Grateful Dead

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!

2 comments »

2 Responses to “Grateful Dead”

  1. slip

    Wondering if you tell me what town this happened in, what year? Any contact with Garcia?

  2. Brian

    Vancouver Trips Festival 1966. No contact with any of them other than as described. All of us in that house were intimidated or shy around the band, for no good reason. Or maybe it was just me. Too bad.


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