Dark Star (37 page)

Laird Grant:
After you've got two pockets full, what the hell do you need any more for? You played for a hundred thousand? Next time they're giving you two hundred and fifty. You're playing the same goddamn song but they're going to give you one and a half times more because that's how much bigger the interest in you has become. But they did good things with their money. It did not all go into their pocket. I ended up with a four-wheel-drive fire truck from them. The Rex Foundation gave me ten grand and I started my own fire department up here on the mountain. It went back to musicians, it went back to kids, it went back to the rain forest.

Sue Stephens:
The post-'87 success made it worse for him. It was just too much. He'd be funny when they were talking about income going up. Garcia'd go, “Oh no. Not more money!” Because the more he had, the more of a problem it became with people wanting to get it from him and him having to deal with it.

John Perry Barlow:
I have what I call Barlow's law of economic insufficiency, which is, “The more you got, the shorter it feels.” The way that applied to the Dead I used to call, “Big hand, big mouth.” There was co-evolution between the monstrosity of the two. In effect, the beast itself was a completely independent being. Completely. It did what it did. Jerry and I had this conversation one time and we were talking about the beast that was the Grateful Dead. Have you ever seen the movie
Dragonslayer?
They had an especially great dragon in there. It was old and cranky and it had just about had it with everything. It was nothing to mess with. We decided that in its essence, that was what the Grateful Dead looked like. It was that creature. Spitting fire and coughing and an awful lot of smoke.

Bob Barsotti:
I think that what happened to Jerry was that he got stuck in this cycle of being the provider and he was provider for the Dead. He could have done so much more but he got stuck. What happened was that the Dead were making so much money and he had this thing about not walking away. Because the day he walked away, all these people would lose their job. The other reality was that he could play in a band that he loved and he had the respect of the world and he could be whoever he wanted to be and it was just fine with everyone. So why not take the path of least resistance? The one thing he knew he could always do was make more money. Somehow, his solution to it all was to just play more shows and not hassle about it.

Justin Kreutzmann:
After shows, there were some meetings where they'd sit around and be talking about songs or the way this guy played on that song or that guy played on that song. After all these years, I thought these guys were all supposed to like each other. It wasn't like they were trying to say, “You know,
maybe
you could do better.” It was, “Hey, that was
shit,
man. You know? Why don't you get back to the music? Why do you keep fucking us up?” It was just merciless. Even guys in the crew were leaving the room. That amazed me. There was still that much spark in what they did.

Len Dell'amico:
From my point of view as his friend, I realized that all this was a burden and it got bigger and bigger. After '87, it was. “Oh, boy! Now we have a hit. Isn't that great?”
Not!
It just got harder and harder. Bigger hall, bigger questions. Someone would come in with the news that the DEA was using the Dead as a magnet to bust people. Knowing that there would be certain illegal substances used there, they would target the shows. “How do we want to deal with this? Do we want to go on record with a statement that you shouldn't do these things?” Then Garcia would say, “Why don't we
not
do these stadium shows?” The unspoken response was that because they had this nut to pay. Hello, fifty employees.

Bob Barsotti:
The Deadhead scene all of a sudden had people involved in it who really didn't give a shit about anything. The after
In the Dark
crowd who got interested because the Grateful Dead had a top ten single. All of a sudden, they became Deadheads. They might be able to tell you the songs on
In the Dark
and that was about it. They were young kids who saw this incredible party scene. Or guys who had these vast arrays of drugs and vast experience in handling weird parking lot situations who were able to exist on the outer edge right in the middle of society. It fascinated young kids to see this kind of freedom because they'd grown up in the Reagan era with the war on drugs. They equated these ideals with the sixties but actually it was just a big party scene on a Saturday night.

