Hello: you've reached our new Dick's Picks section where we review all the Grateful Dead related works that weren't included in the book Aesthetics of the Grateful Dead. From Rober Hunter solo albums, to Phil and Friends, to the Dead's giant box set, it will all be here, so check back. We kick off this section with Dozin' at the Knick.

Grateful Dead – Dozin’ at the Knick (1996)

The subhuman and the superhuman are alike in that neither is human.

- Date: March 24 – 26, 1990

- Place: Knickerbocker Arena, Albany, New York

- Chronology: Everybody culminating.

- Surprises: Walkin’ Blues, Jack-A-Roe, Never Trust a Woman, Mud Love Buddy Jam, And We Bid You Good Night, Dupree’s Diamond Blues.

- Bunglepoint: Re-entry into Uncle John’s Band vocal breakdown is blood curling.

- Dope Factor: Not very high. "Space" is a bit undefined, although there is a conversation going on between Garcia’s guitar and somebody. I just couldn’t pick up the language and it seemed to be excluding me. Maybe it’s French, and maybe you know French. "Drums" are cool, but totally earthy and tribal despite the synthesized hugeness of the tones.

• Rock critic myths: 1. "The Dead weren’t tight:" Dozin’ at the Knick is very tight playing. And exacting playing. And demanding playing. 2. "The Dead couldn’t play flat out rock and roll:" But what they substituted in its place was something much better. And more demanding. And more exacting. But of all the rock critic myths, this one has a little truth. The Dead just couldn’t play that simple and with such constraint. Not to say they couldn’t play simple and constrained – they did. But not that much so. It’s okay, I suppose, to have liked Bachman – Turner Overdrive better than the Dead. But by the time this show rolled around the Dead had long come to terms with rock and roll. They slowed rock and roll down to mere rock. On Chuck Berry’s "Round and Round," for instance, Chuck Berry sang the song in the present tense, as if the action was happening or had just happened: Bobby, on Dozin’, puts the events in the past tense. The laid back pacing of the band’s "Around and Around" allows Bobby’s memory to luxuriate in the remembrance of a big event, of something that happened once, would never be repeated: the person singing was there and he witnessed the miracle. The Dead had a patented speed. What is called "rock and roll" wasn’t it.

• Individual Performance: On this disc they are many heads and one heart.

The three concerts pasted together from these shows at the Knickerbocker Arena fill out 3 discs. "Space" shows up three times, not really flowing, just sort of thrown in, except in the first instance. The last disc seems to be made up of three night’s worth of show finales, and it’s choppy. The second disc has "Mud Love Buddy Jam," which is a four-chord structure that quickly grows tiresome no matter how much filigree is etched in the formica. But as a whole, Dozin’ at the Knick is classic.

DISC ONE

Disc One starts with "Hell in a Bucket," which is probably the most spiteful song the Dead ever wrote. Character assassination is carried out with whips, chains, bikers, black leather: "You analyze me, pretend to despise me; you laugh when I stumble and fall. There may come a day I will dance on your grave; if unable to dance, I will crawl." When Jerry Garcia lets loose his first rollicking guitar barrage during the chorus, you know he can follow the spite, understand it, and can feel it. He makes the "I may be going to hell in a bucket" chorus sound like dirty water flashing down a sewer. The good-vibe Captain Tripps persona was the myth, after all, and another Jerry has to be reckoned with – the traditional musician/junkie whose highs had to have been clouded with some other visions. It can even be argued that the Dead has a very dark vision, if it’s pursued. Almost any road is rewarding in this aspect. Think of the Oliver Stone movie on the Doors and what a disappointment it was. Oliver Stone, generally a poet of the 60’s and a bullcrap-debunker, became caught up in the myth of Jim Morrison – all silly scary witch/warlock stuff and pseudo-mystical mushiness – which missed the point altogether. A British working class, realistic director would have been perfect. Morrison drooling drunk and incoherent, almost passed out like Joan Dideon saw him, or shy to the point of paralysis and isolation like some of his friends saw him, or in bed with Grace Slick for the icon to icon banality; and the British would never have disguised in long-shot, the famous moment when Morrison let it all hang out. Hopefully if Garcia ever becomes the subject of a made for TV movie, he won’t be portrayed by a bewigged idiot carrying a beatific smile throughout the whole film. Garcia is larger than life, - larger, in fact, than Morrison, in stature. Mostly, because he was quiet in the middle of a firestorm like "Hell in a Bucket" or "All Along the Watchtower." Garcia is more like Napoleon in Anthony Burgesses’ novel Napoleon Symphony. He wanders through the heights of battle unruffled, unhurried, molding chaos into form by action motivated by both intellect and instinct. When Napoleon is off the battlefield, he’s just another horny drunken drifter, making the same mistakes all of us make, but a bit more elevated due to the rather stupendous achievements

