Life lessons on two wheels to the tunes of the
Grateful Dead
This Week in Grateful Dead History
Week 1
I wish I was a headlight on a northbound train.
Even the most cursory examination of the lyrics of Grateful Dead songs quickly uncovers one of the most fundamental aspects of the band’s identity: This is an American band, rooted in American culture, and built around easily recognizable locales and deeply American principles and history.
Other Posts
This Week in Grateful Dead History: Week 46 – November 11, 1973
How does the song go?
One of the most unique aspects of the Grateful Dead experience is the existence and ready availability of thousands upon thousands of recordings of concerts, studio sessions and other archival material. The band’s willingness – whether intentional or accidental – to allow their fans to freely record and share what virtually any other band would protect as copyrighted music, was either the luckiest or the most brilliant marketing strategy in the history of modern music. What the Dead may have lost in revenue from the sale of live concert material was easily eclipsed by the increase in ticket sales resulting from turning their devotees into promotional agents, replete with product samples that were self-produced and widely disseminated.
This Week in Grateful Dead History: Week 38 – September 20, 1982
If the spirit’s sleeping then the flesh is ink
Despite being a West Coast band, the Dead had a special relationship with New York City, and played Madison Square Garden a total of 52 times from ’79-’94. As drummer Bill Kreutzmann remarked in 2015 as the band was inducted into the Madison Square Garden Walk of Fame, “Out of about 2300 shows that the Grateful Dead played, the 52 we played here were nothing short of amazing.” T.W.I.G.D.H. features one of those amazing shows, 9/20/82, and a tune that was performed live on that date for only the third time, Throwing Stones.
This Week in Grateful Dead History: Week 16 - April 12, 1978
Is there anything a man don’t stand to lose
I was first exposed to bigotry at the age of five when my family unwittingly became the only Jewish residents of what proved to be a passionately anti-Semitic neighborhood in St. Louis Park, Minnesota, a suburb of Minneapolis. The year was 1960, and the hateful echoes of the Holocaust were still plainly audible, particularly among the already settled Scandinavian and Protestant Anglo-Saxon population, which made no effort to conceal their displeasure at the significant influx of Jewish families to the Twin Cities.
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