Part Four features:
Dozin' at the
Knick (1996 release of a 1990 performance)
Dick's Pick's, Volume 13 - 1990 release of a 1981 performance)
Bob Weir and Ratdog - 2000
Grateful Dead – Dozin’ at the Knick - 1996
(1996 release of a 1990 performance)
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.
- Bungle Point: 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.
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 of Slick's b.s. storytelling; 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 morbidity. 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's 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 21st 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 addiction, 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 synthesized 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 under-drive. 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-bops 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 ride 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 now has much company.
Grateful Dead - Dick's Picks, Volume 9 - 1990 performace
(released in 1997)
Date: September 16, 1990
Place: Madison Square Garden
Set List:
DISC ONE: Hell in a Bucket, Cold Rain and Snow, Little Red Rooster, Stagger Lee, Queen Jane Approximately, Tennessee Jed, Cassidy, Deal.
DISC TWO: Samson and Delilah, Iko Iko, Looks Like Rain, He's Gone>No MSG Jam>Drums>
DISC THREE: Space>Standing on the Moon>Lunatic Preserve>I Need a Miracle>Morning Dew, It's All Over Now Baby Blue.
Chronology: Recorded only a few months after the performances on Dozin' at the Knick, Brent Mydland is now a member of a different sort of dead, and Bruce Hornsby (keyboards, accordian, vocals) and Vince Welnick (keyboards, vocals) are on board.
Surprises: Jerry seems a little disconnected, maybe allowing space for the new keyboard players. Two Dylan songs show up: "Queen Jane Approximately" and "It's All Over Now Baby Blue."
Stupid Rock Critic Myths Shattered: Can't think of any - not a good sign.
Crash Points: Some messed up lyrics on "Hell in a Bucket," accordion on "Tennessee Jed" (doesn't work), MSG Jam noodling and a long, uninspired "He's Gone."
Performance: Inconsistent and the sound isn't best. There's a low end buzz on Lesh's guitar and on the keys. Frequencies are a little squashed and messy throughout.
Yes, Brent is gone and we miss him deeply. He was such a beautiful player and singer - and the fact that it takes two guys to fill in for him says something. Everybody's space is a little cluttered, perhaps due to the two new players trying to find their pocket. A good start with "Hell in a Bucket" is followed by one of the most resentful and anguished versions of "Cold Rain and Snow" I've heard yet. The tempo is a little slow, and Garcia is singing strongly. There is something so sensuous about this version - from the "yellow hair" to the door open to the snow - it's just beautiful. "Cassidy" is also well-played. The structure seems iron tight (not always the case), so the swells and shifts are effectively moving; there are some nice "talking" poetry parts by Lesh and Garcia, and there are some very dark places the bass player leads you to. "Deal" is another highlight with Garcia shoring up the choruses with New Orleans pop music melodies, and the band becoming a one-headed beast during some jamming where everybody puts their best foot forward and just dance almost in unison side by side like a good Broadway chorus. It's hard to tell who's who in the thick brew. But Disc one gets a little thin elsewhere. "Queen Jane Approximately" is one of those Dylan songs anybody could have written once they had grasped Dylan's style, and its inclusion in later Dead sets has always puzzled me. "Stagger Lee" suffers from the rhythmic circular effect that locks everybody into a box that nobody can escape. They give a good try at the end as Delilah sings her spiritual song of vengeance, but the set-up has little breathing room in general. "Little Red Rooster" sounds like somebody is missing, and not very many animals are walking around in the barnyard in this version. "Tennessee Jed" is a long slog with the band working sometimes at cross-purposes as Hornsby tries valiantly to find some space for an accordion.
Disc Two is
slim. "Samson and Delilah" has another of those
locked-in circular rhythm patterns that get a bit overstated -
though Lesh seems to be playing his heart out. The recording
quality dampens the interplay (where the hell are the drums on
parts of this record?). "Iko Iko" threatens some
interest as Garcia and the keyboard players get into a
trumpet-blowing, New Orleans vibe, but it doesn't quite climax
(saved for a better day hopefully). "Looks Like Rain"
is a good version, but "He's Gone" floating into
"No MSG Jam" is a dull experience. On the latter jam,
Lesh might as well be in his bedroom playing to the mirror, and
the keyboard players keep waiting for something they can follow
to assert itself. The high point of Disc Two may be
"Drums" with some nice talking sequences and sound
effects and aural creepiness that make for some good mood music.
Disc Three starts with a bad "Space" - the kind where kitchen sink noises and clattering nothingness suggest even less. But this leads into a beautiful "Standing on the Moon" and a much more energetic space jam called "Lunatic Preserve." "Lunatic Preserve" is one of those space sequences where life is discovered in outer space: it's big, loud and dangerous. How could "I Need a Miracle" not be anti-climactic. And this version of "Morning Dew" reminds me of Frank Sinatra's singing: "awww-fulllll-ly slooooowwwwww-ooo-ooo." "It's All Over Now Baby Blue" is a good Dylan cover with some nice playing by Garcia.
