Babs Curates The Dead Screed Scrolls

 

You might think [assumes Babs - Ed.] that the biggest concert ever in New Jersey was by Bruce Springsteen, Bon Jovi, or some other homegrown Jersey group, but you’d be wrong. The biggest show was by a group that hailed from the west coast: The Grateful Dead. On Sept. 3, 1977 — the Saturday of Labor Day Weekend that year — the Dead headlined an outdoor show at Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey. It attracted more than 100,000 people. The New Riders of the Purple Sage and The Marshall Tucker Band also performed. And I was there!

Son Of Sam (Sam not pictured)

In 1977, I was thirty-years-old, married with two children and living in New York City. Thinking back at the summer of 1977, it was a horrific and chaotic time in New York. Serial killer Son of Sam [left - Ed.] was shooting lovers in parked cars, arsonists set Bronx buildings on fire nightly, and the infamous New York City blackout of ’77 led to a night of looting and violence. Worsening a grave situation, it was one of the hottest summers on record.

Culturally, the music scene in New York City was fragmented as Studio 54, home of the world’s most famous disco, opened in April ’77. Down on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the punk rock scene was raging at CBGB’s.  In the world of popular music, Andy Gibb’s I Just Want to Be Your Everything was the number one song. With all the great albums available in record stores, Barry Manilow Live was the bestseller of the week. But, The Grateful Dead movie debuted in theaters in New York City and Los Angeles in June, and their latest studio album, Terrapin Station, was released in July.

My husband Jerry and I had the Labor Day weekend to ourselves, as my parents took our children to Disneyland. So we decided on a road trip to New Jersey, and see a Dead show.

The week prior to the show, it became a media circus, when the Mayor of Englishtown tried and failed to stop the show with legal action, and during a TV news interview, he acted as if Armageddon was coming. The media hyped it as a looming Altamont-like disaster.

A blanket, yesterday.

The morning of the show we drove out to New Jersey, armed with two coolers filled with sandwiches, snacks, various drinks, a wine bag (remember those?), an ounce of primo Columbian buds, and some magic “shrooms”. We also brought our favorite outdoor Dead show blanket; a huge olive drab green one, made of thick wool, that we bought at an army surplus store in the late 60s.

If that blanket could talk…

Be that as it may.

We found a great spot about 20 yards away and to the right of the stage, With our blanket spread out, lounging comfortably with our cooler of goodies spread out, the New Riders of the Purple Sage were introduced, and played a very nice set.

While waiting for The Marshall Tucker Band to come on, two girls in their late teens, who looked like lost souls, asked us if they could sit on the corner of our blanket. They seemed liked nice kids, so we told them to sit down. They thanked us, and told us they got separated from their friends. One of them lit a joint, and we started talking. The conversation went something like this.

Teen girls not given drugs by Babs, yesterday.

Girl #1: This is our first show!
Girl #2: Yeah, this is far out!
Girl #1: When was your first show?
Me: 1968 in LA.
Jerry: 1967 in San Francisco, and the Dead have been following me around ever since [excellent joke - Ed.].
Girl #1: California, that’s so cool!
Girl #2: 1967 and 1968? Wow, you guys are old.
Me: I’m the same age as Bob Weir, we were both born in 1947.
Girl #2: Bob is that old?
Jerry (rolling his eyes): Yeah, he’s an old man.
Girl #1: We’ve got some acid, want some?
Jerry: Where did you get it?
Girl #2: From a guy we met outside the racetrack, selling acid.
Me: We have some psilocybin, it might be better than acid from an unknown source.
Both nodded their heads, and Jerry handed out dried shrooms to all of us.

The Marshall Tucker Band came out, and played beautifully. To our surprise, The Marshall Tucker Band, live, sounded exactly like their records. After the Marshall Tucker set, the two girls went to the bathroom, and disappeared, never to be seen again.

As Raceway Park sizzled below a tenacious late-afternoon sun, the promoter, John Scherr introduced members of the Dead individually and then announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the finest band in the land, the Grateful Dead!”

