Grateful Dead Overview

On a Friday night in 1989, the word started drifting through certain circles that a band called The Warlocks was putting on a show outside of Hampton, Virginia. Considering this was the Grateful Dead's original name (they changed it in 1965),... [more]

On a Friday night in 1989, the word started drifting through certain circles that a band called The Warlocks was putting on a show outside of Hampton, Virginia. Considering this was the Grateful Dead's original name (they changed it in 1965), many people along the eastern seaboard began scratching their heads, huddling together, wondering if something unique was about to occur. The brave ones, the "Deadicated" as it were, packed up and began driving. By Friday afternoon, that mecca of fast food and strip malls known as Hampton had been transformed. Every hotel was booked; every parking lot swarmed with VW buses sporting the "steal-your-face" insignia; every 7-11 teemed with men and women covered in tie-dyes and denim jackets. The Grateful Dead had arrived, and with them, a cultural phenomenon. Most people who had arrived early enough on Saturday procurred tickets to the show for both nights. Speculation abounded over what they would play. "Help-Slip-Franklin's," which they hadn't played in more than ten years? They couldn't bust out "St. Stephen" again, could they? Would they dare play "Dark Star"? For many people, these songs would merely be a distant memory of unremarkable tunes from early albums if it wasn't for the band's unique policy of allowing fans to tape their shows. Not known for their studio recordings, the Grateful Dead threw their music open to the people. To be a Deadhead was to have a trunk full of live recordings that spanned three decades. The band hadn't played many of the early songs in years -- not since their original spiritual leader, Ron "Pigpen" McKernan, died of cirrhosis in the early '70s. Why, then, were they booking a gig under their former name? What occurred inside the Hampton Coliseum that weekend would be one of the Grateful Dead's most historic moments. The first chords of "Dark Star" rang out across the crowded arena: soon, the music was drowned out by screaming Deadheads. For roughly half an hour they jammed this song, which hadn't been played in more than 20 years. Jerry Garcia's trademark picking meandered over the crescendos in the music. The Dead were at their finest -- grasping a melody, transforming it, improvising upon it, taunting the music into unforeseen directions. The Grateful Dead is a fusion band. Jerry Garcia, who originally emerged out of the bluegrass tradition, incorporated the idea of free-flowing jazz into a music grounded in straight rock 'n' roll. The idea behind it, born in the house they shared at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, was an affirmation of the free ideals of the 1960s. Friend of Neal Cassidy, the hero of Jack Kerouac's "On the Road," and driver of Ken Kesey's famous Merry Pranksters bus, the Grateful Dead had risen to popularity during the acid tests of the mid-1960s. Along with Big Brother and the Holding Company and Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead defined not only the West Coast '60s music scene, but the very concepts of what it meant to be a hippie. Unlike these other bands, the Dead survived. They dragged these ideals across decades, each year engaging a whole new generation of fans. With them came the drug culture, the road mentality, and the freedom from commercial and economic restraints. Many people left their jobs for months at a time, making money on tour by selling drugs or handicrafts. It was a micro-economy all to itself. So it is rather surprising that as the ideals of the '60s faded away, their popularity skyrocketed. Their single, "Touch of Grey," which had been played in concert years before its album release, hit the Top-40 chart in 1987. They began playing large arenas; many of the faithful took a backseat to new fans tucking recently bought tie-dyes into khaki slacks. Hence the Hampton show, a gesture to those fans who had stuck with them throughout the years. Their life span, however, wouldn't last too much longer. Jerry Garcia, a life-long drug addict, finally died in his sleep in 1995. Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Bill Kreutzmann, and Mickey Hart had once again lost their leader. The band immediately disbanded, ending one of this century's most unique cultural adventures. What a long, strange trip it had been. [show less]