This isn't a real exciting night on the town for sure. Possibly selected because of the presence of Hornsby, it's one of the lesser releases so far in the Dick's Picks series.
Grateful Dead - Dick's Picks, Volume 13 - 1981
(released in 1999)
Date: May 6, 1981
Place: Nassau Coliseum
Set List:
DISC ONE: Alabama Getaway>Greatest Story Ever Told, They Love Each Other, Cassidy, Jack a Roe, Little Red Rooster, Dire Wolf, Looks Like Rain, Big Railroad Blues, Let it Grow>Deal.
DISC TWO: New Minglewood Blues, High Time>Lost Sailor>Saint of Circumstance.
DISC THREE: He's Gone>Caution/Spanish Jam>Drums>Jam>The Other One>Goin' Down the Road Feelin' Bad>Wharf Rat>Good Lovin', Don't Ease Me In.
Chronology: A year after the official release Go to Heaven in 1980. It would be 6 years before the Dead released another studio album, In the Dark. The Jerry Garcia Band would put out the weak Run for the Roses in 1982, but this is an era where the Dead concentrated on live shows. The official release Dead Set reconfirms just how well they were playing at this time.
Surprises: Greatest Story Ever Told, They Love Each Other, High Time, Caution/Spanish Jam, The Other One.
Stupid Rock Critic Myths Shattered: The band is dumb and lazy.
Performance: Consistent with the minimal low points not being worthy of mention.
Phil Lesh is probably rock's most emotive bass player. On the Bob Weir/John Barlow penned "Lost Sailor>Saint of Circumstance," here on Disc Two, Lesh alternates swift, short bar changes in tempo against slow, free floating sustained notes. Bob Weir's voice floats against a quietly moving background, lost in the sound and drifting among almost hidden structure points. Percussion is lightly stated. Rhythm guitars are so subtle that Garcia startles you when he launches into his first solo. Different versions of this song play out in different ways. In this particular version the sailor's predicament about landing ashore has no resolution. Lesh keeps the ocean wash going even against the brief excursion on land. This sailor has no moorings. Uneasiness is sustained. The only time the band gets together and burns is when the sailor breaks the landlubber hypnosis and sets sail. Possibly this tale is about flight from responsibility, maybe even depiction of psychosis. I don't know. Expectation as a preferred mode of existence, more important than destination? Expectation/flight as goal? The band moves together as the sails are raised, Garcia unleashing a flurry of notes that sound like five guitar players riffing around each other; pushing forward, Garcia scatters squealing seagulls in his wake, and Lesh charges forward, doesn't look back until high sea yields protection, and the lulling sound of lapping waves are allowed to resume. "Sailor>Saint of Circumstance" is an academic musical invention. Many of Weir's song structures are purposely loose, cannily giving the band room to work this kind of magic. But the academy resides in Lesh's sense of musical form. It's there on the tone he displays on the thunderous versions of "Looks Like Rain" and "Let it Grow." In simpler form, the academy is present in Lesh's braggadocio and brutality on "New Minglewood Blues," the chicken-strutting goofiness of "Little Red Rooster" and the wide-eyed gothic psychedelia of "The Other One." This is a great Lesh album, the recording does him justice - and if you are a Leshhead, this is a good one.
Of course, a whole record of music from the academy would make this a less compelling effort. The strength of Dick's Picks, Volume 13 is in the variety of successful playing styles sliding into each other effortlessly. The academic Dead are here, but so are the good old Grateful Dead. There's a beautiful, aching rendition of "High Time." Garcia rings Pigpen's bell on a well-placed single note on a moving "He's Gone." A welcome "They Love Each Other" contains some unbelievably delicate rhythm and lead work (the band plays sweet all around this ode to complete devotion, and Garcia baby-talks on guitar). The harmonies are strong throughout which helps nice versions of "Don't Ease Me In," "Dire Wolf" and "Deal." "Little Red Rooster" is the best version I've ever heard: barnyard glory has never been this vivid: you can smell the hay.
Always a delicate point, "Drums" is great. Loud, soft, slow, fast, techno boom to bone rattles, it's an entertaining running, jumping, standing still celebration.
A personal favorite is "Caution/Spanish Jam." Lesh smudges a blanket of notes beneath a spooky phantasmagoria that leads to an uncertain space where it's hard to tell who is playing what. Brent interjects startling rolling keyboard riffs that run the voodoo down like he's trying to recreate Bitches Brew. Entering the "Spanish" phase the band gets so visually contrapuntal, it's more like watching a beautiful girl dancing, then listening to a band perform. And on "Looks LIke Rain" and "Let it Grow:" there are times when Lesh steps up side by side to Garcia, and they seem to contemplate the musical universe together, lordly Gods of creation.
