November 2, 2011


It may be some time before my next post - I'm having some delays and don't have much free time for writing these days. I've started on a very long post, but it may be several weeks before I'm finished. Sorry about the wait!

UPDATE: At this point I don't think I can post again until January.

UPDATE #2: I am busier than expected this month, with many things to attend to. But I will try to post something by the end of January. I hope my next posts will make up for the long delay...

October 18, 2011

The Dead In The Studio, 1966

Those of you hoping for a painstaking breakdown of all the instrumental takes from the Dead’s Scorpio sessions are going to be disappointed! I’m actually going to discuss a different set of studio demos the Dead did in 1966, which have mostly not been released, may not even exist anymore, were never mentioned by the Dead as far as I know, and as a result are very little-known.

Our main lead comes from Rock Scully’s book Living With The Dead:
Scully: “In July [1966] our first single comes out on a small local label, Scorpio Records: Don’t Ease Me In with Stealin’ on the B-side, both recorded in John Estribow’s attic. Estribow was a friend of the band who had a small label with almost zero distribution… We do quite a few demos in ’66 – the above plus Otis On A Shakedown Cruise, an original rocker, and the old country traditional Silver Threads & Golden Needles. We owe these demos to Dan Healy, a friend of ours who is a technology wizard and has done amazing things for Quicksilver.
Healy works at a place called Commercial Recorders, in a turn-of-the-century firehouse on Natoma Street. The studio is closed at night, but Healy sneaks the band in to make tapes… It is at Commercial that the Dead make demos of many of the songs that will appear on our first album. A few arrangements of traditional tunes, two or three of our own songs, and that’s pretty much it…
Dan Healy also has the midnight-to-six shift at KMPX, and often plays the single and the demos. KMPX does not have a strong signal at the time – the police band probably has more listeners – but this is the onset of our music being played in the middle of the night…
The band is eager to take the next step – an album! – and so we hustle up more demos. Coast Recording, on Bush Street, is a big, boomy place, a former church at which Bing Crosby once recorded. There we do a bunch of demos including Early Morning Rain (with Phil singing lead), Silver Threads & Golden Needles, and a take of Otis On A Shakedown Cruise.”

It’s well-known that Scully’s book has numerous accuracy issues – but a lot of this story has actually been confirmed. Scully tends to be more reliable in the early years of the band’s history, and I suspect many of the hyperbolic descriptions, dialogues, misstatements etc. are due to the co-author (David Dalton) creatively rewriting what Scully told him.
For instance, this is one line from the book where Scully discusses the band’s early-’66 repertoire in Los Angeles:
“They’d written a song a year earlier, Otis on a Shakedown Cruise, a 2 ½-minute rock & roller that was the B-side of their first independently released single (as the Warlocks).”
Obviously bogus. The Warlocks never released a single, let alone a B-side!
And yet, this is from an actual Scully interview (with Blair Jackson) where he talks about their L.A. trip: “They had a couple of originals, like Otis on a Shakedown Cruise, which was this wonderful song that I think Pig and Jerry mainly put together. There must be tapes of it around somewhere. We were going to put it on as the B-side of Don't Ease Me In.”
Now it makes sense. Otis is a real song (both Jerry and Phil have referred to it), and is almost certainly You Don’t Have To Ask, which is a song they put together in Los Angeles and recorded at the Scorpio sessions. (See the comments to my “1966 Songs” post.) It actually would have been a good choice for the Scorpio single, so I imagine there may have been some heated band discussion about the song choices before they ended up with two old jugband tunes…
In short, Scully can be more reliable than his book makes him appear. So how does his story about the other 1966 demos hold up when cross-checked with other sources?

Dan Healy was indeed an engineer at Commercial Records studio - he said in an interview with Sandy Troy: “Along about 1963 I moved into San Francisco and got a job in a little recording studio called Commercial Records. It’s defunct now. At the time it was the state-of-the-art studio in San Francisco. It had a 3-track tape recorder on half-inch tape. That was big time in those days, when 4 tracks were really rare… I worked days in this studio.”
Healy confirmed briefly that he did tape bands in the studio after-hours: “Because I was working in a studio which only operated from daylight to dark (8:00 to 5:00), after they locked up the studio at night we’d sneak in and record. So I would take all the bands in there. That was really a good trip.”

The book Skeleton Key also mentions: “Healy would sneak the Dead into Commercial Recorders at night, and they would record until dawn. Top 40 AM radio wouldn’t touch the tapes, because the Dead were an unsigned band, but Healy took them down to KMPX-FM and played them on his late-night radio show. Word got around that KMPX was playing some interesting music at three in the morning…”
(I don’t know what their source here is, but it’s probably not Scully’s book, since this was published over a year before Living With The Dead was.)

I haven’t read elsewhere about Healy’s KMPX radio show; but it’s not unlikely, as Healy’s first love was radio. He had built himself a little radio station in grade school, and his first job in San Francisco was maintenance work at KSFO. It’s quite curious to think of what unreleased Dead demos might have been played on the nightly airwaves as early as mid-1966…

In any case, Healy had met the Dead at their Fillmore shows of June 3-4, when they opened for Quicksilver. Being an engineer, he was appalled by the state of the Dead's PA system when he first saw them. "From working in a studio, I was used to pretty good sound… The PA for rock & roll shows was almost nonexistent; it was just terrible. On each side of the stage there’d be a little teeny box about 1 foot by 2 feet, and when the bands played you could barely tell the system was on. You could never really hear or understand the vocals."
As he told the story to Blair Jackson:
"I originally met the Grateful Dead via John Cipollina at a Quicksilver gig at the Fillmore, where the Dead were opening... It was during the Dead's set that we showed up, and the music had just stopped. There was no such thing as 'spare equipment' for the band in those days. Oftentimes, if an amp died, it could stop the whole show. I think in this case it was Phil's amp that died... So Cipollina basically shoved me up there, and I fiddled a little with Phil's amp, and it started to work. At the end of the show, Phil and Garcia walked up to me and said 'Hey thanks man' and all that, and we introduced ourselves...
I remember making some crack to Phil and Garcia about how the sound system really sucked, and Garcia sort of challenged me... I said, 'All right, you're on.' The next time they were going to play was about two weeks later, also at the Fillmore, so before that I went around to the three major places in the area that rented sound equipment, and I got all this stuff from them, and I took it to the Fillmore…" Healy patched up a new system for the Dead, which worked: "It was a horrible-looking monstrosity, but when the gig came, you could hear the singing."
(A more detailed telling is in the Grateful Dead Gear book, p. 41.)

Healy told Troy a little about his studio career over the next year, while he was fixing the amps and rigging up new sound systems for Quicksilver and the Dead:
“I was never really with [the bands] – I was actually independent, working in the studios and making tapes. I wasn’t deeply involved in doing PA systems…my career was in the recording studio… But I was interested and concerned that these guys have good sound systems and be heard, because it was cool music…It outraged me that they were being burnt off by horrible sound systems…
By [mid-1967] I had logged quite a bit of time in recording studios – three or four years of ass-kicking, everyday studio use doing a lot of commercial jingles, and some rock & roll songs. I recorded Paul Revere & the Raiders, a couple of old hit records, and obscure local San Francisco hits… I had outgrown the studio I was working in, in San Francisco. Several of the groups had asked me to take them into the studio, and I was using everybody’s studio because these were record-company situations. I would just go rent the time and take the group in. I was using Coast [Recorders], Golden State, and another small studio [Columbus Recording] that was built for the Kingston Trio… Since I was using other studios, I had quit my job at Commercial Recorders. They were into lots of commercial work, and I wanted to get more into music production… By then I was traveling with [the Dead] and doing sound live at gigs, so I went to L.A. with the band…to work on Anthem of the Sun.”

Blair Jackson noted in his Grateful Dead Gear book that there were few studios to choose from in San Francisco as of 1966, and most bands used four studios: Commercial Recording, Columbus Recorders, Coast Recorders, and Golden State Recorders.
The Dead had recorded their Emergency Crew demo for Autumn Records at Golden State back in 1965, and apparently never returned. Commercial Recording was Healy’s home studio in 1966, and where the band spent some midnight hours that year. Columbus Recorders was where they finished Anthem of the Sun in 1968. Coast Recorders was little-used by the band, except possibly for the ’66 demo session Scully recounts; Blair Jackson speculates that they may have recorded some of the Scorpio sessions there as well.

Scully’s details about the Scorpio sessions are mostly accurate, except that Gene Estribou was not really a “friend of the band.” Estribou had built a home studio called Buena Vista Studio on the fifth floor of his house – he was a local music fan who wanted to form his own record company, had good recording equipment, and had recorded some demos with other bands like Big Brother.
The Dead, though, did not have a good time recording – Weir was very irritated about hauling the band’s gear up to the fifth floor; Lesh dismissed Estribou as a “dilettante”; and Garcia summarized the sessions: “we never got in on the mixing of it and we didn’t really like the cuts and the performances were bad and the recordings were bad and everything else was bad, so we didn’t want it out…it doesn’t sound like us.”
Estribou himself also had a hard time: “It was an effort to get out of the zone of indecision, as you can imagine. The early Dead was trying to find themselves…and get a product out, when Phil wanted to do one thing and Jerry wanted to do another… So it was frustrating for everybody, but we had to get something finished rather than nine thousand hours of shit that was unusable.”
Even Estribou’s hopes for his record label came to grief when it turned out that there was already a Scorpio Records in San Francisco!
And as Scully says, he had almost zero distribution. It seems only 150 copies of the Scorpio single were printed, and mostly vanished. Garcia said, “Those records never went on sale. That was a guy who was starting his own record company, but he didn’t really have any connections, so it’s not as if that single was released to any stores apart from maybe one or two in Haight-Ashbury. The Psychedelic Shop probably had 20 or 30 of them.”

One sidenote is that Estribou said he took the band to Western Recording to finish recording for the single. But Blair Jackson suggests that, since Western Recording was actually in Los Angeles, they more likely went to Coast Recorders. This seems to dovetail nicely with Scully’s recollection that the band recorded some demos at Coast, though with Estribou at the helm rather than Healy.
(The Scorpio sessions are covered in more detail in the Taping Compendium vol. I p. 110-112, and the book Grateful Dead Gear p. 36-38.)

The final confirmation for Scully’s story came with the release of Rare Cuts & Oddities. We knew You Don’t Have To Ask had been recorded at the Scorpio sessions; Early Morning Rain had been part of the 1965 demo (and was still in their live set as of November ’66). But a studio demo of Silver Threads & Golden Needles? Impossible.
And yet, there it was, on the Rare Cuts CD, sounding nice and professional. (It’s the one track on the CD dated “late 1966,” hence possibly the only one not recorded by Bear. Where Bear recorded his studio tracks earlier that year is unknown.)

Unfortunately, it’s hard to say how much more of their 1966 demos might survive. Their reels were not well-taken care of at the time, and the survivors are locked up in the Vault with little chance of release.
David Lemieux talked a bit about his selection for the Rare Cuts CD, from a box of mostly unlabeled old reels from Bear’s collection:
“It was about 15, 20 reels of tape. Some were blank. Some were garbage. Some were what you hear… We originally focused on a two-disc set and what I was finding at that point was material that was a little less compelling, that one disc made it absolutely perfect.”
For early Dead collectors (or historians), it’s not too joyful to hear that Rare Cuts could have been a 2-CD set, but they decided one disc would be stronger! A very few more selections have also been aired on the Taper’s Section (listed in my “1966 Songs” post), but how much more remains in the Vault is a mystery.

There are a couple more circulating tracks of Pigpen’s songs that may come from the 1966 demos. There’s a very nice studio cut of Smokestack Lightning (somewhat improbably paired with the Anthem sessions on the Archive), and there is a great 1966 recording of Who Do You Love which circulated on tape, but sadly seems unavailable digitally.

Of course the Dead were not doing all these studio recordings just for the joy of hearing themselves, or for the delight of posterity. While Bear had a mania for taping the band for his “sonic journals” and playbacks, the studio time must have had a more specific purpose. What was the band doing making basically a vanity record for Gene Estribou and his tiny record label anyway?

Scully hints at the reason, when talking about the Dead’s mid-’66 demos:
“Suddenly antennae begin twitching in glass & steel skyscrapers in L.A. Corporate dogs are sent to sniff around. Talent scouts in sharkskin suits, getting on planes and showing up at the ballrooms. All of the major record labels virtually overnight establish branch offices in San Francisco. And we begin to attract serious attention from the L.A. pack. Tom Donahue…talks Warner Brothers into checking us out… Tom Donahue is making trips down to Warner Brothers himself on behalf of [his label] Autumn Records, and mentions us to them. We are a little wary of getting involved with a major label, but over the next few months we warm up to the idea. Then Warners starts sending people to come and hear us. Early summer of ’66 some executives from Burbank make several trips from San Francisco to see us play.”

