Ripple in Still Water

(Special guest blog post by Todd Bauer)

As I approached Soldier Field on July 5th, 2015 for the final Grateful Dead show of all time, (and my 33rd), I was a bundle of emotions.  I was holding back tears the entire show, and choked up when talking to my wife at set break.  This intensity of emotion came as a surprise to me as I had made no effort to get tickets to these final three shows.  I would not have been there at all if not for my younger brother Scott lining everything up for me.  I still loved the Dead’s music, but going to shows was part of a younger me, and, of course: no Jerry.  I was skeptical and hesitant.  By the end of the first set of the first show, I was back in bliss.

Thank God my brother got me there, for attending those final three shows was the capstone of my 30 year Grateful Dead journey: one of the most profound experiences of my life.

As Scott wrote concerning the final shows in an earlier blog “It took us 20 years to be ready to say goodbye,” and it has taken me a year to integrate that goodbye.  What follows is my best attempt to put into words, something that ultimately, is beyond words.  As a critic from the 1980’s said “It is not easy to know what makes the Grateful Dead important, but it is important.  That is certain.”  Attending those final shows, reminded me just how important the Grateful Dead have been, and will always be, to me.


“We sing when words are not enough.”

                              –Jonathan Wilson, theater director

I think it was Martin Mull who said “writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”  I think that’s true, but in attempting to explain the phenomenon of the Grateful Dead, we have to begin with the music.  At their most basic, they were a band.  The most American of all rock n roll bands.  Ever.  For reasons both within and beyond the music.

Their music sprung from the Myth of America.  For just as we are a melting pot of people f every race, creed, and color, their music was a melting pot of roots, folk, blues, jazz, reggae, world, rock and many others.  As Bob Dylan said on the death of Jerry Garcia “There are a lot of spaces and advances between the Carter family, Buddy Holly, and say Ornette Coleman, a lot of universes, but he filled them all, without being a member of any school.”

The Dead’s music came out of, and embodied the American identity.  And the way they played it, the way they approached their craft, embodies that identity at an even deeper level.  Individually they ranged from gifted to genius on their instruments, but together, there was a synergy that went far beyond the sum of its parts.  As a critic noted “”The Grateful Dead are the most consistently cohesive band in the history of rock n roll.”  That cohesion was solidified by playing over 2300 shows—a historic accomplishment in and of itself.

“Maybe we’re one of the last adventures in America.”

                              –Jerry Garcia

Central to the American consciousness is the idea of possibility.  This is the Land of Opportunity! Our greatest export: the idea of the American Dream.  This belief in potential was forged by having a frontier where anything was possible.  As Wallace Stegner famously said “something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed.” Frontier, wilderness, exploration, allows for possibility and dream to exist.

The Dead went into every show without a net, not knowing what they were going to play, or how they were going to play it.  Every song was an exploration, a journey, an adventure.  So American.  Going to a Dead show was in the long American tradition of going into the wilderness.  And we all, band and audience, went on that adventure together.

“[The Grateful Dead is] six musicians struggling to play music.  But there is something that happens.  The audience is going through a transformation, we’re going through a transformation.  The unexpected becomes every day.  You don’t take it for granted.  You work at it real hard but you don’t work at in the usual ways.  It is something that just has to happen.  You set the stage for magic to happen.  Sometimes it does.”

–Jerry Garcia


As anyone who has been to a live sporting event in a large, sold out stadium, with the game on the line knows: there’s an energy there that transcends the event going on on the field.  When the winning field goal is kicked, or the three-pointer drained as time runs out, the electricity created could light a city.  Can’t be described; is not the same as watching it on TV; can only be experienced in that moment.

Now picture that level of electricity without an opponent; where  aggression, conquest, the possibility of defeat, and competition are not part of the equation.  The energy is exclusively that of collective harmony and joy. That’s the magic of a Dead show.  As a critic noted “Grateful Dead music became culturally important…because it helped bring people together and conveyed the spirit of a better way to live.”

Or, put more succinctly by another critic “The Grateful Dead elicit more human energy in one show than most groups do in a career.”  It was a place where your first impulse is to trust, rather than be apprehensive; a place where it is impossible to be weird, where you are utterly free to be yourself without judgment; universally accepted.  How democratic.