A polished Promised Land kicked off the show. The band was in fine form, following up with They Love Each Other and Me and My Uncle. Weir then urges the surging crowd to take a step back while Keith, Phil, Mickey and Bill play a light-hearted shuffle.

Bob: “Alright, now we're gonna play everybody's favorite fun game, move back!... Now when I tell you to take a step back, everybody, take a step back! Right? Right! Okay, take a step back! And take another step back! And take yet another step back! And another step back! Take a step back! Doesn't everybody feel better?... Whatdaya mean, NO?!?”

“Take a step back” has always been a prelude to a transcendent masterpiece, as it was in Raceway Park. The Dead confidently advance into one of their signature gems of ‘77, Mississippi Half-Step. Jerry’s trembling voice merrily sings the verses, and his solos ignite a mass dancing frenzy on a track built for drag racing and funny cars. Jerry belts out the chorus one more time, “Half-step Mississippi uptown toodeloo. Hello baby, I’m gone goodbye. Have a cup of rock and rye. Farewell to you old Southern skies, I’m on my way, on my way, on my way-ay-eee!”, and a monstrous audience roar filled the humid skies over Raceway Park.

The other sublime performances from the first set were Peggy O. The music has a lovely, hypnotic swing as Jerry serenades the faithful. After a mellow Friend of the Devil, Raceway Park came alive as Music Never Stopped slams the set shut for an overheated horde of hippie humanity.

Mary Tyler Moore cooling off, yesterday.

As Deadheads baked (and got baked) between sets in Raceway Park, millions of Americans were preparing for an emotional evening of television. The final episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show aired on this Sunday night. America had to kiss their wholesome girl next door goodbye. For those who preferred debauchery and improvisational theatre over American fluff and puff, the Grateful Dead took the stage for their second set.
        
Bertha > Good Lovin’ gets the good times rolling again as Bobby preaches for good lovin’ in China and Russia. It’s aces back-to-back as the band smokes Loser. Garcia’s solo cries and moans. Next up was Weir’s pride and joy, Estimated Prophet, and the stage is set for a transition into an Eyes of the World that would charm and bedazzle future generations of Deadheads. The Raceway Park Eyes featured Garcia in his less-is-more mode.

Continuing to effortlessly display their diversity, the Dead romp through Samson and Delilah and glide into He’s Gone. Despite vocal flubs and having to replay the instrumental break because they missed the “Going where the winds don’t blow so strange” verse, it’s a fine performance. The transition into Not Fade Away is smooth as the Dead spend nine minutes building the anticipation for the first verse—games of cat and mouse—two steps east and two steps west, a sudden surge followed by a total retreat and the march towards “I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna be.”

At one point during the second set, Bob Weir told the audience: "We just got word that some people are trying to tear down our speaker towers, and, uh, you can't be doing that, man!” There was something about the way he said it, in his earnest laid back, stoned hippie manner, that sent Jerry and me into hysterics, and it became an inside joke of ours.

Out comes a whistle, and Bobby “Ringmaster” Weir blows it to ignite the first Truckin’ in three years. This is a Hall of Fame rock and roll moment. After Garcia goes berserk, Phil thumps bass leads on the road to an improvised crescendo ending. The Dead left the stage.

Stationary terrapin, yesterday.

When they returned for their encore, Phil Lesh bellowed, “All right! Woo-hoooo! All right, ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to play a little ditty from our newest album at your record stores currently.” Ah, the good old days, when we’d hustle on down to the local record shop and flip through album bins. The “little ditty” Phil was referring to,  was Terrapin Station, an eleven-minute encore.

With the mass exodus out of Raceway Park underway, thousands upon thousands of fans marched to their cars as the majestic Terrapin refrain echoed through the hot New Jersey night. It was an experience that any rookie or seasoned Deadhead would never forget. Raceway Park was a magnificent performance.

To qualify for Dick’s Picks Vol. 15, a long out of print 3CD set of the complete Raceway Park show, tell us who you think is the funniest person ever.

Kreemé's Mouth Organ Madness Dept.

Foam-O-Graph© - Th' Eye Chart O' Th' Mind™!

