There was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert.
I was 27 years old.
Pure joy.
Photo by CJ.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Dead Show, Frost Amphitheatre, Stanford, circa 1987
There was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert.
I was 27 years old.
Pure joy.
Photo by CJ.
Monday, May 11, 2009
No Long Strange Trip for Mammoth
“And when I die, bury me deep,
with a pair of speakers at my head
so that I can listen
to the Grateful Dead.”
– New York City graffiti,
late 20th century
There really was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert, as the saying goes, and my idea of heaven is listening to the best of the bootleg recordings forever.
I’d not want those speakers buried deep, though. I’d want them up by heaven’s version of a Sierra alpine lake, music reverberating from around a glacial cirque and plenty of space for my soul’s dance in the alpenglow.
Would it not have been a version of heaven, then, for some of us Deadheads to hear the band play in Mammoth Lakes in 1990?
Recently, I learned that they were indeed slated to play at Main Lodge then, but town council expressed collective personal opposition because of population and fire concerns, so it was nixed. Religious groups weighed in with drug-related concerns.
Were they nuts?
Unfortunately, there’s some truth in the stereotypes about pot-smoking, drug-taking, urinating Deadheads – although Bill Graham himself appeared at a council meeting to say he had never witnessed drug use at a Dead show, according to one of my sources. For the vast majority, Dead shows were all about the music, the joy, the hippy-happy scene. It was a scene began in the mid -1960s and ended with lead guitarist Jerry Garcia’s death in August, 1995. In that time, the band crossed generational lines to endure for three decades.
I arrived relatively late in the game as a student at Berkeley in 1981. Call it the best part of my education there. Of the 65 shows I attended in 15 years, most were in the Bay Area.
Sadly, a big enough percentage of the badly behaved Deadheads ruined it for the rest of us in many terrific venues. By the end of the 80s, the band had been kicked out of two of my favorites – the Berkeley Greek Theatre and Stanford’s Frost Amphitheater.
The show at the Boreal Ridge Ski Resort near Donner Pass on Aug. 24, 1985 provides a good comparison of what might have been had the band had played in Mammoth. Billed as the “highest” Dead show ever, it was the worst I ever attended. Technical difficulties plagued the band from beginning to end, as I recall. The band members, usually in sync, seemed at odds. And Jerry forgot his lines more than he usually did in the good old bad mid-80s. Was it the altitude? Probably not. He forgot them at sea level, too.
But altitude clearly affected many in the crowd that hot August day. They wilted in the heat, dust and thinner air, which some exacerbated with excess amounts of alcohol. People staggered obnoxiously into each other in a crowd otherwise known for its peaceful coexistence.
“Nothing good about it. Dead in a dust bowl,” wrote one fan on a blog devoted to the Boreal Ridge show. “The altitude, Bobby’s equipment problem, the dust and Jerry’s sour mood lead to a disaster of a show.”
“It was hot and dry, and the elevation – ‘highest Dead show ever’ – took its toll,” wrote another.
Would it have been better, somehow, if the band had played in Mammoth? Just think of the marketing potential among forever-young aging Deadheads. They would make pilgrimages here to recall their fond moments among the Jeffrey pines. After all, Boreal Ridge wasn’t a disaster for all who attended, and the environment survived.
“I was at this show and had a blast,” wrote a positive fan. “The band certainly had an off-day music-wise, but the beautiful Sierra surroundings made for a pleasant experience.”
Well, the beautiful Sierra surroundings part was true for me, at least.
I like to imagine that if the Grateful Dead had played in Mammoth, I’d have been there, too, and it would been one of the best shows I ever saw.
I like to imagine Mammoth Lakes bootlegs as a must for every collection, stamped on the side with dancing bears or red-rose decorated skulls.
And if it had been an exceptional show, I like to imagine it would have made the historic Dick’s Picks CD archival series – the best of the best.
But that’s all over now, baby blue.
Today I’m told that the popular wisdom is that town council canceled the concert. However, they didn’t actually have authority to do that. What they did was express collective personal opinion, which boiled down to concern about the 20,000 to 40,000 folks who would be camping on forest service lands for the Dead show. I’m unclear why it would have to have been 20,000 to 40,000 people.
Despite enormous local support for the Grateful Dead in Mammoth, I’m told council may also have been swayed by community fear-mongers who latched on to the “riding that train, high on cocaine” lyric from “Casey Jones.”
