Today is crisp and clear, typical for a winter morning in Sonoma County. A thin layer of frost clings to the roofs of the houses and cars in our neighborhood. The sun has just begun to rise, painting the eastern sky in pastel hues of pink and orange. My son Sam and I head out to the car like we’ve done a thousand times before only today is different. I get in on the passenger side because Sam is driving to school.
I look over at my son sitting so tall in the driver’s seat, he’s such a handsome boy. His long brown hair hangs in his eyes and spills over the collar of his bright pink hoodie. He’s looking a bit like a Revolver era Beatle. Sam did not pass the vision test at DMV so his impossibly blue eyes are now framed by a pair of stylish glasses. We fasten our seatbelts. Sam presses the power button on the Prius, eases the car out of the driveway and swings it around the arc of our cul-du-sac. Over the course of the past six months, Sam has had ample opportunities to pull the car in and out of the driveway and to practice around the court. This morning however, he’s going a little further. Sam puts on his blinker, checks for cars and crosses the Rubicon. He’s driving into the future and I’m along for the ride.
Sam drives with a calm confidence. I give him a few pointers that he doesn’t really need and the ride is uneventful. Eighteen minutes later we arrive unscathed at the parking lot of El Molino High School. “I love you buddy.” I say and watch him, backpack slung over his shoulder, disappear into the crowd of other kids.
Life is a series of firsts; first kiss, first date, first job. We always remember our firsts. When and where these firsts occur define us and help shape who we are. Today is a big first for Sam and an equally important one for me and my wife Carol. Like all parents we plot the trajectory of our life together by the milestones of our children. Like most transitions that our kids have gone through so far, this one is bittersweet. I can’t help feeling wistful, sitting here beside Sam as he drives us up Guerneville Road. His first “vehicle” was a three wheeled kind of mini chopper. There was a handle attached to the back of the seat that was used to push him along. When Sam’s legs got long enough to reach the pedals, we removed the handle. He was now able to propel himself. Next came his first bicycle, a sporty looking deal with green racing stripes and a horn on the handlebars. Training wheels were firmly attached to the rear wheel. It wasn’t long before Sam declared that he was ready for us to remove the training wheels. Off came the wheels, now here I am steadying his bike from behind while he pedals like mad. He picks up a head of steam and I let go. Just like that he’s off on his own and has never looked back. The bicycles got bigger and so did Sam. Add to that rollerblades, scooters and skateboards, all of which lead to this moment.
When our children were born Carol and I were told to cherish every moment with them because, as the cliche says, “It goes by fast.” We have and it did. Along with the wistfulness this morning comes an enormous sense of pride and love for our son. This is a great accomplishment for him. Sam has worked hard in order to be sitting behind the wheel today. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Sam’s twin sister is on the cusp of getting her permit. Lucky me. In a couple of months I get to relive this moment!
The 80’s were a pretty sad time for popular music. For most of the decade, the radio played some of the the worst pop drivel ever to have hit the airwaves. Then along came MTV and now we were forced to look at the bands too! Flock of Seagulls, Culture Club, Depeche Mode and their ilk seemed to be playing 24/7 and there was no escape. Well almost none.
Being a Deadhead was like being a member of a secret club. Being a Deadhead in the Bay Area in the 80’s was like being a member of an exclusive chapter of that secret club. You see, we Bay Area heads had a secret. While the Grateful Dead played in cavernous hockey arenas and football stadiums all throughout the country, we still got to see the band perform at relatively intimate venues. Mention the Greek Theater, Frost Amphitheater, Berkeley Community Theater or Cal Expo to any Deadhead who was around during that time and their face will light up in a beatific smile. Everyone has a story or two to tell about an epic show or transformative experience inside one of those places. These venues were hallowed ground.
One of those hallowed places was the Henry J. Kaiser Convention Center on the shores of Lake Meritt in Oakland, California. The Kaiser was a funky old place with loads of charm. A small grassy park in front of the building was the setting for a vibrant pre-show scene. Hundreds of Deadheads would gather there to drink, smoke, play guitars, listen to music, or just chill out before the show. If you needed to meet up with someone, this is where you found them. Bubbles floated lazily over the scene like translucent butterflies. Frisbees zinged back and forth. Hackysack is the official sport of Deadheads so numerous games would be in progress. Some of the players were pure acrobats, it was fun watching them work their magic. Much of the lawn was covered in brightly colored Balinese tapestries where vendors would display their wares. Homemade t-shirts, pipes, Guatemalan clothing, crystals and jewelry were just some of the many items that could be found at this patchouli soaked tie-dyed bazaar. Guitar players sat in circles jamming on Dead tunes. You could often hear a tape of the previous night’s show playing on someones boombox. For those needing to fuel up for a night of non-stop dancing, there were veggie burritos, stir fry, spaghetti, cookies and many other scrumptious homemade delights. Of course, various mind altering substances were readily available for sale if you wanted to feed your head. This scene continued during and after the show as well. When the show ended, you could stumble outside and always be able to find a cold beer and something to eat. A mainstay of the post show culinary offerings was food sold by a guy we affectionately referred to as Noodle Man. This fellow, his wife and two small children had a table piled with delicious homemade Chinese noodles and crispy egg rolls. You could eat your fill for just a couple of bucks. My friends and I made a beeline for Noodle Man as soon as the show let out!