As mentioned above, the Dead’s music, and the way they approached it, tapped into something deep in the American consciousness.  And when the audience is brought into the experience, it transforms into something even more powerful.  Something that transcends ethnicity, national identity and many other boundaries.  It taps into something on a basic human level and very old.

At the ripe old age of 81, noted mythologist Joseph Campbell attended his first Grateful Dead show and was blown away.  He commented “The Grateful Dead are the answer to the atom bomb.  For the atom bomb is a function of separation…people are separated from each other by lines of thinking.  They align themselves with this group against that group.  An evening with the Grateful Dead is one of those harmonizing experiences.  All differences between age, race, and economic situation were simply erased.  People were seeing themselves as human beings having…a common experience, an experience of joy and fulfillment and life in play…the more of that we can bring forth, the less there will be any trend toward the separation which the atom bomb represents.  They hit a level of humanity that makes everybody at one with each other.  I was carried away in a rapture.  And so I’m a Deadhead now.”


And Campbell was not alone.  I was hooked after my first show.  Other Deadheads have commented: “My soul was more at peace than ever before.” And “At my first show I immediately felt like I was at home, and I fit in.  Everyone was friendly and I quickly learned that the way I could live my life was much broader than I had grown up believing.”

Places where such levels of harmony and expansion are achieved are sacred.  And sadly scarce in modern society.  Garcia realized this, saying “That remained my goal, to walk out every night and play as if life depended on my every note, to wrest meaning from the jaw of entropy and decay, and to transform every place we played into a shrine of expanded consciousness. Every place we played was church.”  And Phil Lesh stated “After the Acid Tests, we had become shamans, helping to channel the transcendent into our mundane lives and those of our listeners.”

Ritualistic ecstasy may be very rare in today’s culture, but it is nothing new.  In fact, it is very old.

“Nietzsche argues that the tragedy of Ancient Greece was the highest form of art due to the mixture of both Apollonian and Dionysian into one seamless whole, allowing the spectator to experience the full spectrum of the human condition.”

                              –Nietzsche scholar

At an elemental level, we are a chaos of atomic energy, brought into a harmony, a rhythm, an order to form differentiated body and consciousness.  Just as words convey meaning by bringing the elements of letters into an order, or music disparate notes into a harmony. (The Dead conveyed this every time they evolved out of “Space” into a song).

Campbell points out “Life is rhythm.  Art is an organization of rhythms.  [The Dead] is one incredible Dionysian ritual.  It’s as if the rites of ancient Athens were compressed into one concert in one evening.  I got something there that made me note that this is magic.  And it’s magic for the future.  The Grateful Dead are a contemporary container of the body of wisdom that is relatively timeless.”

Phil recognizes this: “We’ve moved into a timeless realm where only the music and the people listening exist.”  As did a critic in 1970 “Magic is alive and well.  It exists in the form of one of the few truly unique bands rock has produced: the Grateful Dead.  They are an overwhelming almost mystical experience”

fare thee well

“I found the Grateful Dead right when I needed them.  I guess that’s about the time most people find them.” 


At my first show (which I had the clichéd pleasure of going to in a hollowed out VW microbus that ran out of gas as we pulled into the parking lot) three large bolts of lightning descended directly behind the stage at the precise moment the Dead hit the first note of the first song of the second set.  It was cosmic!  Little did I know such hinges were common at Dead shows.

As the Dead play “Fire on the Mountain” in Portland, Oregon Mt. St. Helens erupted.

At Jerry’s last show, after the typical one song encore, Phil felt moved to launch into “Box of Rain” with the final lines “Such a long, long time to be gone.  And a short time to be there.”  The final notes Jerry would play with the band.

And as the first set ended of the first Farwell show, a rainbow appeared above the stage.

The movie that awakened my sense of wonder, the original King Kong, came out in 1933; the first time I ever played roulette I put my money on 33 and hit the number; I met my wife and embarked on my theater career when I was 33.

I saw the Grateful Dead exactly 33 times.  It took a show I had tickets for being cancelled, and getting tickets to all three of their final shows for this to be a fact.

Although such cosmic connections cannot be proven, they did happen.  And there are many, many more.  Ask any Deadhead.