Justin Kreutzmann:
Jerry and I were riding up in this elevator and it was one of the times where Deadheads were also staying in the hotel. Jerry got in the elevator and we stood in front and there were three Deadheads behind us. They were staring at him, giving him that polite distance but awestruck and staring. Then this businessman in a suit with a little briefcase got on. He looked back at the Deadheads and looked over at Garcia and me and looked back at the Deadheads and looked over at Jerry and said, “Are you famous or something?” Jerry said, “No, man. I just play guitar in a rock 'n' roll band.” With perfect timing, the doors opened. Jerry and I walked out and the Deadheads were going crazy. The guy looked around and said, “God, I gotta check my record collection.”

Jerry just wanted to be known as a competent musician. I don't think the fame was part of it for him. He told me his analogy for fame was that it was like a little dog you took to restaurants. Sometimes you had to excuse it if it crapped on the floor and sometimes you had to pet it and be nice to it. Fame was like a little dog you had to take with you everywhere you were going.

Laird Grant:
Jerry said to me, “This scares the shit out of me. Some people at the shows think I'm some kind of a fucking prophet or something. That makes me crazy, man. I'm afraid to say anything because of what people are going to take from it.” He said, “It's like that Manson thing. You get caught up in that kind of fucking power. I don't want it.” He said, “God, if I could play my music and not have to deal with any of this, it would be the happiest day of my life.”

Carolyn “Mountain Girl” Garcia:
Jerry's name became a household word and that was really a surprise. We capitalized on it quite nicely but the effort it took to make all that happen was gigantic and all-consuming.

Sue Stephens:
With the Cherry Garcia ice cream, they had put that out without even asking us and everybody thought it was a wonderful thing. Jerry certainly didn't want to have to bust these people. But it was after his diabetic coma and the last thing on his list of eats was ice cream. That was a definite no-no. So the poor guy couldn't even taste any of it himself. But we had to go after them on a licensing level. It was his right to publicity and we had to get the lawyers involved. We gave them the opportunity to either stop making it or pay him a small percentage and they immediately said, “We'll just stop making it then.” Twenty minutes later when they realized it was their number-one seller, they called right back. He did get a very small percentage of that money and it turned out to be a good paycheck for him every time it came in as well. His basic take on it was that he was thrilled to have been paid tribute that way. He said he was glad it wasn't motor oil that they'd named after him.

Laird Grant:
When you're making that much money, if you don't spend a whole bunch of it, then Uncle Sam takes it away and makes a nuclear trigger out of it. Jerry could have been in a '63 Corvair that smoked like the one he used to have. Eventually, the totally buffered comfort and lifestyle of the rich and famous was around him. He was surrounded by it.

Justin Kreutzmann:
Being on the road with Jerry always had more to do with what was going on in his head and musically than the actual rigors of being on the road. By the time I started hanging out with him a lot, their life on the road was pretty comfortable. They had made it as easy and as comfortable as it could be.

John Perry Barlow:
I used to put out sort of a semi-annual little newsletter about what was going on in my life. Right after
In the Dark
suddenly got big, I wrote an article about the irony of the anti-materialist Grateful Dead suddenly being incapable of staying anyplace but the Four Seasons hotels. It was the closest I ever saw Garcia come to wanting to hit me. He was
so
angry. I came into Front Street and he said, “If it isn't the author of the celebrated Barlowgram who thinks he can sit in the seat of judgment.” I said, “Well, it
is
funny, isn't it?” And he said, “Maybe you think it's fucking funny. But I think it's
betrayal
.” I said, “I try to call them as I see them.” He said, “You know, if you want to stay around here, maybe you should call them as they
are
.” I said, “None so vigorous in their own defense as the justly accused.” That made it worse. Part of what Garcia was saying was, “You're not that great a lyricist and look how much money you're making. So you're biting the hand that feeds you.” I said, “I would be biting the hand that feeds me
not
to tell the truth. That's my job. That's what I'm here for.” He was saying that I was not permitted to tell that truth. The thing I was most grateful to the Grateful Dead for was putting me in a position where I could make a living and say what I thought. Of course, I didn't mind staying in the Four Seasons, either. Mostly, I was just abusing the paradox. But I was being accused of hypocrisy. That was not what I was saying. I'd never heard any complaints about it from the Deadheads. I turned and walked out and wrote him a long letter about how I wasn't going to be intimidated. Then silence fell on the scene and nothing went on for a long time and then I saw him again and it was as though nothing had ever happened.

