The close-up photos lie; we were never that close. This is how we saw the Grateful Dead: those tiny, loud fuckers over there.
9/28/75 at Lindley Meadows, of course. (There might be no other show so discrete: it’s the most readily-identifiable show they ever played. Plus, there were a fuckton of shots taken. There’s, like, one picture of the One From The Vault show. There’s none from the time(s) they wedged the Wall of Sound into a jai-alai fronton. Just a handful from Woodstock. But the free gig under an assumed name in the park on a chilly Northern California day? Millions of pics.
“What it’s called–”
Oh hey, Precarious.
“–is omniaxial asymmetry.”
“Yeah. There’s no direction you can fold ’em in half cleanly.”
“Easier that way.”
9/28/75 is one of those shows I can always listen to always. Most Dead shows, I can always listen to, but sometimes I don’t want to hear this show or that right now. I can always listen to Lindley Meadows always. It’s good morning music, driving music, humping music; 9/28/75 is an excellent choice for corpse disposal or babysitting. (Corpse disposal and babysitting are more related activities than the media will tell you.) 9/28/75 slices, dices, chops, hops, skips, jumps, and knows where you left your keys. 9/28/75 has a corkscrew, scissors, bottle-opener, and even the little toothpick in the slot. Many Dead shows have lost the little toothpick in the slot, but not Lindley Meadows.
Is it the baby that’s born during the first half of the set?
Is it the first Help>Slip>Frank that’s not really a Help>Slip>Frank?
Is it Bobby calling his pooch on Truckin’?
Is it The Eleven jam that’s only kinda a The Eleven jam?
Is it the fact that it’s September, yet all of the Grateful Deads are dressed like it’s July in Antarctica?
(Remember: Southern Hemisphere; shit’s reversed down there.)
It’s something. 9/28/75 isn’t my favorite show; it’s the one I can always listen to. It’s the Fig Newtons of Dead shows: I might not ask for it by name, but if you put one in front of me, I will eat it every single time.
Who’s that lady?
“Some lady, man.”
The professionalism of your security staff is nonpareil.
“Oh, I’m sure they patted her down thoroughly.”
True. This Lindley Meadows?
“I told you I didn’t know her name, man.”
Lindley Meadows. The park.
“Yeah, huh, good question.”
Lemme ask you something.
Is the entire band tripping balls?
“Well, Donna isn’t.”
Is the entire band on acid?
“Seems that way.”
Is someone having a baby as you’re soloing?
It’s Lindley Meadows.
“Learn something new every day.”
We now know what Billy did during the Hiatus: eat away the sadness.
TotD pays tribute to the ancients, and follows the laws they have handed down in his celebration of the Days Between. Since time immemorial, we have observed the birth and death of Jerome H. Garcia. For thousands of years, the holiday made no sense at all, but then Garcia was born and soloed and died, and everyone was all, “Oh, now I get it.”
This is either the fourth, sixth, or twenty-first day of the Days (I have stopped counting) and as custom dictates, today we remember Garcia’s fuckability. Not the loophole fuckability he retained as a rich and famous rock star until his death, but the objective fuckability of (parts of) his youth. Garcia’s Window of Fuckability* was from the regrowth of his beard in ’70 or ’71 until 1978; the window was briefly closed in ’73 when he shaved. (Garcia without his beard is like Superman without his cape.)
So on this Day Between, please join me in giving praise to Fuckable Garcia.
Do you even hear yourself any more?
Yeah, this one was creepy, huh?
Am I saving by being self-aware about it?
Not at all.
Look at Garcia’s hair, though.
He looks cool as shit.
Notice how I didn’t say “fuckable” like that was an appropriate thing to say about another human.
I noticed, sure.
*Everyone has a sliver of their lives when their appearance and attitude intersect favorably, and cause one to become fuckable. For some, this window might last decades; for others, it may be limited to the hour spent walking around the parking lot of a Judas Priest concert in a zebra outfit.
Most of the shots from the Lindley Meadows free show are more than familiar, but here’s one taken–seemingly–by a fan. (I am just assuming that a picture containing the professional photographers was not taken by said professional photographers.)
In the interest of fairness, we now present Garcia with all the sexy in the world in a pic from Lindley Meadows I don’t know if I’ve seen before.
Another cool shot from the legendary (and criminally unreleased) Lindley Meadows show in ’75. Garcia is yelling at someone getting too close to his hoagie; Bobby is looking at Goose, who is a giant duck, good friend of Bobby, and imaginary; Billy is taking a piss.
Who’s Johnny Casual on the left there?
Also: just a little more humidity and we would be in the land of the Full Muppet.