The Great American Rock and Roll Band
In America we don’t really produce great rock and roll bands. Great rock bands are more of an English thing.
The Beatles, The Stones, The Who, The Kinks, Led Zeppelin, The Clash, the Sex Pistols, The Smiths, U2 (–ok, so U2 is Irish, Americans don’t know the difference anyway). In fact, next to men dressing in women’s clothes, creating (and anointing) great rock bands is Britain’s greatest national fetish. Oasis built its entire career on slavish devotion to the fetish. And the British rock press trawls the pubs like pedophiles trawl the Internet for fresh young meat, desperate for the next next big thing (The Libertines! The Fratellis!).
You have to get pretty far down the list before bumping in to the American contenders. The Allman Brothers, the Velvet Underground, the Ramones, the MC5, the Stooges, the Doors, Parliament-Funkadelic, the Monkees, Nirvana. At best, it’s a quirky list (with Buckingham-Nicks era Fleetwood Mac straddling both worlds).
The Brits produce twin engined bands powered by the tension between cooperating core figures–Lennon&McCartney, Jagger&Richards, Townshend&Daltry, Morrisey&Marr. We produce great solo artists with bespoke bands–Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, Bob Dylan & the Band (they really ARE a Canadian band you know!), CCR–or, because we’re driven by commerce, we produce great studio bands: The Funk Brothers at Motown, the Wrecking Crew at Gold Star in LA, the Sugar Hill records house band in New York.
It’s not surprising really. American music, like the rest of American culture, has been suspended from the start between the polar forces of rugged individualism and egalitarian populism. We revere the heroic loner who can’t follow the rules–Bruce Willis’ John Maclain is a classic American pop hero–AND the heroic teammate who sacrifices himself for the good of the whole. Our cultural constructions illuminate the dichotomy–our national sport is baseball, a team game built around the solo encounter of hitter with pitcher, for example.
I’ll never have anything bad to say about the Ramones–probably the most underrated band America has ever produced. For sheer, breakthrough genius the Velvet Underground will always be our most important rock band. And the MC5 will forever be my personal favorite. But the greatest, most American of American bands, the band I find myself listening to every summer, not coincidentally as the 4th rolls around, is the Grateful Dead.
Like the nation itself, the Dead is a grand, shambolic, ambitious, profligate, half-assed, entrepreneurial, naive, idealistic, hucksterish, deadly earnest enterprise. It was a band without a leader, the most democratic band America has ever produced with all the members writing material and voting on the group’s business decisions.
Sometimes, of course, this made the band seem rudderless. But most often the band seemed to me like the crew of the Pequod if lunatic Ahab, after nailing the doubloon to the mast, had jumped overboard–committed by blood oath to an uncertain quest each member defined differently: should we find the white whale, just fill the hold with oil, go hunting something all together different?
If ever there was a leader it was that Keseyan, acidhead chimera known as “group mind,” a unity of thought among the players achievable, so the idea went, through substantial quantities of acid. Dead bass player Phil Lesh describes it:
That eternal consciousness is the same in you as it is in me and the same in the guys in my band as it is in me. It’s a subliminal and subconscious process but when the nodes of that eternal consciousness link together and become one consciousness then that’s the group mind, the eternal universal archetypal consciousness.
The concept is pure Emerson (from The Over-Soul, 1841):
We live in succession, in division, in parts, in particles. Meantime within man is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related; the eternal ONE. And this deep power in which we exist, and whose beatitude is all accessible to us, is not only self-sufficing and perfect in every hour, but the act of seeing and the thing seen, the seer and the spectacle, the subject and the object, are one.
The idea of the Dead, like the idea of America itself, was a reality and a dream that diverged as often it converged, but which exploded transcendentally when it all came together.
Unfortunately that explosion never occurs on Three from the Vault, the Dead’s latest archival live performance release–a February 1971 gig from the Capitol Theater in Port Chester, NY. (The concert, like every other Dead show, has long circulated among fans.)