Robert Greenfleld:
In June 1988, I spent the better part of a day at the Grateful Dead warehouse on Front Street in San Rafael interviewing Jerry Garcia, Mickey Hart, and Bob Weir for the book that the late Bill Graham and I were doing about his life. For an obvious outsider, the atmosphere at Front Street was not nearly so warm as the weather. Garcia himself however was a revelation. Before I could ask him a single question, Jerry grinned with glee and said, “Oh, boy! I get to talk about Bill, right? And he's not here? What a
score!
” Then he began laughing like a joyous child. When I leaned over to clip my tiny lavalier microphone to his shirt, Jerry took it from my hand and began to do the job himself. I said, “Only the real media guys clip themselves. The veterans.” Picking right up on the riff, Jerry said, “Vets. Battle scarred. Word worn.” With no further prompting, he began to talk about Bill.

At some point in the proceedings, Jerry determined that not only was it time for lunch but that we would order out. He asked me what I'd like to eat. Having been on tour with the Rolling Stones, a group of individuals for whom no menu was ever good enough, I let him do the ordering. I said, “Whatever you're having will be fine with me.” What Jerry Garcia was having for lunch that day was the largest, coldest, greasiest slab of dead red meat masquerading as a steak in the history of western takeout. The sandwich wasn't just not good. It was not edible. I did not even come close to finishing mine. Jerry devoured his with great relish. As I reached for the can of Pepsi that had come with the sandwich, it occurred to me that the Grateful Dead had dosed Bill Graham with LSD just this way. Trying to make a joke, I said, “I can drink this, right? I mean, I've got to watch the Laker game tonight.” “Go right ahead,” Jerry said, grinning as though the can contained far more than Pepsi. “You'll enjoy it.”

After we were done talking, there was no doubt in my mind that, much like Pete Townshend of the Who, Jerry Garcia would have been famous even if rock 'n' roll had never been invented. His basic decency and great good humor were extraordinary. To be sure, it was a good time in his life. Jerry was clean and the band was making money. In terms of our interview, it seemed to make him happy to be able to talk for a change about someone other than himself. Still, I was impressed. In every way, the man was definitely a
mensch
. No way I would ever let him order lunch for me again, though.

Sat Santokh Singh Khalsa:
At that time, I had Jerry's ear as much as anybody and probably more than many other people. I proposed to him that we do a benefit for the rain forests and I was the coordinator of that benefit at Madison Square Garden. It took me a long time to sell Grateful Dead management on charging fifty dollars per seat and two hundred fifty dollars a seat for sponsors. Jerry and Bobby were for it so we persuaded them. We sold 1,000 two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar seats and we sold out the entire show, no problem. We had a press conference at the UN. This rain forest thing was the first time Jerry actually spoke out on an issue at a press conference. I also organized a party after the show. That was harder to organize than the benefit. I persuaded Jerry to come to the party and that was my mistake. I told him he could relax and hang out with people. I thought New Yorkers were sophisticated but he spent the whole party signing autographs, which pissed him off. It wasn't fun.

Merl Saunders:
For the
Blues from the Rainforest
album, the music came to me in a dream. To do it in the studio, I had to get musicians who understood me. I didn't have to say nothing to him but, “Here it is, Jerry. I need a melody to go out there. But at the end, I need a hook.” He played it. I said, “That's exactly what I want.” But Jerry got very paranoid about doing
Blues from the Rainforest
. When I told him what I wanted to do, he said, “Do it, Merl. Do it. Don't tell nobody.” I said, “Whatever you want, Jerry.” When
Blues from the Rainforest
came out, no one knew. They was shocked! We did the whole thing in my house. We cut it there. We rehearsed there. My house was his escape. For about four or five years, he came there. Drove himself over, came in, laid on the couch. I'd come down and see him there. He knew I'd always leave the door unlocked.