I have often used the word “exposure” regarding my initial connection to the Grateful Dead. Having been in a series of relationships starting back in high school with fanatical Deadheads, tapers and jam band musicians, it was just natural to be accompanying them to many shows. I always felt the “exposure” part was a bit like absorbing radon. You don’t know it exists but it seeps into your living space (or in this case, head space). Or okay, maybe more like a suntan. You don’t realize it’s getting into your skin and then suddenly you are looking at a different color. Okay, I’ll stop with the metaphors…..

We were seeing/hearing so much music back in the day. Tickets were cheap, amazing music was aplenty. Not being overly impressed with the Dead at the time, I just went along for the party and the ride. I could take them or leave them. I didn’t get what all the fuss was about. I also couldn’t understand why I kept attracting the same type of relationship – serious Deadheads.

If you have read any of this blog before, you might know that I’m considered a Senior (at least outwardly. Age is so different inside your mind, though, right?). Given that, I was attending shows back when Pigpen was with the band. I was around for Owsley acid. I remember the vibration of Phil Lesh’s bass rattling my ribcage as I stood in front of The Wall of Sound. I’m that old.

Even though I had been seeing them (or being brought along to see them) before, it was actually a moment a couple of years later in 1973 (while experiencing what was a potentially unpleasant downturn of an LSD trip) when somebody suddenly put on a new album that had just come out – Live at the Keystone with Merle Saunders and Jerry Garcia. Rather remarkably, it calmed me right down. This recording seemed to open a different path to hearing where Garcia meandered. Suddenly everything turned around and became alright. Suddenly I was hearing through different ears. It changed my relationship with Garcia’s playing and the Dead’s music from “Eh…..” to “Aha!”

And from that point on, when I saw the Dead I was really listening – to the subtle nuances, to the musical conversations and interplay between them, to the inside jokes within the music, what it was doing to my head, what journey it was taking me on, and that it was different every time. That was the point when I suddenly realized I Get It. In addition, it wasn’t necessary (for me) to be in an altered state in order to pay attention to all those things, although it didn’t hurt. Once I saw it, I could see it.

Now what started me down (what will soon become) this circuitous road of reminiscence is the recent passing of Donna Jean Godchaux, the only woman to be part of the Grateful Dead. Yes, her husband was the keyboard player, but she had a significant history of being a studio recording artist with some pretty impressive musical cred independent of her relationship.

I briefly mentioned above that once upon a time I was connected to guys in a jam band. They played a lot of Dead songs in addition to originals, and then launched into their own jam space off those songs. More specifically, at a fairly young age I married one of those musicians. The band was actually really good. In addition to a circle of friends fanning out in concentric circles from their core bond, they had a small following of local fans. Some of us shared a house together. The band practiced constantly, had gigs, tripped together, enjoyed listening to music together, went to concerts together, and were heavily, heavily into the Dead. They would listen to tapes of different shows and dissect them. It was an interesting hive scene and a reflection of the times. Initially I started to write a whole piece on the dynamics of living and being a part of that tribe and some of the high points, pitfalls and parallels, but I’ve decided to back out of that road.

When we were at a Dead show, there was no lingering outside in the parking Lot scene, it was about finding the sweet spot inside the venue, discovering where the music would sound the best. The guys I hung out with did not like Donna in the band and made no secret about it. Okay, her pitch was off for some of those shows (as were all of the others in the Dead – they never could sing all that well – and as an ironic aside, my homey guys in the jam band didn’t have the greatest voices). But she seemed to catch so much more complaining than necessary from so many male fans. Although none of them would admit it, I truly believe there was often a misogynistic element to it, as if a lot of these men fans saw her presence as an invasion into some kind of Boy’s Club, no women allowed. I don’t think it would have mattered who the woman was.

Of note, this attitude was not coming from the Dead themselves. As I understand it, her bandmates loved, respected and welcomed her.

