Yokum and I were hard-core Dead freaks. We had already done Barton Hall and Englishtown, so when our bosom buddy Rico said he had two tickets for the closing of Winterland, there was no doubt. Rico, my friend since age 4, wanted to go, but he said we NEEDED to go, so we hopped on a plane the day after Christmas and flew to San Francisco.
We crashed in a classic fleabag hotel in the Mission for a few hours with Visions of Cody dancing in our heads.
We decided instead of heading straight to Santa Cruz to pick up the tickets, we should find out where Winterland was. It took a little effort, but we finally hopped off Muni, turned right off Geary onto Steiner, and walked a few blocks to Post street. There it was. The legendary Winterland. And there was a guy sitting in front of it on the sidewalk. In a sleeping bag.
We walked over, not sure if he was a homeless guy or what. It only took a few seconds to figure out it was mostly, “what.” As we all know, it’s pretty easy to spot a fellow Head. And so, we met Peter. As we quickly learned, Peter was what Otiel called an “old growth Deadhead.” He had been going to shows at Winterland since 1968. So, yeah, he was first in line for the last one. Except, as he told us, “it’s not a line until there are three people, so you really should sit down.” And so it began. Five days before the concert. We flip a coin, Yokum is second, I’m third.
We talked and talked, we told Peter about Barton Hall and Englishtown. “You East Coast bastards get all the killer shows,” he says. He told us a million stories about, well, every freaking Dead show west of the Rockies. And he told us about Bill Graham, who, among other things really didn’t like being called “Uncle Bobo,” but he put up with it because, well, you know.
In a few minutes, a photographer, Dave Patrick, wanders by and takes the picture of the three of us that will end up on the cover of BAM magazine and page 4 of The Official Book of the Deadheads (“Old hippies never die, they just wait in line to see the Dead.”)
Maybe an hour later, a van roars down Steiner, pulls a U-turn in the middle of the street and stops right in front of us. These three jokers spilled out: “We just drove straight from St. Louis!!! Grateful Dead?!?!” Numbers four, five, and six have arrived. A little bit later, Uncle John and crew show up and sit right next to Peter, and before we could worry about losing our spot he tells us “Don’t worry, you’re second and third, we’re behind St. Louis. We need to take care of everyone who shows up.” I quickly learned that the last person on earth who would cut in front of us was Uncle John.
Soon, a motorcycle with sidecar roars up and off hops Bill Graham himself. Now, I’m a little worried, because I’m used to East Coast security and I half thought he would chase us away.
Ha, ha, ha. He looks at us, kind of fake scowling, and I’m in full “Uh-oh” mode now. You know that look, right? Everyone knows that look. Because for one thing there were two concerts to go before the closing: Greg Kihn and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. After a short, appropriately dramatic pause, Bill just said, in a fake resigned voice/sigh, “Grateful Dead. Right?” He gave us a huge theatrical eye roll and face palm, shook his head, and went inside. Came out later, said “See ya”, and roared off. He showed up a half hour later with boxes of pizza in the side car, food for all of us!
Bill Graham fed us “front of liners” all five nights. Uncle John was right, we were part of the picture and Bill was feeding us. It was our “welcome to the family” moment, it didn’t need to be said that we were all responsible for those behind us in line, at least to the corner. Our big gypsy family had put down roots on that sidewalk, right across the street from the “Income Tax store” (wink). Needless to say, we were all brothers and sisters for life.
Well, it was quite a party out there. Yokum managed to get down to Santa Cruz and get the tickets. Somewhere around the third day, we noticed someone painting a mural on the side of Winterland, starting with roses around the edge, then slowly words started forming: “They’re not the best at what they do, they’re the only ones that do what they do.”
We moved across the street for Greg Kihn, everyone had a number for their place in line. The first 20 or so of us didn’t need one of course. It was a sacred vow, no one was going to cheat on that. Somehow, Yokum managed to cut his hand up pretty good trying to pick up some broken glass taking care of the line, so some random Good Samaritan walking his dog took him to get a few stitches. Strangers stopping strangers, just to shake their hand.
Tom Petty show comes and goes, we watch the whole thing from across the street. By now the line is almost all the way around the building so the number became important. Lots of BGP staff help keep things together, two shows worth of people; fortunately, at least one of the shows’ crowd knows how to behave, but still, what a zoo!
