I did some sessions with Jack Casady as well, but when I reach back to recall specifics on that, it mostly just reminds me that our respective bands—the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane—had a softball game over in Fairfax, a small town in Marin where Phil lived. Those games were really something, man. Our pitcher was Sonny Heard, and he wasn’t that good a pitcher, but he was a great intimidator. He could scare the shit out of you if you were up to bat. It was hard to hit his pitches because they came with so much verbal abuse, just ridiculous redneck quips that would constantly stream from his mouth.
I’m not sure that we were always matched against the Jefferson Airplane for all of those games, but they kept beating us, which really pissed me off. I don’t know how they did it—they must not have been as high as us. Mickey could hit home runs. I think Bobby played first base; he’s athletic. Jerry might’ve played some, here and there, but he was also definitely on the sidelines, yelling.
I slid into third one time and cut my leg somehow and I ended up with a really horrible infection, because my immune system was teetering. It wasn’t at its optimum during those years.
I don’t remember who played what on Jefferson Airplane’s side, I just remember Jack Casady on the field. And I also remember being really pissed off when they would win because I always thought we were a better band than they were, even though they were the more successful one at that point. That all came out during the softball games. But it was all fun and games. It’s not like there was a crowd there watching us or anything, and none of us were worth a shit as athletes. The most entertaining parts were the comments from the peanut gallery or the stream of shit talk coming out of the mouths of people like Sonny, who was constantly raving about something or someone. The weather was great and everybody—on both teams—had a good time. But they beat us every time, darn it.
* * *
And now for something completely different: death! I’m not making light of loss, it’s just never an easy transition. But sure as there were drunken train rides and carefree softball games, there were also heavy prices to pay for our way of life. First soldier down was Jimi Hendrix. He died on September 18 of that year, 1970, of asphyxiation that was attributed to barbiturate use. The details and cause of death remain mired in controversy with an array of choose-your-own conspiracy theories. But the cold hard fact is that Jimi Hendrix died at the age of twenty-seven, at what should’ve only been the start of an unmatched career.
I can remember one time, we were on a bill with the Jimi Hendrix Experience—maybe at the Fillmore East—and after we played, Hendrix walked right up to me and said, “Hey Billy, nice set.” I know that may seem like nothing, but I remember it because of the way he said it and the sincerity in which he approached me. I was really taken aback by how gentle and open he was. He didn’t have any of that big-star nonsense, none of that bullshit, and he was really present and genuine.
His drummer, Mitch Mitchell, was also great. A really wonderful drummer. He’s left us now, too, unfortunately. Those two cats were the band, really. No offense to Noel Redding, the bassist, but that’s the truth. There are famous stories about that. But I can remember that gentle exchange with Hendrix and then watching him blow the house down afterward. That band was so fucking loud. They played with a wall of Marshall stacks behind them, and it’s funny that I should call them on that because of where we went with our own sound system a few years later. They got there first.
I don’t remember where I was or any of that classic stuff when I first heard that Hendrix was gone. Jumping ahead by a decade, for a moment, I do remember where I was when I first heard about Bob Marley’s death. It was May 11, 1981. We were playing a gig at the coliseum in New Haven, Connecticut, and I didn’t know anything unusual had happened, but then Weir went up to the microphone and told the audience. I heard his announcement through the monitors and that’s how I found out. I don’t remember the gig; I just remember Weir doing that and suddenly the world was without the great spirit that was Bob Marley. For whatever reason, finding out about Hendrix wasn’t as memorable, even though it had just as much of an impact. It might’ve mattered even more, because we hadn’t experienced death among our peers just yet. But all that would change fast.
As for Janis Joplin’s a few weeks later, on October 4, that was really difficult. It hit a lot closer to home because she was a part of our San Francisco family. Also, it was a heroin overdose, and I wasn’t aware that she was using heroin. We played a gig that night at Winterland Arena in San Francisco, on a bill that also included Jefferson Airplane and Quicksilver Messenger Service. So, you know—Janis’s friends. But nothing was said onstage or anything. It was too heavy.
When people die, you sometimes recall the smallest little detail or some insignificant exchange with them and somehow that becomes an important part of your memory of who they were and how they mattered to you. With Janis, I remember one time we were all staying in the same hotel in L.A.—although I don’t think we were playing the same gig—and Janis had this wardrobe case that was a few feet long. She couldn’t possibly hang it up in the closet by herself, so she came storming into my room and said, “Bill, come and help me.” I could barely lift that thing up myself, she had so many dresses and all that other far-out stuff that she wore, all packed in there. I guess the point is just that all of us in that scene related to each other on real levels with everyday stuff, and I remember that side of Janis as much as her towering stage presence.
We had another loss shortly after all of this, in the beginning of 1971, but it was of a different nature entirely. As a band, we were still feeling some of the repercussions of being ripped off by our manager. But as that manager’s son, Mickey was doomed to suffer the worst of it. He wore it heavy on his shoulders and the weight was beginning to really drag him down. I’m sure it affected his relationship with all of the band members (and beyond), but he and I were kind of a unit within the unit. We were connected. After all, we were the Rhythm Devils.
