Meditation On A Tortured Yet Kind Soul
The first time I saw the Grateful Dead was either July 6th or 7th 1986 at RFK Stadium in D.C. They were on the bill with Bob Dylan who was being supported by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers on that tour. I was 15 years old and we had just moved as a family to the Northern Virginia area from Munich, Germany. I had really very little clue about many things peculiar to the United States and its various cultural and societal curiosities. I had spent most of my life in Germany and when visiting the U.S., basically experienced a very conservative, wholesome suburbia. I had heard the Dead only once before at my favorite record store in Munich after having confused them with a heavy metal band, due to their name and frequent use of skulls and skeletons in their album art. I was experimenting with Metallica, Maiden, Priest, Voivod, and the like at the time. I can’t remember exactly what album I brought to the listening station or what song the clerk set the needle to, think it might have been something off Europe ‘72, but the rotations on the record player were extremely short lived. I was absolutely aghast and couldn’t figure out who would listen to anything like that. Couldn’t tell if it was Country or Rock or Folk or whatever. I thought it was a total con job / a name like that with such imagery yet no distortion / no double bass / no lyrics about blood and guts and war / so quickly moved on to the next record, possibly Hirax or Raven or Lizzy Borden or some other ear splitting sound of the mid 80ies. I had a very similar experience, not on sound but on sight, when I saw Guns’n’Roses’ Appetite for Destruction record in the shelf the first time. I was like, cool, skulls and roses in the album art, maybe a variation on the Dead, picked it up, turned it around, and almost threw the whole thing against the wall. How dare any glam metal hair band pansies steal the imagery of the Grateful Dead. Fraud, Deceipt, Treachery! As it turned out not just the front cover art would be deceiving, they were everything other than a glam metal hair band.
My older brother had organized the tickets and when we arrived at the stadium area, bought us a couple 40ies of Schlitz Malt Liquor each at a nearby convenience store and we made our way to the stadium. I had no idea what to make of the strange spectacle we crossed through on our way / long haired freaks giving out hugs / tie dyed flags, drapes and shirts everywhere / school buses and other worn down vehicles with psychedelic paintings on them / and all this surrounded by the inner city grit of north east D.C. Both could not have been more removed from each other yet suddenly comfortably intertwined . This was at once my first experience with the Dead Head AND Urban Black culture. I could have just as well stepped into a parallel universe, wouldn’t have been any more bewildering. We proceeded to swallow down our 40ies / I got extremely shitfaced / really can’t remember much of Dylan or Tom Petty / and by the time the Dead started playing my brother and I were all out of it and left, about halfway through their first set. Still couldn’t figure out why anyone would listen to them and why on earth everybody seemed so ecstatic as they danced around wildly. Got a really cool shirt out of it, though, which I wound up wearing til the fabric became almost diaphanous and the print started flaking off.
When you are young, things change dramatically with every inch you grow and shortly thereafter made my acquaintance with the local freak milieu and their frequent use of psychedelics. The Dead realm became less and less exotic and I soon found myself at JFK Stadium with the Dead as Bob Dylan’s back up band. We had traveled down to the sold out Hampton shows in the spring, hoping for that miracle and somehow score a ticket or find that mystical hole in the wall or air duct to climb in and get in for free. We never actually did either, though wound up scoring the deal of a lifetime on some serious potent doses.
Haven’t heard or read much good about the Dylan and the Dead performances, and the one I saw in Philly wasn’t anything to write home about, either. We had gotten off to a late start from D.C. and basically missed the majority of the Dead’s earlier set. This was the first time I noticed Brent Mydland, though. Our seats were slightly catty-cornered up from stage right and we were basically looking straight down on his keyboard setup. I don’t know how tall of a man Brent is, but he always seemed tiny behind it. I can’t remember if this was the first time I actually registered his voice but what I did notice was his intense dance while seated on his bench, arms and legs flailing about, grabbing in to those keys like a man obsessed, reminiscent of the erratic movements of a silent movie actor, appearing that his very existence hinges on the sounds pouring out from his instrument.
