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Words by: Dennis Cook | Images by: Jay Blakesberg
The Dead :: 05.14.09 :: Shoreline Amphitheatre :: Mountain View, CA
 The Dead :: 05.14 :: Shoreline |
As a formless jam threw salt before the next tumble in the ring, I overheard a wizened Deadhead behind me say, "Well, they're home." Sunday's nerves behind me, it truly did feel like The Dead had brought back a feeling many of us hadn't known for quite some time. As the gathered energies coalesced into "Jack Straw" with the sun still high and proud above us, the wind whipped our cares away as the music seeped into us. Despite its implicit misogyny ("we can share the women..."), "Jack" never fails to unify the flock. Who amongst us hasn't found themselves cupboard bare and in need of intoxication and pleasure? That knack for encapsulating life's magnificent truths in miniscule details lies at the core of Grateful Dead Music, and the opener cemented the feel building outside the venue with the balloon toting, color splattered pilgrimage up Shoreline Boulevard. If one ever needed confirmation that "home" is a state of mind more than any geographical domicile this was it.
These are not new observations about this music and the makers of it. And that commonality, that sustained feeling of togetherness, that joyous, deeply felt sense of shared experience thrived last Thursday at Shoreline Amphitheatre. Perhaps what I liked best about it was how "normal" it all felt. Instead of some massive, one-off event, it was just Dead music delivered with reckless care and bare skinned honesty. "Warts and all" is the expression but thankfully there were few blemishes at this tour's final California show. The smooth strut of "Jack Straw" was a harbinger of the classy, full throttle performance to come. Perhaps as touched by the bucolic weather (and throng feeding that vibe), The Dead reveled in their note snaring from the start, and while they wandered off into the wilderness in the middle section of the second set, they ultimately found their way back, well, home again and again.
Red and white/ blue suede shoes
I'm Uncle Sam/ how do you do?
Gimme five/ I'm still alive
Ain't no luck/ I learned to duck
 Bob Weir :: 05.14 :: Shoreline |
The roar that hit the lawn as "U.S. Blues" unfurled was heartening. This ragtag gathering of freaks and toddlers, scammers and sweethearts, ramblers and rootsmen is America. It may not be the wholesome, scrubbed image of the States some would like but it is an honest slice of the electorate, more lovers than fighters but wily and bright enough to get in the fray when necessary. For all the conservative hectoring dominating the national conversation it's easy to forget that it's this country's diversity that makes it such a glorious thing - contradictions, conflict and all. Just two songs in and most of us we're waving that flag wide and proud, including a fellow who walked across the stage with an American flag with the stars replaced by a peace sign. It's hokey shit and the metal head inside me understands the urge to issue hippie beatdowns when it gets a bit too wet-eyed leftie PC but there's also a child in me (and many others shaking what mama gave 'em on the grass) that says, "Right on, peace child," when faced with such moments.
Oldie "Mason's Children" followed, offered in a very sleek, wah-wah accented Brent-era style, and then the calm embarkation on "Ship of Fools," delivered with particular vocal warmth and a percussion display that highlighted the delicacy and intricacy of the conversation between Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart. Restraint isn't a word one uses often with The Rhythm Devils but their golden year playing was perhaps more subtle and artfully interlocked than at almost anytime in their history, a fact that seemed to goose fine, small touches from the entire band.
A husky Bob Weir vocal sparked a fine "Friend of the Devil," further bolstered by some really terrific harmonies (The Dead a vocal band? Go figure!) and pass-the-potato playing. But, this was just the warm-up for the Set One highlight. For nearly anyone who discovered the Grateful Dead in the '80s, "Standing On The Moon" is a special tune, an introspective jewel, West Coast rock's answer to Pete Townshend's gifted naval gazing from Hunter/Garcia that raises its eyes to a "lonely view of heaven." Delivered as well as I've ever heard, it ultimately sandwiched a stunning run through "Terrapin Station" – that great, pondering hullabaloo of electric jazz artiness and Jethro Tull-esque pomp – and left a number of us shaken up in the best ways. The eloquent delivery and stately pacing built on the opening promise to "let inspiration flow" but tempered and clouded by the sentiments of two verses that struck deep given the moment we found ourselves in:
While you were gone
These spaces filled with darkness
The obvious was hidden
With nothing to believe in
The compass always points to Terrapin
The sullen wings of fortune beat like rain
You're back in Terrapin for good or ill again
For good or ill again
 The Dead :: 05.14 :: Shoreline |
Part of the appeal of Grateful Dead Music for some of us is the lingering uncertainty of it – the mystery of each setlist, each given performance, etc. – right down to the knowledge any old hand has that these guys can suck it and suck it real bad. I've never seen an arena level band play worse, but those belly flops were always more than balanced out by the nights where they caught something holy, huge and healing. The possibility of a total wreck is part of the covenant we share with them. When one takes genuine risks, when one hangs it out over the edge every single time the house lights go down, there's gonna be off nights. This wasn't one of them but after Sunday's gig I was prepared for anything – another sign that "home" had been reached, at least for a portion of us. Expectations are always killers with this music and it's hard to gauge if everyone extends them the same level of empathetic largess. The general feeling as I moved around the Amphitheatre appeared to be quiet shock and abiding pleasure. War stories from the road were eagerly exchanged, beers hoisted and conversations regularly interrupted by guffaws inspired by what was transpiring onstage, communicated with pore revealing intimacy on the large video screens scattered around.
