It’s probably (or at least it should be) obvious to anyone that has read just a wee bit of my material that I’m a Deadhead. The Dead have been a part of my life for over 20 years. I was late to the show though, through no fault of my own. Being as how I was born in the heyday of the Grateful Dead’s existence, I didn’t have but a few years to enjoy seeing Jerry Garcia perform live. Yet I consider myself lucky. Even though Jerry was in failing health and battling addiction during those years I feel privileged to have seen him play, even if when comparing those 1990’s performances with previous years there were few nuggets worthy of attention.
And that’s why, when I had to consider the best show I had ever been to, I didn’t pick a Grateful Dead show. I went to some good Dead shows in the 90’s, and as you can read on my previous blogs I did include a performance from the 90’s. There were fine moments in all the shows I attended, but no, the best show I ever attended wasn’t a Grateful Dead show.
It was a Jerry Garcia Band show.
And I’m going to break the rules here, because they are mine to break. The best concert I have ever attended was a 2-night run of The Jerry Garcia Band at the Starlight Bowl in San Diego, CA, May 17th and 18th, 1994.
There’s a lengthy side story that goes along with these two shows. It involves my date both nights: a ½ Thai girl I took to the shows, the commander of a SeAL team in San Diego, a one-eyed Volvo, and coffee at 2:00 a.m. Stay tuned for that one.
For this final installment of 10 Shows, we’ll just stick to the concert—2 nights with JGB at the Starlight Bowl.
This was my first experience with what was essentially a scaled-down version of a Dead show. Granted the Starlight Bowl was no small venue, when compared to the monstrous scene that surrounded the L.A. Coliseum, Cal Expo, or the Silver Bowl, this was a very intimate experience. Nestled in the hills of Balboa Park above downtown San Diego, the venue and lot scene overlooked the city lights through groves of trees that ringed the parking area.
The crowd in general was much mellower than what I’d experienced before; they were more familiar and friendly. Although Dead show lots were always a fun scene, full of festivity and mostly goodwill, there always seemed to be a dark undercurrent lurking about. Whether it was the presence of undercover cops, heavy handed hustlers, or other nefarious folks that had intentions other than just having a good time, there was always a sense of needing to watch out for yourself in the lot of a Dead show. I felt none of that here.
Along with the more intimate vibe there even seemed to be a minimum of super-desperate fans cruising about and hanging by the gates, begging for an extra as the column of ticket-holding fans filed in. Only a few bedraggled-looking hippies held a finger aloft, waiting and hoping that someone would give up a miracle ticket. My date and I went inside and found our seats, about 1/3 down from the back of the venue and slightly stage left. As with most amphitheaters designed with the sole purpose of music in mind, there really wasn’t a bad seat in the place.
As the sky was nearly darkened the house lights came down and the crowd became jubilant. Garcia and the band came on.
“Jerry’s got purple pants on!” someone to my right screamed.
Jerry was known by this time for wearing almost exclusively black sweats and a black shirt. For whatever reason he mixed it up that night, the astute fan making note for any who didn’t notice Garcia’s change in attire. Jerry smiled sheepishly as the crowd went crazy, giving a restrained wave as he unceremoniously doffed his guitar and picked and strummed a few chords before breaking into a classic Jerry tune, Cats Down Under the Stars.
Jerry’s performance was far and above anything I had seen previously with the Dead. Soulful, engaging, and even a bit animated at times, Jerry was a completely different performer with JGB. Playing mostly rhythm and blues standards, old soul covers, and a smattering of his original work, JGB put on a show that effectively rewrote the book of what I thought I knew about live music. The interplay between he and John Kahn, the bass player, sounded as if the stringed instruments were conversing of their own accord, unaware that their strings were pulled and plucked with such mastery and precision by their owners.
The crowd continued its mellow demeanor in that it was completely entranced with Jerry’s performance. I scanned the crowd occasionally. There was nothing but smiles. A vibe that literally exuded peace and love flowed about, sent forth from the amplifiers to waft and weave and manifest exponentially throughout the venue. Someone in the upper reaches of the crowd meticulously blew up balloons, the kind party performers make animals from. Instead of poodles and giraffes he created complex geometrical designs that, once set aloft, maintained a steady height above the crowd, floating and bobbing and seeming to hover on the energy the crowd and band created.
Even the cluster of trees at either side of the stage seemed to bend and move and meld with the music, uncannily creating a heart shape over the stage as a light wind blew up the stands and through the crowd.
Garcia was on that night. The crowd was on. Everything about that show titillated my senses. As Jerry closed with the upbeat tune, Midnight Moonlight and exited the stage I realized something: I get to do this all over again tomorrow night.