Dear Mr. Fantasy / Hey Jude
The Dead were exploding in the late 80ies and when they came to town, getting tickets were not always a given. The shows would sell out really fast and money was scarce. We knew by then that something was always happening near the venues so we would head down there anyway, looking for adventure, trying to escape the monotony of our suburban lives, and hoping to score the occasional business opportunity which could finance our ever increasing habits for a few months while spreading the gospel of psychedelic mind expansion. I can’t remember exactly the next time I was able to afford, or be lucky enough, to purchase a ticket to get in, but do know that it was at the Capitol Center in Maryland. I was not quite on the bus yet and would not get that magical day-glo ticket until Pittsburgh ‘89, but I was fully aware of what being a Dead Head meant and was already pretty immersed in that scene. We were there for a few nights. It was during the latter part of the second set when Jerry Garcia struck up the first notes of Dear Mr. Fantasy. What followed was one of the most memorable live experiences of my life, a music video that will live in my mind forever. Brent delivered an intensely soulful and spine tingling vocal performance and the crowd went absolutely wild. He has a purely American voice, the kind born out of the boundary breaking invention of Soul, Blues, and Rock’n’Roll, and gritty with the wisdom of ages. He combines the soulful exuberance and intensity of Otis Redding, the heart wrenching world-weariness of Richard Manuel, and the fierce power and inflection of Bruce Springsteen. Dear Mr. Fantasy in it’s original form is more of an atmospheric hippy anthem with the protagonists seemingly looking to their pied piper to lead them out of their gloom and dreariness into a wild psychedelic frenzy. Brent‘s vocal interpretation on the other hand is much more in line with the live performance of Try A Little Tenderness from Otis Redding and by segueing into the latter part of Hey Jude the Dead give Brent a perfect vehicle for his inner soul man to shine. I will never forget how the crowed would react in sheer excitement every time Brent belted out Judie! Judie! Judie! Jude! Take a sad song and make it happy.
Cassidy
One of the great assets Brent brought to the band was his voice which blended in perfectly when harmonizing, and perfectly filling the void created by the departure of Donna Jean Godchaux. In the case of Cassidy he adds colors and textures which hadn’t been present before and helps transform the spirit of the song, adding a touch of timeless Americana to Bob Weir‘s soulful eulogizing lead and rooting it firmly in American mythology. Cassidy’s beat generation protagonist is joined by a ghost of Greil Marcus’ invisible republic / a trapper from James Fenimore Cooper’s undiscovered frontier / a cowboy riding out of the canvas of Frederic Remington’s untamed west. The child is not alone anymore / her faithful companion always by her side / lost but in good company late at night in his Cadillac / helping her to grow that scorched ground green / taking his hand to bid all farewell as he passes the words on to become her own. By adding his harmonies he took the detailed painting of an american classic and filled it with heart and soul.
Little Red Rooster
Now the set list of the Dead generally was improvised when it came to the exact song being played, yet they did keep a loose structure around the whole event, certain song combinations, and songs in itself. What might seem like a one off or wild improvisation was often a regular mainstay , not to be repeated from one night to the next, but being a part of the overall repertoire over the course of a tour, many tours, or whole segments of their career. One of these was the incorporation of Robert Johnson’s Little Red Rooster in their first set. Somewhere along the line Brent started adding somewhat of an expletive laden rant, which, from what I understand, annoyed a certain group of Heads. But when watching recordings from the last couple years of his life there seemed to be far more fans getting a kick out of him telling that cocksure cock-a-doodle off than those having a quick disruptive reality check in the middle of their ethereal kaleidoscope trip. Not too sure about it myself, but it is kind of fun watching him completely step out of character and lay down the law of the hen coop only to watch that little red rooster walk off with the proverbial tail between his feet.
