Contrary to what non-Deadheads might expect, conservatives across the country were saddened last Saturday to hear of the death of Bob Weir, Grateful Dead rhythm guitarist and the cute, preppie one.
Although a psychedelic, tie-dyed rock band out of Haight-Ashbury doesn’t seem synonymous with right-wing sensibilities, it was—a lot more than people probably think.
The Grateful Dead was supremely American. No other nation on earth could have produced music like this, a synthesis of blues, R&B, country, folk, rock, even a little jazz. Nowhere else would a band origin story be the following: The 16-year-old Weir and friends were bumming around Palo Alto on New Year’s Eve 1963, heard the sound of a banjo, and followed it to a music store where they happened upon Jerry Garcia waiting for his banjo students to show up. They never did, so Bobby and his friends picked up some instruments and played jug music with Jerry into the night. It was so much fun, Jerry and Bobby decided to form a band called Mother McCree’s Uptown Jug Champions, which became the Warlocks, and then the Grateful Dead.
Find that in Japan—find it in England.
Bobby himself was deeply American, a lover of cowboy culture. In fact, before meeting Jerry, he had worked as a ranch hand in Wyoming. Fortuitously, he spent his evenings in the bunkhouse with the old horsemen, playing guitar as they sang songs. Several of his own songs for the Dead, like “Jack Straw,” and “Mexicali Blues,” told cowboy stories, as did some of his staple covers, like Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried” and John Phillips’s “Me and My Uncle.”
The band was wildly individualistic and self-reliant. Long before the internet ended music studios’ role as gatekeepers, able to make or break musical careers, the Dead were off on their own, giving their music away and making money almost exclusively through their concerts—unheard of at the time. In their prime, they were among the highest-grossing band in the world.
The Dead’s stalwart fans would go to an entire run of shows in one town. Every night was different. Hardcore Deadheads followed the band from town to town, either as “trustafarians,” or supporting themselves by selling copyright-violating t-shirts (Memorex ad: “Is it live or is it Dead,” “Absolut Dead,” “Phils’ Bass Rippin’”), candles, jewelry, and frightening-looking “veggie burritos.”
Special tickets were available for a “tapers” section, allowing audiophiles to record the concerts from the floor, then give the tapes away. It was all about the concerts.
(While we’re on how creative Deadheads were, the “-head” thing is ours. Phish-heads (Phish), Parrot-heads (Jimmy Buffett), Crue-heads (Motley Crue), Diamondheads (Neil Diamond)—get your own names.)
Deadheads’ obsessive attention to detail is reminiscent of Talmudic scholars. The Deadbase, an encyclopedic set list of every Dead concert, minutely recorded how often a song was played first, last, preceding and following intermission; the first song after “Space”—i.e. rambling atonal sounds, or “time to get a beer for non-drug-takers”—which songs were played in which city, state, country, and venue. All this was compiled by the fans. Once only available in telephone book-sized volumes, now the database is available on the Internet.
You can find out, for example, that Weir was the lead singer on about a third of their songs, including the band’s first and second most performed songs, “Me and My Uncle” and “Sugar Magnolia.”
One oddity was the band’s ludicrously detailed instructions for ordering concert tickets by mail—requests had to be sent in a #10 envelope, holding a 3”x5” card with your name, address, phone number, plus the show requested and number of tickets; a money order for the precise amount; and a return envelope (also #10!), stamped and self-addressed. Finally, the envelope had to be postmarked on the day tickets became available. Failure to comply with any of these instructions would lead to rejection.
You’d imagine such exacting instructions for tickets to a gene-splicing seminar, not a rock band associated with psychedelics.
Deadheads’ Asperger’s-like characteristics would not be surprising to Critical Race Theory devotees, who claim characteristics like independence, self-reliance, hard work, and linear thinking are markers of “white supremacy.” It is at least true that, outside of a ski lodge hosting a croquet convention, you would be hard pressed to find so many white people in one place as at a Dead show. There was little else to distinguish them: college students, doctors, lawyers, politicians, hippies, and preppies—all well represented at Dead shows.
The fans were also eminently polite and conflict-averse—other supposed markers of white supremacy! When a “Greenpeace” sign flashed before a Dead show at RFK stadium once, some in my crowd booed. It was for our own amusement, but the people in front of us asked why they’d booed, purely out of curiosity. My friend explained, saying nuclear power was the cleanest energy and Greenpeace was against it. They listened attentively and said something like, “Cool, man,” then offered him a hit off a joint.
Unfortunately, the band did get a little political after Jerry died, holding concerts for Obama in 2008. Based on his own statements, it’s hard to believe Jerry would have gone along with this. He called the politics of the ’60s “lame,” saying it was the spirit of the time that was the important thing, and criticized bands like Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young for bringing politics into music.
Appropriately, Jerry’s last words to Bobby came as they were leaving what would be their final performance, on July 9, 1995, at Soldier Field. Jerry slapped Bobby on the back and said, “Always a hoot.”
Ann Coulter, American Conservative
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