I looked at Donna’s seasons with the Dead as an asset in their history. I liked seeing her beautiful self up there performing with them in all their unpredictability and imperfectness and complexity. Sometimes she really did hit it. In an odd way, I sort of related to her and envied her from afar. I’m betting a lot of women fans did during that time. And not for nothing, I would have killed for her hair……

Okay – as usual, I am going to veer off track now for a few paragraphs. As is the way with the internet, once I clicked on an article about Donna Godchaux, my feed and social media became bombarded with all sorts of Grateful Dead/DJG backstories and historical facts. One of the ones that jumped out at me was someone who posted “Autzen Stadium 1978 – I was there!” and how much they liked it. As always with Dead shows, you could never be sure what you were going to get.

I was at that show.

Imagining I might be met with some disagreement, I stand by saying with certainty that it was the worst Grateful Dead show I’ve even been at – and it had nothing to do with Donna Jean Godchaux. She was fine.

So yes, I am going to go off on a bit of a tangent here and share how some mind-altering substances thrown into the mix might have helped to place different colored glasses on the event, although not entirely. It’s my blog, I can do that here. Stay if you want to.

In addition to the Dead, the people in my immediate sphere were all big-time into Santana, so this was going to be a double treat. Our neighbor, Iowa Boy, had never seen the Dead before and was looking forward to finding out what the big deal was about. We got our ten dollar tickets (ten dollars!!!) and it was me, Red, Howie, Emrose, Fonebone, and Iowa Boy heading off in Red’s huge, white International Harvester with a giant skull and lightening bolt painted on the back. She didn’t want to drive her truck (she actually hadn’t had her driver’s license for very long) so Emrose took the wheel. We got to Eugene the night before and all camped out in a field not far from the venue.

Once inside the stadium the following day, a few of the guys headed off into the crowd to score some psychedelics, or “craze” as Emrose liked to call it. A gray cloud cover blanketed the overhead sky, which lent striking juxtaposition to the huge painted rainbow mural arching over the stage. They returned with the goods, we all dropped and waited for the fun to begin.

In no time at all, Howie, Fonebone, Emrose and Iowa Boy got off on their “craze” and seemed to be enjoying themselves. But for some reason, Red and I did not get off at all. We sat there in our sober disappointment, wondering how we two women managed to end up with duds. After some discussion and a significant wait, we decided to take a second hit.

You might guess that not five minutes after ingesting our second dose, we suddenly got off on the first one. We both looked at each other and just said “Uh-Oh”.

Eddie Money came on first. Then The Outlaws. I recall Howie saying all of them were playing Gibson guitars and were a “Les Paul Army”. I don’t know if that was so or why that comment stuck with me. Then Santana was up. Carlos Santana was wearing an electric blue velvet suit and his playing smoked. They were AMAZING…it was so freakin’ good that we were totally psyched for what was to come next. Following that (I think they came after Santana) some of the Merry Pranksters got on stage and were rapping to the crowd.

Somewhere in all of this, Howie decided to get up and get something to drink, and while waiting on a vendor line, the guy in front of him suddenly fell to the ground in what appeared to be a seizure. Howie snapped into professional mode trying to tend to him, while a circle of people formed around them. Luckily, the guy snapped out of it and went on his way. Howie returned to the bleachers white-faced and kind of freaked. He was trying to light a joint and asked if anyone had matches, which was met with weird reactions from people, who repeated the word while looking as if he had asked for something outrageously and bizarrely unattainable. “Matches? Matches? Matches?”

And then the Dead came on.

From where we sat, something was very off from the get-go and I don’t think it was just us. Garcia appeared to be having an issue, maybe with the tuning or the guitar, and then there was something going on between Garcia and Weir. There was discussion and hesitation happening that read as friction from where we sat. Once they got going, it was disjointed and nothing seemed to really gel. It had nothing to do with any singing, it was more like a lapse in connection and absence of the usual magic. We all individually felt it. We kept waiting for it to get off the ground, but it never seemed to. After such a hopeful buildup, the disappointment was huge.