A shame. They likely knew nothing at all about what was once an incredible scene. Their loss.
A version of this piece will appear in the Mammoth Times on May 14, 2009.
with a pair of speakers at my head
so that I can listen
to the Grateful Dead.”
– New York City graffiti,
late 20th century
There really was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert, as the saying goes, and my idea of heaven is listening to the best of the bootleg recordings forever.
I’d not want those speakers buried deep, though. I’d want them up by heaven’s version of a Sierra alpine lake, music reverberating from around a glacial cirque and plenty of space for my soul’s dance in the alpenglow.
Would it not have been a version of heaven, then, for some of us Deadheads to hear the band play in Mammoth Lakes in 1990?
Recently, I learned that they were indeed slated to play at Main Lodge then, but town council expressed collective personal opposition because of population and fire concerns, so it was nixed. Religious groups weighed in with drug-related concerns.
Were they nuts?
Unfortunately, there’s some truth in the stereotypes about pot-smoking, drug-taking, urinating Deadheads – although Bill Graham himself appeared at a council meeting to say he had never witnessed drug use at a Dead show, according to one of my sources. For the vast majority, Dead shows were all about the music, the joy, the hippy-happy scene. It was a scene began in the mid -1960s and ended with lead guitarist Jerry Garcia’s death in August, 1995. In that time, the band crossed generational lines to endure for three decades.
I arrived relatively late in the game as a student at Berkeley in 1981. Call it the best part of my education there. Of the 65 shows I attended in 15 years, most were in the Bay Area.
Sadly, a big enough percentage of the badly behaved Deadheads ruined it for the rest of us in many terrific venues. By the end of the 80s, the band had been kicked out of two of my favorites – the Berkeley Greek Theatre and Stanford’s Frost Amphitheater.
The show at the Boreal Ridge Ski Resort near Donner Pass on Aug. 24, 1985 provides a good comparison of what might have been had the band had played in Mammoth. Billed as the “highest” Dead show ever, it was the worst I ever attended. Technical difficulties plagued the band from beginning to end, as I recall. The band members, usually in sync, seemed at odds. And Jerry forgot his lines more than he usually did in the good old bad mid-80s. Was it the altitude? Probably not. He forgot them at sea level, too.
But altitude clearly affected many in the crowd that hot August day. They wilted in the heat, dust and thinner air, which some exacerbated with excess amounts of alcohol. People staggered obnoxiously into each other in a crowd otherwise known for its peaceful coexistence.
“Nothing good about it. Dead in a dust bowl,” wrote one fan on a blog devoted to the Boreal Ridge show. “The altitude, Bobby’s equipment problem, the dust and Jerry’s sour mood lead to a disaster of a show.”
“It was hot and dry, and the elevation – ‘highest Dead show ever’ – took its toll,” wrote another.
Would it have been better, somehow, if the band had played in Mammoth? Just think of the marketing potential among forever-young aging Deadheads. They would make pilgrimages here to recall their fond moments among the Jeffrey pines. After all, Boreal Ridge wasn’t a disaster for all who attended, and the environment survived.
“I was at this show and had a blast,” wrote a positive fan. “The band certainly had an off-day music-wise, but the beautiful Sierra surroundings made for a pleasant experience.”
Well, the beautiful Sierra surroundings part was true for me, at least.
I like to imagine that if the Grateful Dead had played in Mammoth, I’d have been there, too, and it would been one of the best shows I ever saw.
I like to imagine Mammoth Lakes bootlegs as a must for every collection, stamped on the side with dancing bears or red-rose decorated skulls.
And if it had been an exceptional show, I like to imagine it would have made the historic Dick’s Picks CD archival series – the best of the best.
But that’s all over now, baby blue.
Today I’m told that the popular wisdom is that town council canceled the concert. However, they didn’t actually have authority to do that. What they did was express collective personal opinion, which boiled down to concern about the 20,000 to 40,000 folks who would be camping on forest service lands for the Dead show. I’m unclear why it would have to have been 20,000 to 40,000 people.
Despite enormous local support for the Grateful Dead in Mammoth, I’m told council may also have been swayed by community fear-mongers who latched on to the “riding that train, high on cocaine” lyric from “Casey Jones.”
A shame. They likely knew nothing at all about what was once an incredible scene. Their loss.
A version of this piece will appear in the Mammoth Times on May 14, 2009.
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