tongue at me? At 16, I had yet to ever make eye

contact with a rock star during a concert before. Yet this was no

golden moment. He looked like a yuppie Satan.

 

 

Stop leering at me, demon!

 

 

Was this really happening? Does he want me to tune his guitar or

something? Is he gay? Just play a song already! Then, just like that,

the band put their instruments back down, walked off stage, and the

house lights came back up.

 

 

I turned around and saw that everyone in the building was looking at

me. Holy shit!

 

 

"What did I do? I didn't do anything! I didn't do it! I swear to God I

didn't do anything! Please don't take me away! I'm freaking out!"

 

 

A strange woman with hairy armpits heaved a flannel truck stop blanket

around my shoulders and started hugging me. I remember thinking, "I've

never been hugged before, have I? I don't think so, no."

 

 

I was afraid on multiple levels; the emotional roller coaster was

veering wildly off the tracks. Looking deeply into my eyes, that

notorious window to my soul, the hairy hugger emphatically intoned,

"Don't worry, man! It's just intermission!"

 

 

I had never been to a concert where the group took a break in the

middle of their set. It freaked me out. Was this even a real band? Why

was everybody still staring at me? Would somebody please find my shirt

and buy it back for me? Could they please turn the fuckin' lights back

off?

 

 

The spaceship was starting to spin now. Giant balloons bounced and

drifted above our heads and looked like planets trapped inside our

vessel. Writhing, twisted bodies were strewn all over the floor; the

throbbing mob of humanity was a revealing microcosm of this sweaty and

soapless world.

 

 

I was trapped in a living Salvador Dali painting. The world had turned

frightening and weird. Nothing was what it seemed.

 

 

Hey, that guy looks like a duck-billed platypus! Or maybe Donald Duck

is really a human! Oh, wait. That's a woman. Jesus, just get me out of

here and back to my bedroom in North Dallas! I need my headphones and

a vinyl copy of Deep Purple's "Machine Head". These fat hippies and

their water music were obviously incapable of Real Rock.

 

 

In the interest of wrapping this shit up, let's temporarily suspend

the space-time continuum and get the fuck out of there. Fast forward

with me now to a decade and a half later.

 

 

OK, new scenario: late-90's's, and I'm rollerblading on the bike path

near the boardwalk in Venice, California. Every weekend, thousands of

people gather here to sell bad art, hand-blown glass pipes and rinky

dink trinkets--and also to do the drum circle thing on the beach at

sundown.

 

 

I stopped to chill for a minute right next to a ripe posse of Gen X

Deadheads peddling cassette dubs of old shows.

 

 

To strike up a conversation, I mentioned to one of them that I was at

that Dallas show in the late '70s. Turns out he was from Dallas, too,

only he was just too young to have actually gone to the concert.

 

 

Him: "Dude, you were at that show? Are you serious?"

 

 

Me: "Yeah, Christmas 1978."

 

 

Him: "Man, that show was legendary. It was like one of the worst Dead

shows ever. I know people who won't even trade tapes of that show

because it was so bad."

 

 

Me: "Really?"

 

 

Him: "Oh, yeah. It was terrible. That show was such a nightmare they

wouldn't even come back to Dallas for like 10 years after that."

 

 

Me: "Wow. Why? What was so bad about it?"

 

 

Him: "Dude, apparently there was like some weird guy standing in front

of the stage fucking with them all night... flapping his arms at Bob

Weir and screaming that he was Donald Duck.

[hardwood floor]

Found this on a GD related site.........thought I'd share....

 

Echoes and Reverberations: The Night of the Tripping Dead ...

 

awesome

 

me ... on a '73 kick lately

 

amazing year

[Analogman]

Link

 

Welcome back to our continuation of our December march through the history of the Grateful Dead

[mountain bed]

After reading Aman's post above I just realized that it's been 15 years since DP #1 came out. Wow. I was SO stoked that the maiden voyage was a '73 show - and one I had not heard until that time. I have heard that DP more than any other in the series, I'm guessing.

 

The HC Sunshine HAS to be considered as one of the very best ever versions of that tune. The Playin' is one of the most tightly wound versions I have heard as well - no meltdowns or one instrument going out into space, just two guitars, bass, piano and drums seamlessly interwoven with the song. They are REALLY listening to each other here. 23 minutes pass by so quickly it seems like maybe half of that.

[Analogman]

I am checking that out right now - I'd say that is right. It's a nice groove.

[mountain bed]

Excellent! That 12/19/69 show is no slouch, either. I remember taking those discs with me one time when I had some major dental work done - the doc had headphones there so I was sucking the nitrous and listening to the Other One. I gotta tell ya, dentistry has come a long way over the years!

