Tribute

With the passing of his client, lifelong Deadhead and Weir's manager Kraig Fox reflects on four decades of tape trading, transcendence, and change

They say you never forget your first Grateful Dead show. Mine was November 11, 1985. They opened the first set with “Walking the Dog.”

I was seventeen years old, stoned and drunk, sitting in a section high in the 300s among a sea of tie-dye, breathing in the sweet smoke of possibility, and watching Jerry Garcia‘s fingers dance across the strings like he was having a conversation with the universe. I didn’t know it then, but that night would shape the next four decades of my life.

I had joined the circus.

I started listening to the Dead in 1983. By the time I saw them live, I was already deep into the culture: trading tapes, learning the mythology, understanding that no two shows were ever the same, chasing set lists, selling oranges, and buying grilled cheeses after the show in “the lot,” before there was such a thing.

Over the years, I amassed over 1,000 Grateful Dead tapes. They’re still here, stacked in boxes, too precious to ever dispose of. Each one is a moment in time, a sonic photograph of a band that never played the same song the same way twice.

The songs on those tapes are old friends.  Friends that I always look forward to hearing from.

Now I’m 57, and something unexpected has happened. I find myself listening to Dead & Company more than the Grateful Dead.

This isn’t a comparison. This isn’t about saying one is better than the other. This is my truth.

The Grateful Dead were lightning in a bottle: Jerry, Phil, Bobby, Billy, Mickey, Pigpen, Brent, Keith and everyone who passed through those cosmic halls. They created something that had never existed before, and will never exist again.

That’s not up for debate.

The Evolution of Need

What Dead & Co. does for me now, at this stage of my life, is different from what the Grateful Dead gave me when I was young. In 1985, I needed the chaos, the risk, the sense that anything could happen — accentuated by a macro, rather than micro, dose. I needed the raw edge of Jerry’s guitar cutting through the night, the way shows could veer into musical territories that felt dangerous and transcendent. I needed to dance to Bobby’s cosmic explorations. I needed to contemplate life during Jerry’s ballads.

Editor’s picks

At 57, I need something else. I need the warmth. I need the joy. I need music that honors the past while evolving to live fully in the present. Yes, I’m “slightly” biased. But, Dead & Co. gives me that.

John Mayer‘s guitar work is pristine, passionate, deep, dirty, magical. John doesn’t try to be Jerry. Never did. He couldn’t be, and he knows it. Instead, he brings his own voice to these songs, and in doing so, he helps them breathe new life. Jeff’s playing is deep and funky, grounding the music in a groove that makes you move. Mickey’s permissions are a sense of wonder and comfortable exploration. And Bob Fucking Weir. Bob, who was there from the beginning, still commands the stage with the same fire he had when we were both young(er).