Night two had the same vibe. We didn’t partake in much lot-cruising but instead headed into the venue straight away. Our seats were in roughly the same area and we sat and discussed the merits of the show the night before with those sitting around us. Everyone agreed that last night’s show was stellar. Everyone was hopeful for a comparable 2nd night.
We were not disappointed.
Jerry opened with a stirring rendition of How Sweet It is (To Be Loved By You,) which was standard Jerry-fare for the time period but a great song and opener regardless. This got the crowd smiling and spinning as the band segued into a reggae-tinged version of Stop That Train. The first set was shaping up nicely, and as it wrapped with an up-tempo Deal, a Grateful Dead staple, I collapsed to my seat and looked about the venue.
I got the Grateful Dead. I remember the moment they grabbed me. Unless you’ve been pulled into the fold it’s difficult to understand. Yet at that moment, between sets at the 2nd night of Jerry’s show at the Starlight Bowl in San Diego, my level of awareness and relationship with the music of the Dead, and specifically Jerry Garcia, went to another level. It was enlightenment.
The 2nd set rolled to a start with Shining Star, a cover I wasn’t expecting but spun expertly in Jerry’s unique way. The set was soulful and refined, running through Garcia’s songs and an assortment of covers before finally settling into the same closer as the night before—Midnight Moonlight. It was hardly disappointing to hear the song again- it was a fast-paced gem that roused the crowd and brought the energy to a zenith. As Jerry walked off and the house lights came on my first thought was when will I get to see him play again?
It was just weeks away luckily, and my summer was full of Grateful Dead-centric adventures. Yet no shows before or since could compare to those mid-week concerts in San Diego by The Jerry Garcia Band. Perhaps in the greater scheme of Jerry’s canon they are fairly insignificant performances: just an entry in Deadbase or a CD label tucked between the spring and summer Dead tours.
No matter. I realized a previously unidentified connection between music and the soul those nights; it is something that has remained with me since, and to this day, when I hear the soulful rasp of Jerry Garcia’s voice, more than a little something stirs inside me.
So that’s all folks- the 10 (well, okay, 11) best shows I’ve ever attended. Up next: I don’t know yet…
Well I’m getting down to the final few shows on this series of music blogs: 10 of my all-time favorite concerts. As I stated previously, these have been presented in no particular order. I tried to draw from the wide variety of shows I’ve seen while considering everything from the quality of the performance to the overall mood and experience of the show. The final three concerts (coming soon) are a culmination of these qualities and therefore I’m saving the best for last.
But, again, to continue the list in no particular order:
Lollapalooza I, Southwestern College/Devore Stadium, San Diego, CA 7/20/1991
I decided to include only one of the two Lollapalooza shows I attended in the 90’s; it was a difficult choice when deciding between the first and second incarnations of the travelling rock and roll circus. Line-up wise Lollapalooza II was definitely chock-full with bigger names: Red Hot Chili Peppers, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Ministry, Ice Cube etc. Additionally, they had quite a side-show going on in the concession area of Irvine Meadows which included a set by Rage Against the Machine. A line-up like that wasn’t something you could count on every summer.
Yet I settled on Lollapalooza I for my top 10 for many reasons. It was my first festival show; it was the first show I went to where my parents or friend’s parents didn’t drop us off/pick us up. Most of my extended circle of high school friends were there and throughout the festival, whether in line at the concessions or crammed against the stage, I ran into people I knew, giving the entire event a strange sort of familiarity. The entire day had the feel of the keggers we’d throw in the orange groves or at the house of whoever’s parents happened to be out of town for the weekend.
And let’s not forget the line-up. Although not nearly as full of household names as Lollapalooza II, there were some great bands there, all of which I had at least an interest in seeing:
Jane’s Addiction
Siouxsie and the Banshees
Nine Inch Nails
Butthole Surfers
Living Color
Ice-T and Body Count
Violent Femmes
Rollins Band
Rollins opened the festival. We had crammed up towards the front of the stage and could see Henry off behind a stack of amplifiers, jumping up and down and throwing punches, obviously psyching up for the set. A dozen or so hapless concert goers had set up blankets right up next to the stage, unaware of the fracas that would ensue as soon as Rollins took the stage. And ensue it did. The crowd went ape-shit when Rollins got on the mike. Droves ran in horror from the pit as blankets went aloft and the crowd degenerated into an old school punk rock free-for-all.
What a way to get the party started.
I wandered about the venue during the Femmes set. I recall a drunken Gibby Haynes from the Butthole Surfers going on an intelligible rant. Siouxsie Sioux, still the sexy beast, pranced about the stage in the same goth-style she helped create along with Robert Smith of The Cure in the early 80’s.