Thus, it was no easy task when I had to tell him that he needed to take a break and step down from his role as a member of the Grateful Dead. That responsibility fell on me, although I did it at a band meeting with everyone there, at our new office on Fifth and Lincoln in San Rafael. We had to ask him to leave; I had to be the one to do it. This was in February 1971, after we played one of our legendary runs at the Capitol Theater in Port Chester, New York.
Those particular Capitol Theater shows are significant because one of Mickey’s academic friends, Dr. Stanley Krippner, performed an ESP experiment using the audience and a remote participant at a hospital in Brooklyn, more than an hour away from the venue. The audience influenced the remote participant’s dreams, as they tried to telepathically send him a string of images that were projected onto a screen during the show. The results were published in a reputable psychology journal and the experiment was considered somewhat of a success.
Dr. Krippner was a strange guy. When I met him, he was wearing a sports coat but no tie. I couldn’t help but notice that there was a family of ants crawling around his breast pocket. I said, “Doctor, do you know that there are ants in your pocket?” He said, “Yeah, I know.” “Cool. All right. Okay. You have ants living in your pocket.” I’m not really sure how Mickey knew him, but I think he and Jerry ended up having several lively conversations about science, the universe and the nature of reality. That sounds about right.
But Mickey himself was in bad shape during that run and ended up sitting out for most of it. He had been getting into dark drugs from what I recall, and I think all the pressure on him because of what happened with his father probably led him down that path. This was before either Jerry or I had really gotten into heroin. I had tried it by this point, but it was hardly a regular part of my diet. And it had just killed Janis Joplin. Thank God it didn’t kill Mickey Hart. But it did get him bumped from the band he loved the most, for a little while.
It wasn’t simply one thing, though: Mickey wasn’t able to play
at the level he was capable of and it was beginning to affect our performances. He was getting really spacey and just getting so far out there that he wasn’t able to deliver the music. It became impossible for me to play with him. It wasn’t out of anger or meanness, but we had to address it and deal with it. So our brother Mickey left the band and retreated back to his ranch in Novato and it really strained our relationship for a while, sad to say.
But he didn’t fight it. He agreed to step down without any big hassle. I think he was relieved in some ways. Underneath, I know it hurt him like crazy. I know he was deeply hurt by that. But the rest of us couldn’t deny that the band didn’t sound as good with him in it, during that time, and it would’ve been hard to argue otherwise. He had stuff he needed to work out and he needed to do that outside of the Grateful Dead.
The first show without Mickey was pretty tough for me. I was used to being a part of an eight-limbed multi-beast and suddenly half of it wasn’t there. I had lost some limbs. So the first couple of shows sounded thin to me. I got into playing more demonstratively and playing more stuff. It really led into a developmental period where I learned how to take four limbs and make them sound like eight. I said to myself, “Fuck, man—it’s just you. You’re open. You can play anything you want.” And that was a cool thing. It freed up the music and it added a bounce that was unique to this period. It ended up being a really great period.
One thing about being the only drummer—and this is true today, not just in the ’70s—is that it affords you the ability to make really quick changes. You can make an oblique really fast, turning in the opposite direction inside the music and everybody can be right there with you. You don’t have to worry about whether or not the other drummer is following you or if you’re connected. That kind of thinking doesn’t apply.
Meanwhile, as I’ve alluded to already, the rest of us had been turned on to a drug that didn’t serve the music either, and that was cocaine. And it would stay with some of us for the rest of the band’s career, in waves and varying levels of intensity. But by the early ’70s, cocaine had become the common wash for everything. Somebody always had it. Some people had way too much of it. It became an issue with me later on in our career because I felt like I couldn’t perform music onstage unless I had it. Phil got on my case once and said, “Bill, you have a snort before every single song.” I went, “Oh, really?” But it was true. I would have my drum tech bring me the cap from a soda bottle or some such low-profile thing, with a bump already laid out for me in it, and he would pretend to make an adjustment on my kit while I would do the bump. This was in between songs, in front of stadiums of people, without anyone noticing. Except Phil, perhaps.
It was like the magic fairy dust for everything, except that it wasn’t magic—it was cocaine. The very first time I ever did cocaine was at 710 Ashbury, back when I was still living in the neighborhood. This must’ve been toward the very end of the Haight-Ashbury days and it’s pretty indicative of why that scene collapsed on itself, forming a fireball that crashed into the front gate of the 1970s. The good drugs turned into bad drugs.
I snorted my first line of coke with a guy named “Curly Headed Jim,” who suggested that we take a walk down to Haight Street and plug into the street vibe, digging everything we crossed paths with along the way. Before we even made it to the sidewalk, I felt like I was walking on the king’s stilts—elevated, though not necessarily high; powerful, though not necessarily in control. I never experienced anything quite like it. I suddenly had another drug that I liked. I also realized, right then, that this new one might not be for the best. Fortunately, we didn’t have any money in those days for luxuries like coke, and I wouldn’t have known where to score it, anyway. But it came around. That was the problem.