Day of the show finally. I wake up on the sidewalk to a soundboard from the legendary UCLA show from December 30th being played through a PA stack on the corner.
Wow. Good morning. Great show. St Stephen! “Well, we won’t get that tonight, ha, ha, but maybe the Dark Star. “1535 days since the last SF Dark Star.” We were a little apprehensive, the Dead had a way of under-performing for the big events and this was really a Big Event. I was interviewed by local news as well as CBS (“Hi Mom”) and AP. The streets were blocked off for a block in each direction, couldn’t get in without a ticket. It was a scene and was being played up for all it’s worth.
Now the banners were on the side of Winterland. Huge. Terrapin Cyclops, Blues for Allah, and of course Skull and Roses. And there was Bill, ladling out minestrone soup and carrot cake for all. Serious adrenaline as door opening time approaches. I see how scary Bill can be when someone plops into line about slot number eight or so and sits there like he belonged. “Out! Get out motherfucker! You fucking sleaze bag, these people have been here five fucking days and I know every one of them and you’re not one of them! Let me see your ticket!” (Oh no don’t take his ticket Bill) “I should take this and give it away! If I see you up here again, I will throw you into the street after I take it! GET THE FUCK OUT!” Nobody else tried to cut in line.
Now we get the half hour warning and the “be safe, don’t run, be careful, take care of each other” speech. Willie goes into his “Have your tickets out and ready” routine, right out of the movie, and we get everything in order. The doors open.
I may have to run a little. Right past the two huge silver bowls overflowing with party favors. Ok, with joints. I didn’t stop, I had places to go, but I did kind of say “wow” to myself, “be careful if someone offers you Kool Aid.” Halfway to the front I look at the stage and realize, crap, nothing is set up yet, how do I know where Jerry is gonna be? Not a whole lot of time to ponder my possibilities so I pick the center of the stage, get there, sit down with feet stretched out to grab some space. It’s going to be a long night.
First up: “Animal House.” Can’t really see it, the screen is actually behind us, so I head to the bathroom while I can, stop by Uncle John and Peter. who are in their traditional spots front row balcony, Bobby side, and floor risers, first row, Bobby side. By the time I get back, the floor is jammed and I realize that may be it for any excursions.
New Riders. Greatness. I had seen them before and they were awesome as usual. A big balloon floats toward the stage and I hit it back behind me, Marmaduke give me a big “thanks” grin and wink. Balloons hitting you are kind of a distraction when you’re trying to play. It hits me that I’m actually leaning on the stage and I will be there for the rest of the night/morning. Holy Cow! It’s really close!
Blues Brothers and hey, there’s Matt ‘Guitar’ Murphy, one of my faves from James Cotton Band! They absolutely killed it, blew the roof off the joint. Belushi was Belushi on steroids. Neil the Wheel, who was up front with us, passes Elwood a joint, he takes a big hit and says, in full Elwood mode “Thanks a lot, man.” If it stopped after the Blues Brothers it would have been a great concert, they were that good, but it was just getting going.
The Flying Karamazov Brothers come out and do psychedelic juggling with chainsaws, bowling balls, swords. The crew is setting up the Dead’s gear and all I can think of is please, please, please don’t put the monitor in front of me. That could kill the buzz for sure, those stage monitors were pretty big, and I didn’t want to be on tiptoe for two sets. (Two sets. ha, ha, ha again.) Steve Parish puts a monitor to my left, a monitor to my right, and Jerry’s mike right in freaking front of me with nothing but space in between. Steve looks at me. Smiles. Thanks a lot, man!
Neil the Wheel had left to his spot with Uncle John’s crew by then, but the Boys from St. Louis were directly to our right. Now it’s about 10 minutes to midnight. Elwood is wandering the stage. I see familiar faces with guitars. Keith sits down at the keys; there’s Donna in some ethereal white floor length gown, Bobby has glasses on. They look happy. I am as excited as a human being can be, almost need to take deep breaths to keep from floating up to the ceiling where all those balloons are.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, here at Winterland, in San Francisco, 1978 going on 1981, what you see before you is a 10, no wait, 12, 12-foot-long, burning ember of marijuana! Let us begin the countdown!” Here comes the “float” with Bill as Father Time throwing out flowers, and doobies. Flowers and doobies, hello 1979! This can’t be real!
