I Am Part Of The Resistance Inside The Grateful Dead

Throughout their storied career, the Grateful Dead faced tests that no other American band had to weather.

It’s not just that bankruptcy and destitution loomed large. It’s not just that the country was divided on whether or not they sucked. Nor was it the constant in-fighting and rampant substance abuse of the bandmembers.

The dilemma is that a select number of men and women within the organization were working diligently from within to frustrate parts of their agendae and their worst inclinations.

I would know. I was one of them.

The root of the problem was the Grateful Dead’s irascibility, and belief that someone else paid for things. And the drinking and coke. The problem was a tree with many roots; let’s leave it at that. Their impulsive ways needed to be headed off at the pass, or pointed towards healthy alternatives, or fed downers, and that was out job. We were the Resistance.

When Bobby ordered a roller coaster from room service, we canceled the delivery. When Garcia set another bowling alley on fire, we re-supplied the lanes with ugly shoes. Neither of the drummers ever saw footage of Tommy Lee’s rotating kit, and that was because of us. Don’t get me wrong: there were bright spots. For example, they once played The Other One for 45 minutes. But these successes have come despite the group’s interpersonal style, which was both jejune and rococo.

Rehearsals, when they happened, veered off track as the musicians tackled one another, bought bulldozers for no reason, infested the room with ladybugs, and chased teenagers, resulting in half-learned arrangements and statements that often had to be walked back, if they were even capable of walking by that point in the rehearsal.

So there were two tracks of communication within the group: one between the boys in the band and us, and one between us and the world. If the phone rang, we answered it so Phil didn’t start screaming German expletives at a random promoter. When a letter came in, we didn’t give it to Garcia (he would lose it) or Brent (Brent didn’t know how to read). To the outside world, it seemed like we had things under control, even when in reality we were a grody collection of junkies, dickpunchers, and walking hard-ons.

To conclude: John McCain and America. God bless both of them.

Sincerely,
Sue Swanson Anonymous