Afterward, joining the line of people filing out of the stadium, everyone seemed silent. Not just our group but everybody. Nobody was talking. It was a speechless, exiting crowd. Howie said “This feels like a funeral procession.” Iowa Boy just shook his head and asked “Is this what you people get all excited about?” Clearly he was not going to be on the bus as far as a fan in the future.

The guys began to get hungry as they started to slowly come down from their trip, so we got back into the truck and stopped at an International House of Pancakes.

As you recall, both Red and I had taken a second hit of acid, so things had not leveled off for us yet. Timing is everything and unfortunately, we peaked in the IHOP. This was not a good place to have that happen. Red watched in horror as the face of the woman in the next booth began to melt. I watched my pancakes breathe in and out for a while before suddenly declaring “I can’t do this.” We looked at each other – “Let’s get out of here” – and went to wait out in the parking lot while the guys ate their breakfast.

They finished their meal while Red and I tried to pull it together outside. Then we all packed back into the International with Emrose, still under the influence himself, resuming control at the wheel.

Of course we got lost. Somehow we ended up going up a mountainside, traversing a number of precarious switchbacks. “Is this the way?” ” Do you think this is REALLY the way?” “Are you SURE this is the way?” At some point the road turned to dirt, getting narrower and narrower until it was not much more than a cow path, barely the width of the truck. The left side of the truck was practically touching a wall of rock. The right wheels skirted the precarious edge of a sheer drop off. We could have easily plunged off the side of the mountain. Clearly this was not a road. Emrose stopped driving for a moment while we readjusted our heads to what was happening. There was no way to turn around, there was no way to back up. Channeling his best Neal Cassady, he resumed driving. We kept moving forward, Further.

Eventually the path opened up again and emptied out onto a paved road which then dumped out into a highway; relief washing over all of us, we headed home.

This was just one of many adventures during that time and probably not even one of the wildest. Normally I wouldn’t even touch on this subject at all, just another youthful story born of Poor Decisions. I’m certain we all have them. But I ended up going down my own mental cow path while thinking about Donna Jean Godchaux and her time with the Dead. So here we are.

Years later we did actually listen to a tape of that concert. In the scheme of Dead shows, it wasn’t great but it wasn’t all that bad either. Perception is an interesting thing. That we all had the same impression is even more intriguing.

Eventually I stopped going to see the Dead for compound reasons. I got tired of people like “Bandana Man” – you know, one of those guys in a long blonde ponytail and bandana, wearing overalls with no shirt – recklessly crashing into you, crushing your foot or other bodily part. I think I have encountered some variation of Bandana Man at almost every single show. Then there is the crowd thing in general. Don’t do crowds much anymore if I can help it. This old body no longer wanted to be down on the floor but prefers settling my butt into a comfortable seat. Or a bed. Or my own bed! Maybe I burned out a bit on the futile cries of that one guy who just can’t stop yelling “St. Stephen” over and over again throughout. For years! The price of tickets became too rich for my pockets. And Jerry was gone. Yeah, there was that, too.

Life took a different direction. Kids and a job with responsibilities, and no longer having any desire to imbibe in “craze” or any other recreational substance anymore. I’m grateful I’ve survived some Stupid Mistakes and Bad Choices. Over the years I’ve become very straight, but my eyes are wide open all the time now.

I still listen to GD on occasion though. Sometimes a song will creep into my head like an earworm and stay with me for days on end. Other times one of their tunes suddenly fits a situation or works well on a long drive. More than half a century has passed (omg!!!) since that earliest “exposure”, but strangely, the connection has not faded away.

As a small aside, any association or contact I have had with any people peripheral to the Dead family in times past has been the briefest of interactions, otherwise it’s pretty much at least a degree of separation. It is interesting though – over the years my old friend Red became acquainted with a few members of the Dead, including Donna Godchaux, and still maintains friendships with some of the extended crew. Yesterday I checked in with her to compare notes and see if what she recalled was the same. She confirms that’s pretty much exactly how it happened.

She tells me Donna Jean was a sweetheart with a beautiful voice. And so I circle back to that here.

May the four winds blow you safely home.

~*~