Hey, it’s Cowboy Neil who was the Wheel; he made it back through that mob all the way to the front! “Don’t worry” to everyone “I just came here to wish my brothers Happy New Year! Watch out for the balloons, don’t lose your spot! Happy New Year”. And he’s gone. An epic trek, equivalent to hiking the John Muir trail waist deep in quicksand, just to wish us happy new year.
Four; three; two; two and a half; two minus one quarter; one; happy new year ladies and gentleman, happy new year! From God knows where, an earth-shaking cannon shot. BOOM! And then came the balloons.
I can Name That Tune in two notes, but I don’t believe it. Sugar Magnolia opener! I start to realize this show will not be a let-down. Not a lot of time to think about that though, I’m buried in about 15 feet of balloons. Big balloons. I’m seeing the Dead through a balloon filter. Once I can see again, about halfway through Scarlet, I’m three people back from the stage, in the soup. Well, I didn’t wait in line for five days to be three people back from the stage, so, for probably the only time in my life I literally forced my way back to the stage. I was thinking “l know where I was in line and you ‘definitely’ were not in front of me”. J, Steve, and Dick from St Louis helped pull me back. I held on to the stage for dear life until things “settled down” a bit: “for those of you out there in radio land, we’re taking one of our legendary interminable breaks between songs.”
The show itself is pretty well documented. It was even better five feet away from Garcia. I can spot my head, in silhouette between those two monitors, on the DVD for the whole show, and I will drive my children nuts pointing myself out every New Year’s Eve when we play it. Every song was epic, and yes, we and Bill got a “Thank you Uncle Bobo” Sunshine Daydream sandwich. They got every note out of each one, left it all out there, so to speak. I am starting to know for a fact it’s the best show I’ve ever seen, probably the best I ever will. This turned out to be true. Yokum can’t clap, his left hand is all bandaged up, so he’s hitting the stage with one hand instead. Pounding the shit out of it to be precise.
Here come the guests, Matthew Kelly, John Cipollina, Lee Oskar. I Need a Miracle. Ethereal Terrapin. Playin’. Ken Kesey and some Pranksters wheel out the Thunder Machine for ‘drums.’ At some point, they point that cannon directly at me and I realize they might not be licensed professionals at this stuff; I hope they don’t blow my head off. They don’t, but that cannon blast was even louder than the one at midnight. John Cipollina. Epic Not Fade Away. Endless Round and Round, and they never stopped rockin’. WOW! What a show!!! Deliriously happy. What will they do for an encore? Jerry: “We’re gonna come back and play another set!” I must have imagined that. Bob, very serious: “Don’t go away.” Ok it’s not daylight yet. Nobody seems very tired.
4:30 a.m., Dark Star. The “1535 Days Since Last SF Dark Star” banner, hanging on the balcony all night, slowly floats to the floor.
Other One. Dark Star jam. Wharf Rat, with Jerry backlit and in deep shadow, best I ever heard, we’re really in deep now. St Stephen (WHAT!?) Good Lovin’. Bobby’s voice is shot, but they are troupers and give us a Pigpen-worthy version (…and you got to know that Uncle Bobo loves you too…”) Thank you. Casey Jones, Johnny B. Goode, when Jerry does his rock star thing he’s looking and grinning right at me. I think he’s going to hit me with his guitar. Monster encore, and I see a TV camera at the side of the stage when they show the crowd during Johnny B. Goode.
Finally, they’ve given us three sets, everything they have, it’s over. Bobby’s rapping about “this old place is shutting down, so let’s give it…” and Phil cuts him off with a “Happy Fucking New Year! Ha, ha, ha.” We peel ourselves off the stage and head up to Uncle John’s section, just in time for one last We Bid You Goodnight. Tears. But wait, there’s still breakfast! It took us a long time to get to the breakfast area. I get my eggs, scooped up by, of course, Bill. He looks at me and says “well, was it worth it?” By now it’s like we’re old chums, I just grin and, as much as possible over a plate of scrambled eggs, attempt to hug him. He knows it was.
~John Richards