Author Oliver Trager has written numerous books on music. The publisher penned such novels as Keys To The Rain: The Definitive Bob Dylan Encyclopedia, Dig Infinity! The Life and Art of Lord Buckley, and The American Book Of The Dead: The Definitive Grateful Dead Encyclopedia. A lifelong Deadhead, our contributor Bob Wilson asked Trager to share his “Fare Thee Well” experience. This was his story…
I was pleased when I first heard of the Grateful Dead’s plans to honor their 50th anniversary with a series of shows in the Bay Area and Chicago this past summer. Not that they were ever much up for marking such temporal milestones anyway, but a half century legacy would be hard to ignore even for the more punctually challenged.
The idea of attending any of the concerts was never a particularly alluring one to me for any one of a number of reasons: the money and hassle spent getting wherever and back, being in a stadium filled with 80K-plus, Chicago in July, and, well, no Jerry, all factored into a general disinclination to even consider the prospect. In fact, I was offered a free ducat and gratis airfare at the 11th hour and still said “no thanks”–the same words I spoke after attending (and helping to tape the Giants Stadium Dylan-Dead show in July ’87). Just too many damn people and unharnessed energy for a soul on the cusp of his very early dotage.
I made my peace with the Grateful Dead long ago and, while I have checked out a couple of Phil & Friends shows over the years (wonderful!), the adventure involved with this adventure seemed like way too much. Better to check out the tapes, video clips and AV ephemera that would surely emerge in the days (make that hours) after the music stopped. Shit, I hitchhiked and hopped freight trains from NYC to Boulder, Co. in early June of 1980 to revel in the Dead’s 15th anniversary shows chasing Kerouac and Cassady’s ghosts across more than half a continent—what adventure could ever top that?
Better to spend some summer evenings listening to a Met game on the radio, contemplate the wonder the natural world under the shade of a tree in the Adirondacks or on a San Francisco back porch in July gazing at the crescent in sky.
I took note of the set lists as they emerged in the coming days and, true to many Deadheads who derive a degree of insight from analyzing such data, could not be struck on the career-spanning statements the band appeared to be making with their choices. Opening Night could almost have passed for any given display in 1969, complete with the classic “Dark Star”>”St. Stephen”>”The Eleven” medley that served as the musical Kool-Aid sipped by many of a certain age and from a certain time. And what was up with “What’s Become of the Baby?”? Talk about the element of surprise (and a degree of courage) no matter the final product to earn some respect for contemplating much less executing such an odd selection.
We Deadheads have, to one degree or another, absorbed (or was that projected?) an element of spirituality to our scene and the inspiration the music provides. So when the rainbow appeared over Levi Stadium, it was difficult not to take that as a sign that Garcia’s spirit was hovering close by . . . and was smiling . . .
Sunday’s do was more a ‘70s show capped by the the “Help”>”Slip”>”Franklin” medley and a bevy of songs representative of that era’s shows.
Moving on to Chicago, the first of the three concerts was rather 1980s with a challenging retrospective of tunes from all eras.
As I studied the set lists and caught video snatches here and there, I was generally impressed by both the precision and exploratory nature of the music. Yes, like nearly every Dead show, there were moments of meandering sloppiness. But what would a Dead show be without them? And, like parts of the Phil shows I caught and recordings of post-Jerry aggregations, a sometimes canned quality to the arrangements. Still, the conversation in sound and distinct personality of the “core four” remained . . . as if built and born to last. Bobby (now walrus-bearded and a little world weary), Phil (still spry at 75 and apparent de facto band leader) and drummers Bill and Mickey conjuring ancient beats and rhythms from the cross-planet depths and interstellar realms. As an aside, I think it would have been good karma to include Donna Godchaux to reprise a couple of tunes she sang as a duet with Weir back in the day, most notably “Looks Like Rain.” And, while we’re at it, keyboardist Tom Constanten would have been a good choice to add some licks to a “Space” segment or two. Just sayin’.