This is more or less accurate (though major-label interest in the Dead and the SF scene may not have been quite so intense as early as mid-’66).
Although Tom Donahue had rejected the Dead for Autumn Records back in fall 1965, his opinion of them had gone up considerably since then. Unfortunately, Autumn Records had also gone into deep decline in the meantime, and the company ended in early 1966.
Donahue said, “We got into desperate trouble. The studio had locked us out for the $10,000 we owed them and they were holding all our tapes. So we made a deal with Warner Bros. Records and sold them all our acts.”
In August ’66, Donahue urged his friend Joe Smith (promotional director at Warner Bros) to see the Dead at the Avalon (on Aug 19 or 20). The story was recounted in the book San Francisco Nights –
Smith remembered: “They were playing this weekend at the Avalon and I was supposed to meet them late, after the gig… So there we were, walking up the steps of this startling place, and there were these kids lying around painting each other’s bodies, and all these lights and smells everywhere. Somebody wanted to dance with my wife. I told her, ‘Don’t come with me to meet the band. You must understand.’ The Grateful Dead: even the name was intimidating. What did it mean? No one knew.”
Donahue: “Joe told me that night, ‘Tom, I don’t think Jack Warner will ever understand this. I don’t know if I understand it myself, but I really feel like they’re good.’ I told him, ‘You’ve got to sign them, because this is where it’s going.’”
Smith: “I was talking to all of them. They always moved in a phalanx, and the ones I really remember were their managers, Rock Scully and Danny Rifkin. Those two were scammers from eight miles back. I could figure them out…the others were out in space somewhere. Garcia was the most visible, but he refused to speak for the group. Pigpen never said ten words, and Lesh was very nasty, constantly negative, because I was a record-company guy and he was a serious musician. We had this conversation about the right kind of equipment to record with, and I later found out that the stuff they wanted hadn’t been invented yet. Lesh felt they were selling out by not getting it… I told them I wanted them, that we were a good record company. That was before I found out that to them, every record company was square. They lived in terror of being ripped off.”

Nonetheless, both sides were interested enough to get a contract discussion going, and just a month later, September 30, the contract with Warner Bros was settled. (Though the Dead themselves hesitated to sign it until December!) The recording sessions for their first album down in Los Angeles soon followed.

So the Dead may have had a couple purposes in recording various studio demos in mid-’66. Possibly they were more eager to sign to a major record label than they let on, and wanted to have good demos available to offer (plus a nice ‘indie’ single to their name). Just as likely, they were checking out the various small, local post-Autumn Records labels in San Francisco, in the belief that they would have more control over their music and releases than they would on a major label. If so, the Scorpio Records experience that summer would have been a letdown, and may have been one reason they ended up signing to Warners so quickly. (Note Lesh’s interest in getting the right recording equipment!)
Scully suggests that even before Warners came knocking, the Dead had been hoping to record an album – at that stage, their studio disillusionment had yet to arrive, and a studio album would have seemed an obvious step. But who would record and release it? It must have seemed like a happy stroke of fate that Joe Smith would turn up shortly after the Scorpio single was dropped into an uninterested world. And the promises of unlimited studio time, complete creative control, RCA Studio facilities, and the same engineer who’d recorded the Rolling Stones, must have been quite tantalizing after lugging their amps up to Estribou’s fifth-floor home studio and sneaking into Healy’s commercial studio after dark…

September 29, 2011

The Dead & Glastonbury Fair

In June 1972, two triple albums came out that included live, unreleased Grateful Dead music. The Fillmore: The Last Days album featured Casey Jones & Johnny B Goode from the Dead’s 7/2/71 concert at the Fillmore West, a year earlier. But deadheads in the US might not have known that in the UK at the same time, a Dark Star from the recent European tour was also being released on an obscure, limited-edition triple-album commemorating the Glastonbury Fair in June 1971.
The Europe ’72 album would not be released until November, as the Dead spent months overdubbing their live tracks in the studio – but while they were still in Europe, the Dead had mixed and donated this Dark Star specially for the Glastonbury album. While the Dead were quick to play benefits and festivals, they almost never offered their live performances for release on compilation albums. In fact this would be the last live recording they donated to anyone, and the only non-overdubbed Europe ’72 performance to be released, until the mid-‘90s.
An interesting tale lies behind this Dark Star...

Our story begins back in 1971, when the Dead flew to France. As Phil Lesh wrote, “One day in June ’71 an offer came in out of the blue for us to play a big festival near Paris... Someone must have decided that it would be hip to have at least one American band; why they chose us I’ll never know. Nonetheless, we jumped at the chance. Upon arrival, we learned that the festival had been rained out...”
Bill Kreutzmann recalled the next year: “We tried to play once in Paris. The festival was rained off, and we ended up playing for the local farmers and little kids… We just had a giant party.” They were staying at the Chateau d’Herouville for a few days, and although they didn’t do any recording in the new studio that was on the premises, they did play a spontaneous solstice show on June 21 for the residents of Herouville. It was a party the Dead would fondly remember.

Over in England, another solstice festival was starting up: the Glastonbury Fair, which ran from June 22-26. The Glastonbury promoters had the same idea as the French promoters – a big rock festival just wasn’t complete without the Grateful Dead! So the Dead were invited. Unfortunately, though it would have been but a short trip to England from France, they decided not to go, and just flew home.
As was written in the Book of the Dead (printed in London, May ’72): “Last summer there was a surprise flight to Paris to play a festival that was rained off. It was hoped then that they might play at Glastonbury. ‘We didn’t go because somebody told us it was a sea of mud, and we weren’t about to take our equipment through that, having just been rained out in Paris,’ says Phil Lesh. They were disappointed; they’d like to play at Glastonbury, it is one of Lesh’s special projects, but as Garcia says: ‘It just didn’t seem right at the time.’”
As it turned out, the Glastonbury Festival went quite well, with good sunny weather, joyous hippie crowds, and free music. As one newsletter reported: “For the people who came it was all they could have asked for. About 8,000, together for nearly a week to hear 35 groups, sit in the sun, get stoned, make love, and roam around in the beautiful countryside – all for free… Even though the long-awaited and much-talked about superstars The Dead, Airplane, CSN&Y etc, never actually made it, the music was very good and continuous.”

The Dead actually shared a lot of the mystical ideas that lay behind the Glastonbury festival.
This site describes the original festival –
Andrew Kerr, who organized the festival, said, “There seemed to be a need for a truly free festival. All the others had some profit motive behind them.”
A contemporary news article wrote that Kerr chose Glastonbury as the site because “Glastonbury Abbey is supposed to have been built as a spiritual successor to Stonehenge, and in accord with the same hidden elements of geometry and numerology… [Kerr] claims he is trying to recreate a prehistoric science, whose huge energies are not recognized by modern society.
“His ideas are based on the writings of antiquarian John Michell, who in a book called The View Over Atlantis, recently elucidated the spiritual engineering which, he says, was known over the ancient world. All bodies in the universe, according to Michell, give off natural energy… At the summer solstice, energies from the planets, the sun, and the constellations are at their height. The earth gives off energies through certain valves in its surface, called blind springs. The Great Pyramid in Egypt, Stonehenge itself, and the great pre-reformation Gothic churches were designed to accumulate this terrestrial current, to conduct the solar spark and fuse the two.
“For the festival, Kerr has had his own pyramid of steel girders built over a blind spring…exactly a tenth of the size of the Great Pyramid… ‘Imagine,’ says Kerr, ‘we’re going to concentrate the celestial fire and pump it into the planet to stimulate growth… I am sure we shall all experience something very wonderful.’”

Lesh had a synchronous experience in France during the days the Glastonbury fair was being put together: “For some time, I had been reading in an alternate history of consciousness…that earlier cultures might have been vastly more advanced in some areas of wisdom than we. The research I’d been doing in sacred geometry and ancient earth science had revealed the existence of a completely new perspective on spiritual history, especially the knowledge that many Christian holy places in Europe…had been erected over ‘pagan’ sites of worship, and those in turn were sited upon or near places of geomantic power, involving currents of telluric energy and underground springs.” Lesh visited the Notre Dame cathedral, as one of these sites of power.

On arriving in England in April 1972, Lesh and Garcia lost no time in visiting Stonehenge and Glastonbury, and were particularly impressed by Glastonbury Tor, an ancient hill used as a place of worship in medieval times. Lesh wrote that they “had become fascinated by the lore and legend surrounding this area, and while on the road had shared many books about its connection with Arthurian legend.”
McNally writes that Lesh had started studying “John Michell, who was the contemporary father of geomancy, the study of ley lines, lines of magnetism and power on earth. Ley lines form a grid on the earth that connects megalithic power spots like the ancient stone circles. It was upon these sites that old English churches were frequently built, which was how early Christianity co-opted the ancient Druidic/goddess religion.”
Per the Book of the Dead, on Sunday, April 9, "Phil Lesh went to talk to flying saucer expert John Michell."
Steve Silberman writes how Lesh & Garcia toured England’s ‘sacred sites’ and “hung out with author John Michell, whose book The View Over Atlantis impressed them with its meditations on ley lines, vectors of power running through particular locations on the earth – a phenomenon they’d noticed themselves, musing on why they seemed to play better in certain places.”
Lesh was quite taken by Stonehenge: “It clarified my whole idea of trying to put our music into a place, how it would change. How it could be different. And the whole concept of places of power…so much consciousness poured into it, that it still vibrates.”

The Dead wouldn’t put this idea into action until Egypt ’78, with dubious success. But it is obvious how much Lesh’s ideas were in accord with Andrew Kerr’s, and why Lesh would have regretted not playing at the Glastonbury festival! As late as 1981, Lesh visited the Glastonbury site and (Alan Trist writes) “examined the pyramid stage built on the line from Stonehenge to Glastonbury Tor and scaled to some fraction of the Great Pyramid.” Lesh says he was hoping “to discuss the possibility of playing the famed festival at midsummer, our contemporary version of Druidical solstice rites. Alas, it never happened…”

Kerr had located the Glastonbury Fair stage according to the principles of ‘sacred geometry’: the stage site, he wrote, “is linked to Stonehenge, the Glastonbury Zodiac, and the great cosmic pattern of ley lines and energy points,” and he built the pyramidal stage so it would be in alignment with the sunrise and the constellations. “The stage at Glastonbury Fair was built in the form of the Great Pyramid on a powerful blind spring in the hope that it would draw to it beneficial astrological influence into our tired planet. We hoped that people would go away feeling a lot better for the experience, more creative, happier, and more appreciative of the wonders of the Universe…”

In organizing the festival as a free event, Kerr and the other promoters had lost quite a bit of money. Kerr wrote, “Unfortunately you can’t put on anything these days without it costing a lot of money… All the bread it took up to now has been given without thought of any profit. Everyone gave their ability, their energy, their love… If you have any more to give, it would make us feel even better. Glastonbury Fair has started something which must not be allowed to stop. The energy, the ability, the impetus can now be used to do more research… Solstice Capers Limited are forming an ecological trust which will enable nuts like us to continue the experiment. We hope to acquire an island off the west coast of Scotland where we can play music to the land and learn to live in harmony with the Universe…”

In early 1972 Kerr had the idea of putting together an album of music by the bands who’d played at Glastonbury, as one way of raising the money. (A film of the festival was also being edited, and was released in May ’72.) A number of bands were contributing tracks – and though the Dead hadn’t even played there, Kerr asked them as well!

The Book of the Dead tells us that when the Dead came to England in ‘72: “In London this time they were approached by Andrew Kerr, who organised the Festival at great financial loss, to lay down some tracks for the double LP he is putting together to recoup money. Garcia and Lesh both hope the band can do it, if they aren’t too wasted by months on the road…”

The Dead decided not to wait til they were back in the US, but arranged some studio time on their return trip to London in May. Blair Jackson writes: “There was a plan afoot before the tour for the Dead to spend a few days in London after the Lyceum shows, to do some recording at Olympic Studios, but that was abandoned early on. The British engineers they wanted to work with weren’t available, and besides, they’d just recorded their entire tour and had the prospect of wading through…17 miles of tape.”

It’s interesting to speculate what the Dead might have recorded – a studio version of He’s Gone or other new songs? – but they used the London studio time to select and mix one of the live tracks they’d taped.
Alan Trist writes that while they were playing at the London Lyceum in May, “Garcia, Matthews and I went down to a studio in Soho to mix a track from the earlier Wembley Stadium concerts… John Coleman of Revelation Enterprises was producing an album to benefit the empty coffers of Solstice Capers, the organizers of the previous year’s inaugural Glastonbury Fair. We were on our way with a contribution from the Dead…
The year before, a visionary Englishman, Andrew Kerr, had put forward the idea that a festival in the heart of Southwest England’s megalithic countryside would be attractive to the band… They couldn’t make it in 1971, but now they agreed to donate a 24-minute Dark Star as part of a commemorative album to help the Fair continue.”

The resulting Revelation Enterprises release, Glastonbury Fayre, turned out to be a lavish triple-album set:
There’s a link there to the allmusic review – and there’s also a very wordy review of the album here:

It’s said that only 5,000 copies were distributed in the UK, making the original album a rare collector’s item. As the review says, it was “released in the summer of 1972 with the aim of clawing back some of the money lost in the throwing of the ‘first’ Glastonbury festival…and featuring music recorded at that event along with donated contributions from other sources by artists who had played or were sympathetic to the cause.”
There was a mix of live and studio tracks from artists who’d played at the 1971 festival like Hawkwind, Gong, and the Pink Fairies (only some of which had actually been recorded at Glastonbury), and donations from other luminaries. The Grateful Dead took pride of place on side A.

The Dead’s track, titled ‘Dark Star…bury’, was 24 minutes of the Dark Star from 4/8/72.
Now this is famed as one of the Dead’s peak Dark Stars, with an ending that defines the heights they could reach. It’s also one of the only non-Live/Dead Dark Stars that’s been the subject of a long musical analysis, which is well worth reading:
(The author points out that since ’73 he’s listened frequently to “the 24 minute extract (5.28 – 29.43) that the Dead gave to the…‘Glastonbury Fayre’ LP as a token of apology for not making the 1971 solstice Festival.”)
It was the second live Dark Star to be released (and the last until the ‘90s), and a very interesting choice. Of course Dark Star was probably out of consideration for the Europe ’72 album since it had been on a live album just three years earlier. Also, the ‘special’ cosmic qualities of Dark Star as a song would have made it a natural selection for the Glastonbury Fayre album.
It’s hard to say whether the Dead picked this Dark Star because it was particularly magical, or simply because it had been played in London and so was geographically the closest Star to Glastonbury! They were familiar with their tapes, so by the end of the tour they already knew what the best performances had been. (The Book of the Dead mentions that back on the boat journey to Denmark, they had listened to the tapes of the Wembley shows.)
Dennis “Wiz” Leonard, on the Alembic taping crew, writes: “I would write [the setlists] on the tape boxes… We would chat on our intercom after songs, and Matthews, Betty, and I would decide how many stars to give a song: three stars meant it was a really good performance! The star system was used when we got back home in order to focus on candidates for the Europe ’72 album.” (The few tapeboxes that have been reproduced show that they were rather sparing with their stars, along with a few notes, such as 5/10/72 Amsterdam: “This is dynamite,” or 5/26/72 London: “We’re all really stoned now.”)

