My son asked me, "What's the difference between a hippy and a hipster?" I answered, "patchouli and clove." The discussion that ensued involved mods, scooters, ska, tie die, love beads, dead heads and etc... He already knew about dead heads, after all, we live in Santa Cruz California, and you can't live here without knowing a dead head or a dozen. A local radio station here, that calls itself KPIG, plays lots and lots and lots of Grateful Dead intermingled with Greg Brown songs, (mom always said, "If it's brown, flush it down"). Occasionally you'll hear Janice Joplin screaming about something, and on that rare occasion, you might be lucky to hear our local boy Neil Young sing a song, but you can always count on hearing the Dead at some point.
I remember the first time I heard of the Grateful Dead. I was in eighth grade, walking to school with my friend John Manchester. There was a bit of a chill in the air that morning, even though it was sunny and bright. We met up with John's brother Bill at a fence intersection in an old field. There was just enough room for a skinny kid to squeeze through where the fence came to a T with the tall 7' chain link football field fence. Standing on the other side of the fence, I noticed Bill's t-shirt for the first time. Wow! I was awestruck. It was a picture of the Grateful Dead Blues For Allah album cover, on a deep reddish tie dye. I remember misreading it, and saying "graceful dead" out loud. Bill quickly corrected me, emphasizing the T in GraTeful Dead. As I gazed at the fantastique image on Bill's shirt, I thought to myself, "The Grateful Dead must be so cool. I can't wait to hear them." Previously, Bill had turned me on to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, and I was very impressed with that, so I trusted his opinion. Plus he was a couple of years older than me... seemed like a decade almost back then. Even though Bill was shivering in a t-shirt on a cool morning, he seemed to have a clue.
I eventually had my chance to listen to the Dead at Manchester's house, in sister Dorothy's room. Dorothy, or Dot, as everyone called her, was much older... already out of high school. She burned marijuana incense in her room. I told her I wanted some, but she said that they don't make it anymore. Sure it was incense. When we finally got around to listening to one of Dot's Dead records, I kept waiting for the music to happen, but it just kind of fell on my ears like a lead thud on a frozen lake. Really dull, and uninteresting was my first impression of the actual music of the Dead. A much different experience than my encounter with my first Grateful Dead image. I figured it just must be a bad record, (I wish I could remember what we spun). So when I saw a Dead record at Harmon's Drug Store, I purchased it. It was called Shakedown Street, and once again, when I listened to it at home, nothing happened, except my eyes glazed over and I think I died. No I didn't die, but I wished I had spent the money on that Harry Nilsson Pussycats record instead. I ended up giving Shakeclown Street to my friend Albert. I don't think he liked it much either.
I heard a lot more Dead when I was in college. My roomie Steve had all their records, and played them in his regular rotation, (he played the record in front of the stack, and when finished, returned it to the back of the stack). Fortunately, Steve played other things like Beefheart, Mot The Hoople, and a gaggle of interesting listenables that were new to me. I already knew Beefheart from The Fourth Tower Of Inverness radio serial back in the early seventies. But that is another story for another day. As wise as Steve was, (several years older than me, a tour of duty on a nuclear submarine, president of the debate team, straight A student), even he couldn't convince me that the Grateful Dead had any merit.
Some years later, a woman from work invited me to take a "quick lunch break" with her at her place, just a couple of blocks from work. It was obvious to me that she was a hippy, so wasn't surprised when we arrived at her pad. There were funkily coloured candles with wax melted to the table and beyond. There were no chairs, only cushions to recline on, and both familiar and unfamiliar odors. I sat on a rug, and she bent over to select a record from an untidy stack of wax, took the vinyl out of the sleeve, placed it on the turntable, and said, "Do you like the Dead?" "Sure"... I reluctantly said, lieing through my teeth, knowing it was too late to stop it anyway. Besides, I didn't want to be rude. After all, I was a guest in her house. As the crackly, uncleaned record spun, I lost all interest in life and died again. Ok, I didn't die, but I wasn't late getting back to work that afternoon.
To this day, people make me listen to the Dead, and I do listen, even though I don't enjoy it. At this point, I'd like to pose a question - Other than a bunch of slumber time tunes, what did Jerry Garcia contribute to the world? Where I live, the Jerry cult is thriving and patchouli fills the air. Here in Santa Cruz, Jerry is revered as a saint. Think not that I judge too harshly. My voice is as one crying in the Wildebeest. My words are but neo-petroglyphs-graffiti on a sandstone monolith. They will erode, and be washed away with time, but the withered Dead rock "will survive." Meanwhile, I'll be listening to Dead Kennedys instead.
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Santa Cruz Lighthouse by Richard M. Bennett
The artist working on a new project.
