I am pleased to feature a perspective piece by my relative and friend, Keith Eaton. Keith (pictured above) is a longtime Deadhead and a longtime music fan whose tour stories and shows attended are seemingly endless. The following piece tells Keith's story of revisiting Cornell this past February to see Furthur play Barton Hall. The show proved to be the beginning of a new chapter in his Dead-fan career as well as a trip into the past to revisit old friends, old sights, and the music which he has cherished since the very first note. I hope this is the first of many entries we'll read from Keith, enjoy!
Driving west on I-90 in my 15 year old Saturn, tossed by blowy snow squalls, my thoughts paused as I passed Albany. It was nearly 20 years since I had stood outside (“shut out”) listening to the radio broadcast of what would become Dozin’ at the Knick. Luckily, I’d scored tickets for the subsequent two nights, but already I digress.
After a brief, near car-breakdown panic, 15 miles east of Herkimer, I buzzed along toward Syracuse wondering if I was doing the right thing. At my age, should I be logging thousands of miles on my car to catch a couple of my long-time Grateful Dead heroes? The angst was easily justified by the fact that I would be meeting college friends who, themselves, were trekking to Ithaca from Ohio and Oregon. Besides, as a teacher on February break, what else should I be doing?
In my career as a Deadhead, I’ve had spells where I thought I was “over it,” that road trips should be saved for the educational or spiritual variety, visiting family, old friends, National Parks and such. 1991 was just such a dry spell (only 2 shows) when I leaned into the grindstone of rigorous work and ventured only to alternative and post-punk shows local to my then geographic vicinity. It didn’t last.
The last two years of the Grateful Dead’s career, I was fortunate enough to be living in the Northwest. Bay Area, Sacramento, Eugene and Seattle shows were all within my purview. (Maybe mileage out west doesn’t count as much.) After Garcia died, I caught a Further Fest and a Ratdog show in 1996. Then came a dry-spell which lasted for 5 years until an intelligent friend of mine (whose flight from Oregon to Syracuse would soon be landing) urged me to see Phil and Friends. It was the lovingly-named “Q,” and I was back “on the bus.”
“On the bus” in 2001 and beyond was something quite different from what I had remembered from my heyday–mid-80s to 1990. But then again, I always cherished (and bemoaned) how the scene was always changing. Gone were the days of camping out at the Hampton Coliseum or any other venue, deep Shakedown scenes, but the Warlocks ushered in a newer era. After Brent Mydland passed away, would it ever be the same? There were many moments that exceeded this late-career Head’s expectations. Besides, Heads from earlier phases were always bemoaning the changes, but they were still coming back!
Once again, I, too, was coming back into the fray, back into that transient community I call home. Banking left around Syracuse, downshifting south onto I-81, I nursed a stomach flutter of expectation. I hadn’t felt it in quite some time, a pre-show jitters of anything-can-happen. Perhaps it was because I had fulfilled my National Parks quotient, cruising along the Erie Canal corridor, a piece of history to which I was oblivious when touring in ’90. Perhaps it was because I was reuniting with dear friends who have crossed the line into family after all these years. Perhaps it was because I was going to see a band who would erase the disappointments of “the Dead” of 2004. Who knows, but heading to Ithaca on state road 13, I was positively giddy.
I was giddy not just because I was going to see the Dead in mid-state New York, an area that seemed to collect shows in the 70s and 80s like sticky paper collects flies in a barn. I was giddy not just because I was tootling along on a country road past towns not unlike those where I live in rural Maine, full of folks trimming the evening lamps unsuspecting of what was magnetizing their homeland. I was giddy not just because I had listened to the Furthur shows from the New Year’s run and the open rehearsals of January. I was giddy because I was going to see Phil Lesh and Bob Weir play, accompanied by an accomplished staff of erstwhile Heads, in the hallowed track and field house BARTON HALL.