The mix is quite democratic, with Garcia off on one side, Godchaux on the other, and Lesh and Weir in the middle. Comparatively, this tends to emphasize Keith’s contributions. (And here is a point where I must complain that the new box-set mix has buried Keith in the back for some senseless reason, though he was still up all right in the Steppin’ Out mix. This was a major error by the 2011 mixing crew...)
That Dark Star was 31:30, hence too long for an album side – LP records generally did not go over 25 minutes a side, or the sound quality would go down (the Dead’s 24-minute track is the longest side on the Glastonbury Fayre set). Since the Dead had to cut somewhere, they dropped the intro of Dark Star, and the track fades in about 5:30 into Dark Star, during an expectant moment. The effect is actually similar to the fade-in on Live/Dead!
Dark Star continues to nearly the end – they leave out the last two minutes, fading as the band starts the descending Mind Left Body-type riff. (I would’ve liked it to go for another minute or so to capture the concluding happy groove, but they apparently felt it was complete enough – at any rate, most of the highlights of this Star were included.)

And so, the Glastonbury Fayre album was quickly released to an uncertain world, and the Dead returned to California to record studio overdubs for Europe ’72 over the next few months. (After which, the Europe tapes were left untouched until the Hundred Year Hall release in 1995. The Dead didn’t contribute unreleased live tracks to any more benefit albums until 1994, when they gave the 3/29/90 Bird Song to a CD raising funds for Bay Area music school programs.)
The Dark Star excerpt from the Glastonbury album eventually started circulating in deadhead collections as a tape filler, prompting many to wonder about the full Dark Star it had come from. The horrid 4/8/72 audience tape that was available didn’t satisfy the few who tried to listen to it. Finally, in 1996 David Gans played the whole Dark Star suite on his radio show for all to enjoy; and in 2000 the entire show emerged at last.
The Glastonbury festival was later revived in 1979 to stimulate the tired planet, and continues to this day, though the Dead never made it there...

September 26, 2011

A Country Jam in the Chapel

Jerry Garcia, May 1972: "We haven't been playing enough. I'm a music junkie and I have to play every day. The gigs are too far apart. It's like we're not fucking off enough to enjoy that, or not playing enough to enjoy that."

Bob Weir: "On our days off when we were traveling, we would have our acoustic guitars, and Jerry and I and whoever was around - if the New Riders were traveling with us, we'd all fall together and kick stuff around. A lot of it was folk material of one sort or another. We had a whole repertoire that we never played onstage - country gospel tunes that we sang in three- and four-part harmony, and all that kind of stuff. We did that just for fun, and for the exercise."

John Dawson: "The best part was when Garcia, Weir and I took our guitars and jammed in this amazing 10th-century chapel. It was really, really great sounding. It was kind of eerie, especially thinking about all the people who'd been through there over the centuries."

Garcia, Weir & the New Riders - St John's Jerusalem chapel in Kent, May 1972:

August 29, 2011

some Airplane comments

This post started out as a couple short comments and sort of grew on its own. So there's no organizing theme here, just a scattershot series of quotes from Jefferson Airplane...

Some of you may remember Garcia's comment that once in 1968, under the influence of Cream, "Me and Jack Casady and Mickey were gonna form a power trio one day." (They ended up making a tape, the 7/28/68 jam, which sounded quite mellow & laid-back even compared to the Airplane, let alone to Cream.) This little experiment, as it turned out, was the precursor to the Hartbeats that October.

I've been looking at Ralph Gleason's book The Jefferson Airplane & the San Francisco Sound, in which he interviewed the various Airplane members at some point in mid-1968, and found some Airplane comments that confirm Garcia's memory.

Jorma Kaukonen said: "We were thinking, Jack and myself and Mickey Hart of the Dead and Jerry Garcia, about when we're in town, just having a quartet, playing together, an instrumental quartet, which I think would be a lot of fun."

When Gleason interviewed Jack Casady, he said: "I'm working with Mickey right now, the new drummer with the Grateful Dead, that's where I'm going after tonight... He's had lots of jazz experience, and right now the Dead's working with a lot of times, they're working with 11/4 and 7/4 - getting into rhythmical trips, and things that jazz cats got into a long time ago...
Jorma and I play a lot together, in hotel rooms and things like that. We can get into some really interesting, really insane shit, that he can't do with the band. You can't do it with more than three pieces; sometimes two. [And] I'm working now with Phil Lesh; we're going to work on some double-bass things. Because he's got a whole different approach to it than I do, and I really dig his playing. They're working on double-drum things. We're going to work on some double-bass things with a drum. We're going to try different combinations, you know.
We're going to be in town for a while now and this is the first chance I've had to do this, and try some experimentation along these lines. Jorma and I and Mickey are going to try and get together and play some things; just maybe show up at the Matrix one night or something, nothing big. Or play in a room, that's all. We're going to try to get together if we can, if Jorma can."

I think here we can see not only the origin of the Hartbeats, but the origin of Hot Tuna. What's interesting is the path they meant to explore, but didn't - why don't we hear Jorma at any of the Hartbeats shows, for instance; what happened to the planned quartet? (We DO have one show played by that "quartet" - the 5/21/68 Carousel jam.) Lesh and Casady alternate playing bass at the Hartbeats shows, but there's never any double-bass playing on our tapes.

Spencer Dryden also made an interesting comment to Gleason:
"The Dead is about the only band that we've ever really played with a lot. We've played with them more here in San Francisco than any other band, but also on the road we've played with them in Canada. We've worked with them a lot and we talk about...putting on a show. Doing more than just music and more than just your arrangements of your tunes. We'd like to mix it up a little bit: you know, let's play some of the Dead's material; let's have the Dead play some of ours; let's have Grace sing with them; let's have Pigpen sing with us. Let's have some fun! It doesn't have to be that rigid format."
That, of course, never came to pass!

Paul Kantner had a similar plan: "We're thinking about getting with the Doors and the Grateful Dead and Big Brother, or some combination of those four...and doing a grand theatrical concert with everybody on stage at the same time... Like a three-ring circus, sort of. Where, like a group will do a song, and then maybe two people from this group come out and do something with two people in that group, while somebody else sings. There's just endless possibilities of variations you could do. Hopefully we could do it on almost any big stage. I don't know if the cost of that kind of show would be too prohibitive for most people."
Never happened, of course... Although the Airplane members had high praise for the Doors (Kantner said, "the Doors have a nice thing going now; really nice group"),
Garcia's strong dislike of them made any collaboration unlikely! As for other bands, I think the twin hurdles of rehearsals & scheduling made an "SF Supergroup Circus" a faint prospect, except for the loose club jams that happened.

On another subject - I was repeatedly struck how much in awe the Airplane members were of the Cream.

Paul Kantner: "There won't be [another] three-instrument group. Cream has that sewn up, I think. There ain't nobody going to be on top of them for a good while - til they break up."

Jack Casady: "The Cream, as far as I'm concerned, is phenomenal. The Cream sat all the rock & roll bands in San Francisco up; made 'em listen. Cause here they were getting a little too much confidence...[and] this English group came in and just blew them off the stage. There's no doubt about it, they're fantastic."
"When a band really has magic, when they're working well, their minds are all connected, it comes across to the audience... Cream did a number [and] the whole audience was swaying back and forth, in slow motion. A very long drawn-out thing; Eric Clapton's guitar like a woman's voice. I mean it felt like an acid trip. On that night, something erupted, descended over the audience, a magic. It was very mystical."

Jorma Kaukonen cites Clapton as a major influence, and seems to have made a point of seeking out all of Clapton's albums: "I've heard a lot of Clapton records that he's done with a lot of different groups, and even when he was playing with straight bands, he always did his own thing, never sounded like anybody else at all." (Marty Balin suspected that Jorma "still hates playing in the Airplane...because he envisions himself fighting Eric Clapton... He always wanted to be a blues guitar player.")
Jorma said, "Clapton is really a beautiful cat, he's very relaxed...he has a great awareness of his music, he really knows his stuff; but on top of that, what makes him so superior to guys who are technically as good as he is, is he's really free." [Gleason added: "He can sure play the guitar."]

Back when the Airplane was starting in '65/66, and Clapton was more of an English obscurity known just to blues aficionados, Michael Bloomfield made the most impact - interviewed in 1966, Marty Balin was practically ecstatic about Bloomfield and how far ahead he was of other guitar players. "To watch him play is a great experience cause he's totally committed... He sings with that guitar; it's his voice, it's part of his body... What's amazing about Bloomfield is that when he's playing, he knows exactly where those dials are and he just sets them with just one sweep of the hand. That's one thing that he really had over Jorma. Electronically, moving that guitar around, bringing it up powerful and changing its tone so you couldn't take your eyes off it." (The Dead were equally impressed.)
Jorma said in '68, "The first person that I saw really play the guitar and do the kind of things I wanted to do was Bloomfield... In the beginning, Bloomfield had a lot of influence on me... But after we started hearing the English guys like Hendrix and Clapton...musically they had more influence because to me, at least, Michael's not a very far-out musician. I mean he does his thing and he does it well. But I like music to be spacey, to flow and go different places, and he just wasn't doing that. I remember the first time I heard the Doors' guitar player, it blew my mind, because with a few notes he managed to say an awful lot..."

The Airplane also noticed a different approach between Cream and the more laid-back San Francisco bands.
Jack Casady: "One of the reasons I thought it was good that the Cream came was the fact that they still have an idea of showmanship - they know they're onstage, and they know that somebody's paying to come in and look at them... They're artists, they're as pissed off as anybody else if they do a bad job.. Part of the problem with our group, I think, is the fact that sometimes we're not aware of the audience enough."
Marty Balin: "I'm knocked out by the Cream, but...the thing about the San Francisco bands is, we're on a stage but afterward we'll be right down digging the next band with you, and I don't feel that from this band... They're great, but there's something [different] - they know they're good..."

Casady also mentioned one of the downsides of being in Cream - Ralph Gleason always made a point of asking rock musicians why they played so loud, and Casady said: "They're complaining about [the volume] too, I was talking to them. By the end of their two weeks' stay here, they ended up turning up and turning up and turning up, and by the end Clapton was telling me that he couldn't hear anymore. He couldn't hear his tones, he couldn't seem to get anything anymore."

The Airplane lamented that they were also playing too loudly... For instance, Spencer Dryden said, "I keep screaming, 'Turn down! Turn down!'... [We have] six guys striving like mad to have something come off, and just have a big roar come out. [There's] a lot of intricacy going on...I will hear things that are being played by people in the band and I know that it's never being heard out there. The people can't pick up on that cause it's covered with a sheet of sound. You do have to have some kind of separation. The big problem, of course, is that without the power or the amplification, a lot of those effects don't come off. For instance, Jorma can do some really nice things, but they will only work if he turns his guitar or his amp up; if he turns it down and tries to get the same thing, it doesn't happen."
Casady said, "We were going to go into the Matrix with a specific attempt to try to play at a lower volume...[but] certain things you can get with volume, you know; certain tones you can get... And we haven't solved that yet by any means. We still drown out the singers all the time. [Gleason: There are times when the volume [is so loud] I can't hear anything.] Right. Well, that's true, and a lot of it's due to the fact that we play too loud, and some of it's due to the fact that the sound systems aren't built to handle it. Sometimes it's just the room... The Fillmore, to me, is a horrible room to play; it's very muddy."

Disappointingly, the Airplane don't mention the Dead much in these interviews.

Marty Balin recalled that the bus ride to Toronto with the Dead was great fun ("we had a good time"), and they got a kick out of playing free afternoon outdoors shows before their concerts in Canada, much to the surprise & distress of the promoters.
"When we went to those towns, we said, 'Let's go play in the park for the people like we do at home'... We'd do that before we'd go play a concert lots of times and they'd still come to the concert. Promoters would freak out; they'd say, 'You can't play anywhere for anybody for 50 miles radius.' So we played for nothing for ourselves for free... They don't think anybody plays for no money!"
Balin said that he went to New York "during Christmas [1967] and the Dead were playing the Village [Theater] and I walked in and they'd been playing for two days and they hadn't communicated, they said, and they couldn't. It was cold - they saw me and we started talking... [Feeling better,] they went out and I watched the next set and they brought the audience down off their seats."

Jack Casady liked Lesh's bass playing: "I think Phil is doing a lot new on the bass. His approach to the instrument is new. Most [bass players] I find to be very predictable."
Casady said, "Everybody's got their problems, everybody thinks the other band has got it all down... We used to say, 'Well, why don't we do it like the Grateful Dead, they've got it all down,' then the Grateful Dead would say, 'Why don't we do it like the Jefferson Airplane!'"