“[The Grateful Dead] are somehow hitting that chord of realization of the unity of God in you all, that’s a terrific thing and it just blows the rest away.”

               –Joseph Campbell

Joseph Campbell is best known for the phrase “Follow your bliss.”  This is often mistakenly interpreted as, just do what makes you happy.  More correctly, it means, honor the deepest calling within you in living your life.  This will not always be fun, or easy, will involve risk and disappointment, but  when you do, “doors  will open for you where there wouldn’t be a door for anyone else” and you will have the experience of being alive that is most meaningful to you.

Campbell’s teachings found me at precisely the moment in my life I needed to hear them, and they guided me to that path of deepest calling and experience.

The Dead were a part of that calling, and doors did open for me with regard to them.  My first show was included in the recently released 30 Trips Around the Sun boxed set, selected as the best show of that particular year.  One of my best friend’s Aunts became the Dead’s road manager, and several times I got backstage which was always a thrill.  Just by chance I ended up at one of the few shows where the Neville Brothers joined the band; at Brent’s last and Vinnie’s first show; and most meaningfully, at Jerry’s last, and the band’s final three—all of which just happened to take place in my home town: Chicago.  For me, it was all meant to be.

Through other adventures of following my bliss, I got to hang out with several of the Merry Pranksters, including Ken Kesey (and Babbs!); wrote for a magazine devoted to the Beats, getting to interview many of them; traveled the world, including living with indigenous tribes in the jungle; skied and hiked the spectacular mountains of Montana; began teaching literature which led to the best thing in my life: my wife; and had the courage to embark on a career in playwriting, which continues to give me peak experiences and nourish my soul.

It is not a stretch to say none of this may have happened, if not for the spiritual awakening the Grateful Dead ignited in me.

So after the final show was over, I cried.  It wasn’t just for them no longer touring, or for me being 50 instead of 20, but, just as the tears that come with the death of a loved one are filled with all the love that person shared with you, I cried for all the love the Dead made possible in my life by expanding my heart.

The simplest way I can put it is that the Grateful Dead expanded my capacity for joy.

Every song of every show was filled with ineffable epiphanies.  Epiphanies that go beyond words, but that are eternally real and true and will be with me forever.

So from the fullness of my shining heart: I am eternally grateful for the Grateful Dead.

“Fare the well, fare the well, I love you more than words can tell”

–The Grateful Dead, Brokedown Palace.



Note: quotes from critics and other Deadheads come from the book included in the 30 Trips Around the Sun box set.  Get it!  It’s great!


Todd Bauer is a blind playwright, whose work has been performed in Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, and at the Kennedy Center.  Recent productions include: Downsizing Camus at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, New York, July 2015 and The Bird Feeder Doesn’t Know, Raven Theatre, Chicago, April, 2015.  He was awarded an NEA Grant, received a fellowship from the Ragdale foundation, and was nominated for a 3Arts Artist Award. Todd has taught British and American drama at the Newberry Library in Chicago for over ten years, and is an ensemble member of Apothetae Company in New York. 

jerry bears





“Hello, yes,” came the voice with a British accent over my office answering machine early one October morning 18 years ago. “My name is Keith Butler and I’m looking for Scott Bauer. I’m the man who shouted ‘Judas!’ at Bob Dylan in 1966.”

dylan (Photo by Mark Makin)

Now, on the 50th anniversary of the concert where Keith Butler let loose with perhaps the most famous heckle in rock history, it seems like as good a time as any to recount the story of my small part in unraveling the mystery.

On May 17, 1966, Dylan was nearing the end of his first European tour with the Band where he played acoustic in the first set, then electric in the second. As has been well documented in the ensuing decades, the shift from acoustic folk (which was viewed as artistically pure) to electrified rock (which was dismissed as a commercial sell out) angered fans so much they booed Dylan and walked out of his shows.

The May 17 concert rose to prominence after being bootlegged in the late 1960s and improperly labeled as the Royal Albert Hall show, which actually took place over a week later. On the tape, after 40 minutes of catcalls and boos from the audience as Dylan played his electric set, he and the Band pause just before the last song of the show.

“Judas!” someone is clearly heard yelling, followed by a smattering of applause.