[Analogman]

Now, I am listening to this - because I wanted to hear Clementine:

 

Crystal Ballroom on 1968-01-23

 

 

Viola Lee Blues > Feedback ; Cryptical Envelopment > The Other One > Cryptical Envelopment > Clementine > Good Morning Little School Girl*

 

 

Played a few times by the Dead in 1968--and not to be confused with the traditional "Oh My Darling Clementine". The lyric is not in Robert Hunter's book "Box Of Rain", but he has confirmed he wrote it.

 

The only versions by the Grateful Dead that circulate are 20 Jan, 23 Jan and 2 Feb 1968 (on "So Many Roads") and 26 Jan 1969.

 

I'd forgot how slammin' (as the kids say) New Potato Caboose is. This tape is cool - I sort of dig a bit of tape hiss.

[mountain bed]

Oh man, I LOVES me some Clementine! Also, that New Potato from the "Two From the Vault" is one of the best things I've ever heard from the early years. It's a shame they hung that one up.

 

EDIT: I did not realize there are only 3 versions of Clementine (by the GD). There are a couple of really exquisite instrumental takes on some variations of the tune from that Mickey & The Hartbeats show from late '68 (10/30?). Essential listening (I'll bet everyone here knows this already )

[Analogman]

Speaking of 1968 - these three shows were just put up at bt.etree.org:

 

Grateful Dead 02/03/1968 Crystal Ballroom, Portland, OR

Grateful Dead 08/22/1968 Fillmore West, San Francisco, CA

Grateful Dead 09/02/1968 Betty Nelson's Organic Raspberry Farm, Sultan, WA

[calvino]

A month or so ago Bt-Etree posted the Grateful Dead - 1968 Project. Since it was only in 3 parts, downloading the whole year was manageable. (my connection/computer isn't the quickest). The Mickey and Heartbeats shows were included in the project.

 

Though the set lists do not vary much throughout the year, I enjoy listening to these shows. Especially since i have not heard much of the shows from 1968 before.

[Analogman]

I missed that - all of my BT searching usually involves searching for Wilco shows these days.

 

Here it is.

[NightOfJoy]

Speaking of 1968 - these three shows were just put up at bt.etree.org:

 

Grateful Dead 02/03/1968 Crystal Ballroom, Portland, OR

Grateful Dead 08/22/1968 Fillmore West, San Francisco, CA

Grateful Dead 09/02/1968 Betty Nelson's Organic Raspberry Farm, Sultan, WA

 

All three are excellent shows!!

[Analogman]

Someone put up the Mickey and The Heartbeats show today also - the one with the Clementine Jam. Apparently, it was already up there. I think I am going to grab those tracks.

 

Dark Star marathon on Sirius XM 12/21

December 17th, 2008

 

Sunday, December 21st, marks the Winter Solstice - the darkest day of the year - an event that the Grateful Dead Channel will celebrate with a 24-hour Dark Star marathon. That

[calvino]

http://concerts.wolfgangsvault.com/dt/grat...campaign=081219

 

Wolfgang released the second set of 4.29.71 this weekend. I am pretty sure everyone has this in their collection and it is part of the Ladies and Gentlemen disks, I think this show was my first Dead boot. I always loved these versions of Second That Emotion and In the Midnight Hour. Johnny B Goode is really rocking too, esp. Pig's organ playing.

[Analogman]

Following their performance at the Change Rocks benefit in October, rumors persist that Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart will return to the road with Warren Haynes and Jeff Chimenti in the spring of 2009. The latest hint of what may follow surfaced earlier this week on YouTube. A video, purportedly directed by rock photographer Danny Clinch captures the band behind the scenes, on stage and in a press conference commenting on their reunion.

 

Youtube link.

[mountain bed]

Youtube link.

I almost thought I saw myself there for a second.

 

Seriously though - I'd be all for a reunion tour, even though I think Jimmy should be an essential part of the equation. Him and Warren share an almost telepathic sense - Herring bringing Jerry's more technical side to his playing, and Warren bringing a lot of soul. Together they really do something exciting.

 

Also, it's so nice to see a little camaraderie. The exchange between Phil and Mick makes one almost forget some of the comments from a decade ago ("He must have received the liver of a jerk", etc.).

[Lammycat]

Thanks A-man. Very nice piece. Great to see the smiles on the faces and that old attitude back. I look forward to these shows.

 

Herring's pretty busy with WSP these days but I agree they compliment each other (he and Warren) very well. Too many guitarists on stage with Weir, though?

[Lammycat]

It dawned on me the other day that Jeff Chimenti (Ratdog keys) plays Brent's Hammond B-3....

 

Hm.

[Analogman]

Some notes on the show - the one I posted about the other day:

 

Starting at midnight Eastern Time tonight, and continuing until midnight tomorrow night, it

[mountain bed]

I have heard all of those Stars, minus the 10/26/89 Miami one (not incl. RD). I think I like the 9/19/70 the best of all of the '70 versions. Even better than the famous 2/13 one.

[Analogman]

I was listening to that this morning - quite a run of songs. I wonder what was going on when Pigpen was told to "leave it"? Was it that they wanted him to get back to the song?