Social media has been full of press about the sixtieth anniversary of The Grateful Dead and Jerry Garcia’s (1942-1995) birthday, a three-day event that was recently experienced by more than 170,000 in San Francisco’s Goldengate Park. Now the grizzled elder, Bob Weir was once the boy with thick sandy hair falling around his shoulders, often shirtless and wearing cutoff jeans—looked like so many others of the time. Mentored by Jerry Garcia, he went on to create several other bands, including Dead and Company. Along with two other of the early band members and a couple younger ones, they carry the torch for the decades of fans that could not have been imagined back when they started in 1965.
A bit pricey at $600+ for a 3-day pass, but many of the longtime deadheads shared the experience with their kids and grandkids. Finding a passionate connection to certain bands is a defining feature of rock n roll. The jam band style of the Dead’s music offers an entire culture and mystique that is especially appealing during this time of diminished authenticity.
The original Dead performed at the historic Woodstock festival in 1969 and later at the even larger Summer Jam in Watkins Glen during 1973, attended by more than 600,000, along with me.
A documentary film is in process for that Watkins Glen festival. The 1970s was not a time of information consumption, but due to recent social media interest and sharing, I have learned so much about what happened at this event beyond my own personal recollection. The Allman Brothers Band and The Band were quite popular then, but I was there mostly for The Grateful Dead, as I had been introduced to the band and the world of deadheads by a boyfriend and the album, Europe ‘72, was played over and over that year. I attended several Dead ‘shows’ (we rarely called them concerts) with him during the decade, including a special encounter in 1975. A ceramic artist, he made a raku teapot to give to Jerry when we went to see The Jerry Garcia Band at The Keystone in Berkeley.
While my friend was quite confident that this would be possible, I questioned the plan. As it turned out, we just knocked on a door and walked into a room where we were met by a low-key security guy dressed like everyone else in jeans and a t-shirt. After explaining to him about the gift, he called Jerry over. We introduced ourselves. Jerry accepted the gift with his usual good cheer and sent us off beaming with a few words…Thank you, Man. Farout! Enjoy the show. The story lives on.
I attended my last Dead show with the same friend on New Year’s Eve in San Francisco on the last night of 1980. The Summer Jam experience was all my own. Ten-dollar tickets!
The following story is from my book, The Shape of Becoming.
Rite of Passage
When I was twenty-one and heading into my senior year of college, my roommate and I ventured off to Cape Cod for the summer to find jobs and a taste of independent life at the beach. We found waitress jobs and a cottage in Mashpee. The enclave of efficiency cabins provided two tiny beds, bathroom, and hotplate. I worked Friday and Saturday night behind the counter of a sandwich shop inside On the Rocks, a popular night club where the 1950s cover band, ShaNaNa, was the top headline act of the season. I also waitressed at a local breakfast spot several mornings a week with afternoons free for the beach.
That summer I completed a special project after embroidering a replica of the Grateful Dead Europe ‘72 album cover onto the back of a blue work shirt to give to a boy back at school. The iconic imagery designed by the infamous Stanley Mouse featured a big foot wearing a brown leather shoe with a hole in the sole as it steps over the planet and underneath a rainbow springing from two golden pots on each side of the globe. A young couple from Texas staying in one of the nearby cabins noticed what I was doing. I learned that they were Deadheads with plans to attend an outdoor festival that was to be bigger than Woodstock. They suggested I hitchhike along with them to Watkins Glen that last weekend of July 1973.
Preparation was simple. I borrowed a sleeping bag and dressed in my favorite white tank top, cutoff jeans, and red hooded sweatshirt to meet up with my new friends. We assembled a few communal basics from the local deli—bread, peanut butter, knife, apples, and soda. Individual bottles of water had not yet entered our consumer world. We stood waiting for a ride for at least an hour, but once a man stopped for us, he was able to take us nearly all the way. Somehow, my friends had tickets for us already so without a car to park, entering the grounds was easy. We bypassed the campers and aimed ourselves straight to the waves of youth assembling in the field in front of the stage. People were claiming sleeping bag space for the largest slumber party I would ever attend. I had been to just a few concerts in various auditoriums, but I had never been to an outdoor festival. I had never slept outdoors without a tent or everyday amenities. It was a long walk to the row of portable toilets and the area where gallon jugs of water were given out.