Casady and Kaukonen in particular often spoke about the musical evolution the two bands shared.
Gleason was struck by how new SF rock music was; Casady pointed out, "Most of the musicians involved in it, [like] the Grateful Dead or Quicksilver, they come out of pretty much a folk background, and right now they're all learning music... So a lot of the musicians are getting a broader outlook and drawing from all kinds of music..."
Marty Balin said in '66, "We listen to everything; we're very open... We really believe that electronics are going to start playing a very big part...[rock musicians] have never really used the potential of electronics. Take the Yardbirds: they've done some fantastic things with feedback. The Who from England - they're taking the guitar and they're smashing it into the amplifier...creating different sounds. Jack has started playing with some electronic sounds. We're listening to Varese and people like that, and we're getting a lot of interesting ideas. There's so much that can be done with electronics."
Jorma said, "I really had to learn to play guitar all over again. Playing an electric is so much different from playing an acoustic... I even remember the first time [I played loud]: we were rehearsing...and I'd just gotten this great Gibson and I was just sitting there with my amplifier - and I took my hands off the strings, it started to make noises, and I found that by wiggling the thing, it started to make funnier noises, and just one thing led to another. It's sort of an unavoidable thing, I think, for electric guitar players... When Jack and I were in our band in high school, guitar players used to go to all ends to avoid that, because it was the crisp, clean country sound that everybody was looking for then."

Casady observed: "We, the Airplane, are a conglomeration of really radically different backgrounds; and sometimes that's hampering, but also it's what has created whatever we are too, and we wonder about that ourselves. No group functions really smoothly, at least ours doesn't, particularly when everybody's equal. There's no leader; there's nobody to hire and fire. So it takes us a lot longer to get things done, and there's a lot more battling. And everybody's on different levels musically."
The Dead, of course, would have described themselves the same way. They came to electric instruments at about the same time - Casady said that "Jorma did not start playing electric guitar til he got in this band; and he didn't start using a pick til about six months later. So he's come along fantastic. But that's one of the reasons, to my mind, he's one of the most original guitar players. Very little of it has been put on record because it just hasn't happened yet; but I play with him a lot and I hear him do incredible shit, and his approach is completely self-taught. Doing things his own way...maybe it takes longer, maybe it seems more difficult at the time, but the end result is freshness. And the same with me: I don't have anybody to run to, I don't have anybody to copy...I have to work it out."
Jorma was also impressed with Casady's playing: "[When] I called him up and dragged him in [the band], he hadn't played bass in about six months...but he worked out pretty well, I'd say! He's really amazing, Jack is, cause musically he listens to everything. He's really an omnivorous musical listener; he'll listen to everything, his record collection is mind-staggering. He used to be a guitar player...and the kinds of things he does are not the kind of things that a bass player does. Like he embellishes rhythm and does all the things you're supposed to do, but he really plays like a guitar player in a lot of ways...and I think that's the way it should be, because an electric bass can do so many things, there's no reason why it should just be playing along with the bass drum."
Casady said, "When I arrived, I hadn't played bass for a long, long time. I found out I was still better than most bass players, cause most of them were folk-oriented, and I had a little more musical knowledge behind me... In the beginning my idols were acoustic bass players...[but] right now I'm getting into lots of harmonics and feedback and lots of chords and things like that, that bass players aren't supposed to do."
Jack and Jorma had a musical partnership within the Airplane, sort of parallel to Jerry and Phil's, that carried over into Hot Tuna. Jorma said, "It's almost a classical approach...when we start to get into something where you can play like counterpoint, lines and things... [Also] it's really a lot of fun for me to make lots of noise and thrash around...and if you can combine the two and get them both happening together, which Jack and I can do lots of times, that's groovy too. But he and I usually have our most fun when we're just sitting around somewhere and build intricate structures."

Gleason said, "One of the things that struck me about the Airplane is that you get off and away from that straitjacket of the rhythm section that hangs up a lot of bands."
Jorma replied, "That's been a necessity, really... Rock rhythm sections are usually so sloppy in terms of laying down a solid foundation for a soloist to solo on... The thing is with our band, because of the way the people are, there isn't anybody in it that can really lay down that kind of solid it just had to be different... A lot of times I've thought & Jack's thought it was terrible that we can't play like that, but I don't think anybody really thinks that, because I've played with a lot of other musicians. Like we were jamming with Elvin Bishop the other night, who's a great musician, a great guitar player, but I really got bored after a while doing that, because you start to get into the same changes and the same kind of rhythm configuration - you're backing up or you're taking the lead, and that bores me."
[This reminded me of the contrast between the Dead's music and Elvin's music at the Hartbeats shows.]

Casady mentioned one experience the Dead frequently went through: "A lot of times [after a show] we'll be bum-tripped maybe more than actually we should be, because we're aware of all the little inter things going on, all the little things that don't particularly get out. A lot of times we think it's a horrible set and maybe it wasn't that bad, you know. We hear it back on tape - and it doesn't sound half as bad as it seemed onstage. Sometimes we've blown our minds but it hasn't sounded too together."

More than the Dead, the Airplane tried to play their songs differently from night to night. As Spencer Dryden said, "Whatever we do, we're going to do it different. So we just start with a different beat or start with a different bass line, and see if we can take the same tune and relate it some other way... You're trying to play something new, take their heads somewhere else. Like, don't signal everything you do - keep them on their toes - see if you can switch their heads around...[and] take them on that really beautiful trip that is possible to have happen when you're onstage and the audience is out there and you feel that thing going back and forth and you know you're together, and you try and get that with people that have never seen you. And they've been programmed to hear White Rabbit, so they scream for White Rabbit... [We say] 'Play it the same changes, but play something different.'"
Marty Balin also said, "We'd walk onstage, nobody knew how a number was going to come off or anything; nobody knew where it was gonna start, what time, what key even; it was just sink or swim. Some nights it was just insane... We'd come offstage, people would come up and say, 'That's not rock & roll.'"

Unlike the Dead, the Airplane were a national hit very quickly, and soon found themselves facing large audiences resistant to strange new music. Balin felt they were often losing the audience: "So we had a nationwide hit, we went out and we found that everybody just wanted to hear that one hit! That's all they asked for! We'd blow their minds, but we had to force them to listen to anything else."
Casady also noted that when the music is "fresh, it's new, it's different, it won't go over as well. It's weird...that's a problem."
Dryden remembered, "We played a very good tune for the first time, we opened a set with it in concert at Winterland. Never been played in public before... The band roared, man, we just played the shit out of the tune - just tight! Driving! It was right there, balanced. Nobody was too loud...and the people just looked, and man, that feeling that every musician knows, when he just opened himself and they just look at you like you're insane. And what do they want?... Somebody to Love.... And so you play for the 38,000th time, Somebody to Love. Good tune as it is, man, you can only do so much... You're going out of your gourd trying to figure out what will please the people that won't bore you to death and make you come off giving a bad or just a mediocre performance. And it's a weird trip."

A couple times Gleason mentioned the night he "got" the Airplane: "I'll never forget that night at the Fillmore when it just turned me inside out...I suddenly realized, my god, that's what they're playing... That thing about turning the songs around and doing new things knocked me right smack out of my mind... I couldn't believe it."
He praised the band's untitled jams. Casady said, "There's lots of improvising going on. Sometimes it's off a framework; sometimes it's total improvisation. We don't know what to expect next. It's fine, it's exciting, sometimes it works...I dig it when it works, and when it doesn't work I'm pissed... If I couldn't do that, then I wouldn't want to be in the group."
Jorma said, "Some of them really work out well. They're harder to do, cause when we get three or four people going, it's harder. When everybody's head is together, they really come out well... One night when we were playing at the Fillmore, we were playing a jam...organized around a repetitive rhythm pattern, and Jack and I were building all these lines on top of that, and Spence was embellishing the rhythm pattern and Paul was playing very slow, quarter-note lines, very pretty and it just all coalesced together. But when things like that happen, it's really incredible. Everything just happened together, and for some reason the piece began and it sustained and it built and it ended and that was it."

A couple times the "X factor" came up in interviews, though of course not called by that name.
Dryden: "I could tell from the first two bars that Jack played... I can't explain it, it's just that feeling that you get when you're all together and things are working. You don't have to worry about what your hands are doing, they're doing it - you can watch your hands play. [Gleason: You can't make mistakes.] No, you don't. It just all happens...and you get that good feeling. And those are the nights you look for. And the thing is...I always want it to be one of those nights. I know it always can't be, but I'd rather have a majority or at least a 50/50 thing of those nights. Instead of like one out of 100 or one out of 50, whatever it happens to be. I really want that thing to happen all the time; and I guess we all do."
Balin: "On the last two tours, there were about half of those nights we were pretty good. Maybe three or four of them were pretty bad, just not worth anything. But...we walk on the stage and nobody knows what anybody's gonna do. We know this song, but every time it comes out, it comes out different. And we can't do anything about that... Sometimes you don't know who you are. You're standing up there...and it's just working like that, and it's nothing we know, we don't even know how it's happening, and it just comes out. [Gleason: Can't do it wrong.] Couldn't do it again! It comes out differently."

In a couple interviews, Gleason particularly praised the Dead and Quicksilver's first show at the Carousel, a "beautiful experience" (1/17/68): "I was exhausted physically, just beat... I went cause I thought, well, I got to go; I'm so tired I want to go to bed, but I really ought to go by for a few minutes and just see... And those bands played so groovy that I stayed there until two in the morning. I felt was like, good medicine. It felt groovy. That's what I look for... I don't know what the hell they did."
Balin agreed, "Quicksilver had always been a pretty good band - they wiped everybody out. I've seen them since then and god, I can't wait for their album. I really like those guys."
There was also a light show by Jerry Abrams' Head Lights. Gleason noted that during "the Dead's set, Jerry Abrams ran a whole series of filmstrips that I had never seen before, which involved a lot of closeups of one eye in color... It was one of those things that just synchronized perfectly with what the band was doing, and it freaked me out. Just as though they'd rehearsed a couple of weeks to do it."
Balin: "When that happens, that's far out. We don't know how that works. Sometimes the light show is just mind-staggering. They top the guitars, the guitars go off, and that light show just ties it up - [it's] all the things together, not just music."
Casady went dancing at that show: "That was the first night that I felt good about dancing. I even danced under the strobe light, you know. We danced for hours and hours and it was a really good feeling. I really got a whole other idea of what goes on in the audience. I've always approached it from walking on the stage as a musician, and now I was out there dancing... I wasn't listening musically - just feeling what the band was doing..."
Gleason: "I stayed all night."
Casady: "Oh, so did everybody, man, nobody wanted to leave!"
Gleason: "And I left feeling groovy."
Casady: "Right, so did we. We skipped out of the place - it was really nice."
Gleason: "Just washed everything out of my head. Which is worth millions. There ain't no price on that!"

August 10, 2011

The Ives Touch

Q: Do you have musical ideas and impulses that aren’t satisfied by the Grateful Dead?
LESH: Yeah. There’s just things in heaven & earth, Horatio, that are undreamt of by the Grateful Dead. And things that are impossible for the Grateful Dead as a unit…
Q: Like what?
LESH: Anything with more than four chords! Ha ha – just had to slip that in…


Phil Lesh was a fan of Charles Ives long before he heard his music.
In college, he said, “My hero was Charlie Ives – even though I’d never heard his greatest music, because it wasn’t recorded. Neither was Stockhausen, nor Boulez, nor Berio. It was just written about – it was in no way commercial enough to be recorded, and at that time stereo was pretty new. Imported recordings were almost impossible [to find] – you had to go to New York, probably, to find imported recordings.”

Lesh discovered Ives when he was at the College of San Mateo in 1958. Working at the college library, Phil read Henry Cowell’s book Charles Ives & His Music: “The musical examples introduced me to truly original compositions: the song ‘The Majority,’ with its notated note-clusters and unmetered barring, and the Concord Sonata, with its free polyphony for two hands written on three staves. It almost didn’t matter what the music sounded like – it looked so cool on the page. The power and freshness of his music, together with the story of his life (neglect, misunderstanding, unwillingness to compromise in order to earn a living as a musician, going into insurance and making a fortune, composing at night, using his wealth to promote new music other than his own), made him, in my eyes, an artistic hero. All this, before I ever heard a note of the music, as there were no recordings available to me until years later. Together with that of Coltrane, the music of Ives was to become the foundation for my personal artistic aspirations, and both artists would exert a tremendous influence on the embryonic aesthetic of the Grateful Dead.”

So what in Ives’ music made such an impression on Lesh?
In the early 20th century, Ives was working on musical techniques that would later be developed by modern avant-garde musicians - “craggy atonality, grinding dissonances, tangled and changing meters, polyrhythms, tone clusters” - and I think Lesh saw him as the ‘father’ of the kind of music he wanted to make. In addition, there was the romantic element of Ives’ isolation in his own lifetime.
From one description: “Ives’ music was largely ignored during his life, and many of his works went unperformed for many years… Ives’ works were so rarely played during his lifetime that he never heard some of his major pieces… He taught no pupils and founded no school… He was not an intentional avant-gardist, conscientiously aiming for innovation, but a modest spare-time composer (who spent most of his days as an insurance salesman and then as a long-term convalescent).”
Another scholar calls Ives “a major composer who remained an amateur…writing music primarily for his own amusement and gratification, cultivating a style that seemed – at least for most listeners – utterly dissociated from the musical mainstream of his day. Ives was a quintessential outsider, an American maverick who followed his own idiosyncratic path in pursuit of private artistic goals, with little apparent regard for the demands of the world…” In college at the end of the ‘50s, Lesh must have found this very appealing.

Biographer Jan Swafford writes that Ives “discovered on his own, before anyone else, most of the devices associated with musical Modernism: polytonality, polyrhythm, free dissonance, chance and collage effects, spatial music, and on and on… He was already experimenting with sounds and concepts the rest of the musical world would not discover for decades … Even at its wildest, his music is often a texture of quotes from familiar national tunes [hymns, band marches, fiddle tunes, etc], plus echoes of Beethoven and other giants of the past: a universal symphony of myriad voices.”