Nine Inch Nails “performed” a terse, 20 minute set… that is Trent Reznor proceeded to destroy all of the equipment on stage due to technical difficulties less than 30 minutes in. Guitars went flying, the keyboard was chucked into the drum kit, and Trent cursed and belittled the sound crew before storming off stage.
After a handful of his “traditional” rap songs, Ice-T brought out his metal band: Body Count. An epic moment and one of the first rap-metal crossover attempts, Body Count nearly stole the show.
Lyrics from the song, There Goes the Neighborhood summed it up:
Don’t they know rock’s just for whites? Don’t they know the rules?
All the aforementioned bands put on great sets, yet the absolute pinnacle of the show was Jane’s Addiction. As much as I hated sharing my favorite band, Jane’s had brought alternative to the masses. They had perfected the gritty, sardonic sound the Seattle bands came to be known for when members of Pearl Jam were still mucking about in Mother Love Bone. Jane’s had more polish and finesse though. Riding high on the success of Ritual de lo Habitual yet technically on their farewell tour, for a group of guys who, as I understand it at the time actually hated each other, well, Jane’s Addiction would of tore the roof off Devore Stadium had it had one. Go-Go dancers in gold lame body suits graced the wings, and, unlike their Seattle counterparts, Perry Farrell actually embraced the rock star persona.
I saw them over 20 years after Lollapalooza I, and save for a few wrinkles and a different bass player, it was the same intensity, stage presence, and unabashed rock and roll.
Driving home from San Diego north on Interstate 15 after the show, my friend Mike fell asleep at the wheel. Without warning he jerked the car towards the shoulder, yelling that a mattress had fallen out of the truck (there was no truck) in front of us. We talked Mike into letting me drive (I was the only other licensed driver in the car.) I took control and continued on without incident, Mike snoozing away in the passenger seat of his mom’s Sentra. I steered us home and relished in the fact that I had just seen the best concert of my life. That and I got to drive on the freeway for the first time.
And honestly, for a 16 year old, that was almost as exciting as the show.
Alice in Chains, Hollywood Palladium, Hollywood, CA 12/16/1992
This was probably the 3rd or 4th show I had seen at the Palladium. At age 17 I considered myself a seasoned pro as far as concerts went. In addition to shows at the Palladium, I’d caught gigs at the Palace, Irvine Meadows, Universal Amphitheatre and many other clubs, theatres, and stadiums throughout L.A. and Southern California. Usually overloaded with whichever friends were along for the show, I pushed my beat-up 1970 VW to its breaking point, navigating any number of southern California freeways depending on the venue.
Supporting the album Dirt, Alice in Chains was rising fast on the new popularity of the Seattle sound—a fluke in popular music that combined some of the anti-establishment sentiments and rough edges of punk rock with a traditional 70’s hard rock sound. Evolving somewhere between punk, hard rock, and metal, it was distorted guitars, combat boots, and long hair without any of the glam: better known as Grunge.
The lights came down and a huge banner behind the stage was subsequently back-lit. It depicted a Cheshire cat perched in the branches of a tree, a malevolent grin upon its face. Poor Alice was hanging from her neck by the feline’s tail. The twisted spin on the Lewis Carroll tale brought uproarious cheers from the crowd which escalated exponentially as the band stirred in the wings.
I managed to wiggle, squeeze, and worm my way up to the very front of the stage just as Alice in Chains came on. It was the closest I’d ever managed to get to the stage during a concert. Mere feet from now-deceased front-man Layne Stayley throughout most of the show, I absorbed the rock and roll aura that emanated forth. I banged my head of curly locks and was the epitome of a concert-going, shirtless tattooed youth—a generic caricature of the kids you see at concert films the world over.
Stayley was an engaging performer—at times he looked me straight in the eyes. Just inches from my face I could smell liquor and cigarettes on his breath as he belted out the tunes. I got several high-fives from him and Jerry Cantrell throughout their performance and just missed catching both a guitar pick and a drumstick that were chucked into the crowd towards the end of the show. The bean-pole behind me had a bit longer reach… dammit.
After an hour-plus set the band stepped off stage for a moment. Upon their return Stayley addressed the crowd:
“What do you guys want to hear?!”
With all my might, I screamed “Rooster! Rooster!” repeatedly. I loved that song. It wasn’t the hardest song in Alice’s repertoire by a long shot, but the insightful lyrics that mused of Layne’s dad’s time in Vietnam struck a nerve with me for some reason.
Layne looked straight at me.
“This kid wants to hear Rooster!” The crowd roared and he nodded at Jerry Cantrell. Thus it was decided. Thus I had decided the encore at the Hollywood Palladium that night.
Damn I love rock and roll.