"Hell in a Bucket" rocks hard, the changes are lithe, the venality perfect. This whole first disc could almost be called the Dead’s Black Album. Or Brett’s album - which is about the same thing. Brett moans out his own songs, "Just a Little Light," "Blow Away," and (the cover?) "Never Trust a Woman." Wedded with a very philosophical reading of "Dupree’s Diamond Blues" and a stoical rendition of "Row Jimmy," the whole disc becomes a paean to the band’s dark side. Brett’s solo voice could be hard to take on some of the Dead’s studio recordings because his gruffness and his bitterness were a bit too apparent, a bit too produced. But Brent and the Dead downsized and revamped the almost MOR structures of his tunes when playing them live, and certain aspects make them stand out. What’s revealing about "Just a Little Light" is how much the Dead could sound like MOR studio hot shots Duck Dunn, James Burton or Jeff Porcaro when they played like this. Yet another aspect of the band the critics never noticed. Brett’s tunes gain a lot more character when running through the live Dead’s magnifying intensity, although his songs almost always exist just a little bit outside the Dead mystique. "Just a Little Light" has contrapuntal accents and long teasing breaks that push along the mood and it’s wonderful hearing the band play like this.

"Jack a Roe," Walkin’ Blues," and Never Trust a Woman" are the oddities. "Jack a Roe" here is the short version that ends "this couple they did marry, so why not you and me." Which deflates my theory of a deep, dark, Dead disc. It’s a nice version and Jerry’s guitar tone is as compelling as Miles Davis’s trumpet tone. "Walkin’ Blues" ends with the band playing quieter and quieter as Bobby voice fades in the distance; I’m not sure if that works, but the blues-interaction between Lesh, Garcia and Bobby’s slide licks is as tight as the inside of a golf ball. "Never Trust a Woman," is Brent again, bemoaning women in a blues take off that isn’t quite as 21^st century as it should be. The whole disc runs hot.

DISC TWO

"Playin’ in the Band" is rough, the jams instantly taking off into Dead space, but never quite arriving anywhere in particular. Garcia wanders through some sound effects, and he never seems too satisfied with any of the buttons they push on his inspiration box. So they give it up for a nice rendition of "Uncle John’s Band." If Greil Marcus had liked "Uncle John’s Band" he would probably have called it "the best song about empathy ever recorded." Brent helped give the Dead their best vocal ensemble sound – his voice had body and gave body to the other rather disembodied vocals: Garcia who was emphysema-stricken with a cigarette addiciton, not to mention his divided attention to superlative guitar fills and very wordy text; Bob Weir’s stuffy head-voice; and Phil Lesh’s occasional small-range limitations. But this may have been a period when Garcia had quit smoking for awhile, because "Lady with a Fan" is given a great, almost sonorous reading. The "Terrapin Station" fugue is always interesting, but the devolution into "Mud Love Buddy Jam" sort of dampens the after effect. "Drums" are sythesized and great and will shake the foundation of your house. Then there is some more half-hearted "Space," before this uneven disc peters out.

DISC THREE

A short "Space" gives way to "Wheel" and the beauty of its three-minute form isn’t tampered with here. It’s always been a perfect little song, again with Brett’s voice helping things out. "All Along the Watchtower," throws Jerry back into cyclone mode and it’s a good version. But on "Stella Blue" they shift into underdrive. The song is so slow you can just melt into it and Garcia’s seems to be feeling the song like it was written a few days before. "Stella Blue" gets deeper and deeper with age – has anybody ever heard this song at a funeral? - and pairing it with "Black Peter" later on in the disc shows just how ahead of their time the boys were in their concepts, precepts, and approach. There’s a nice version of "Not Fade Away" with the Dead doing the acappella diddley-bobs for awhile, and the audience taking them up for another few minutes. This is a less raucous, more playful, Buddy Holly-like version.

At this point the pasting together of three concerts becomes a rollercoaster rice of style and feeling. "And We Bid You Goodnight" bids you goodnight, then "I Will Take You Home" bids you goodnight again, then "Going Down the Road" (good version) taps you on the shoulder and says "Hold on a minute." "Black Peter" totally confuses you, but it is a splendid version. And then "Around and Around" is splendid self-aggrandizement, just before "Brokedown Palace" kicks your butt out of the Arena.

All and all this is a nice collection and probably would have been seen as one of the Dead’s best albums if it had been released in 1990, instead of 1996. But Dick Latava changed the whole nature of some of our perceptions of the Dead’s genius, and the greatness of the album has much company.

Back to Top

For our complete listings of bands, visit our

King of Pop Music Reviews Index

SF Music Chronicle Home

Contact Us