One scholar writes that as his works were uncovered, “Ives started looking like the authentic hare of modern music, at the finish line before Stravinsky, before Schoenberg, before anyone.”
Stravinsky himself called Ives ‘the Great Anticipator,’ and in one interesting comment on the Fourth Symphony in 1966, said of Ives: “This fascinating composer was exploring the 1960s during the heyday of Strauss and Debussy. Polytonality; atonality; tone clusters; perspectivistic effects; chance; statistical composition; permutation; add-a-part, practical-joke, and improvisatory music: these were Ives’ discoveries a half-century ago as he quietly set about devouring the contemporary cake before the rest of us even found a seat at the same table.”

Richard Kostelanetz wrote in the Dictionary of the Avant-Gardes:
“He developed his own system of polytonality – the technique of writing for two or more keys simultaneously. In one piece…he assigned four different keys to four instruments. Ives was the first modern composer who consistently didn’t resolve his dissonances… He distributed musicians over a physical space, so that the place the music comes from affects what is heard… He invented the tone cluster, where the pianist uses either his forearm or a block of wood to sound simultaneously whole groups of notes…. Ives drew quotations from mundane culture – hymn tunes, patriotic ditties, etc – and stitched them into his artistic fabric. Though other composers had incorporated ‘found’ sounds prior to Ives, he was probably the first to allow a quotation to stand out dissonantly from the context, as well as the first…to distort a popular quotation into a comic semblance of the original…
“Other Ivesian musical innovations include polyrhythms – where various sections of the orchestra play in wholly different meters, often under the batons of separate conductors, all to create multiple cross-rhythms of great intricacy. In his rhythmic freedom, as well as his unashamed atonality, Ives clearly fathered the chaotic language of modern music, a tradition that runs through Henry Cowell and early Edgard Varese to John Cage. Indeed, Ives preceded Cage by inventing indeterminacy, where the scripts offered the musicians are so indefinite…that they could not possibly play exactly the same sounds in successive performances… [In one piece] he further discouraged musical unanimity by placing three separate groups of musicians in such a way that one could not necessarily see the others…”

All this was very exciting to the young Phil Lesh. He said in a recent interview, “We all love the great masters [like] Bach, Brahms and Beethoven, but music speaks most clearly when it comes from one’s own time. Ives is from the early 20th century, not particularly of my time, but of a more heroic generation. The sound of Ives’ music is the sound of inner consciousness, with all its side conversations going on during the main melodies. It really speaks to me.”
Lesh has also said, “The idea of Ives’ music caught my imagination, the simultaneity of it. The metaphor of consciousness – that in our consciousness, we’re not only thinking of one thing, but have things in the back and sides of our mind. That our automatic systems are running our body, while we’re blithely thinking about paying the rent. Ives’ music was the first music of any kind to address that for me – the simultaneity of experience.”

Lesh and Ives also shared a disdain for those who only liked harmonious “conventional” music. Lesh called such people “consonance chauvinists,” while Ives thundered that they were “white-livered weaklings who cannot stand up and receive the full force of dissonance like a man!”

Lesh wasn’t able to listen to Ives records for some years, so at first he admired the scores that “looked so cool on the page.” As Kostelanetz says: “Developing a distinctly eccentric music notation, Ives anticipated contemporary composers’ practices of using graphs, charts, and abstract patterns – manuscripts that resemble everything but traditional music scores… He also wrote notes that he knew could not be played… Indeed, Ives’ scripts were so unusually written, as well as misplaced and scrambled in big notebooks, that editors have labored valiantly to reconstruct definitive versions of his major pieces, some of which had their debuts long after his death.”

Reading Ives’ scores when he couldn’t hear the music, Lesh found inspiration for his own eccentric composing style. McNally describes pieces Lesh composed at San Mateo, shortly after discovering Ives: “He would create ten-bar exercises for bizarre orchestrations like the ‘mother chord,’ a dissonant blast that included all twelve chromatic tones, or his first chart, in which the bass player had to tune down his instrument for the first line and then retune it for the remainder, while the brass players began in the highest register, and each section of the band was in a different key. He would recall the piece as resembling ‘blocks of granite sliding together…’”

By 1963, Lesh’s ambitions had only grown. McNally describes the “monstrous polytonal piece called ‘Foci for Four Orchestras,’ which would have required 125 musicians and four conductors, and included a chord in four keys at once. It required sixty-stave music paper.” In his book, Lesh recalled “my big piece for four orchestras, Foci… The piece was composed spatially: I imagined the music rotating or sweeping around the audience with each orchestral group at the focus of an ellipse.”
He went into more detail in an interview: “I started to compose this piece for four orchestras, with the audience in the middle… There were no key signatures, no melodies… Mostly in that piece I used time signatures. In the next piece I started to write, which never was completed, I started working back into a polytonal kind of thing, where I’d write a chord that was in, say, four keys at once…. I was into polymusic. Polyphony traditionally means many voices, but what I was into was many musics… It was for five groups of instruments, each one of them playing essentially different music. That’s another offshoot of Ives.”

Lesh’s compositions made quite an impression on the people he met.
McNally describes it: “He was then much more involved with composition than playing, and when Hunter and Garcia saw him sitting at a card table at work on ‘The Sun Cycle,’ a piece planned for three orchestras, writing it out of his head without even a piano, they were stunned.”
Garcia said in ‘67, “He got into modern forms of music, serial music and 12-tone music, and finally electronic music, and he composed these monster things… I’d come over and he’d have these monster pieces of score paper and he’d be working away in pen, the notes are coming out of his head onto the paper, these things for like 12 orchestras! And the big problem, of course, when you’re a serious composer is getting anybody to play your stuff; it’s virtually impossible. And a young composer? No way!”

Sara Garcia said, “I first met Phil Lesh back at the Chateau [in Palo Alto] when he was a music student. He was this madman coming in with these musical scores where there were great slashes of music going down the paper and all over. He was just so wildly excited about avant-garde music, which didn’t seem to have anything to do with what Jerry was doing. Jerry could share his enthusiasm for some of it, but it wasn’t his thing.”
Peter Albin said, “I’d see these charts that Lesh had written; I couldn’t believe this weird shit. Like a symphony for fifty guitars. They were all circular; it was a circular chart, a bizarre-looking thing. How do you read this?”
Henry Cowell had earlier adopted Ives’ ideas to write pieces in which fragments of music could be played in a number of different possible sequences – and once Lesh wrote a piano piece for Tom Constanten where the score pages were to be shuffled in random order before performing.

Once he was in a rock band, Lesh had a little trouble adjusting to the different compositional requirements of a rock song. “Writing songs in the Dead was difficult - mine are a little more complicated than some of the others, and I had trouble getting the band to play them.” One instance was one of his first attempts, ‘No Left Turn Unstoned’ in 1966, of which Lesh remembered, “It was a truly awful song I wrote during the Matrix era… It’s godawful – it’s so awful I can’t even listen to it to find out what it was like.” [The song is more commonly known as Cardboard Cowboy.] He admitted, “It actually was called ‘The Monster,’ and I’m not sure why except maybe it was just so big and ugly and hard to play.”
From the following year, New Potato Caboose was not exactly a miracle of simplicity – Weir later admitted that it was “precise and heavily arranged…back then we could barely play it.” Lesh’s songwriting efforts diminished after that – by 1974, when he got two songs on an album, the Dead didn’t even bother playing them live, and Lesh largely quit songwriting after that until the ‘90s. “I gave up songwriting after Mars Hotel because the results were disappointing. Unbroken Chain could really have been something. Some people think it really is, but I wanted it to be what I wanted it to be… It just didn’t happen, so I decided to concentrate on playing the bass as best I can.”

Lesh said in ‘78, “Right now I’m just playing the bass. I’m kind of bored with trying to write for the Grateful Dead, because I tend to write some pretty dense shit, and it’s almost antithetical to rock & roll skill. It’s hard to get them to play it. That period around Live/Dead, when the music was a little more complex, that was the peak for me.”
He explained, “If you write a rock & roll song, you have to depend on the people in your band to play it… That’s one of the reasons I don’t write for the Grateful Dead: I can’t get what I want, and I don’t want to lean on these guys because I know it’ll be counterproductive. Most people will say everybody contributes something, but it’s never quite what you imagined when you wrote the song.”
Weir and Garcia had very similar comments about the band taking their songs away from their conception. For instance, Garcia in ’89: “If you have very specific ideas [about a song arrangement], it’s not going to work in the Grateful Dead because people will play stuff you don’t expect them to play, and do things where you don’t understand why they’re doing them. It’s one of those things where you have to take a long view and say, well, it worked [before]. So once you spend enough time at it, you start to trust what the rest of the band is going to do with your music. Somewhere along the line you have to surrender some part of yourself or you’re going to be too concerned about exactly how things should go.”

But being a songwriter was the least of Lesh’s roles in the Dead. He was the oldest in the band, the bossy type, and someone whose musical knowledge Garcia looked up to. (Garcia gushed in ’67, “His mind is so incredibly musical… He’s incredible, really musically articulate. He knows more about music than almost anybody I know.”) So Lesh had a large influence over the direction of the band in the early days, and many of the classical and modernist techniques he’d picked up at college would manifest themselves in the Dead’s music.
Lesh seems to have taken it as his duty to teach the rest of the band about areas in music they’d overlooked. Bill Kreutzmann remembered, “Phil lived near me in Palo Alto and he turned me onto all sorts of stuff – not just jazz, but Charles Ives and people like that. It really turned my head around. Then when we lived together in San Francisco, he turned me on to Coltrane.” Similarly, Weir: “Back when we were the Warlocks he turned me on to Coltrane and a bunch of classical music that had completely escaped me. That expanded my conception of what popular music could entail. I just couldn’t see where the bounds of popular music should be so constricting as to deny the possibility of, for example, odd time signatures or harmonic modes.”
Mickey Hart said, “Phil Lesh was the band’s intellectual… He knew about the atonal experimentation of western art music from Schoenberg and Webern on, and he was applying these orchestral techniques to the traditional rock & roll bass line… He could see the musical possibilities in anything.”

In a ’99 interview, Lesh said of the classical influence: “The bass is very important in classical music in a melodic sense as well as harmonic underpinning and voice-leading, those kinds of technical matters… [But] there’s only so far that you can take those kinds of techniques in rock music. I just felt that the way I was playing was pretty much sufficient. We tried to use some related techniques in our segues and sequences and medleys we put together, and I’d always try to use key symbolism and little motifs to use as cues in the jams to take them in different directions.”
Lesh recalled, “When we got started, none of us ever really thought of it as a rock band… I had experience in avant-garde music and classical music and jazz, and it just seemed logical to apply some of those structural techniques. The kind of overlap, simultaneity, that’s characteristic of so much classical 20th-century music seemed ready to hand, and infinitely applicable to the potential we had.”


Lesh’s favorite Ives piece long remained the Fourth Symphony. In ‘95 when Dennis McNally asked him, “What five non-Dead pieces of music would you recommend to us to check out?”, Lesh replied: “Coltrane's Africa Brass & Ascension; Ives' 4th Symphony; anything by Youssou N'Dour; and Stockhausen's Kontakte.”

Ives recordings didn’t start becoming commonly available in the US until the mid-‘60s, when musical horizons were expanding – in fact, some of Ives’ main works weren’t even premiered until the ‘60s, let alone recorded. And the Fourth Symphony was one of those. Lesh later wrote, “Ives’ Fourth had only been premiered in 1965, more than 40 years after its completion – and the recording had only been out for a year [in ‘66].”
The recording of the Fourth, by the American Symphony Orchestra with Leopold Stokowski, had been released in 1965 shortly after its premiere. Lesh mentions that he had heard the second movement on the radio during an acid trip, sometime in the next year. As he described in his book: “Slithering out of the speakers, the hallucinatory second movement, Commedia, one of Ives’ most radical works. The piece is made from simultaneously sounding layers of different musics – hymn tunes, marches, popular songs of Ives’ day – all woven together within a fantastical flux of sound.”
It must have been a revelation, and I would guess he immediately sought out the record.
David Gans reported in the ‘90s that he’d found an abandoned stash of four reels of early Dead music, including the 7/16-17/66 shows and “a copy of Charles Ives’ Fourth Symphony, taped from an LP.”

Jan Swafford describes the second movement: “In the vertiginous climax of the movement he stacks up a roaring brass-band march, Yankee Doodle, Turkey in the Straw, bits of The Irish Washerwoman, snatches of ragtime, atonal fistfuls of piano, and… assigns everyone else wildcat tunes in sundry rhythms and keys, all of it adding up to a pandemonium… In the concert hall, those masses of sound tumbling and crashing in air are sui generis and jaw-dropping. The whole movement feels rather like being transported into the moil of Manhattan in a particularly riotous rush hour.”
Another review of the second movement calls it a “riotous multiphony”: “Well-known American tunes vie with hints of Broadway and Gershwin, patriotic tunes, band marches, hymns, Edwardian parlor music, all emerging briefly out of the cacophonous clash of blaring horns, banging piano chords in the lower register, the ominous build-up of strings, and the indecipherable sounds of families of instruments playing at different tempos and in different pitches. The effect is that of a multiplicity of bands…”
Here’s another description of the Fourth, from conductor Michael Tilson Thomas:

Living in San Francisco, Lesh was also exposed to “simultaneously sounding layers of different musics.” In his book he writes, “On any brisk spring evening we could wander through the residential areas listening to the wonderful variety of music drifting down to the street from open apartment windows; in the course of a single block, one might hear Bob Dylan, Miles Davis, Joan Baez, the Beatles, John Coltrane, and on one memorable occasion, Bach’s monumental Mass in B Minor, all blending in a most delightful polyphony of musics.”
He said in an interview, “All sorts of people from different generations were living here, and when you walked past their houses, the wind would blow every variety of music through the air. It was a kind of musical stream of consciousness, like the sound of the inside of your mind when you’re not thinking or focusing on anything in particular – all this flux of feeling and thought. It reminded me of Charles Ives, because that’s where I was coming from.”
He could also simply stay home and turn on the radio: “We would hang in the kitchen or the office at 710, snacking and goofing while KMPX, the original free-form radio station, streamed from the stereo. We looted an awful lot of ideas from the music we heard; sometimes we could recognize the artists, sometimes not, but there was always something provocative being played.” He sighed in one interview, “I remember sitting for hours listening, just sitting in my living room listening to the radio, because there was one great thing after another.”

