Big fun in the ole vortex last night gang. With Bobby Weir and Ratdog surfing gnarly inter-dimensional cosmic bursts, I celebrated a slightly belated 35th anniversary of my first Dead show (Stonybrook University gymnasium, Halloween, 1970). In a small venue packed to the rafters with a mature, concert worn but upright band of disciples the band was as tight as a monkey wrench in a tattoo parlor.
My Dead Karma comes through again - I descended into Tripsville with no ticket in hand and hardly a plan other than relying on my luck and good looks. Well, my luck anyway. I mean shit, I have only been shut out of one, count em, one dead show in my illustrious career ? an insignificant show at a little known venue, the Fillmore East (the show has become a legend and memorialized on CD ? ?Ladies and Gentlemen...The Grateful Dead: Fillmore East New York April 1971?). A long story for another time. But last nights effort was daunting. I am getting way too old for this. As you can imagine, I don?t do the ?miracle? thing (for the neophytes, contact me for a definition), even the occasional ? ?anyone selling a ticket? is agonizing. Although I was looking fairly respectable one guy disgusted by my circumstance sneered at me. Motherfucker!
So, needless to say, I scored. Face value. Right before I was ready to hit the road. Sucky seat. One of the very few useless sections in the house. But I don?t need no stinking? seat! Right? So I temporarily settled into my lousy seat for the raucous Truckin? opener. Feeling like I needed an eye opener I surveyed the situation to see if it was safe to ?burn?. Even though there was a healthy quantity of burning going on I exercised my option to take my stash to Johnny during Rambling Rose. In this minuscule bathroom stall where someone just had his liver removed after releasing a weeks worth of Wendy?s, I took out my stash ? a truly microscopic roach that I couldn?t, for the fucking life of me, get lit. No way, no how. Motherfucker!
So back inside I found my place standing behind the last row of the orchestra seats next to the aisle, maybe forty feet from the stage. Nice! Feeling settled I took a few swigs off the bottle of Cognac I miraculously got by the venue?s exceedingly well trained, substance sniffing Gestapo - Motherfuckers.
While the band was weaving through the reverse black holes of an unbeluckingfeavable West L.A. Fade Away the guy in front of me lights up a bomber the size of my credit report. It took me half way through Big Boss Man to summon up the nerve to ask the guy for a hit (I don?t know what?s happened t me). This is after his passing it to every stranger in the row. I had my chance and took a smashingly large, double hit of what turned out to be very nice weed. So basically, I don?t remember what happened after that, but I can tell you that Bobby looks and sounds spectacular and I still want to have his children. The small horde of beautiful hippie women watching the show from behind the amps are, I am sure, planning the same as we speak. Do they truck these women in?
One small note ? the ?tour trolls? ? you know, the extremely dirty, stoned off their skateboards nine year olds that dominate the parking lot scene hawking scary looking tacos and begging for (free) tickets ? don?t seem to actually make it into the shows any more. I guess miracles are harder to come by than ever ? or not! Kiss me!
Truckin? Rambling Rose, West L.A. Fade Away, Big Boss Man, Black Peter, Sugar Mag, Dark Star, Bobby McGee, The Wheel, Broke Down Palace, a bunch of new stuff and who knows what else.