BOB WEIR AND RATDOG
EVENING MOODS (2000)
My favorite Bob Weir story is the one where he and Pigpen got kicked out of the Grateful Dead early on. Who knows what the rest of the band had in mind - a power trio? a slicked down four-piece bar band? - but for some reason they felt a drag, and they canned Weir and Pig. Weir's contributions may not have been all that evident early on. Maybe Pigpen was overly effected by the alcohol and they noticed. Still, the next time the Dead played, Bob and Pigpen showed up, plugged in, and their hard-ass bosses didn't remind them they weren't welcome. And thus musical history progressed.
Weir's always been the butt of jokes. I've heard it said that he can't read, is terminally dyslexic, a bit retarded. His demeanor is often one of unrelenting earnestness. Fans complained when he attempted to learn how to play slide guitar during live Dead shows in the early 90s, but, well, he did learn to play slide guitar. Garcia, Lesh, two drummers and revolving keyboards players cast large shadows, and Weir always seemed like an eternal kid with arrested development hanging out with the big guys. Sometimes you think he's playing a real cool part on a live Dick's Pick album, only to realize it's a Garcia rhythm or a cool synth keyboard part, or even Hart and Kruetzmann rattling some bones.
But Weir's and Ratdog's Evening Moods is a sophisticated, moving and brilliantly played work by a very grown up and die-hard musician. By turns emotionally beautifully and instrumentally astonishing, it should be noted in comparison how often polished professional bands just don't sound this interesting. There's not a dull moment on Evening Moods and this success rests largely on Weir's shoulders. Playing among giants may have left him seeming a little dwarfed, but distance is showing just how sturdy an artist Bob has always been.
Ratdog's style is one of dense musical concoction. Weir's writing style is carefully expansive and studiously interesting. The band he uses creates a heady brew. Funky and melodic, lyrical and gritty, stoical and anguished.
Now, the Dead often played with a certain amount of New Orleans soul - how they acquired the tightly wound delicate swing, I don't know - it just seemed to pop up one day. It was there in everything from Garcia's cover of Allen Toussaint's "I'll Take a Melody" in 1976, to self-penned tunes like "They Love Each Other," and all over Wake of the Flood. Even though we know how good the Dead was at this fine clockwork type of rhythm, when Ratdog launch into the 8 minute "October Queen" and its instrumental companion piece "The Deep End," and the sound of Mardi Gras rhythm creeps into the arrangement, you are ready for a familiar workout on a familiar template. But somewhere around the first instrumental segue way, with discordant horn blasts against some magical ensemble work, the feeling of the familiar gives way to jaw-dropping appreciation. Andre Pessis and Bob Weir wrote the lyrics to this tale of one man's yearly sexual rendezvous in New Orleans with an aging beauty. Though the tale is fairly straight forward, the music works with the story almost like a movie soundtrack, adding different shades of emotion all along the way. There's the spooky break. There's certainty and uncertainty. When Bob's character sings about returning to the "congregation that pays my country club and rent," the song shifts into a darker shade of gray. As he tries to figure out the meaning of the experience, the song becomes dreamier, more puzzling, deeper, even deadly. As the band roars off into "The Deep End" we are not sure what the experience is supposed to represent. The banality of the whole event is crushed with conflicting emotion and a sense of an unrecognized consequence happening somewhere in outer/inner space. The instrumentation is cooler than shit. Making a great case of why punk rock isn't the greatest music in the world - Ratdog (Jeff Chimenti (Keyboards), Mark Karan (guitar), Jay Lane (drums), and Rob Wasserman (bass) are augmented by Matthew Kelly (harmonica), and a horn section featuring Kenny Brooks, Eric Crystal, Robbie Kwock and Marty Wehner.
Bob sits looking nearly cross-eyed, oh-so-serious, his guitar in his lap - and it's the look of a consummate musician with the heart of a careful philosopher. This album is amazing, yet Weir and company make it look easy. What Bob Weir is about, what he is informed by, can be traced to Kerouac and Cassady, Robert Hunter, the Dead, blues, r&b, song craft and structure, Eastern philosophy, psychedelia, and much more. Like many diligent students, he has become an incredible teacher. A lifetime of rumination upon just where he fit in with the Dead, has led to a fairly perceptive and self-conscious idea of what he is as an artist. His personal artistry spins away from the Dead carrying a heavy load of aesthetic value.
Bob Weir has always apprehended a roughneck universe. Among the bullies ("Odessa"), destruction ("Ashes and Glass"), dazed confusion ("October Queen," "Two Djinn"), Bob recognizes despair and grace, and he con look both in the eye and do them justice. That these themes are constant through a number of co-writers (John Barlow, Robert Hunter, Andre Pessis, Gerrit Graham) show just what a commanding prescence Bob can be. Ratdog draws the various strands of Bob's non-Dead career (from Ace to Kingfish to Midnites, etc.) together and suggests just where the effervescence lies. It is a credible achievement.
Ratdog's Evening Moods is musical fun from beginning to end. From the dance extravaganzas of "Odessa" and "Corrina" to the humorous epic escapades of "Two Djinn," to the philosophical stance of "Lucky Enough" the band cooks up a storm. And when Bob hits the high notes that may make you swoon on the bridge of "Lucky Enough," you have to give him credit: this knucklehead sure can sing.
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