In late April 1967, Lesh and Garcia joined Tom Donahue in his new freeform KMPX-FM show to play some tunes they liked – mostly soul, blues, and R&B songs, a couple jazz pieces from Charles Mingus and Charles Lloyd, and one selection from Charles Ives. Lesh brought the Leopold Stokowski record of the Fourth Symphony, and played the second movement for listeners – the same piece that had so amazed him when he’d heard it on the radio a year earlier. He warned before playing it: “If you expect it to sound like a symphony, you’ll be disappointed.” (track 22)

After the music, there was an interesting discussion -
DJ: Somebody just called to make a comment…he was saying it was like the Beatles’ new record.
Lesh: What he thought was, that it sounded like the Beatles’ new record, and I was saying that I thought…whether or not the Beatles had heard this stuff from Ives or any of the people who did it before or not, I kind of think they thought of it for themselves. It’s possible for you to discover stuff that other people have done.
Garcia: Like a lot of people discover [things] at the same time…
Lesh: Those things are in the air, and the Beatles have taken the lead in bringing it to popular music, and I for one am glad.
Garcia: Right, and they do it in their own way, it’s pure Beatles. It’s still the Beatles –
Lesh: - and still tasty.
DJ: And constantly changing, and never hung up on one particular thing.
(Nobody mentions the name of the Beatles’ new record – but it was most likely an advance copy of A Day in the Life.)

Twenty years later, Lesh appeared on David Gans’ radio show on 5/12/86 and played the entire Fourth Symphony. The show doesn’t seem to be online, but Gans remembers it as “the memorable show in which Phil Lesh dumbfounded unsuspecting listeners by playing all 35 minutes of Charles Ives' Fourth Symphony.”
As if to illustrate the descent of FM radio since the sixties, one witness tells how Lesh “decided to play a lengthy and somewhat esoteric piece by Charles Ives, which was a perfect fit for the show itself but, we soon found out, not what the local rock 'n' roll station had in mind. At some juncture during the Ives piece, the station manager happened to tune in and hear something that definitely did not Fit The Format and got very excited. Not in a good way. Phones rang. Shouting ensued. Not on the air though…”

But Lesh had his most memorable encounter with the Fourth Symphony back in December 1967, when the Dead visited New York. He describes his excitement on finding out that Stokowski and the American Symphony Orchestra were also in town, performing the Fourth at Carnegie Hall. “I must have stood rooted to the spot for several minutes, absorbing the magnitude of this news… Here was a chance to hear the entire symphony twice…and we didn’t have any gigs or sessions scheduled!… I get to the studio as fast as I can; I can’t wait to give the guys this news. We hustle tickets for both nights and turn up at Carnegie on the first night. I’d managed to persuade the entire band (including Pigpen) to come.”
The performance was all he’d hoped for:
“The sense of space is palpable; the music reaches out to embrace us; withdraws into the distance; then, like a steam locomotive, comes suddenly roaring back. Invisible bands march across the soundstage in two different directions at different speeds; a solo viola mutters an occult hymn-tune as the rest of the orchestra sprays fireworks in all directions; the chorus intones wordless transcendental benedictions as the music fades away into silence. We were all blown completely away… Mickey was so amazed at the cross-rhythmic marching bands, he had to hear it again, so he and I went back for the second night. The fact that that particular passage required three conductors made it even more fascinating. Right then and there, Mick and I began trying to figure a way to do something similar with our music.”

Lesh found one way when figuring out how to mix the Anthem album in the next few months: he envisioned “the sound of a thousand-petal lotus, unfolding in constant renewal.” They would not only merge live tapes with studio recordings, they would play back several live shows at the same time. One scholar points out that Lesh’s response to the Ives symphony “involving multiple bands playing different tunes across each other…drove his attempts to mix together multiple recordings of live performances of the same piece of music.”
Lesh writes, “We had to find identical thematic statements and play several back simultaneously, in order to bifurcate the material into many layers of the same music, all derived from different performances… The sounds of all the different performances we were using were so different from one another that…we decided to celebrate those differences by editing them cinematically, sometimes jump-cutting simultaneously between sound-worlds, or…cross-fading from one to the other as delicately as we could.”

Lesh makes a direct connection between the Anthem mix and the Ivesian sound-world: in his view, Anthem was “an attempt to convey the experience of consciousness itself, in a manner that fully articulates its simultaneous, layered, dimension-hopping nature.” This is very similar to how Lesh saw Ives’ depiction of “the simultaneity of experience,” the way different overlapping thoughts run through the mind without focus. Lesh has also said, “The sound of Ives’ music is the sound of inner consciousness, with all its side conversations going on.” To Lesh, Ives represented “a fantastical flux of sound,” reminding him of a “musical stream of consciousness, like the sound of the inside of your mind…all this flux of feeling and thought.”
Anthem, in a way, tried to achieve the same effect. Lesh’s goal was to disorient the listener, merging multiple performances that “start together at the same point in the music but…begin to diverge from one another ever so slowly,” so that “we can see all the possibilities at once…as if the music had broken through into a higher dimension of awareness.”

Commentary on Ives is full of references to this stream-of-consciousness aspect of his music as various musical quotes are woven together, and listening is like overhearing someone’s thoughts: “dense and crammed with overlapping fragments of ideas thrown together in a seemingly chaotic stream of consciousness.” “Quotations from Beethoven, hymns, ragtime, circus band marches and the like jostle in a kind of Joycean stream of consciousness.” JP Burkholder calls Ives’ music a crazy-quilt, “a musical stream of consciousness with quotations of familiar American tunes and a kaleidoscopic whirl of sound.”
Ives’ idea, apparently, was to convey the mental impressions of a place, with the music representing passing thoughts, memories, overheard sounds or events, historical associations, local bands playing in the area… But the spatial aspect of Ives’ music was just as important to Lesh.

Lesh had more control over Anthem of the Sun than any other Dead album. The mixing of Anthem was partly derived from Lesh’s tape experiments as a sound mixer back in college, when he would mix electronic tape music, dividing tape channels between speakers that were set up in different places.
He recalled, “There was a performance at Mills, five [tape] channels. We had only four [speakers] in the room, so we put one in the hall… That fifth speaker was supposed to be out there, somewhere. This is an Ivesian technique.” He said of one Stockhausen composition: “That was a total mindfuck, hearing this music just flow around you, or start from the center and divide.”
Ives had done something similar in his ‘Unanswered Question,’ where he placed instruments offstage, so they would be heard at a distance. In a symphony, the chorus and percussion might be placed throughout the theater for spatial separation; or the musicians would be split into groups around the stage in a ‘multichannel’ effect (each group, of course, playing a different piece at the same time). Ives longed to go even farther out - his final unfinished Universe Symphony was conceived “to be presented outdoors, with multiple orchestras located in valleys, on hillsides and mountains.”
Lesh would famously do a similar thing in the later Wall of Sound days – he had “a quadraphonic pickup with which I could send the notes from each string to a separate set of speakers.” Putting each bass string on a different speaker stack, his bass notes would fly around the speakers, to the delight of audiences…

Some may have noticed the bizarre name given to part of the Other One medley on the Anthem album: “Quadlibet for Tender Feet.” This may seem like some piece of whimsy – “The names of the songs on the first part of side one were all just made up for publishing purposes,” Weir said; “TC made up most of those names.”
But actually, “Quodlibet” is a term from classical music: one definition is “a piece of music combining several different melodies, usually popular tunes, in counterpoint.” In a quodlibet, well-known tunes are quoted and combined in a medley, either one after another or simultaneously.
While the reference is common enough, it’s striking that this technique was one of Charles Ives’ favorite forms – he frequently used overlapping familiar melodies in his works (popular & classical), “layering several distinct melodies and quotations on top of each other,” expanding on the idea of quodlibets to create more modernist sound collages.
It’s said that “the first fully developed collages occur in a few works by Charles Ives… [Ives would use] different tempi for different sections of the orchestra at the same time, a technique which creates the illusion that two distinct pieces of music are being performed simultaneously.”
JP Burkholder wrote that “Ives alters [the borrowed tunes] rhythmically and melodically… Ives wants them not to combine gracefully but to conflict with one another…so he lets them clash through casual dissonance, or places them in different keys, or displaces them metrically…”

One piece that illustrates this is Ives’ famous ‘Central Park in the Dark’ – meant to be a musical representation of a walk through Central Park, hearing different musics playing, most of it is quiet and nocturnal. But around the six-minute point here, a series of clangorous tunes burst in, mingling and clashing riotously, building the tension until they suddenly stop dead, and the quietness returns. This was one of Ives’ favorite techniques, used in numerous pieces.

Ives scholars observe that “this range of extremes is frequent in Ives’ music – crushing blare and dissonance contrasted with lyrical quiet.” Richard Trythall points out:
“Ives loved putting the accent on the unexpected. [His work is] full of surprising, unexpected turns of thought, of that zig-zag thought pattern… Ives loved to shuffle the continuity of his thought so as to catch his audience ‘off-base’…to surprise them, disorient them, and ultimately to astonish them… Ives also had a fine appreciation for that extremely thin line between order and disorder…and a particular appreciation for the thrill of losing control. He enjoyed allowing his music to approach and occasionally descend into total chaos… Ives imagines in extremes, frequently using the high dramatic relief which can be created by placing musical opposites side by side - extremes of soft and loud, slow and fast, consonant and dissonant….”

Of course the Dead weren’t quite like this. But they also liked extreme dynamic contrasts in their music – there might be chaotic meltdowns followed by a return to melody (as in the Viola Lee jam climax, or any number of instances where the band assaults the audience with screeching feedback and then relieves them with a pretty tune; for instance just in fall ’73, on 10/25, 12/2, 12/8, 12/18-19/73, among many other times). Or there might be the reverse, a drop to barely audible quietness followed by a sudden burst of rock & roll (as in the end of the Playing jam coming back to the verse in ’72-74, or the Dark Star>St Stephen transition in ’69-70).

The Dead also embraced the use of dissonance in their music: not only in their pursuit of noise as a musical statement, or in the way they clashed different styles together, but also in the band sense, the way the various bandmembers’ different musical voices and tastes sometimes struggled with each other in the music. This was something that got more extreme over time, as the band’s sound became less unified and more textures were folded in. Garcia said, “When you’re working in a band, you have to try to let everybody have his own voice the way he best sees it. There are always going to be things that create friction… [They’re] going to make decisions musically that I’m not going to agree with fully, but I’ll go along with them anyway.”
Garcia sometimes compared his own band with the Dead, admitting that while the JGB played very harmonious, consonant music, the Dead embraced more discord.
In ’76 he said: “The Grateful Dead is not anybody’s idea of how a band or music should be. It’s a combination of really divergent viewpoints. Everyone in the band is quite different from everyone else. And what happens musically is quite different from what any one person would do… The Grateful Dead is not always consonant – sometimes it’s dissonant; sometimes it’s real ugly-sounding.” And in ’93: “[The Garcia Band] is total resonance; it’s consonance… The Grateful Dead has more dissonance in it. It has more variables and more wild cards and more oddness; and it has more tension too. To Grateful Dead fans, my band might be a little too agreeable…”

The Dead also thought of themselves from early on as something different from a regular rock band, where a steady bass & drum rhythm support a lead guitar line. Garcia talked extensively in his ’67 interview with Ralph Gleason about how the band was trying to get away from that idea. Mickey Hart later observed, “The band as a whole moves as an organic unit…and that’s what’s so thrilling about the Grateful Dead. You can have all these guys playing polyphonic parts, but we’re playing as one… We rely heavily on rhythms…it’s very rhythmically articulate, and everyone in this band is good at rhythm.”
Scholar Brent Wood writes that the music’s magic texture “resulted from the band’s emphasis on true polyphony, a texture heard only rarely in contemporary popular music. Seldom do rhythm guitar, keyboard or drum parts vary at the same time as the bass and lead guitar…still more infrequently are all six parts being improvised. While listeners with well-developed ears will be able to hear three parts simultaneously, few will fully appreciate four-part polyphony in an arranged piece of music, let alone six-part polyphony in an improvised piece.”
As David Crosby described it, “These guys have evolved a thing where each guy is playing a running line all the time… That’s electronic Dixieland… You’ve got Jerry and Phil and Bobby playing these three weaving lines, and it’s this incredibly fluid music. What happens in the best of it is that you submerge your ego and you understand that several people can achieve a telepathic or near-telepathic union playing music and speak with one voice.”
Lesh praised the band’s collective improvisation in, for instance, the 9/3/67 Midnight Hour: “This version sounds just like electric chamber music [in its] intricacy and sensitivity…the music is so jaw-droppingly intricate and flexible that no single mind could think it all up in such detail.”

Lesh has always liked what might be called “dense” music with multiple parts that are hard to separate. For instance, he talked about listening to Miles Davis open for the Dead in April ’70 with hard-edged Bitches Brew music; “in some ways similar to what we were trying to do in our free jamming, but ever so much more dense with ideas.” He remembered “everybody in our band was onstage [listening], trying to keep up with the music. It was some dense stuff.”
Lesh said in an interview that he wanted in his own bands, instead of a single lead player fronting the others, “ideally what’s created is a web of lines and relationships. That’s the best way to perceive it. That’s what Charlie Mingus said about his music. He said, ‘Focus in front of the music and listen to the whole thing, don’t try to pick out any one strand because you’ll miss the totality.’”
Lesh had the same advice on how to listen to the dense music of Charles Ives. According to Michael Getz: “In referring to Ives on his radio show ‘Eyes of Chaos,’ Lesh once remarked that one must adjust the way one listens to this kind of music by letting it pass through and simply feeling its power, [instead of focusing] on particular sounds.”


If you look at Ives’ works, you find an extraordinary number of borrowed tunes quoted. In just the second movement of the Fourth Symphony, for instance, over two dozen tunes are used, woven into each other! While Ives sometimes quoted earlier classical pieces like Beethoven, he often favored traditional American songs – from marching bands, fiddle tunes, minstrel shows, churches, college rallies, and so on. One scholar says that Ives used “quotations from hymn tunes and popular songs, the town band at holiday parades, the fiddlers at Saturday night dances, patriotic songs and sentimental parlor ballads, the melodies of Stephen Foster, the medleys heard at country fairs…”

While the Dead didn’t borrow tunes in quite the same way, their approach did have some similarities. They also frequently quoted familiar pop tunes in their jams in the early years – although a much smaller number of tunes, and not necessarily in a way the audience would readily recognize, as the Dead tended to use either just the chords or a fragment of melody.
In the early ‘70s, the chords of Feelin’ Groovy or Tighten Up were often used as climactic points in various jams. Less often, they might quote the melody lines of the Youngbloods song Darkness Darkness, or their own songs St Stephen or China Cat, in unexpected places. The old blues tune Nobody’s Fault But Mine resurfaced as an instrumental, first in New Speedway before finding a home in Truckin’. And most obscurely, the Dead borrowed just a few chords from others to construct their major Spanish and Mind Left Body jams.
Though few if any listeners would have been able to connect most of these instrumentals to familiar songs, the Dead had a knack for doing these kinds of themes that sounded familiar even the first time they were heard. Their habit was often to place these after passages of either chaotic formlessness or building tension, so that these happy melodic pieces would be a kind of release for the audience – and there’s no doubt about the ecstatic reaction some of these jams got.

Though the Dead didn’t do thematic jams nearly as much in later years, they would still sometimes playfully quote a wide variety of familiar pieces….for instance, at random, the Close Encounters bit on 1/22/78 (also teased on 4/8/78), Stayin’ Alive on 4/21/78, Stir It Up at length on 3/21/91 & 4/5/91, Dear Prudence (possibly) on 12/30/91 & 6/8/92, Shenandoah on 3/21/92 & 6/20/92, Tubular Bells on 9/13/93, and Handsome Cabin Boy in several spaces (9/22/87, 9/12/90 & 3/17/93). [I’m not sure if anyone’s yet done a full listing of these later instrumentals.]

Perhaps the classic instance of the Dead using a traditional song as a “moveable quote” was the Bahamian gospel tune We Bid You Goodnight. Aside from their singing it at the end of many shows, the Dead started playing it instrumentally in Alligator in early ’68, moved it to the Not Fade Away jams in ‘70, and finally fixed it as the finale to Goin’ Down the Road, linking back to the NFA reprise. It’s notable that in these different places, Garcia would adjust the phrasing and rhythm of the melody to fit the musical setting, so that it slowed down over time. (Indeed, the elegaic Goodnight melody in the NFA suite has a slight parallel to Ives’ use of wordless religious tunes in his works to evoke memories of the past.) Garcia would also quote Donovan’s hit There Is A Mountain in many Alligators, but these references were so brief, I’m sure few caught them…

From the beginning the Dead prided themselves on their variety. Garcia said in ‘67, “We’ve stolen freely from everywhere! Remorselessly and freely! Our ideas come from everywhere, and we have no bones about mixing our idioms or throwing stuff back and forth from one place to another. So you might hear some very straight traditional classical-style counterpoint popping up in the middle of some rowdy thing.”
Even earlier in in ‘66, Garcia pointed out, “Our ideas about writing songs are not particularly affected by rock & roll. None of us was really playing that much rock & roll before we got together as a band. We have material that comes from all different areas, and somehow we can make the stuff work. We’re going in as many different directions as we can go.”

Weir also observed, “We do blues tunes, we do country tunes, we do stuff that harkens back to old folk music. I listen to Charles Ives, and every now and again you hear some of that in there, or strains of Stephen Foster. We play American music and we try to keep all those colors on the palette.”
As Garcia said, “There are so many different styles of music you can incorporate using the same instruments, there’s no reason they should be mutually incompatible.”

Lesh was also happy to find the Dead juxtaposing many different kinds of music. “During spring and summer ’69 our music moved into a more balanced space… It was altogether revelatory to make a music so fluid that the band could slide from the swampiest blues feeling (with a quick detour through the free-fall zone) into a straight-ahead rock tune, a 17th-century border ballad, or some hybrid-groove Hunter/Garcia opus, all within 16 bars… Now we had three main areas of attraction that we could dance around and between as we chose: mossy-tooth blues and flag-waving R&B…mythical-legendary alternate-America…and visionary-poetic…all woven together by flat-out free jamming, which could contain elements of all three simultaneously.”

One instance of a song which contained multiple elements simultaneously was Viola Lee Blues, perhaps the Dead’s first attempt at genre-breaking. Here we have an old jugband blues, set to the groove of a recent R&B hit, with a long Coltraneish freakout in the middle, using accelerating Indian tempos, climaxing in a noisy crescendo and abrupt return to theme which (while it’s a typical Ivesian technique) was most likely borrowed from the Butterfield Band’s East/West.

I don’t think the Dead ever tried to fuse so much into one song again; nor did they need to, as they were such a melting-pot stylistically that any number of blends might occur as they jammed different styles together. A smoky blues might soon transform into a jazz jam (as in the early versions of The Same Thing, e.g. 3/18/67), an avant freakout might suddenly shift into a country ballad (as in a Dark Star>El Paso, e.g. 8/27/72), or a rhythmic rock number might turn the corner into a violin-like duet (as in some Other Ones, e.g. 3/20/77).

In one respect the Dead were unlike Ives. He often had his musicians playing two (or more) pieces at the same time, sometimes in different keys and tempos, in disorienting fashion. Conductor Jose Serebrier said, “One of the great difficulties for any orchestra…was to get the players to forget everything they’ve learned in the conservatory about ensemble, about how to play together. Because Ives requires just the opposite in many cases – he requires the musicians to not listen to each other, but to play individual parts.”
But it’s hard to find examples where the Dead members are intentionally playing two different things at once for long. It mainly just happens when they’re disagreeing, as when one player wants to start a song and the others don’t want to – the most famous example is in 4/26/72, when the band tries starting Not Fade Away, but Garcia refuses to abandon Goin’ Down the Road, so they play the two back-and-forth until Garcia wins. Other instances of this are so brief, they’re really just minor points of indecision.
In general, the Dead listened carefully to each other, and did their best to support each other and stay on the same page. If one player abruptly heads in a new direction, the others will soon follow him. At times they will play strange counterpoints – for instance in some late-’73 space, Lesh might be booming out some feedback drones while Garcia plucks a wistful melody; or the band might be deep in a chaotic freakout while Godchaux keeps jabbing a rhythmic riff on piano to lead the way out. Lesh was the most willing to step out in a different atonal direction than the others, sometimes going wild on bass while the others were attempting a more ‘normal’ jam.

Caution was a recurring motif in the Dead’s early years. Lesh would sometimes interject the bass riff into a jam to get things rolling and stir up some craziness, so we have the textures of Caution blended into another jam – the last examples came on 9/18/74, 10/19/74, 10/27/79, 5/12/80, and 5/6/81. Earlier on, it was common for him to play it in the speeding-up section of Viola Lee, so we have hybrid Viola/Caution jams going on. And Jim Powell observed of 6/14/68: “There are numerous Caution teases in Lovelight, and the shift from one to the other is almost imperceptible. After 9:00 into Lovelight much of the time Caution and Lovelight are happening simultaneously (shades of Charles Ives!).”

While Ives liked to juxtapose two different pieces of music simultaneously, the Dead tended to do it sequentially. 1968 was the year they started doing set-long medleys with jammed-out songs offering a variety of styles and shadings, but 1969 was when they got into extreme juxtapositions of clashing styles. In ’69 you might hear a St Stephen>It’s A Sin, a Cryptical>Slewfoot, or even an Eleven>Green Grass of Home – the band might slow the pace down with Friend of Mine, or speed it up with Top of the World. The Dead were particularly fond of dropping High Time in random places (coming out of Cryptical, China Cat, Mama Tried, even Dark Star), where it always sounded kind of strange.
What you did not get often in ’69 was one song interrupting another, unless they were having some kind of trouble or breakdown onstage. (St Stephen at Woodstock is the best example, as the alarmed Dead abandon it for a simpler Mama Tried; but there are a couple Elevens that are also dropped for some country tune – see 6/27 or 8/30.) In April ’69, Garcia experimented briefly with the unusual Stephen>It’s A Sin>Stephen twist. But Dark Star in particular would sometimes melt into some other song mid-jam: it turns into Cosmic Charlie on 5/30 and High Time on 8/16, and into the Other One on 6/22 and 7/12.
11/8/69 was a signpost to the future as the Dead played the Other One inside Dark Star, so we get a Dark Star>Other One>Dark Star (among the other twists & turns of that evening). That was an unusual set though, not to be repeated. But in summer 1970 they seem to have rediscovered the idea of nestling a song inside a longer jam:
6-24-70 Dark Star>Attics>Dark Star>Sugar Magnolia>Dark Star
7-10-70 Other One>Attics>Other One
7-12-70 Other One>Me & My Uncle>Other One

For some reason, medleys like these were then dropped for another year, to return in mid-1971. On August 6, 15, and 23, the Dead played the Other One>Me & My Uncle>Other One medley. They liked the effect of a country song coming out of nowhere in the middle of some raging jam, and after Keith joined they tried it repeatedly that fall (in both Dark Star and the Other One). By Europe ’72 Dark Star tended to be continuous and unbroken (save for 4/24/72), but you might hear El Paso or Bobby McGee popping up inside the Other One.
Some later examples of divided Other Ones:
5/26/72 Other One>Morning Dew>Other One
8/12/72 Other One>Black Peter>Other One
9/28/72 Other One>Bobby McGee>Other One
7/16, 10/19, & 10/24/72 Other One>He’s Gone>Other One
In many of these late-’72 cases, unlike in ’71 where we got a full jam before and after the interpolated song, the second Other One tends to be just a brief reprise of the verse to “finish” the song.

Dark Star was handled differently. In fall ‘71 Dark Star started becoming open-ended, as they would leave out the last verse and just drift into the next song, and by ’72 a proper conclusion to Dark Star had become rare. (I think 7/26/72 is the last version with both verses.) In Europe ’72 Dark Star usually went into Sugar Magnolia; later that year it most often closed with Morning Dew or some gentle ballad. There were a few oddball exceptions (Jack Straw on 9/10, China Cat on 9/24, Cumberland on 9/27, Half-Step on 10/23 and 11/19). The famed Dark Star>El Paso medley was actually only played three times (8/21/72, 8/27/72, and 8/1/73).

10/18/72 was a groundbreaking show in which we see their first Playing medley (Playing>drums>Dark Star>Morning Dew>Playing). Nothing like that was repeated in ’72, or indeed for a full year afterwards. For early ’73 saw a return to the more straightforward medley approach, in which one song followed another rather predictably, as in the standard He’s Gone>Truckin’>Other One>Eyes. This may have been due to the new song Eyes of the World becoming the standard destination-point for a jam; and the Eyes>China Doll combination had a particular fascination from which the Dead rarely escaped.
Aside from the Other One>Bobby McGee>Other One on 6/26, we didn’t get more “interrupted” jams until the fall tour, when the Dead suddenly started pulling out a variety of extended medleys, like magicians with a new trick. Some good examples are the 11/14/73 Other One medley, the 11/21/73 Playing medley, or the famed Playing palindrome shows on 11/10 & 11/17/73, where they weave in and out of a main “theme” to tie a long suite together – like mini-symphonies, as it were.
The Other One was mostly set in its ways already, but Playing in particular was opened up by this new approach, as they could now switch to a number of songs mid-jam, from Half-Step to Uncle John. By ’74 these sandwich-type medleys became less common, and Uncle John & Wharf Rat to some extent became the isolated ‘default’ Playing segues, but it was a pointer as to how the Dead would approach their sets in the future.

The connection to Ives may seem distant by now, but it was implicit at least in Phil Lesh’s mind. On 4/27/92, Lesh appeared on David Gans’ radio show to talk about Ives and the idea of songs melting into each other. Unfortunately I haven’t heard the show as it doesn’t seem to be online, but Lesh played this Other One>Me & My Uncle>Other One from fall ’71 to illustrate the Ives influence:
This was one of the classic performances back when most people’s tapes came from Gans’ shows. Lesh is very prominent on this tape, but everyone’s pretty amazing – the Other One is rather herky-jerky, the band sometimes speeding ahead, sometimes pausing for breath, sometimes messing up. Out of a little “chaos” section with Lesh scraping his strings comes Me & My Uncle – and it leads into a space, which in turn gives way to a ripping happy jam.