OK, I do recall a night circa 1989, when I’d argued with Matt (who would soon be arriving from Ohio) and Al in their D.C. apartment about the ULTIMATE “Morning Dew.” For them, it was 5-8-77. There was no other. Myself, I had a spot for raunchy 80s sounds, and my Dew of choice was 10-12-84. I’d argued this point, but to no avail. Besides, their Dew was on a crispy, yet warm, Betty Board, while my Dew was on a hissy, Oade audience. Now older, I understand their point, and I can laugh and shrug at my 22 year-old obsession to always root for the underdog.
5-8-77 is an undeniable masterpiece. It is a brief show–the second set clocks in well under 90 minutes–but it is more than a meal. Think of the ecstasy of a well-balanced sashimi versus gorging out on a crock of yummy curry. For my tastes, I guess it depends on the day. Yet that show from Cornell’s Barton Hall in ’77, like it or not, is burned into the grooves of my consciousness deeper (I risk admitting) than the cherished vinyl ones of “Double Nickels on the Dime” or “Sticky Fingers,” even. For me, that’s saying a lot.
Deep into the Quicki-Mart Generica of Ithaca’s periphery, I found my hotel with ease. It was a feeling difficult to describe, that ease. It was a feeling from the days when we used to say, “See you in Phili”; “See you in Louisville”; “See you in Alpine”; a day without cell phones when we knew our reuniting was inevitable, though there be 40,000 other Heads milling around. In the luxuriant hotel room, Matt already had his feet up and had read all the Ithaca papers had to offer in anticipation of this “historic” show.
To be fair, the Grateful Dead played Barton Hall again in 1980 and 1981. Plus, they had all those great Binghamton, Utica and other New York state shows, not to mention The City. Nonetheless, this was a pilgrimage, and here I was, a pilgrim. It felt good. It felt like Old Home Day or the 4th, some time when everyone you know or care about just drops what they’re doing and fires up the bar-b-que. We met Cori, who’d flown in to Syracuse from Oregon via JFK–a typical tour miracle considering that Maryland and Pennsylvania were being pummeled with more snow than they’d seen since Ben Franklin’s day–and did the only logical thing we could do: found Indian food in downtown Ithaca.
The next day continued the scenic wonder quotient as we visited Taughannock Falls. It was an impressive icy broth that made me wonder about how amazing the Columbia Gorge would look when frozen. It was an ambling day, a pre-show day, a day to stretch and wonder at where we were. I was glad we’d all arrived a day early to rest.
Eating sushi before the show, I realized/remembered it was Valentine’s Day. No wonder the couple seated beside us, right beside us, was a little miffed and/or mystified by our tie-dyed tour stories. Maybe my patchouli was interfering with the Rosé’s bouquet, but hey, we’re in town. The campus had been empty of Heads during our pre-show orientation. Only the band’s busses gave away Barton Hall’s location. We squinted, nosed our way through side streets, until we finally found the parking garage designated for the tribe. One converted school bus, which we’d seen earlier, had somehow earned favored nation status and been allowed to park near the sidewalk. BUT THERE WAS NO SHAKEDOWN, no hacky-sack hanging fools, nothing. Cornell University did not want a scene.
After dinner, parking in the garage, we made our way into Barton. The entrance exuded that paint over paint look of a well-worn facility. Up the stairs into the main hall, the gummy floor testified its role as a track and field house, while the ROTC posters told the rest. What a hoot to lope up wooden bleachers built in 1914. Harvard-Yale game? High school dance? No, we’re at a Dead show! Matt and I couldn’t bear to sit in the back, and we found our place adjacent to the soundboard. There was plenty of room.
My pre-show anticipation had simply melted into marveling at the hall. The rafters and raised roof spine with windows brought to mind a rural Maine chicken barn, alas Bobby’s famed “Playin’ in the Barn” on 5-07-80. The stained glass “Cornell University” behind reminded us where we were. The curtains cordoning off the wings and space behind the stage had me worried about sound vacuums. But what did I care, we were there.