In what promises to be a popliar FoamFeaturette™, th' IoF©'s Executive Diversity And Inclusivity Officer Kreemé [19 my ass - Ed.] chooses her favorite harmonica-type albums! Taking a break from administering my varicose vein massage (I didn't have one before she started), we chatted poolside about her passion for the mouth organ.

FT3 The harmonica is the only instrument you play by sucking and blowing.

K Does my sucking blow, or my blowing suck?

FT3 (controls coughing fit with difficulty) I see you brung some albums with you.

K Albums? I got TikTok©.

FT3 These albums here. They're your favorites. (whispers) Come on, sweetcakes, pretend. We have to justify your presence somehow.

K (makes icky face) Who's old creepy guy?

FT3 He's a virtuoso.

K With his looks, I'm not surprised.

FT3 Uh - 

K Hey! Look! My tongue got a suntan!

[TAPE ENDS]

Say, fellows! Can you identify the long-playing elpee 12" vinyl albums in Kreemés Kollection? Impress your lowlife business associates at the tattoo parlor with your recondite musical knowledge by listing ONE of them in a comment! Oboy! Some fun, huh, gang?

Delta Del Dept. - Flotation Is Groovy

Delta Del poses in front of home, yesterday

I think [muses Delta Del - Ed.] my interest in the floatin' life really began when I was a zygote [at left, yesterday - Ed].  I suppose there was the water chute ride that propelled my spermy self to it’s eggy destiny, but I can barely remember that.  It was certainly a thrill, but over all too soon.  As a zygote, the time for childish thrills was behind me, while ahead lay many a challenge.  But that’s a story for another day.  Suffice to say mama’s waters eventually broke, and I surfed that break all the way to the beach.

Fast-forward fifty years.  Springtime in Northamptonshire and at Braunston marina a re-formed zygote is shopping for boats.  I had decided that the floatin' life was the life for me.  I needed to get back to the river.  I’d been a teenage angler, a failed fisherman in fact, interested in rivers not fish.  It’s not that I don't like fish, in fact I think they’re super-cool.  I gave up fishing exactly because I like fish.

Back then I used to get up at 4 a.m. in June just so I could sit by a mirror-calm lake on a perfect English summer morning, a tranced-out trippy hour or five, rarely interrupted by any annoying fish-type action.  I also had a friend with a tidal mooring and a small sea-going boat down on the South coast.  The Solent at dawn on another of those mirror-calm summer mornings, an amazing place to be.  And in August 1970, against strict instructions from his mum, we took the boat through the mirror to the Isle of Wight.  But that’s a story for another day.  Suffice to say we didnt make it to the festival site because moon turn the tides and, anxious not to be late for our tea, we had to surf that break all the way back to the mainland beach.

Boats and water played an important part in my early years.  As a teenager I became obsessed with the philosopher-poet James Marshall.  His assertion that floatation is groovy sparked a lifetime of personal experiments, some involving boats.  I can confirm that floatation is indeed groovy, although working at low tide on Bournemouth beach, summer of ’72, I failed to find a single jellyfish prepared to back me up on this.  One did try to sting me with a story about their grandmother needing an operation, but I saw right through them.  And on the subject of tricky sea-creatures, low tide in Ocean Beach, San Diego, summer of ’97, I met a Californian mermaid.  Right this way, she smiled.  And lured me into El Niño’s salty embrace.  They said it’s impossible for a man to live and breathe underwater.  They were right.  I tried it once, briefly, it didn’t work out.  But that’s a story for another day.  Suffice to say a friendly incoming wave broke me free of Niño grasp and mermaid spell, and I surfed that break all the way to the beach.

Never did see that fishgirl again, though I went lookin for her almost every day that summer.  She’d be right at home here with me now in England, swimmin alongside my narrowboat throwing cute dolphin shapes and slappin that pretty little tail.  Actually quite a large tail, half of her body in fact.  But kinda cute and real trippy when the light hits the scales.  Me and that mermaid we’d cruise along fine at a dreamlike pace.  That’s narrowboat pace, like walking without moving your legs, or your fish half, an almost frictionless glide.  Time to space out and wonder at the mad proliferations of summer or the frosted perfections of a winter landscape.  A journey that by car would take a couple of hours, by boat might take a couple of weeks.  And what’s the hurry?  Narrowboats move at 18th century speeds, past 19th century industrial architecture, through 21st century cities and back out into a world of heron and pike.  In the clear waters of winter, when few boats move around to disturb the sediment, I see the pike waiting and watching among the reeds.  And as I float by, the pike stares back, with classic you-lookin-at-me? insolence.  I watch the heron’s throat bulge as a less formidable fish realises just how bad things have suddenly become.  I spot a grass snake swimming across the river, it’s head held above the water, it’s movements unchanged as it glides from the water up the bank and into the fields.  I see this stuff because I move at snail’s pace, and like a snail I take my shelter with me.  I don’t visit London, I live there for a week or three.  One day I walk from my home to a blues club in Soho, a week later I walk from that same home to a village shop in sleepy Oxfordshire.

In fact these days I have a mooring in rural Wiltshire and spend most of my time there, having spent the previous ten years constantly on the move.  And the water-gypsy lifestyle aint all dreamy perfection.  There’s work to be done, wrestling with manual swing-bridges and leaking locks, hauling on mooring ropes against wind and river currents, winter hands frozen rigid trying to remove discarded allsorts wrapped around the propellor, humping sacks of coal and cylinders of gas, emptying containers full of piss and shit, dealing with junkies hanging around city locks, dodging missiles aimed by bored youths.  But in the end, floatation really is groovy.  And so I took to the water like a duck, and like my father before me.  He was a wartime mariner, a mechanic on aircraft carriers.  There was an album of photos, taken by him on his journey home from the western Pacific at the war’s end.  I was fascinated by it.  A big, padded, important, grown-ups’ album, full of ships and boats and grinning sailors and foreign lands and seas.  And back home from the war, daddy had gotten lucky on dry land, found a job fixing sewing machines in a factory full of ladies working sewing machines.  Maybe a dozen male engineers and labourers, and fifty bored females with unreliable machines needing constant attention.  I stand before you today as proof that he surfed that break all the way to the beach.

[Floatation compilations to surface in comments section later - Ed.]

Bobby Darin's Krautrock Nightmare

Only one of these dudes was called The King

Darin died at 37, shockingly young. It was the early seventies, and his career was moving with the times into a more reflective, less pop-oriented, era. Always dogged by ill health, a heart op finished him off. But what a life. He'd been a a Brill Building songwriter, and a rock n' roll heartthrob in the late 'fifties, the self-penned Dream Lover selling in the millions. His inventive cover of Mack The Knife helped make him one of the biggest stars in Vegas. He acted, creditably, in movies and T.V., had his own T.V. show, started his own record company, and late in life suffered the trauma of discovering his mother was his grandmother, and his sister his mother. Can't have helped, right?

He recorded nearly thirty albums at a rate of two a year. And here is where the problem lies - none of them is great, or even quite as good as you want it to be. As a teen heartthrob, he was no Elvis, no Ricky Nelson. As a lounge swinger, he was no threat to the Rat Pack. As a singer of pop, country, and folk rock he was competent, unexceptional. Although backed by some of the greatest musical talents on the planet, his voice could be that of anyone who can carry a tune in a flatbed truck (his voice has a tendency to lose interest in the note). The recorded legacy is disappointing; I want to like it more than I can. But his success in his own life, on his own terms, can't be argued, and it's at this point that my point of view fades into irrelevance. We all get to do our own thing (man). Indeed, doing someone else's thing is futile at best. So here's a glass raised to Walden Robert Cassotto, for achieving what he did with what he had. I like to think had he lived a little longer, he may have tried his hand, with equal success, at Krautrock.

Randy Randomguy's Regular Ritual O' Randomitude Dept.

It's Sunday! Time to give the help the day off, kick back with a zesty beverage and set your listening device to shuffle! Whut, pray, be the first five tunes to play? Impress your confreres by demonstrating your catholicity in a comment!