Dylan, or maybe Robbie Robertson, strum their guitars.

“I don’t believe you,” Dylan says back. “You’re a liar.”

And then, off mic but still audible, Dylan — or again maybe Robertson — urges the Band to “Play fucking loud!”

With a rocket-shot like kick of the drum by Mickey Jones, the Band opens up like a hurricane and Dylan sneers the opening lines of (in my humble opinion) the greatest rock song ever written: “Once upon a time you dressed so fine, threw the bums a dime in your prime, DIDN’T YOU?!!”

The Band, and Dylan, proceed to lay down a scathing, and utterly unmatched, performance of the song. There’s a reason why it gained so much fame and notoriety in the ensuing years.

In 1998, the bootleg was finally prepared for an official release. I was fortunate enough to propose writing a story for AP, and got to interview the drummer, Mickey Jones, and CP Lee, a British author who was there that night and wrote an entire book about the show called “Like the Night.” Dylan declined to be interviewed.


In the article, I described how a documentary crew on that tour interviewed some disgruntled fans as they left unidentified shows. Some of the footage ended up in a documentary called “Eat the Document.”

I ended the piece with a quote from one of them: “Any pop group could produce better rubbish than that. It was a bloody disgrace, it was. … He’s a traitor.”

And that was that. Or so I thought.

A few days after the story moved worldwide on the wire, I came to work at our office in the Lincoln state Capitol. Back then, before voicemail, we used an answering machine. The light was blinking and I hit play. That’s when I heard Keith Butler’s voice.


He lived in Canada and left me a phone number. He claimed to be the person who had yelled “Judas!” at Dylan. More than 30 years since the concert, no one had fessed up to the yell. But here was this Canadian banker on the other end of the phone, telling me that had hadn’t been able to sleep one night so he took a walk. He bought the Toronto Sun and saw my article. He read it all the way through, and when he saw the quote at the end, recognized his own words and recalled being interviewed by a film crew after the concert.

He also remembered yelling “Judas” and being regretful. He had no idea it had become “a thing.”

It was a story so incredible, but so hard for me to verify, I decided to enlist some help. I emailed CP Lee, the author of the book, who got in touch with Butler. Along with help from a British disc jockey, they brought him back to the Manchester Free Trade Hall where he sat in the balcony where he was that night and told his story.

“Judas” had been found.

The news was widely reported, and included in an update to Lee’s book. Keith Butler died in 2002, but he and I are now forever linked in Bob Dylan lore.

In the subsequent years others have come forward to claim they were the “Judas” shouter, but my money is on Keith. He was the first, and the most earnest. When Martin Scorcese put together a documentary on Dylan for PBS, he was able to find film of the moment at the concert when the yell is made, so now we can see Dylan as the band reacts.

A few years later, when I was doing a story on “The Last Waltz,” I was lucky enough to get to interview Robbie Robertson. Even though it had nothing to do with the story I was working on, I just couldn’t resist asking him about the “Judas” shout. Now here, transcribed for the first time since my 2002 interview, is his complete answer.

Give it a read while listening to the May 17, 1966, Manchester concert tonight, its 50th anniversary.

Me: “The famous comment is when the audience member yells ‘Judas!’ out from the crowd. Do you remember that actual moment?”

Robbie: “Yes.”

Me: “Do you remember who said ‘Play fucking loud’?”

Robbie: “No, I don’t.”

Me: “OK. I know people always wonder if it was you or Dylan and I mean it’s been 40 years ago, I’ve got you on the phone I had to ask.”

Robbie: “Oh right. I know what you’re talking about now. I haven’t listened to the ….”

Me: “A guy yells ‘Judas!’ and Dylan says ‘I don’t believe you’ and someone off mic says ‘Play fucking loud.'”

Robbie: “Right. I don’t remember if that was me or one of us just kind of lashing out. I don’t know. By the time we got to this part of that tour we had been booed all over United States and Canada and Australia and all over Europe. It wasn’t like our skins hadn’t gotten a little thicker and we hadn’t built some character by then. It might have been under those circumstances. At Albert Hall, and it’s questionable how much of this is from Albert Hall and how much is from Manchester, I guess that was one of the questions in the whole thing. At Albert Hall they have all these boxes there and they were all filled with the British music scene. The Beatles were in one box, the Who was in another box and the Stones were in another box. It was like all the whole music world was there for this.

