The 70s: Don't let the deal go down

For me, the cultural (and some of the musical as well) aspects of the 60s officially ended on April 22, 1977.

That night, my friend Marty and I saw the Grateful Dead at the Spectrum in South Philadelphia. By
then, the Springsteen influence had helped me to delve deep deeper into rock and roll past, while I also was dipping my toes in the waters of the burgeoning punk/new wave scene at the same time (some of which also was indebted to what came before). But I still was on the classic rock/hippie music train, at least to a degree.

This review of the show says the band played for over four hours.
Not even close. I guess illegal substances
 make you unable to tell time.

That night I stepped down off the train, not to return for quite some time.

Simply put, the Dead were awful. Out of tune, off-key, uninspiring, meandering. Noodled around for 7-8 minutes between songs. Yeah, I completely understand that maybe I didn’t get it. That I am not part of the “club.” That I needed to ingest some chemicals before and during the show.

But I have seen hundreds of shows, and that was one of the worst, if not the absolute worst.

Also, hated the scene itself – lots of “dancing,” little of it in time with the music. Lots of wasted military folks from the nearby Naval Yard. A smoky haze above the stage, which made it hard to see and somewhat difficult to breathe. 

.

And I know that every one of these is a “get off my lawn” comment. 

At the time, I was sort of a lukewarm fan of certain Dead albums: “Europe 72,” “American Beauty,” “Workingman’s Dead,” “Mars Hotel.” I actually liked the song “Terrapin Station” (the album this tour was supporting) – overblown orchestral histrionics and all.

Things got off to inauspicious start with “Promised Land.” As my old friend Bill Myers said, “Leave it to the Grateful Dead to make a Chuck Berry song boring.” Indeed. And it went downhill from there. I really like “Deal,” but it never clicked, and whoever told the Dead they should cover Motown hopefully never made any more musical suggestions.

But this hippie and tuneless fest pushed me away from the Dead for many, many years. While I can appreciate some of their catalog these days, part of me still has a bad taste in my mouth.

I probably just don't get it. And I probably never will.

So, to all you Deadheads: Get off my lawn.

And some day this boy'll be gone

For me, the Springsteen live experience peaked sometime between '75 and '88. Not that subsequent tours have not been vital or memorable or simply great,. But that energy, that youthfulness, that "at any given moment you might see and hear something you may never happen again," was often harder to come by.

Of course, some of that fault lies with me, or my inflated expectations that I want every show to be '78 at the Capitol Theater in Passaic (I wasn't there but feel like I was due to the hundreds, no thousands, of listenings to the "Piece de Resistance" boot) or the July '81 Spectrum run of five shows in seven nights (I was there, for the whole stand).

A recent moment in Rome, though, takes me back. The rare 'New York City Serenade" with a local string section hits all the right notes. And then some.

Great sound and a staggeringly beautiful performance all around, made even greater by the surprise of it all.

Listen to your junk man; he's singing.