Dead head dating
One thing was different: the sound system, the biggest damn thing anyone had ever seen. Originally, the Dead's LSD supplier, indeed the supplier to the world, but that had stopped years before.
It stretched right to the ceiling of Winterland, about forty feet straight up. Man, that's Owsley." He whispered the name, like it was a mantra, a sacred name. He was the Dead's soundman, recording engineer, and creator of the monstrous speaker system in front of me.
What amazed even the casual observer was how little all of this depended on the Dead. Even on nights when the spirit didn't move Garcia, or whatever drugs he was using didn't do the trick, the fans themselves provided the party and as time went on they WERE the party, whether the Dead was rocking or not.
For every beautiful musical moment, and there were many, there were nights when the Dead just didn't click, when they spent hours just wandering around a song, searching for direction and inspiration. Listen to "Dark Star," the song that starts 1969's "Live/Dead," an album revered by the faithful, a 23-minute exercise in noodling that should more aptly be titled, "Jerry Garcia Goes In Search Of A Tune And Can't Find It." But it didn't matter. Critics recognized this oddity about the Dead very early on.
That's the second reason they got bigger: their lives shows reflected that ethos.
They were everything everyone thought the '60s were, at least in their minds: long, flowing, disorganized, as close as a modern person could come to the ancient Dionysian rites.
The only difference is that Eric is shot in the head by one of the Saviors and dies instantly as he falls into Aaron's arms.
To complete the registration process, please click the link the email we just sent you. To complete the registration process, please click the link the email we just sent you.
Exhausted from years of touring, worn out by bickering and nonstop partying, and still grieving over the loss of a founding member of the band, the Dead are calling it quits. Specifically, it was October 16, 1974, the start of a five-night stand at Winterland in San Francisco. The Hells Angels were out in force…it was rumored that a ramp had been built onto the stage to accommodate the bikes.
Stacks and stacks of speakers, hundreds of them (604, I found out later), a veritable Twin Towers of sound. " The fellow standing next to me was as Gobsmacked as I was. We were standing on the floor, and even 50 feet or more from the stage, we were craning our necks to see the top. It was called The Wall of Sound, and it was the largest sound system yet created. Blues," from the just-released "From the Mars Hotel" album. The disco ball, the dancing girls whirling on the stage, the kids boogying barefoot on the sidelines, the angel-faced Donna Godchaux singing in tight jeans and t-shirt, and most of all the sound from those 600 speakers, the crystal-clear twang of Jerry's guitar and the crack of Kreutzmann's cymbals. The Dead played four more shows at Winterland, and then split up.
Even then, the Dead's fans were divided into two groups. After what seemed like a very long wait, promoter Bill Graham appeared in a white tuxedo, walked to the mike and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Grateful Dead." They opened, to the delight of the crowd, with an old favorite: "Bertha." Several hours later, they closed with "Uncle John's Band" and "Johnny B. Years later, when the Dead released a live album of those nights in Winterland, critics were not kind. The now-famous Wall of Sound system was sold to Bill Graham.