I’ve stopped hunting for the perfect Dead concert release, giving in to the hippie notion that the quest itself is the prize, the transcendental notion that the seer and the thing seen are one. But even so, among the Dead’s hundreds of commercially available concert recordings, Three from the Vault ranks near the bottom of the list. It’s not surprising to discover that it was mastered for release 15 years ago and shelved until now.
The horrible singing of which the band was capable is on full display. Rod “Pigpen” McKernan–keyboard player and spiritual center of the Dead’s East Bay biker band days–was in the final throes of drinking himself to death. Drummer Mickey Hart had quit the band the night before (after his father, the band’s then-manager, ran off with the group’s money); and, although the group was always better with one drummer–jazzier, more subtle, more agile–it sounds like it’s feeling its way through the gig. Normally guitarists Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir together with Lesh formed an interweaving front line–improvising narrowly on melodic themes in support of the vocals the way the front line of trumpet, clarinet and trombone did in old time New Orleans jazz. Here they just seem to be riding the tonic, hoping to hit the changes, unsure of how to fill all the newly cleared space.
Part of the reason may be all the new material. The Dead introduced some of its most famous material during the February 71 Port Chester shows– Playing in the Band, Bird Song, Bertha, The Greatest Story Ever Told, Loser, Deal, and the titanic down-and-outer’s monologue Wharf Rat. The repertoire is what has inspired continuing interest among collectors in these performances.
The songs the group wrote in 1971, particularly those composed by Garcia with his long time lyricist Robert Hunter, should have cemented the band’s reputation as one of the great pioneering bands of Americana rock, up there with Bob Dylan and the Band (alone, btw, on the list of great Canadian bands).
Garcia and Hunter came to their influences the same way Dylan did–absorbing 100 years of American music and churning it out nightly on an early 1960s collegiate folk scene (Dylan’s in Minneapolis, Garica’s & Hunter’s in Palo Alto), where the test of ones mettle was how many Child ballads you knew. In fact, before turning to electric blues and then psychedelic rock, the proto-Dead had been a jug band.
By 1970 the group had turned from the baroque psychedelia of its early records towards a country-tinged folk rock (Garcia switched from Gibson guitars with thick-sounding humbucker pickups to Fender Strats with their twangier single coils) recording two excellent studio albums Workingman’s Dead and American Beauty which clearly bore the influence of the Band’s first two albums (which had appeared in 1968 and 1969) and the basement tapes tracks that were circulating as songwriter’s demos among industry pros.
During the course of 1971, Hunter and Garcia wrote a string of songs that deliberately evoked the kind of timeless Americana that Dylan and the Band had summoned during the summer of 1967– a world populated by hobo murderers, confederate soldiers, singing brakemen, honky tonk pianists, patent medicine tent show con artists and the like, not just the titles mentioned, but over the succeeding months new songs too–Sugaree, Tennessee Jed, Ramble On Rose, Brown-Eyed Women, Comes a Time, and an arrangement of Big Railroad Blues a song which Garcia had learned from a 1920s jug band recording.
This was great stuff and Hunter expected the material to form the backbone of a studio follow-up to American Beauty. As band biographer Dennis McNally describes it, the lyricist was “bitterly disappointed” when no studio session materialized. Instead, in typical Grateful Dead fashion, the songs dribbled out piecemeal on a string of live albums (Grateful Dead, Europe 72) and side projects (Garcia).
There ARE great performances of these songs from live concerts later in the year. After Pigpen left the group in a failed attempt to recover his health, the band when into rehearsals (all too infrequent) to break in new pianist Keith Godchaux and came out burning on a fall college tour. I’m particularly fond of the shows from Texas Christian University in November 1971 thankfully available in streaming format on Archive.org (November 14 is my favorite, homecoming at TCU with the hippies playing for co-eds in gowns and blue tuxes!). But Hunter’s dream of a grand classic album built around his 1971 tunes with Garcia remains unrealized, and Three from the Vault doesn’t even get listeners into the ballpark.



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