When it came time to go in, you got into a line that snaked around the side of the building. As you approached the front entrance, you’d be greeted by a deep, welcoming and cheerful voice calling out, “Have you tickets out and ready!” This voice belonged to a legend among Deadheads and a mainstay of the Kaiser scene. Clyde Williams, affectionately known as Willie, was the front door security guard. Wille never had to do much real securing, as us heads were always so blissed out and happy to be there. Wille was an African American fellow of medium build, around 60 years old. A close cropped, salt and pepper afro peeked out from under a cap that he wore at a jaunty angle. His police style uniform had a badge on its chest. Willie’s eyes were sparkly and alive and he was always smiling. Here was a man who clearly loved his work. He was so sweet and good natured. Everyone hugged on Willie, girls were always kissing on him too. He’d usually have mardi gras beads draped around his neck, flowers in his cap and Grateful Dead stickers on his jacket. He was one of us. You hadn’t really arrived at the Kaiser until Willie told you to have your ticket out and ready.
My favorite homemade Grateful Dead t-shirt, purchased outside the Kaiser.
You entered the building into a narrow hallway. The doors to the main floor were open so you could see all the way to the stage at the far end of the room. Those of us who needed more room danced out in the hallway. Speakers were set up on either side of the doors so we could hear the music. Once The Dead began to play, the hallway was transformed into a swirling mass of flailing arms, spinning skirts and twirling hair. Lithe and kinetic, the hall dancers moved together as one living, breathing organism; whirling dervishes doing the psychedelic do-si-do. It was as if each one of us had our own build in sonar. No one ever collided unless they wanted to. It was a beautiful, randomly choreographed dance of sheer, unbridled ecstasy. During one of the Mardi Gras shows in 1986, Charles Neville of the Neville Brothers danced out there with us.
Most heads actually went inside while the band was playing. The main floor was oval shaped. Low bleachers lined the walls on either side of the oval. I heard, but never actually witnessed, that couples would crawl behind the bleachers and make love during the show. I don’t doubt this. The main floor was open for dancing except for an area in the center where the soundboard sat. The heady aromas of patchouli oil and pot smoke filled the air. It is said that smell is the strongest jogger of memory. Whenever I catch a whiff of patchouli oil on a women’s body or the smell of some fine herb burning, I’m transported straight back to the Kaiser. The entire upstairs was seated. Kaiser was a small venue, the capacity just 5,100. The intimacy of the place was a major reason why it was such a wonderful space to see the Dead in. It was on a human scale. It didn’t take long to make a circuit of the entire place. You could always find people you wanted to hook up with. Downstairs there was a small, dimly lit bar. A chance meeting I had with a woman there in the fall of 1985 resulted in an eight year relationship. The Dead typically played three or four show runs. During some of those runs if you got inside early enough, you’d see a volleyball net set up at the back end of the hall. Anyone could get a team together and participate in the tournament. These were Bill Graham Presents shows so Bill himself could alway be seen around. He would usually get a group of his employees together and field a team. Bill was gruff and unsmiling, but would always take a moment to say hi or shake your hand.
The collective energy of so many hardcore Deadheads packed into such a small space was the perfect recipe for magic to happen. And happen it often did. On those nights when everything was, as Bob Weir once put it, “exactly perfect “, we’d be in the heart of the second set, the band bathed in purple light and deep into one of their many hued psychedelic jams. It was at times like these that I remember feeling as full and happy as I’d ever felt in my life. When I think back on those nights at the Kaiser, it makes me miss The Grateful Dead so much that it hurts.
I kept records: a set list from 1987.
Alas, as the old cliche goes, “all good things must come to an end”, and end they did. By the close of the decade the Grateful Dead juggernaut had become too big to be contained within the intimate confines of the Kaiser. One price of the Dead’s astronomical success was that they had outgrown the small venues we’d become accustomed to seeing them in. I feel blessed to have experienced the band as often as I had at the Kaiser. Like all euphoric and transformative experiences, it enriched me beyond words.
When navigating the rough patches in life, I sometimes envision myself back at the Kaiser. The sights, sounds and smells of that wonderful old building come flooding back and I can almost hear the crystalline notes of Jerry’s guitar as the bad launches into Jack Straw.
