To Bob and Bruce

Some words on Bobby - spinning around like a Tie Dye bought from the trunk of an '89 Volvo on Shakedown Street.

The great explorer, Bob Weir

Crafting musical tributes to dead artists had become a family tradition of sorts, one that if called to, I still engage with from time to time. When Bowie died (10 years ago this month) both my father and I created audio obits to air our grief. And again, just months ago when the great D’Angelo passed, I felt the need to write about the transformative music and musician that had meant so much me. But the true journalistic pallbearer had always been my dad. As the cultural touch points of his youth began wilting like spring onions under July sun, he would dutifully trudge out a manila folder, several pieces of blank printer paper, a microphone and - in the early days, a relevant collection of CD’s and records; the later days, youtube and Spotify - jotting down notes, thoughts, songs and cues to create sonic love letters for the work they left behind.

Earlier last week, when I heard the news that legendary Grateful Dead founding member, Bob Weir (or “Bobby” as he was affectionately called), had “checked out”, I first thought of all the Deadheads in my life who would be wounded by the news. Though, there were typically six or more musicians on stage at any Dead show, arguably, there were just three longtime members that formed the core - Jerry, Bob and Phil (no disrespect to the original drummers, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann who are still alive and well). With Bob’s passing went the last original link to the cultural movement the Dead had become. For the deadheads in my life, this news would no doubt shake the stability of their life long escape pod.

Then, I continued to wash the dishes.

This musician’s death was significant, I thought, just not necessarily for me. I was not a self proclaimed Deadhead, though I had a fond familiarity of the band through my father, who most definitely was. Here and there, I’d get a yearning to put on their music, although typically I’d keep to the coral reef of their studio albums; exploring the depths of their live catalog required a guided tour in a pressurized submersible and I was not eager to take that dive.

Yet, for me, as for a lot of “younger” listeners, there was something about their music that resonated beyond the plucks of woven guitar strings. As exploratory as the music was, there was also a comfort quality present. They were reviving an Americana musical tradition and at times, it felt as cozy as an heirloom quilt. If your parents liked the Dead then of course, family memories would tuck you into the songs but for me there was some other ephemeral draw as well. The Dead were as worn-in as the wallet indentation of your dad’s jeans (or Weir’s cut-off denim short shorts of the ‘80s). Maybe it was the same songs played a thousand different ways. Maybe it was the community that was born out of it and generously sewn back into it. A culture of fandom so committed as to become part of the band itself - no band or artist had ever inspired such devotion and to this day, among modern jam bands or even the Beyhive and Swifites, it is unrivaled.

My dad, in his own “too short” shorts

Maybe it was the fact that despite the death of several members, the band, or some version of it kept going. Through the many iterations of the band that continued past Jerry Garcia’s death in 1995, there was always Weir or Lesh to connect them. They had brushed by death or been buried under the weight of it but always emerged again ready to reinvent their songs and the Dead experience for a new audience.

My dad shows his appreciation for his daughter who hooked him up with tickets to the Fare Thee Well show.

This last iteration, Dead and Company, fronted by the initially unlikely but now well-loved John Mayer, had been the final attempt to pass the torch. Bob Weir had been smart to try to keep things moving along - but with Weir’s death, that culture comes to an uncertain future. It seems to me, no matter how practiced and well-received Mayer has been, any future formation really is just a cover band.

~ . ~

This past week, in searching the internet for crumbs of meaning to connect these dots, I found, tucked among fantastic Weir interviews and clips of Garcia and Weir in the ‘80s prepping for shows, a tiny tidbit about how they landed on their name. First named The Warlocks, they were re-named upon hearing that some other Warlocks already claimed it. Browsing the dictionary, Jerry Garcia spotted the label, a folklore motif summarized as: “the soul of a dead person, or his angel, showing gratitude to someone who, as an act of charity, arranged their burial.”

My dad, whether he knew it or not, was the kind soul arranging for the artistic burial. He experienced music just as Bob Weir had once described it -songs as shaggy sheepdogs or living critters - and his tribute shows were akin to tossing ashes into the wind or soil on the coffin. A sand mandala to honor the miraculous act of creating, the attuned creator and those living critters themselves.

When my dad died in 2022, I languished in between realms for months, suspended in the hazy hillsides where “the living critters” come from. With one foot on earth and one arm extended, I stood holding the hot air balloon that is the departed’s spirit, stretching as far as I could until the strain reached my cramping fingertips and the silvery rope pulled away. Once someone ceases to exist, so do their contributions and creations. They leave many little holes in the fabric of the future. Their presence is felt in their absence.

I put on their 1980 album, Go to Heaven - a title I didn’t even initially register when I grabbed the scuffed cover. As I lined up the needle to grooves, tears collect like coins in the shallow purses of my eyes. Bob’s loss weighs heavy because it reminds me of my own loss. It is significant because now I’m mourning for two of us.

Beneath Weir’s swinging baritone on “Lost Sailor,” I can hear also what will now be missing - someone who, for 60 years had always been a dependable cultural figure to grab hold of. As the song ends, I hear too the quiet space where my dad’s voice, speaking on the legend of Weir’s music, could have been and now is not.

Turns out, me and John Mayer have something in common. Undeserving of the torch yet tasked with picking it up. Best of luck to us both.

May this essay serve as my bowed head toward the shining shadow of Weir. An important pause before arranging the next burial.

P.S - I linked it up top but consider listening to a couple of tributes my dad put together. As I was saying, he was no slouch. https://jiveradio.org/tributes/