And then there was Trey. I am not and never was a Phish fan but not a hater either. Really, I never did pay them much never mind one way the other. FYI, in general my tastes run to jazz, blues, folk & country circa mid-20th century Americana. Ellington, Basie, Lester “Pres” Young, Charlie Parker, Clifford Brown, Sonny Rollins, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Sun Ra, Charles Mingus, Hank Williams, Bill Monroe, the Kentucky Colonels, Robert Johnson, Blind Willie Johnson, Rev. Gary Davis, Albert Collins, Anthology of American Folk Music stuff etc.. . . these are just a few of the touchstones of my musical landscapes and a small part of the roots that made the Grateful Dead the Grateful Dead. Any deeper understanding of what made them them and, really, what American music and America is all about must start there or at least nearby.
Anyway, Phish always seemed pleasant and humble enough to an outsider, appeared to be having fun performing, kept the improvisational approach and spirit aglow, were certainly loved and admired by millions, and continued to engender the continuity of the raggle-taggle camp following scene that once trailed the Dead’s journeying. Truth be told I couldn’t sing you one Phish tune, lyric or riff and will be unlikely to do so as the balance of my days on Earth between now and then come and go. Not that I’m better or worse off for it, just a reality.
Stepping into Jerry’s sneakers most have been daunting but I, for one, was truly impressed by everything he brought to the stage throughout these final bows both keeping true to his aesthetic while channeling Jerry and, at times, taking the music into the stratosphere and back wherever the music and muse led him. Check out his solo on Weir’s smiling through disaster (and disaster narrowly averted) rocker, “Hell in a Bucket” from the second Cali show and behold a man leaving it on the stage or maybe throwing the music into the 22nd century. All hail Trey!
Though the Grateful Dead were never ones for prepared setlists much less overt statements vis a vis their concerts or otherwise, I intuit that these so-called “Fare Thee Wells” were rather mapped out and the final two shows in particular came off to this listener as both a testament to their collective sense of their stature in the community and cultural conversation and a call to that community for personal reflection and, dare I say, action, be it on a local or global level.
The July 4th concert was steeped in just the sort of Americana referenced above. Every song touched upon locales and themes aligned with the American experience with its sketchy Shakedown Streets where any forlorn burg’s heart is still likely to be found (ya just gotta poke around), the make-it-up-as-you-go-along ersatz cartoony still-being-defined-sensibility of what it means to be an American as sung in “Liberty,” the appraisal of planet Earth’s glorious possibilities whilst standing on the moon, the double dealing cowboy anti-heroes in “Me & My Uncle,” the can’t-catch-a-break travails of “Tennessee Jed,” the similarly vexed miners singing them “Cumberland Blues,” the cock-sure boastings of the “Little Red Rooster,” the on-the-lame desperadoes in “Friend of the Devil,” the seen-it-all card-sharp in “Deal” complete with one of my favorite monster Dead jams. . . and that was just the first set!
Sunday’s sabbath night goodbye (was it really?) captured, again for me anyway, a call to the spirit. It was as if the band were holding up a mirror to themselves and the far-flung Deadhead tribe at-large to catalyze the essence of all that brought them and us to this very moment. There were certain Dead shows I attended that stood out for me—not so much for the songs performed or the quality of music made on any of those given evenings—as a point of deep personal reflection. Shows that allowed me take a good long look at where I’d been, where I was and where I might be going. A taking of personal accounting. A “sure don’t know what I’m going for but I’m gonna go for it for sure” moment as they sometimes sang or, as Lord Buckley might put it, “we might not find out where we is but liable to find out who we is.”
What the future holds for any prospect of the Grateful Dead regrouping and performing who can say? If they can do so with style and grace, I say go for it. No matter, how fortunate we have been to have this portal of shamanic transcendence—that squirrelly organism we call Grateful Dead—appear in our lives when and how they did.