Another virtue of the core Dead men is their ability to read a crowd, to assess what the moment needs and respond in real time. Thus, with the sun just dropping below the horizon, darkness beginning to engulf the space, they began the second set with "Estimated Prophet," one of the finest bits of blue-eyed reggae ever, which neatly captured all the high spirits in the air, sunlight raised in the evening, and a perfecto boot scooter, too. On paper it may seem incongruous that contemplative live rarity "New Potato Caboose" chased "Prophet" but such is their amazing sleight-of-hand with mood and texture that it simply showed up as if expected. The Dead were working us into something quite profound in this set, taking advantage of the attention they'd built up and going into fathomless terrain born of the blues, Traffic, fire dancers (in different but equally alluring costumes than Sunday), Bonnie Dobson/Tim Rose inspired rumination and finally settling on a few beautifully orthodox pieces of their liturgy.
 The Dead :: 05.14 :: Shoreline |
If one wasn't extremely patient and especially tuned-in then I suspect this set was tough to get a handle on. Bone weary and achy from too many big thoughts and big feelings, I almost bailed during an especially lost "Space," feeling satisfied that I'd seen and heard enough. But, as the first strains of the Dobson/Rose classic "Morning Dew" emerged I realized I'd only gotten part of the story. I hurried to a spot where I could be "alone" with the music (something still always strangely possible at a Dead show despite the ever-stirring mob – it is after all a state of mind) and gave myself to the current. After the tuneless twaddle of "Drums" and the overlong "Space" it actually felt a bit like dawn, one dappled and disoriented on a green carpet as "Morning Dew" settled with sureness and exquisite handling. When that tune's natural crawl gave way to "China Cat Sunflower" it felt a bit like being on a water slide, a slippery "ah yes" as they manhandled that kitty into traditional pairing "I Know You Rider," a song like "Sugaree" on Sunday that had a feel unlike anything from the Garcia years. I can't quite put into words what that new feel is yet but can say it is different, a thing made by these six men and no others, possessed of that unique, pungent verisimilitude intrinsic to successful Grateful Dead Music. Briefer, they are getting the job done even on the old standards.
In the afternoon before the show I went to a matinee of the new Star Trek. Walking slowly back towards my car as the encore echoed around me, I thought about how much the two things – a Dead show and Gene Roddenberry's creation – overlap. Each was born in the crucible of the 1960s and bears the earmarks of a young generation hungry for positive change, peace, equality, adventure and broadminded compassion. So few things in this world awaken wonder in us, and we are fools to turn our noses at anything that does. Delivered with care, giant size skill and devil-may-care bravado, Grateful Dead Music is a wonder trigger, and The Dead are pulling it with Wild West gusto. Here's to the next round at the rodeo.
The Dead :: 05.14.09 :: Shoreline Amphitheatre :: Mountain View, CA
Set I: Jack Straw, U.S. Blues > Mason's Children, Ship Of Fools, Friend Of The Devil > Standing On The Moon > Lady With A Fan > Terrapin Station > Standing On The Moon
Set II: Estimated Prophet > New Potato Caboose >Born Cross-Eyed > Dear Mr. Fantasy > Drums > Space > Morning Dew > China Cat Sunflower > I Know You Rider
Encore: Scarlet Begonias > Fire On The Mountain, Deal
For more pics of this show go here.
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