10
As 1971 gave way to 1972, we began to plot our first major tour of Europe; it was a tour that would become one of our most notorious adventures. But first we had some big changes to make on the home front. Including a whole new lineup—with Mickey on leave and Pigpen chronically sick and unable to really pound the keys, an opportunity arose for new blood. And it came serendipitously. Chalk it up to that ole Grateful Dead synchronicity thing.
Around this time, we moved our office to a spot in downtown San Rafael, on the corner of Fifth and Lincoln. We started calling it by the uber-creative and “How the hell did you ever come up with that?” nickname of … Fifth and Lincoln. I already mentioned it by name in the last chapter because this is where Mickey’s leave of absence became official. Anyway, that office really worked well for us, and we kept it for the rest of our career. Some people might find it interesting that another one of the world’s biggest bands, Metallica, have their operations just down the road from there. So while San Rafael might not be seen as a rock ’n’ roll destination, don’t tell me that town ain’t got no heart.
Our office at Fifth and Lincoln was actually an old Victorian house, with bay windows, and all the classic Victorian architecture stuff. It had a large kitchen and we turned all the bedrooms and everything into offices. On just about any particular day, you could come in and find Jerry there, as early as nine in the morning, sitting at the kitchen table, doing whatever—maybe reading, maybe playing guitar, maybe giving an interview, maybe talking to somebody. He was there all the time. It became a hub for all of us. We’d come in and get our mail there—we each had our own mailboxes, as if it was a student union on a college campus or something. It was a meeting place and a place to catch people on the coming or going.
A few years after we got Fifth and Lincoln up and running, we also took over a warehouse just a couple miles away at 20 Front Street that we turned into our permanent rehearsal space. We sometimes called it Club Front because it became the boy’s club. It was a place for music, partying, recording, working on cars, whatever. It often felt like we spent more time just hanging out, than rehearsing. Especially in later years; it kept moving in that direction, unfortunately. Toward the end, it became a lot of waiting around; waiting for everyone to show up, waiting for drugs to be delivered, and then waiting for the last person to come out of the bathroom. If it wasn’t too late by the time all that criteria was met, sometimes we’d pick up our instruments.
Fifth and Lincoln was our actual business headquarters—all kinds of people came in and out of there, from the visual artists that were working on cover art to music industry types for this, that and the other. Everybody would sort of gather around the kitchen table and hold great discussions. It was the place to do that.
Five, six years into our career it seemed as though, despite all the uncertainty and shape-shifting, we had become established. We would each, individually, still move around some—both literally and figuratively—in the years that followed, but San Rafael was now our permanent home base. In 1971, we weren’t quite the business entity that we eventually became … but we were on our way.
And yet, Jerry and Mountain Girl didn’t have the funds to buy a house that they really wanted out in Stinson Beach, a secluded Marin enclave on the rugged Pacific Coast where he could find inspiration and she’d be able to tend to a few pot plants without anyone noticing. So Jerry decided to manifest the down payment by recording a solo album. That record kicks off with “Deal” for a reason. He was wheeling and dealing, all right.
Because it was a solo venture, Jerry decided that he wanted to play almost all of the instruments himself, except for drums—he enlisted me for that role. He also brought Ram Rod in for those sessions, doing roadie work essentially, running errands and moving around the equipment and stuff. We’re both listed as “production assistants” in the credits. He paid Ram Rod the same amount that he paid me and that still bothers me to this day. But that was Jerry’s sense of fairness, which speaks volumes for his character, I think.
Musically, for that album, Jerry led the charge but he also conferred with me on certain arrangements. And, of course, he collaborated with Robert Hunter, who provided lyrics. I was awarded songwriting credits on ne
arly half the album, which was generous of Jerry. Basically, he would come out with this loose idea for a song—oftentimes, he’d be on piano and I’d be in an isolated drum booth—and I’d just start playing whatever felt right for the song on drums. We’d continue jamming in a certain direction until it crystalized into something a little more solid. Then, as if on cue, Hunter would come running out of the control room going, “Okay, I’ve got it!” and show Jerry some lyrics. When Jerry tried to place them, sometimes it would require a bit of adjusting and we’d tinker with the parts until they all fell into place. It was cool for me to be involved with that side of the process since, when Jerry brought stuff to the Dead, it was usually after that kind of incubation period.
The album, Garcia, was cut at Wally Heider Studios in July 1971 and released by Warner Brothers the following January. There are a lot of songs on there that became Grateful Dead mainstays, in addition to “Deal”—we’re talking about straight-up classics like “Sugaree,” “Loser,” and “The Wheel.” Also, “Bird Song” is on there, which, to this day, is one of my all-time favorite Dead songs and one of my absolute favorite songs to play live (along with “Dark Star” and “The Other One”).
When I want musicians I’m playing with to learn any of those songs, I give them the Garcia versions. They’re just so good. I had a really great time making that album. Dealing exclusively with Jerry was the most effortless thing in the world. I didn’t have to do anything other than be myself. And play.
Deal: My Three Decades of Drumming, Dreams, and Drugs with the Grateful Dead Page 17