The Ramblings of a Madman

Rumors of my death have been greatly exagerated...

Monday, October 31, 2005

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 9

The Dead

I have never considered myself to be on the cutting edge in terms of my musical tastes. As a young child, the only music I can ever remember myself proactively listening to was The Beatles – I had the albums Rubber Soul, Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s from my dad’s collection, and I kept these albums on a pretty steady rotation on my shitty, one speaker record player. As I got older and puberty began to cloud my judgment a bit, my musical tastes got much more obscure. Let’s face it – popular music in the mid-to-late ‘80’s sucked ass, so I spent most of my time alternating between the oldies and classic rock stations, and the albums I owned painted me as some sort of a schizophrenic freak. I guess when you have Blackout by the Scorpions sitting on top of the four “Weird” Al Yankovic records you own, that just screams “identity crisis”. Or “loser”, but that’s beside the point. Even after my brother brought home the Dead Kennedys’ Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables, which caused me to open my eyes to a whole new genre of music, I still remained pretty true to form – classic rock was my cup of tea, with no other band holding a candle to my beloved Beatles. To this very day, I still point to those lovable moptops as my all time favorite band, no questions asked (they currently hold three of the top five positions on my “Desert Island Albums” listing, which is no small feat). However, as we have established beyond a shadow of a doubt in these Tales, I was not always as level-headed as I am now. At no time was this more evident than the Lost Semester, where for a few brief months, I sold my soul, forsaking the Beatles as my one true musical love…for the Grateful Dead.

Allow me to clarify something – I do not dislike the Dead. As a matter of fact, I still quite enjoy some of their work and listen to it to this day. And “Unbroken Chain” remains my favorite song of all time – I think everyone has a song that sweeps over them, takes them to another place, and, if only for a few minutes, let’s them be alone in their own mind without a care in the world; that’s “Unbroken Chain” for me. Yet for as much as I still enjoy their work, I have also come to realize that much of what they have put out over the years comes off as clunky, repetitive, rambling nonsense aimed at keeping their doped-up audience in a trancelike state for hours on end (see: Drums and/or Space). Yet during the Lost Semester, fueled by marijuana and mushrooms, I was captivated by the music and the concept of the Dead – it was like they could see inside my mind, like they were singing to me, man!

Rooming with Dead fan CS only helped fuel my newfound fascination with the aging San Francisco-area band. CS had a stockpile of Dead CDs that made mine look downright puny. As freshman year progressed, my collection grew, as did the frequency with which I listened to their music. I mentioned in Volume 2 of the Tales that there was a steady diet of music that typically made its way onto the stereo system in Room 23 – the Dead’s live album One From the Vault was probably the most frequently played of the bunch. Whenever the CD or album we were listening to would end, someone would invariably shout out, “Hey, so-and-so, put on some music.” There was no rhyme or reason behind who was called upon to put on the tunes – usually it was the person sitting closest to the stereo or the person who had just walked back into the room and was arguing with the individual who had just stolen their seat. Being that I was pretty fried most of the time and that I was no longer self-confident enough to make a radical choice that might (God forbid) be ridiculed by the group, when I was called upon to DJ, there were probably three albums that I felt comfortable putting on – One From the Vault, Live from the Mars Hotel (also the Grateful Dead), and the Beatles’ Abbey Road. As I would get up to spin one of these oft-heard selections, I could usually feel Sadahara’s energy seeping out of his body – unlike most of the group, who liked or at least tolerated the Dead, Sadahara was, to put it lightly, not a fan. He often tells a hilarious story about going to a Dead concert with his friend, who happened to be wearing a Public Enemy t-shirt, and being accosted by a dirty hippie demanding to know, “Why are you the enemy? We’re just trying to have a good time!” Yes, that exchange alone would be enough to turn even the most open-minded individual in to an enemy of Jerry’s dancing guitar riffs, Bob’s bluesy tunesmanship (or was it tunesy bluesmanship?), Phil’s ample bass work, and Donna Gordceaux’s incessant caterwauling.

But I digress. When I would stick in One from the Vault (always disc one), in an instant everyone would know exactly what we were in for as the voice of Fillmore West Master of Ceremonies Bill Graham belted out, “Good evening, we welcome you…on behalf of the group. We wish to introduce…

“On the piano, we have Mr. Keith Gordceaux”

“On the drums on stage, left, Mr. Mickey Hart”

“On bass and vocals….Mr. Philip Lesh” (ba-dum-bum-bum-bumbadada-dum-dum-dum)

“On rhythm guitar and vocals, Mr. Bob Weir”

“On the drums on stage right, Mr. