Category: Music

Workingman’s Dead, Grateful Dead, Warner Bros., 1970

I’ve always thought this was a great album; today I decided it’s better than that. I praised The Band’s Big Pink and brown albums for trying to bring folks together in divisive times. The Grateful Dead was doing it too with Workingman’s Dead and American Beauty.

Big changes for the Dead on this album. The band decided to be tuneful, of all things. In a memoir one of them said for years they’d leave the Fillmore after a psychedelic set laughing that no one went home whistling that. Then they decided to give melody a chance. Robert Hunter was writing lyrics that described things. The words jumped out at me: are you kind; when life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door; won’t you come with me; come with me or go alone; he’s come to take his children home; ain’t no time to hate; I can hear your voice; don’t think too hard; you know what I’m saying; one way or another, this darkness had got to give; who can deny, who can deny; I can’t help you with your troubles if you won’t help with mine.

They aren’t singing about fighting in the street or Anastasia’s screams. If their words were any more communitarian, they’d be singing Kumbaya. I like that they are positive. Workingman’s Dead: Come for Casey Jones, listen to it all for the tunes and the lyrics.

Live/Dead, Grateful Dead, Warner Bros., 1969

What a wonderful album. All the good parts and none of the excessive and self-indulgent stuff. Dark Star, Saint Stephen, and The Eleven are improvisational but take care of business, almost like jazz. Pigpen made Turn on Your Lovelight a personal statement—take your hands outta your pocket. Death Don’t Have No Mercy made me think of the Reverend Gary Davis. Outstanding all the way down even if you aren’t on acid.

I learned a word from Discogs. A double record set with side 4 on the flip of side 1 (and 2 with 3) is called auto-coupled. It’s for folks who use a record changer—put side 2 atop side 1 on the tall spindle, push the arm over, play them, and flip them over. If you have a turntable, there’s the bother of playing side 1, then putting that back in the sleeve, taking the second disk out for side 2, then repeat. When I was young, my family had a Santa rubber eraser sitting on the tone arm of the record player so it wouldn’t skip.

I still have the insert for this record. It is an 11×17 sheet folded over with Celtic-style art and the lyrics, such as they are.

History of the Grateful Dead, Volume 1 (Bear’s Choice), Grateful Dead, Warner Bros., 1973 (recorded 1970)

The Wikipedia article for this record says a lot, partly by what it leaves out. It was intended to be the first of a series; there weren’t any others. Owsley ‘Bear’ Stanley produced it as a tribute to Ron McKaren, aka Pigpen, who died as it was being produced. Garcia said the band had to agree to this in order to get Europe ’72 the way they wanted. ‘We had to give them four records to get two. It represents us in early 1970, when we’d never done a record,’ he said. Someone’s memoir said that McKaren played a solo acoustic set, which he rarely did, which inspired Garcia and Weir to play a set with just their acoustic guitars. What they left out: None of it was good. I only play this one when I am playing them all.

But if this record was necessary for Workingman’s Dead, American Beauty, and Europe ’72, then I give my heartfelt thanks to everyone involved.

Grateful Dead, The Grateful Dead, 1967, Warner Bros.

Vintage Dead was how the Grateful Dead sounded in 1966. Not good. This was their first studio record, and it was excellent. Much of this is catchy pop music. The organ riff in Cold Rain and Snow sounds a bit like the little tunes to play when warming up, but I can dance to it—it works. In Sittin’ on Top of the World I can’t tell if the singer has figured out that his baby has left and he’s going to suffer. Maybe it’s denial, maybe he’s too high to care, but it is a bouncy little song. The lyrics in Cream Puff War sound serious—you’re killing each other’s souls– but by the end the Just Kidding flag is flying—go somewhere else to fight your cream puff war. The Golden Road to Unlimited Devotion might  be spiritual, maybe, but it is about getting high and dancing barefoot. The New, New Minglewood Blues has a line I know I’ve heard before—my number one occupation is stealing women from their men—but I can’t find it in any rock song older than this.  

A big improvement from Vintage Dead was not to give Pigpen 20 minutes to run Midnight Hour into the ground. He did a good job in six minutes on Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl. The bluesmen such as Junior Wells and Muddy Waters who did the song played it straight. They didn’t want to sound sexy when addressing a school girl. Man, Pigpen went the full Humbert Humbert on this version. The way he sang I want to put a tiger in your sweet little tank still sounds creepy.

Vintage Dead, Grateful Dead, Sunflower Records, recorded 1966

There’s a bottle of Ripple wine on the cover, representing the era. It was sweet fortified wine with artificial flavors. A Wall Street Journal article at the time said that young drinkers liked to get stoned and watch the bubbles. Gallo stopped the carbonation at some point to avoid taxes. Wikipedia said it’s been off the market for 40 years. I know I drank a bottle on September 5, 1976, because I can remember the hangover.

This is a legally made recording, not a bootleg, yet not approved by the Dead either. It was an artifact of an agreement for a record of Bay area bands. That record never came out, but whoever had the rights put this out later. It is widely held (in Bill Kreutzmann’s memoirs and a biography of Mike Bloomfield, for example) that the Grateful Dead wasn’t very good in 1966. This record proves it. It’s standard bar-band material: I Know You Rider; It Hurts Me Too; It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue; Dancing in the Street; and a painful 18-minute version of In the Midnight Hour. I say there must have been 1,000 bar bands that could have done it better.

The Grateful Dead were quick learners—their next record (named The Grateful Dead) in 1967 is incomparably better.