It might have brought out a little bit more pepper in somebody in that they were just like, `Fuck you.’ We did play loud, you wanted to hear this bullshit.”

manchester(Photo by Mark Makin)

Fare Thee Well

There’s nothing like a Grateful Dead concert.

That was true 20 years ago tonight, the last time Jerry Garcia ever played with the band, and it was true last weekend when the core four surviving members came together for a final three shows. I was there July 8, 1995, the night before the final show, and I returned for all three of the Fare Thee Well farewell concerts, as the band dubbed them.


Twenty years is a long time to go without a Dead show. A lot can, and did, happen to me and everyone else in the intervening years. That’s especially true when, in my case, you were just 23 years old in 1995. All the life milestones came in the next two decades: births, deaths, new jobs, new homes, new friends, less hair, more weight, settling down, being unsettled, all of that.

Many of us lucky enough to catch a Dead show with Jerry could never recapture that feeling of bliss, both musical and spiritual, that came with seeing the band after he died. All the various post-Jerry incarnations, under a variety of names that steered clear of the Grateful Dead, felt wrong. He left too large of a void to fill or ignore or even honor. It just didn’t work for me.

That’s why there was hesitation, despite all the buzz, when the final shows under the Grateful Dead name were announced. Sure, it was exciting to see Bruce Hornsby and Trey Anastasio added to the band. But there would not be, and never could be, a replacement for Jerry.

But for some reason these shows just felt right.


It was time to go back.

Twenty years is a long time, and maybe it took that long to be ready to say goodbye, finally. Maybe more than the band, all of us fans needed the closure. The band was getting back together, and so were all of us. Anyone who had ever seen the Dead had a reason to talk about old times, shoot emails about whether they were going to Chicago, dig up old tapes, check out live music again, just engage.

Facebook profile pictures were laced with Dead iconography. Friends emailed around “this day in Dead history” concerts to stream. Pools were set up to guess which songs they would play. Books, dolls, posters and paraphernalia were hauled out of storage and put back on display.

The circus was coming back to town.


Soldier Field, where the last show was in 1995, was picked for the final three concerts. Tickets were available through old-school mail order, a fun albeit frustrating exercise for most given the demand. But waiting and hoping, only to be ultimately denied, only increased the anticipation.


By hook or crook, and mainly by knowing the right people, I and everyone I know who wanted and was able to attend the shows got tickets for at least one night. I was fortunate enough to be at all three with my brother, who was with me 20 years ago for the July 8 show and went back the next night, a Sunday, for what turned out to be the last Jerry show.

Oddly, to me the music didn’t matter as much to me as the reunion. Warm-up shows the weekend before in California were OK, but not great. I was going for the vibe and the memories, not for the music.

But just like always, the Dead took a left turn and surprised us all.

They killed it.


Starting their first of the final three shows with “Box of Rain,” the last song they played at Soldier Field in 1995, was a genius and emotional move. “Such a long, long time to be gone,” bassist Phil Lesh croaked. “And a short time to be there.”

It was written about his dying father. It can be about our lost loved ones. It can be about Jerry. It can be about the Dead.

It moved me, man. What a moment. Seventy thousand people all in harmony with those guys on stage, hearts beating as one. I didn’t ever think I would see another Grateful Dead concert after Jerry died in 1995. But I did last weekend. And it was glorious.

They rocked. They rolled. The crowd could sense it that first night. They were not going to mail this one in. Trey had practiced! He played Jerry’s parts without making it sound fake. He leaned forward, egging on Bob Weir. Phil smiled. They hugged. We pumped our fists in the air and sang along.

It was electric. It was right.

Every song took on new meaning knowing this would be the last time we’d hear it from the original four all together. “We will get by.” “I can’t figure out. Is it the end or beginning?” “The music never stopped.” “What a long, strange trip it’s been.” And, ultimately, “You know our love will not fade away.”

I don’t expect or even want anyone to understand what a Grateful Dead concert is all about. Some get it, some don’t. It matters not to me whether you do or don’t.

But ask anyone who was there last weekend how those concerts made them feel. Ask what it means to them. It’s real. It’s important.