I Will Take You Home
When the Grateful Dead released their final studio album in the fall of 1989, four out of the nine tracks were Brent songs, the most he had contributed so far on any record since joining the band. Unfortunately this creativity would be short lived due to him passing away just shy of a year later. From what I have read his additions are a little controversial, and I have to admit I was not much of a fan of this record when I first purchased it. But then again I basically never listen to their studio work anyway, even though I own every last CD thanks to the phenomenal collections of The Golden Road and Beyond Description. I have been enjoying their live repertoire more and more over the years and have a great affinity to their ‘89-’90 period, an era of peak performances only comparable to their Europe ’72, ‘74, and ‘78 shows. And over the years Brent’s songs have grown on me, starting with I Will Take You Home. I first took note of the song on their Dozin’ at the Knick release coming out of their second space on the second CD with Jerry’s guitar sounding like a french horn accompanying Brent’s heart felt ode to his young daughter. It can literally break your heart listening to this song, looking at a picture of his little girl sitting beside him behind his piano knowing he left this world the year after. For some reason I always picture Bruce Springsteen singing this song, impassioned as he can be on stage sometimes with his guitar hanging loosely upside down on his lower back.
We Can Run
Brent’s songwriting to me always sounded a bit like an 80ies soft rock version of the Boss and I don’t necessarily mean that in a negative sense. He was only 26 when he joined the Dead in ‘79, and 37 when he died, a time period during which Bruce went from insider tip to american icon, making him more of a contemporary to Brent than the rest of the band. And John Perry Barlow‘s lyrical style of the time kind of emphasizes that notion, having left the psychedelic and mythological elements he often chose for Bob Weir‘s songs behind and adopting a more straight forward commentary on life, love and society. Both styles combined were rather untypical for the Dead yet they worked it into their DNA live. A good example for this is We Can Run, a song about the mismanagement of our planet, resources and relationships. The future of our children’s children is in mighty danger but Brent manages to redeem us with his bluesy soulful voice. The chorus becomes a perfect vehicle for the bands harmonizing skills. The final a capella run through is pure magic. Unfortunately he started to develop a habit of forgetting parts of the lyrics, a sign of the tragic things to come.
Just A Little Light
Just A Little Light is definitely rooted in the 80ies / evoking the imagery of the time / giving the soundtrack to the glaring colorful lights on a rainy night in some urban setting / maybe as Christopher Lambert roams aimlessly as the Highlander through the streets of New York contemplating his eternal existence / or as a drug fueled Robert Downey Jr. cruises together with Andrew McCarthy and Jamie Gertz in their open top convertible down the Sunset Strip and up through Mullholland Drive. The song does have elements that would have lent themselves to further explorations and I often wonder what could have become of it if the band had improvised on it over time as they did with many of their other classics. Brent Mydland was a tragic figure and remains in character, becoming a disillusioned warrior being confronted by the light of love, wanting to give and to receive it, yet wondering if it ever will ignite.
Blow Away
Of all of Brent’s songs on built to last Blow Away would become the showstopper. Not necessarily because of the song itself or it’s lyrical theme, an average meditation on the missed possibilities of a relationship gone south, but because of the vehicle it became for Brent‘s inner soul man to shine again, Otis Redding reemerging in the wild eyed body of a bearded hippy preacher from the left coast commanding the crowd to not keep their love clenched up in their heart but to let it burst out for all frustrations and pain to blow away. A Grateful Dead show was always an event of its own, a party with lows and peaks, moments of disorientation and pure ecstasy, and in this case communal embrace of love.
Brent’s time with the Dead was my time with the Dead. That was when I discovered them, learned to accept, understand and love them. That was when they entered my blood stream and became ingrained in my consciousness, influencing my life in a way I could never have imagined. When I heard he died it was like a little bit of me left with him. I know for the fans of the generation before he might not have been that important and to some even an irritant, but for me and the hordes of new heads that would come into the fold during the turmoil of the late ’80ies and 1990 he was an integral part of the sound and experience. I do miss him along with Jerry. It wasn’t clear to us then but looking now at the videos of that era you can see in his eyes what a tortured soul he must have been. I hope he has found his peace somewhere out there in the great wide open. Give him just a minute and he will give you back a little sweetness, just a little light.