Anthem of the Sun, Grateful Dead, Warner Brothers-Seven Artists, 1968

Alligator is a favorite of mine. The rest of this is a struggle for me. The words I noticed in a quick look through this record’s Wikipedia page—60-cycle hum and microphone feedback, erratic, experimental, mixed for hallucinations, psychedelic listening experience, songs were mirrors of infinity. That’s the sound of people trying to be nice. My notes: for a jam band with two guitar players, this has a LOT of kazoo in it.

The band didn’t like being in the studio, it is said, and they spent a lot of time getting comfortable. One Warner Brothers exec said it was the most unreasonable project the company did. Here are some cuts. See what you think.

Aoxomoxoa, Grateful Dead, Warner Bros., 1969

Bill Walton died, as famous now I suppose for being a fan of the Grateful Dead as being a great basketball player. I’ll play my Dead records for a while (man, I don’t know how much more of What’s Become of the Baby I could take).

I have sung Saint Stephen quietly in a church on the Acoma Pueblo in New Mexico and in Budapest (aargh! Wrong Saint Stephen. I need to reread the Lives of the Saints). Some stoner Zen: One man gathers what another man spills. The song includes a bucket going to the bottom of the well (without the bottom’s falling out). Dupree’s Diamond Blues is a silly song (though violent and not safe for work) about what a man will do for a woman. I like songs that have conversations with the judge. China Cat Sunflower is a classic; it’s on Live/Dead and Europe ‘72, which I also have. Cosmic Charlie isn’t about me, but it is adjacent. Everything’s movin’ here, but much too slow now—that could be me. Also—the very first word is How you do? The last: go home, your mama’s callin’ you.

Running, Jumping, Standing Still, Spider John Koerner and Willie Murphy, Elektra, 1969

Koerner died May 18. He was 85. An obit said that when people asked him about his helping Bob Dylan and Bonnie Raitt on their way up while remaining obscure himself, he said it just wasn’t in his character to chase after fame.

When Bob Dylan got to Minneapolis in the early ‘60s, he sought out Koerner, an established performer. They played often as a duo. Koerner then worked with Dave Ray and Tony Glover. They put out Blues, Rags, and Hollers. John Lennon said it was one of his favorites.

This record, with Willie Murphy, was well received. Bonnie Raitt recorded one of these songs on her first album in 1971. Elektra wanted Koerner and Murphy to tour and make another album. Murphy said later that when Koerner thought about riding around the country in a van with band members and equipment, he decided to go to Denmark and make movies. When that didn’t pan out, he came back to the U.S. in time to see folk music crater. He performed, updated Blues, Rags, and Hollers, and put out new music from time to time until 2019.

The advice from this record I took to heart: When in danger/when in doubt/run in circles/scream and shout. And don’t let the bastards wear you down/Don’t get hassled to a frazzle.

Gasoline Alley, Rod Stewart, Mercury, 1970

Country Comfort got some FM radio play when the record was new. I’d never heard of Elton John, but I thought he wrote a decent country song. Cut Across, Shorty was a novelty song that I liked: I was short, and I hoped that the woman I loved would make sure I won her hand. I’ll say all I have about Stewart when I get to Every Picture Tells a Story. Today I’d rather talk about the comic strip Gasoline Alley.

When I was a kid, I read every word of every strip in the Akron Beacon Journal, even Mark Trail and Judge Parker. I liked Gasoline Alley although I didn’t understand much. It’s hard to figure what a gasoline alley is. The origin story I like is that when cars were new, the stores that sold gasoline in cans tended to be in the same area. Someone called it Gasoline Alley. I’d never thought about what life was like before gas stations. Gasoline Alley is the longest-running comic strip. Walt Wallet is the major character, I guess; he is about 124 years old. That’s easier to believe than what goes on in the strip—for example, there was a long story about a bear that could talk getting custody of human children. The story going on now at least was introduced as a dream—a young Wallet is using a giant fountain pen to fight Goliath.

You can choose from many funnies online for free; I recommend trying them if you haven’t. You don’t need to read them all. My life is richer with them.

Soul of a City Boy, Jesse Colin Young, Capitol Records, 1964 (re-issued in 1974)

I fell in love with this record when I was in high school. I heard Rye Whiskey and Four in the Morning when they were played on a very cool underground radio show in 1967. I learned that the album was out of print—no more copies were being made. I always wanted things I couldn’t get. Then I found it in the library. Such a dilemma—I could take it from them and pay $4 ($40 today), a fraction of what collectors sold a copy for. I had no problem with stealing it from the library, it was the taking it from other Soul of a City Boy fans. I didn’t lock the car in those days—property is theft, I knew. Capitol reissued it in 1974.

When I tried drinking whiskey, I started with rye as a tribute to Young. He sang ‘For work I’m too lazy, begging’s too slow/train robbin’ is too dangerous/a-gambling I’ll go.’ That’s the life I wanted. There was only one brand of rye for sale in the city of Chicago. Old Overholt was rough and cheap. Four in the Morning was a song about things going wrong—until David Allan Coe fixed You Never Even Called Me by My Name for Steve Goodman, it was the saddest ol’ song. Four a.m, (and not sleeping), rain pouring down, stove don’t work, my baby left town, nothing to drink, empty bottles and dirty dishes all over, baby lying to him until he murdered her and her boyfriend, a cockroach mocked him successfully. You might think it’s overwrought, me, I’ll say mournful.

The record also has Susanne and Black-Eyed Susan. I love all references to the Jack of Diamonds. (You can ask the guys in my poker game.) Young sang he’d finished 10,000 bottles of whiskey or wine in his time. I have a mashup in my mind—if he roomed with Wilt Chamberlain, every time the Big Dipper went out on a date, Young would open a bottle. When Wilt got back, they could compare notes.