And now it’s over.

There’s nothing like a Grateful Dead concert. Goddamn right, there’s not.

IMAGE DISTRIBUTED FOR THE GRATEFUL DEAD - Bruce Hornsby, from left, Jeff Chimenti, Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, Trey Anastasio, Bill Kreutzmann of The Grateful Dead perform at Grateful Dead Fare Thee Well Show at Soldier Field on Sunday, July 5, 2015, in Chicago, Ill. (Photo by Jay Blakesberg/Invision for the Grateful Dead/AP Images)

And for just $2,000 you can get ….

Blues Traveler will always hold a special place in my heart because of how I first got turned on to their music. I was a freshman in college when their first record was released. I had a copy of it on tape. “But Anyway” was getting a lot of airplay on 97X, the college radio station at Miami (just think of that scene from “Rain Man”):


So, when the word spread that Blues Traveler was playing outside of a fraternity house for free, I had to check it out. As an 18-year-old freshman, it was about as cool a scene as you could imagine. Here was this band, setting up in the street, with thousands of people all over the place trying to position themselves for the best view.

They launched into “But Anyway.” It was loud. Really loud. They even had professional lights mounted on the side of the fraternity (or maybe I just thought they did). John Popper was blasting his harmonica across the normally staid streets of Oxford, Ohio. People were dancing. It was a trippy scene.

But just as quickly as it began, it was over. The cops pulled the plug after just one song. Someone, probably a lot of people, complained. It was too loud. People were drinking in the street. It was chaos! It was glorious. And, even better, to my knowledge it wasn’t captured by anyone on videotape (no cell cameras in 1990, sorry) and it’s nowhere to be found on YouTube.

For anyone unfamiliar with the song, here it is:


A year later Blues Traveler returned and played Millett Hall. Another up and coming band, Widespread Panic, was the opening act. And yes, tickets were $12.50.

photo copy


Fast forward to 2015. I have to admit, I largely lost track of Blues Traveler over the years. They scored a big Top 40 hit (peaking at #8) with “Runaround” in 1994, and I did see them in the HORDE festival around that time, but other than that, I didn’t really pay much attention to their career.

But now this.

Looking past the actual music on their latest release, in which they make questionable decisions like partnering up with Hanson and a member of NSYNC to play faux reggae/pop songs, Blues Traveler is now offering a variety of things for sale beyond the normal digital download/CD/vinyl packages.

Want to take a harmonic lesson from John Popper over Skype? It’s yours for $1,000 (but hurry, as of this writing there were only two left). If you want a music lesson from anyone else in the band, also via Skype for 30 minutes, it will only set you back $500 (take your time thinking about that one, there are still seven left).

It gets weirder.

Want to jam with the band, live, onstage, during one of their shows? That’s $2,000. Want to take it a step farther? Your band can actually open for Blues Traveler for a cool $5,000. What if you have a song that you really want to have John Popper play harmonica on? Send $5,000 via paypal, and it will happen.

And then, for the truly deep pocketed spenders, there’s this: Blues Traveler will come to you and play a private show for $50,000.

That would buy a lot of patchouli.

It strikes me that maybe the guys in Blues Traveler are having a musical midlife crisis. There’s plenty of precedent for that. “Tattoo You” anyone? How about “Hearts of Fire” or just about anything Paul McCartney put out in the 1980s.




Now, to be fair, Blues Traveler is far from the first band to offer unique opportunities to fans for a profit. There’s plenty of officially sanctioned goofy shit out there. And even the biggest names in the game (I’m looking at you Bob Dylan) have offered themselves up to private gigs for the right price.

This article about that is over a year old, but you get the picture. Hey, back then you could have booked Blues Traveler for less than $40,000!

Who knows, maybe someday Dylan will offer harmonica lessons over Skype, or you’ll be able to pay to apply makeup to KISS, or light Willie Nelson’s joint backstage.

For me, I just want to enjoy the music. I spend enough money on that. I don’t need to drop hundreds (or thousands) to have John Popper mow my grass while playing harmonica.

After all, as Blues Traveler themselves sang, “It won’t mean a thing in a hundred years.”

Houndmouth and other news

Greetings, faithful readers. It’s been a while since a proper news update, so let’s hop to it.

