A Quebecois buddy of mine likes to argue about how America has the most rock stars—the greatest one-man solo acts of all time—but the U.K. can boast the best rock bands. Elaborating, he compares the likes of Elvis Presley, Bob Dylan and Michael Jackson to The Beatles, The Who and The Rolling Stones. It’s a matter of all the wide-open independent space of America versus the cloistered, group-building dampness of England, and especially London, he says.
It’s hard to argue with him. After all, as much as I love the chiming guitars and rising harmonies of U.S.-bred acts such as The Beach Boys or The Byrds, who begat Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and REM, there’s nothing about any of their complete catalogs of music that completely alters your life (at least beyond “Good Vibrations,” “Eight Miles High,” “American Girl” or “Man in the Moon”). It’s just a beautiful sound.
Of course, I never offered up The Grateful Dead into this conversation. Maybe because loving The Dead always felt like such a homegrown slice of Americana, like making out at a drive-in or dancing barefoot in the sun with a headful of mushrooms. Or maybe because they only had one top 10 single in their entire career—“Touch of Grey,” which peaked in 1987 at number nine, and only did so because the GD’s non-stop touring bandwagon had gotten so big by that time.
I’d like to offer them up now. I’d like to say that Jerry Garcia, Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart (feel free to add your own recent or long-gone favorite keyboard player here), may or may not be worthy of consideration in “World’s Greatest Rock Band” status. But they sure as hell take the gold as far as America is concerned!
The Summer of The Dead
Twenty Fifteen was the Summer of the Dead, and rightly so. Fifty years after they kicked off their San Francisco Acid Test experiment, providing LSD-infused music to lose your mind to, their impact on music, the music business, and the very idea of “counter-culture” continues to grow.
As their 4th of July Chicago-show farewell loomed, Billboard, The New York Times, Rolling Stone and the Wall Street Journal pre-printed obituaries for the band. They praised their penchant for jazz-inspired freeform “noodling,” their unplanned set lists. They noted how those uneven performances and token onstage innovation created a new live music venue that left the one-hit wonder of studio recording behind. And consider this: The Dead’s willingness to let their audience tape and trade their live shows proved pivotal to the music-sharing, digital-downloading, only-buy-the-song-you-want-to-hear culture we live in now.
Adding on, a Public Opinion Strategies and Mellman Group poll found that the Dead have a 46 percent recognition rate among Republicans, compared to 37 percent among Democrats and 35 percent among independents, strongly suggesting that the band transcends political beliefs. Or at least proving how aging stockbrokers like to smoke weed and listen to a good jam.
That the Sirius Grateful Dead station seems to be on everyone’s auto-dial at every ski area parking lot, campground and pre-concert tailgate these days shows how the band’s legacy can continue, providing the soundtrack for untold cookouts, ski days and sunsets to come.
To Lead Must Follow
I didn’t go to Chicago this past summer—even though an old tree-trimming partner was offering tickets at face value for all three shows. I don’t like crowds the way I used to, and I figured the last time I saw Jerry and Bob at Red Rocks was a good enough goodbye.
But I did stream all of the 4th of July sets, sitting on the back porch with the laptop on the table and shuttling to the fridge for beer. The band was incredible! Especially Trey Anastasio of Phish, who filled in for the departed Jerry, and unleashed a fireworks show of cascading sonic wizardry from his guitar. (For anyone who follows this column, all Phish-bashing stops now!)
By the second show, I found myself wishing they would just say to hell with the finale and get the whole band back on tour. An entire summer of Dead updates, tie-dye shirt making parties and random general admission reunions could go a long way toward making this country whole.
At the very least, we could all dance again, flailing away to the rising chords of “China Cat Sunflower,” “Rider,” “Jack Straw” and a final “Scarlet Fire.” We could all spend one more night feeling good about the way we used to feel.
Ever since I first focused on that sound—on vinyl!—on my parent’s couch and then went in search of all the freedom that listening to music offers, “Ripple” has been my favorite Dead song, and it offers that now-apt coda: “If I knew the way, I would take you home.”
But even more, I think of the life-affirming line that precedes it, proclaiming to anyone who dreams of doing something different, “That path is for your steps alone.”
Elevation Outdoors editor-at-large Peter Kray is the author of The God of Skiing. The book has been called “the greatest ski novel of all time.” Buy it here: bit.ly/godofskiing
