The entire Grateful Dead stayed in my room. My room was half the basement in the house at 1937 West 3rd Avenue between Maple and Cypress. That night I slept upstairs. The only thing I ever said to the Grateful Dead was I forgot my cigarettes when I went back down for a minute. The only thing the Grateful Dead ever said to me was silence. They just waited for me to get my smokes and leave. Except the next day I exchanged morning pleasantries with Pigpen – one or two words at most. Seemed like a nice enough guy. I was listening to a lot of Eric Dolphy in those days and had zero interest in the Grateful Dead, I’m sorry to say. Had I foreseen the day I’d have a baby girl who’d grow up to have boyfriends I’d have made some attempt to have a memorable experience with the Grateful Dead that I could kick back and spin yarns about and the boys could call me Pops!
Did I even go to their show? I can’t remember. But I do remember walking into the same hall another night and hearing Janis Joplin for the first time and being shaken to my boots. I made a beeline for the stage and stared and listened in disbelief. Now that girl could sing!