Most music fans are always on the lookout for something new. I stumbled upon Houndmouth recently, and was lucky enough to catch one of their shows last week. This band is on the rise and I recommend you checking them out. They are about to release their second record in March, so now is the perfect time to get on the bandwagon. They are a four-piece, with a female keyboardist. All four of them sing, and their songs fit generally into those well-trod categories of alt-country, Americana, roots rock, whatever. I just call it rock and roll.

Here is their latest song:


And here’s another one:


They are on tour currently and I would highly recommend making it to a show if you can.

In other news….

Grateful Dead drummer Bill Kreutzmann will be releasing the book everyone’s been waiting decades for him to write: “Deal: My Three Decades of Drumming, Dreams and Drugs with the Grateful Dead.” It comes out May 5, just before the Dead’s final run of three shows at Soldier Field.

If anyone’s wondering how the mail order ticketing process is going for those shows, this story gives you some insight:

In the meantime, here’s  a funny clip of Jerry Garcia I recently stumbled upon:


I’m still waiting to hear back on my tickets, but most of my friends have been rejected. The regular on-sale date is this Saturday at 10 a.m.

As you know, Trey Anastasio from Phish is joining the remaining members of the Dead for the final shows. Here is a tiny desk concert he recently did for NPR:


Until next time, keep on truckin’ everyone!


Summertime done come and gone, my oh my

Twenty years ago this July, my brother and I and a gang of like-minded misfits gathered to catch the musical circus as it rolled into town, like it did every summer.

Two decades on, I can’t remember who exactly was with us that hot night at Soldier Field. There was a rotating gaggle of usual suspects who hit as many shows as they could afford and as their schedules would allow. We were all in our 20s. We knew the ride would end at some point, but we didn’t know when.

Turns out, Saturday, July 8, 1995, would be my last Grateful Dead show. The next night, July 9, would be the last Grateful Dead show for everyone else, ever. Jerry Garcia died a month later, and while the band reformed in various incarnations over the next 20 years, it’s never been close to the same.


Now, to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the forming of the Grateful Dead, the four surviving original members — along with some very special guests — are reuniting for three shows at the same venue where it all ended in 1995. So much has changed over the interceding years it’s almost pointless to list all the differences. For one, tickets to the 1995 shows were $33.50, as my stub above shows. The best seats this time around are more than six times as much.

Bob Weir, one of the lead singers of the Dead, was 47 years old in 1995 — an old man to the 23-year-old me. But now, as I face 43 and my brother is staring down the barrel of 50, it seems like Bobby was just a young pup when he and Jerry opened that second-to-last show with “Jack Straw.”


There’s no denying that Jerry was in rough shape that night, and had been for years. While we couldn’t have guessed that he would be playing his final shows, all of us who had been watching him decline knew enough to treat every 1990s-era show as a gift.

The biggest gift of all that night, and the moment that stands out for me above all the others, was Jerry’s lead vocal on the Dylan classic “Visions of Johanna.” One vocal inflection and a raised arm, at just the right moment — “Mona Lisa must have had them highway blues, you can TELL by the way she SMILED!” (minute 5:39) — was all it took to send me and the crowd of more than 50,000 into a frenzy. Jerry, and many in the crowd, knew all too well what the highway blues were all about.


They ended that show, triumphantly, with “U.S. Blues,” which contains the bittersweet line: “Summertime done come and gone, my oh my.” They were the last words I ever heard Jerry sing.


Summertime will come again to Soldier Field this July. Joining the original Dead members will be Trey Anastasio from Phish along with frequent Dead collaborator Bruce Hornsby. Thousands of people who make one or more of these shows will have never seen Jerry with the Dead. For them, for all of us, it will be a joyous occasion.

You can’t ever go back, nor should you. Like Satchel Paige said, “Don’t look back, something might be gaining on you.” Middle/old age is gaining, or already caught, most who were at the final 1995 shows. Even so, many of us, hopefully my brother and I included, will gather, once again, when the circus rolls back into Chicago.

We will cheer. We will sing. Will will laugh. We will dance, poorly. We may even cry.

It’s the power of music and memories, friends. It’s what it’s all about.

See you in Chicago.