After Matt scoped out the surrounding area, he stopped in to chat (I was content with our zone). Pondering odd openers, I mentioned how in the 80s only “Walking the Dog,” “Road Runner” or “Midnight Hour” had seemed like odd openers. I think Matt mentioned “Dancin’,” and then the lights dropped. The venue didn’t even seem anywhere near capacity as the band vaulted to the stage. The “Midnight Hour” brought me chills and a smile.
After that moment, Phil, Bobby, John Kadlecik and crew brought wave after wave of smiles. Though it would have been nice to see Bill Kreutzman and Mickey Hart up there, I was rooting for Joe Russo and Jay Lane. Is that the underdog in me? Jeff Chimenti? Well, I’d seen him with the Dead and Ratdog and already had full confidence in his mastery. In the wings, Zoe Ellis and Sunshine Garcia Becker brought to mind great Jerry Garcia Band shows of yore. Their names hinted at some deep Bay Area pedigree that I wasn’t even going to consider. Just let them sing!
Next up, “They Love Each Other,” oh yeah, it’s Valentine’s Day. I kept forgetting, as if it mattered, but this was my Valentine, from my heroes to me, and it mattered. Kadlecik has the touch, and it shines on Jerry’s bouncy ballads. What I remember next (I’m deliberately writing this without a set list on hand), was an on stage “huddle” as we used to call it, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since . . . Had I ever seen one like that? Much discussion, laughter, Phil gesturing with his hands, I turned to Matt and said, “They’re arguing over how many beats for the beginning of ‘Beat It on Down the Line.’” Indeed it was, and was I boogying or what? Bouncy music: the elastic rubber band that stretches and snaps back as I remembered from days gone by. Fun, fun, fun.
Phil tried his hand at “Peggy-O,” which, to my ears, was a bit disjointed. No matter, we’re all having fun. Then, Weir pulls out a “Looks Like Rain” which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up: pure animism. Lesh and Kadlecik plow deep furrows as Weir shouts, “Can’t stand the rain!” and I’m in Dead Head heaven: crescendo after crescendo morphing into the deep molasses of abdominal emotion. Did I ever see one like this before? My memory banks latch on 7-07-81 from K.C., but that’s a full year before I saw the Grateful Dead! Fantastic.
From there, we shift gears down into the cool blues of Garcia-land, “Sugaree.” Kadlecik does the song the justice it deserves, spiraling peaks that morph into road house blues. Somehow, the song both connects to the barroom brawl and transcends that environment, up and down simultaneously. Weir’s set closing “Good Lovin’” would be a footnote except for the fact that it was a twisted and elegant reading. First, there was the Pig Pen-era introduction propelled by Lesh’s lines, then the late-70s and 80s Weirisms, then the tune. Toward the end, they slipped into a jam that played Weir and Pig Pen versions off each other into something like I’ve never heard before. Oh yeah. Set break.
Stunned, Matt and I stood in silence for a while. He was employing the masterful technology of pen to paper for the set list, something akin these days to illuminated manuscripts as everyone around us was already ON THE PHONE. Looking at the list, we said, “Doh, Valentine’s Day!” How many GD love or love forlorn songs can you fit into one first set? All in all, brilliant, except for the quest for water. We had danced, and I mean danced, and rather than a fountain to quench our thirst, we had Cornell students filling 4 ounce Dixie cups from insulated water coolers on the sidelines. Works for a track meet, but not for thirsty Heads. It’s another testament to how Ivory Towers don’t touch their feet to solid ground. Well, whatever. It felt like a goofy cotillion or something, on rubber mats.
