Never a Deadhead, BUT...

On the passing of Bob Weir

My first Grateful Dead story has me in my boyfriend’s VW Bus in the Oakland Arena parking lot circa 1993 searching for tickets to the sold out show and coming up blank. I always liked the Dead, but was less interested in the culture surrounding it - tripping hippies kicking hackey-sacks. It just wasn’t my vibe. Unable to secure tickets, my boyfriend pulled the Grateful Dead cassette tape out of his player and chucked it out the open car window. “It’s okay,” I kept saying. “I don’t need to see them.” I stepped out of his bus to retrieve the mangled tape - the parking lot was more than enough for me - the permeating weed smells and wandering hippies. I spooled the loose tape back with my finger as he peeled out of the parking lot and, instead, drove us to a movie where I’m sure he sulked and I was relieved.

The second story happened only a few years ago on the island of Kauai. I was visiting my friend Ann, and we heard that the Grateful Dead, now with John Mayer standing in for Jerry Garcia, was playing a private party at a billionaire’s home up the road from Ann. “We have to go,” I told Ann, hoping to replace the memory of my Oakland parking lot debacle so many years ago. She explained we’d have a hard time sneaking in - I can’t remember if it was Zuckerberg’s home or someone of that nature, but I assured her I had a big mouth and could possibly sweet talk us in. We took a long walk over to the billionaires property line and were immediately met by security and turned away. Around the corner, there were young guys in golf carts, waiting to drive guests to the property. I sidled up to them. “Hi,” I cooed. We asked if we could somehow stand at the periphery of the party, just to listen, or ride back and forth with them. They shook their heads no. I explained my parking lot story from years ago. They shrugged. I told them my friend Ann was a famous performer in certain circles. They glanced her way. One guy was smoking a joint. I asked if I could have a puff. He let me. “C’mon,” I begged. “We’re friends now. Can we get a ride up?” He shook his head no.

Sigh.

We were so close, yet so far away.

It started to rain that Hawaii, tropical rain. We were soaked as we ran back to her rental property. Did I mention it was New Year’s Eve?

I took a shower and changed into PJ’s. I was flying back to L.A. the next morning. We made dinner. And then something magical happened. The concert started, and for some reason, the way the wind was blowing or how her place was situated compared to the party compound, we could hear the entire thing, loud and clear, like we were at the party, only we were home, and comfy and cozy.

I love John Mayer, maybe even more than Garcia. His voice wafted in through the window singing all the hits, “Ripple,” “Fire on the Mountain,” “Shakedown Street,” and my favorite, “Friend of the Devil.” It was still pouring rain. We were at the concert but not AT the concert. It was perfect.

When I heard the news that Bob Weir died last week, it took me by surprise. He’s one of those people you just expected to go on forever. I asked Alexa to play the Dead. I knew every song. The music of the Grateful Dead, like all great art, captures that ineffable feeling of what it means to be alive - from the chord progressions that speak more than words, to the lyrics that summarize the life experience - the most famous being, “What a Long Strange Trip it’s been…”

RIP Bob Weir. I saw a clip of John Mayer speaking at his memorial in San Francisco last week. It was touching and thoughtful. An end of an era for so many Deadheads, and even me, a peripheral appreciator of an iconic institution.

Want to talk more artistic inspiration? We don’t have to talk about the Grateful Dead, but we can! Or even John Mayer, who I find to be an incredible songwriter. Join me on Sunday, January 25th, 6pm pst, in the free, online Creativity-Check-in. Link here.

And for your listening pleasure: Friend of the Devil.

xo