Although the opening set was not until the next day, recorded music of the three bands wafted from the over-sized speakers stacked upon the stage. The air was thick with weed and anticipation for an evening to hang out with the sea of strangers. Sitting under the sun in that spot was a moment of arrival that I equated with scenes I had seen on TV or in Life Magazine, a huge departure from anything I had ever known before.
The crowd rallied again at sunrise. After the Friday evening supper and Saturday morning breakfast, our supplies were dwindling. Tabs of sunshine, windowpane, purple haze were openly bartered all around. I reluctantly asked for purple haze, not really knowing what I was getting into, but I was curious. The morning sun heated up the field rather quickly. None of us had sunscreen or even a hat. I had the sense to walk back to find a jug of water for the long day ahead, but it was half gone by the time I returned to my spot after allowing so many who asked to take just a sip from my supply.
Summer Jam began at noon with the Grateful Dead. I had seen them live in concert once before, but I knew the music well. Along with the other eager fans, all the favorite songs were delivered -- Box of Rain, China Cat, Truck’in, Sugar Magnolia, Uncle John’s Band. The frolicking crowd seemed to meld together into some kind of swirl under the spell of drugs and sound, even as clouds moved in and rain began falling. There may have been some band breaks as the weather interfered, but the Allmans followed and then The Band. Spirits were not dampened, though – a frenzy of energy kicked in.
A terrible stomach ache had come over me and I was not all there for the fun so I wandered around in an effort to feel better and became lost in the chaos of others. I eventually found my way back to the damp sleeping bag as The Band faced a delirious crowd ready to carry on all night. All three bands united on stage for a grand finale. Despite some of my ill feelings and less-than-magical interlude, I never worried for my safety. The sense of connectedness I experienced there was new.
The soggy aftermath of the next morning looked like the site of a terrible devastation. I had lost track of my hitchhiking friends, but after wandering about for awhile, I found them looking for me and ready to set off down the road to a main highway. Once again, we got lucky with a driver who was going all the way to the Cape. He seemed amused to hear about our time at the festival. I was never more famished and grimey as I was sitting in the backseat of that car, but our driver stopped with us at a diner for a much-needed breakfast.
Returning back to the rusty shower and lumpy bed of the tiny cabin was a joy. I spent another couple weeks working before the drive home to Buffalo to get ready for the return to school. After the summer, I exchanged a letter or two with my concert companions from Texas. The boy at school was thrilled with my embroidered gift, but he never had a chance to wear it. Someone swiped it off the back of a chair at his busy house of many roommates and visitors. Even though I have no photographic record of my lost embroidery project or the distant music festival, both are vivid and colorful in my mind. That summer my entire world bloomed.
During the 1980s I moved on to prefer new wave sounds that I could hear live at NYC clubs where I was then living. So many of the big-name bands of the 1970s keep touring into elderhood while they can. Bob Dylan was here recently. Paul McCartney is coming our way in November. Being part of a large concert crowd now and then can be fun. Mostly, I prefer the smaller venues and less-pricey tickets. I saw Suzanne Vega this year and plan to see David Byrne next month.
I remain a fan of the Grateful Dead story and sound and appreciate their ongoing appeal to people of all walks of life and political ideals. The characteristic symbolism of skull, lightning bolt, and rose will always represent that west coast music that drew me out there to live for a few years. I never bought a Dead concert t-shirt, but I could not resist this one with upcycled messaging that hit just the right note.
Western New York where I live is a place with a lot of opportunity to hear high quality local homegrown bands and singer/songwriter performers. The music I continue to love from other times is all with me on vinyl, cassettes, CDs, and Spotify.
That’s enough.
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