To be honest, the “Looks Like Rain” had already scratched my yen, and anything thereafter was gravy. Cori and Jamie stashed their coats by our rail in front of the tapers, and we waited for the second set, nursing our little cups of water like they were Veuve Cliquot. Scanning the crowd, I saw hair much grayer than mine, if not white, sprinkled in among the young. One scene in particular stands out: a man in his late-50s, scoping the faces around and alternately paying attention to the teen who looked mightily like him. The torch was being passed.
The lights dropped, smoke filled the ardently non-smoking Barton Hall, and the band slipped into a smooth, warm, heart-felt “Uncle John’s Band.” It was as if light was beaming from each heart in the hall. Gooey and warm at the end, Ryan Adams popped up. “Peaceful Valley.” I dig this guy’s songs, big time, and Phil is absorbing them as his own. “Ashes and Glass” had me and Matt high fiving for a “Throwing Stones,” only to scratch our heads when it turned another way. However, we weren’t disappointed. Weir’s Ratdog regular transcended itself, morphing into many jams that hinted at many Weirisms, almost naturally twisted.
Then, a song that made folks weep in 1995, with an execution that would have made said crowd pass out, Phil delivered an impeccable “Unbroken Chain.” I could sell my house and quit my job if I would be guaranteed to hear Phil sing this every night. Lord, ain’t it somethin’? Flawless: full of Lane’s accents and Russo’s backbone, Ellis and Becker’s soothing croon, Chimenti’s jazz inflections, the three guitar men took us home. Nailed it, they did. No, it wasn’t a Warren Haynes shred-fest, rather, a well-placed accent on the right note. And as the jam faded like a feather falling in quiet night, “Morning Dew.”
As mentioned earlier, if ever there was a song associated with 5-08-77, it’s “Dew.” I’m not sure if anyone around me was moving or swaying or dancing, because I was staring at the stage with the intensity of a research biologist searching for a cherished amoeba through a microscope. All thought and attention was channeled forward. While we can never revisit a time we knew or didn’t know, Kadlecik was with us, beaming, his moment to nod an homage to the core energy that has driven this bus this far. He knew. We knew. The “Dew” shined, and there was a palpable, melt-appreciation for each lick which he masterfully executed. In an additional nod to the master Sensei, Garcia, the “Dew” flowed through all requisite channels, and was not overdone. It was poignant and confined, though not terse. The Lesh and Weir foundation was at its finest, and we were home.
“The Other One” out of “Morning Dew”? Now all bets are off, and the rest of the night is jam/smile city. Sure, it wasn’t a 1971 barn-burner, but guess what folks, it’s 2010! This was a band firing on all cylinders like I would never have imagined. The Other Ones, Phil and Friends, Ratdog, the Dead, this is the real deal. It can’t be measured, but it’s palpable. The “China-> Standing-> Rider” almost seems like an afterthought to me, though had it been 1990, that would have been EPIC. A “Samson” encore was the icing on the cake, sealing the weekend deal with a nod to ritual, and one last jam through which we could sweat out our sins.
Walking into a parking garage is not my ideal form of exiting a show of this calibre. However, that was the scene. I longed for the days when I could float from the show to float through the soft Oaxacan blanket scene of a mellow Shakedown when we knew we’d be there for days. Nope. 21st century, parking garage, suddenly transported back to the hotel with Matt’s expert driving, barely a sound. What to say? Before cashing in, we hug our good-byes to Cori, send her back to Oregon with good spirits, the east is not yet lost.
The next morning, it’s gray Ithaca again, the trashy edges somewhat softened from the hope we danced. We’d come many years and miles to this moment, and we, the community, pulled it off once again. After some early morning eggs and sausage, rye toast and coffee, Matt gave me that knowing look: it’s time to go. We piled into our cars, and headed south to Lehigh.
Furthur just wrapped up their winter tour by celebrating Phil Lesh's 70th birthday at the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium in San Francisco. If you missed them this winter, don't fret, they just announced a summer tour which includes their own festival at Mountain Aire in California over Memorial Day weekend. To find out more about Furthur's summer tour, head over to their website.