It wasn’t just the segue possibilities that opened up over time, it was also the stylistic diversity within jams. By the time Keith joined in ’71, we can hear a wider range of jam styles stuffed into the Dark Stars and Other Ones, the band sounding eager to get them all in. In many ways the jams became denser over the next couple years, almost like abstract puzzles, as more new themes were introduced and the Dead honed their busy, restless style. Increasingly through ’72-74, rather than following the thread of a single musical idea, a jam might wander through several contrasting sections, the Dead skipping from theme to theme. You might hear a drifting wah-wah space mutating into a discordant Tiger meltdown, which could slide into an offbeat funk jam or perhaps a pretty melodic theme before returning to another song. In a way, Lesh had achieved his Ivesian stream-of-consciousness music, crammed with overlapping ideas and fragments, in the Dead’s jams.

Years later in ‘78/79, the Dead started developing a separate Space section in the second sets where they could explore formless music without rules. It was kind of a continuation of the old feedback segments or the Phil & Ned sets; or as Garcia called it, “the thing of taking chances and going all to pieces, and then coming back and reassembling.” Sonically it harked back to the Acid Tests where structures were abandoned, chaos reigned, the Thunder Machine roared, and pranksters babbled into microphones. McNally calls Space “the direct musical heir to the Acid Tests, with roots in Ornette Coleman and Charles Ives.” As Garcia described it in ’85, “We’ve been doing some interesting things in the last couple of years in our most freeform stuff that’s not really attached to any particular song. It’s just freeform music, it’s not rhythmic, it’s not really attached to any musical norms, it’s the completely weird shit.”
Interestingly, the same way that Ives would organize his music around historical or geographical themes – say, the local associations of “Three Places in New England,” or the “Holidays Symphony” with different movements based on different holidays – the Dead would similarly organize Space around a central but unspoken idea. Garcia again: “We’ve been picking themes for that, and thinking of it as being like a painting or movie. ‘Reagan in China’ was one of our themes. One time we had the ‘Qaddafi death squad’ as our theme. Sometimes the theme is terribly detailed, and sometimes it’s just a broad subject…[so that] part of the music at times has some…other level of organization that pulls it together, makes it really interesting.” (Actually, there were a couple times in April ’82 when the theme was spoken, the famous “Earthquake” and “Raven” spaces that Lesh narrated.)
Weir also said in ’85, “When Garcia and I go out and play [Space] together…it goes completely different places every night. That stuff’s actually more mobile, in terms of the harmonic directions it takes, than any of the stuff we used to do… I think it’s starting to open up to where the space jams are getting looser and looser… For a while there a couple of years back we would discuss current events or something before we went out, and every now and again we’ll still do it: come up with a motif for the jam. It’s almost never anything really serious… Usually we’re just amusing ourselves back there during the drum solo, coming up with joke motifs for the jam: ‘okay, you’re the stewardess aboard this hijacked airliner,’ or something like that.”
Garcia said, “What it does is provide us an invisible infrastructure which everybody can interpret freely. It’s a neat thing because anyone can interpret it however they want and it still provides a kind of centerpiece for us all to look at… It’s provided for us more interesting shapes for that non-formed…shapeless music. Before we started using that idea, that music would tend to get dispersed so far that you couldn’t relate to it at all; and sometimes it would make an effort to turn into something familiar real fast, so that it would hover between these two poles and turn into something…not quite as promising as it could be.”

For the Dead, Space really took off once they started using MIDI instruments in the late ‘80s and they turned into a kind of ‘surreal orchestra’ with everyone imitating different sounds. (The Dead liked this so much they made a whole album from it, Infrared Roses in ‘91.) Though it’s hard for many listeners to take, the Dead were very excited by the new possibilities of MIDI. Lesh exclaimed at the time, “It just cracks me up. I love it! Some of the things those guys come up with! I don’t think even know what it’s going to sound like when it comes out sometimes… Going through these tapes, I just heard a ten-minute segment of Space that was just really amazing! [Most likely 3/30/90.] It started out with a drone and big harmonic structures over this drone, and then I guess it was Jerry who started to play this demented horn thing that sounded like Mahler’s Third deconstructed – there’s this trombone passage in Mahler’s Third, and it was like he was parodying it. It was silly, very funny. I don’t even know if he knows the piece, actually. Then at the end of it there was a great E cadence and some well-developed craziness.”
And in a spring ’94 interview, Lesh said, “On this tour there was some really amazing space music. Three nights in a row we did some great stuff in Atlanta… There’s always a thread through all space jams, and that’s Jerry’s ‘I Love New York’ bassoon kind of tone. That’s what I call it!” Even Kreutzmann said, “Those guys are doing stuff with their new MIDI setups that’s been blowing my mind! I’ve really been enjoying it… [I’d like to] maybe get back out there and play some free music with Jerry, like we did in the early seventies… I’m hearing such neat stuff in what he’s doing and I’d like to add to it; I hear drum parts on it. You’re not locked to tracks or stops or left or right turns. It’s free and open; you don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s got a three-dimensionality that I love because it can go in any direction.”

On top of the MIDI sounds, any number of strange guests or samples might appear during Space: voices, revving motorcycles, slot machines, train whistles, frying bacon, the Rite of Spring, even chanting monks. It’s also been noted that “the Dead’s ventures into the swirl were also inspired by the tape music experiments of Steve Reich, musique concrete, the compositions of Stockhausen, Bartok, and…turn-of-the-century maverick composer Charles Ives.” As Steve Silberman writes, “MIDI allowed the Dead to…add voices from any culture, any instrument, even non-musical textures, to create a spontaneous landscape of sounds… This was a time when Space could incorporate traditional instruments from the rainforest, Chinese and Balinese metallophones, talking drums and kalimbas, hiphop-esque tape-loops, and even entire orchestras playing chords from the Rite of Spring… The bandmembers welcomed any sound they could hear or imagine into the music.”
For Lesh, these episodes must have been something like a return to the Anthem days and his avant-garde sound explorations in college. He’s spoken of experimental tape performances where all the sounds heard outside in the ‘real world’ afterwards sounded like continuations of the music. He theorized: “I think the whole Space section, which essentially evolved from our feedback experiments, is a response to electronic music and concrete music, found objects music, tape music, that sort of thing. Some of the discontinuity that we get going, the heterophony of everybody playing something different, probably comes from those worlds to a degree.” (Space can even resemble Garcia’s description of the Anthem album: “We were making a collage…that’s more like electronic music or concrete music where you are actually assembling bits and pieces toward an enhanced non-realistic representation.”)
There were many long Spaces from those last years where the band was more adventurous and more committed, and definitely weirder, than anywhere else in the sets. Sonically, with their dense orchestral sound, they perhaps came closer here than anywhere to the Ives soundworld.

To illustrate, I’ll point out a Space that was actually played after Garcia died. On 6/16/96, the San Francisco Symphony had an event called the American Festival honoring various west-coast “maverick composers” such as John Cage, Lou Harrison & Steve Reich. At the end of the event, Lesh, Weir, Mickey Hart, and Vince Welnick played a short “Space for Henry Cowell,” with conductor Michael Tilson Thomas on MIDI piano. It’s a far-out space, very much in the Dead vein but also a close approach to an Ivesian soundscape: [filed as a “Phil & Friends” show]
This performance was a tribute to Henry Cowell, an early 20th-century modernist composer (and friend of Ives’). Remember that Lesh had been introduced to Ives through reading Cowell, who in his own right had a strong, direct influence on later avant-garde music. (For instance, Cowell had played experimental concerts with John Cage at Mills College, where Lesh and Tom Constanten went. The “prepared piano” music that TC plays on the Anthem album was derived from John Cage, who in turn was inspired by Cowell’s string-piano techniques.)
The tape was first aired on David Gans’ radio show on 4/28/97, when Lesh appeared to chat and play a few music selections he’d been involved in. The show doesn’t seem to be online, but here is a transcript:
Lesh talks about the show: “There were several piano pieces performed that were written by Henry Cowell, who was, in a way, the sort of patriarch of this whole West Coast experimental scene. He was writing outrageous tone-cluster music at age 17 in the early part of this century, in the teens and twenties. At the end of it, Mickey, Bob, Vince, myself, and Michael Tilson Thomas collaborated on a group improvisation, which was based on themes that Henry Cowell had composed, and that had been heard earlier in the program as part of the regular performance. That was a great deal of fun to do, especially to watch Michael really cut loose...” [Lesh goes on to praise Thomas.]

Lesh also played a piece from Stravinsky’s Firebird (with himself conducting the Berkeley Symphony), and part of a Bruce Hornsby show which he and Weir joined in. As a sidenote, it’s worth mentioning that Bruce Hornsby was also an Ives fan, down to quoting Ives pieces in his own songs, though I don’t know how much his playing with the Dead reflects this:

With Garcia gone, Lesh was on his own, and for a few years he mostly stayed off the stage – as he later said, “It was really hard to make the decision to tour at all, for me, because after Jerry’s death I didn’t really want to do it. I didn’t think I wanted to play music with anybody but him. He was the reason I joined the band in the first place.”
So Lesh returned to one of his first loves, composing. In one interview he described a new piece in which he applied the Ivesian collage technique to Grateful Dead material: “For a couple years I’ve been working on an orchestral piece that involves 29 Grateful Dead songs, all orchestrated together. I’m deconstructing them, taking the raw material—a melodic line here, a chord pattern or rhythmic riff there—and weaving them together like a tapestry. In some sections one song is accompanied by another; at one point I have Dark Star, Playing in the Band, Saint of Circumstance, and the Terrapin Station fanfare all going simultaneously.”
He also talks about it in the radio show with Gans: “I was trained in classical music, and I studied composition for many years before joining the band. One of the things that I’m doing now is composing a song symphony that’s based on the Grateful Dead song themes – the melodies of the songs, chord progressions, rhythmic riffs. I’m going to weave them all together in a seven-movement, 45-minute composition, which I’m working on now. Hopefully I’ll have it done by this time next year. And there have been some record companies that are interested in it, and so hopefully I’ll be able to find an orchestra to play it – and maybe I can conduct it myself… There might be a part where there’ll be two conductors necessary… In a way, it’s my way of finding closure with the Grateful Dead music…”

A couple years later, though, he went on the road again with Phil & Friends, and in an ’03 interview he declared that the ‘Grateful Dead symphony’ was not to be:
“I decided not to do the symphonic version of Grateful Dead [music] for many reasons. I was looking for closure – this was right after Jerry died and I was looking for closure with that music so I could go on and do something else. Turns out, the music won’t let me have closure. It wants me to keep playing [it] – it wants to be reinterpreted… It’s only alive when we’re playing it, digging into it and expanding it and playing it in new ways… I just realized there wasn’t going to be any closure, I was gonna keep playing this music. I was going to keep reinterpreting it, and there was no way in hell I was going to freeze it, to petrify it in amber.”


It is time to close; and there are some other Dead connections with Ives that I won’t really get into. For instance, their use of specifically American themes to color their music, as a kind of nostalgic look at “the old America.” (As Weir said, “We espouse the American musical tradition… We’ve built our own little aesthetic around American traditional music, or our own generalized ideal” of it – and it seems Ives saw himself in a similar way. Ives even wrote a cowboy song…)
Also, their use of indeterminate or ‘aleatoric’ music (to use the scholarly term), where parts of the performance are left up to chance and the performer’s interpretation. The Dead of course based their entire approach on this; but in the modern classical field, Ives was an early innovator. (Ives has even sometimes been compared to Charles Mingus in his approach.)
Here are some thoughts on Ives from one music scholar:
“Another innovation unique to Ives was the amount of interpretive discretion he left to the performer, particularly in [the] keyboard works which are heavily based on his…improvisational technique. As an inveterate keyboard improviser, Ives…evidently learned a good deal from his own improvisations…[and] characteristically attempted to maintain the irregularity of thought and variety of gesture which free improvisation can produce… [Ives] leaves the performer a wide margin of choice in shaping this material… Ives intends that his keyboard music…be performed in a spontaneous manner, with that sense of abandon, of ‘letting oneself go’…which characterizes improvisation.”

I’ll end with one final quote from an Ives listener, reflecting on what the music means to him:
“Rather than presenting a unified, rational view of the world, rather than simplifying our experience, Ives’ music usually portrays the world as fragmentary, disjointed, and most of all, incomplete… His music reveals the underlying, complex, chaotic and fragmentary reality that’s all around us. We typically ignore this dissonant reality by sticking to well-worn paths, whether they are well-worn musical conventions or well-worn ways of thinking… Ives takes child-like delight in the ever-shifting sound fragments and colors that his musical kaleidoscope provides… Now while Ives was attuned to the fragmentary, mutable nature of reality, he was also preoccupied with the idea of unity, oneness, and transcendence… There is a sense of continual struggle, striving to make sense of things, to see what’s just around the corner – even if it can only be seen with a sidelong glance after a long, tough slog… His music is always looking, always striving; it rarely arrives… Ives’ music is not tidy. It can’t be contained by normal musical forms because these structures do not accurately represent the way that Ives perceives the world… Ives’ music acknowledges that our perceptions of the world – and the understanding that we construct from those perceptions – are in a constant state of flux. It is a never-ending process.”


See also:
Shaugn O’Donnell’s essay “American Chaos: Charles Ives & the Grateful Dead” in the “Grateful Dead In Concert” book
Richard Kostelanetz article on Ives in “Dead Reckonings” book - “The Musical Imagination of Lesh” by Brent Wood (a rather technical essay on Lesh’s style)