“Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.”
The Fourth Commandment suddenly came to mind recently when I came across Larissa Phillips’ Free Press article about the Grateful Dead. It’s all about following the dead and how the whole thing was like a giant, mobile, cheerful church.
I agree.
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Standing among thousands of other Deadheads, especially at the goosebump-inducing climax of a transcendent guitar solo from Jerry Garcia, I looked around the mesmerized crowd and thought, “If this isn’t religion, what is?” A religion without a fake, overrated, hugely disappointing ‘God’, and with real, talented, flesh-and-blood musicians to worship: who could ask for more?
Phil Lesh, Bob Weir and Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead perform at the Greek Theater in Berkeley, California on July 15, 1984. (Larry Hulst/Michael Ochs Archive/Getty Images)
Eric Clapton, Jerry Garcia, Elton John and Carlos Santana are my four musical gods. Broadly speaking, those of us who get on planes and fly across the country or across the oceans to see music belong to what I call the First Church of Song.
Seeing and following the Grateful Dead was part of this belief. I was lucky enough to see The Dead for shows around town in the New York City and Los Angeles area. I rode in cars to see individual sites in Foxboro, Massachusetts; Oakland and Ventura, California; Oxford Speedway, Maine; and Pittsburgh, Pa. I flew to see them in Buffalo and Chicago (twice).
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And then there were the “follows” – trips to multiple cities and locations: The Meadowlands, New Jersey, to Washington, DC (with a stop at the Garden State Arts Center, where the Neville Brothers opened for Jimmy Buffett) and the best follow of them all: Berlin to Frankfurt to Paris. Following the dead across Europe in 1990 was one of the highlights of my life.
Jerry Garcia, Donna Godchaux and Bob Weir perform with the Grateful Dead at the University of California, Santa Barbara on June 4, 1978. (Ed Perlstein/Redferns/Getty Images)
I am eternally grateful to my old high school friends John Adams, Gill Ilanit and Chris Wessling, who – appropriately enough – dragged me to my first Dead show on Good Friday 1987. The bones, skulls, and skeletons that abound in Grateful Dead iconography led me to conclude, with startling inaccuracy, that this was some kind of satanic death metal. I envisioned something like Black Sabbath, but even more devilish.
I strongly resisted my friends’ invitations, but they persisted. Finally, to stop their whining, I made a deal with them: “Okay. I’ll see your Grateful Dead. Just this once. And after that I don’t want to hear another word about them!’
‘Okay. Okay. Okay,” they agreed, probably giggling behind my back at the worm-adorned hook that was about to snag my upper lip.
Jerry Garcia, the charismatic leader of the Grateful Dead, died in 1995 at the age of 53. (Tim Mosenfelder/Getty Images)
So on a sunny afternoon in Southern California we went to the now defunct Irvine Meadows Amphitheater. We spent hours in a large parking lot, thoroughly entertained, while our fellow young Americans in tie-dye outfits played hacky sack, threw frisbees, and danced with their dogs to bootleg concert tapes. The faithful revered these as the Dead Sea Scrolls.
In her Free press article headlined “Who Needs God When There Are the Grateful Dead?” Phillips perfectly captured the historic moment when this colorful afternoon among the Deadheads unfolded:
“I imagine if you were deeply invested in it, it would have been hard to see the Dead go mainstream after so many years of being something of a secret society. In 1987, they produced their first Top 10 song, and things got crazy from there. MTV started playing the ‘Touch of Grey’ video. I saw frat-boy types wearing tie-dyes, and preppy kids from my suburban high school started going to shows.”
Jerry Garcia performs with the Grateful Dead at the Greek Theater in Berkeley on May 22, 1982. (Clayton Call/Redferns)
Yes, preppy kids, like many of my friends at Palisades High School in suburban Los Angeles. (We were college students and recent graduates at the time.) I was the most prepared of my team on April 17, but I was far from the only man on Top-Siders.
Around this time, Jerry Garcia reacted to his band finally entering the Billboard Top 10 club: “I’m shocked.”
The Grateful Dead (clockwise: Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Bill Kreutzmann, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, Mickey Hart and Jerry Garcia) pose for a photo in 1970. (Chris Walter/WireImage)
Back in Irvine, the all-encompassing festivities in the parking lots felt like the whole attraction. Actually it was just the overture. My friends were already satiated and reminded me that we were there to attend a concert.
As dusk approached, we finally went to see the Dead show. Instead of harmonies from hell, I heard the wonderful sounds of what I call “psychedelic country rock.” The music was fun, cheerful, upbeat and beautiful.
It was also known. I remember hearing “Dear Prophet” and asking, “Oh, that is a Grateful Dead song?” Also on the set list: “Truckin’.” I said, “I know this one. I heard it on the radio. Do the dead do this?”
Other songs were brand new to me. “Deal” was a raw closer to the first set that I immediately embraced and still cherish. “Friend of the Devil” and “Samson and Delilah” became instant favorites.
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The recently departed Bob Weir was a standout on rhythm guitar and vocals. I immediately fell in love with the keyboard wizardry and raspy voice of the late Brent Mydland. The late Phil Lesh quietly held things together on bass. Not one but two drummers – Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, both still alive – kept the percussion booming.
Honorees Bob Weir and Mickey Hart perform on stage at MusiCares Person of the Year Honoring The Grateful Dead at the Los Angeles Convention Center on January 31, 2025 in Los Angeles. (Jeff Kravitz/FilmMagic)
And then of course there was the first among equals, the late lead guitarist Jerry Garcia. Although he was only 44 at the time, decades of less-than-flawless living made him look about 80. He was our rock ‘n’ roll grandfather, and we were his grandchildren. His husky voice, soaring leads and peaking crescendos fueled pure, unfiltered ecstasy. With Persian rugs on stage among the wooden guitars and gear, the scene felt like Jerry’s living room. He was playing just for us. And even among the 16,000 or so fellow fans, the place couldn’t have felt more cozy or intimate.
At the end of the show Gill asked me, “What did you think?”
I laughed and replied, “Why didn’t you bring me sooner?”
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“I remember dragging you to that show and seeing you spinning around in the parking lot!” John Adams later remembered this. “Hilarious. Hooked for life.”
That was my first trip with the Grateful Dead.
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I returned for 70 more shows.
If this isn’t religion, what is?
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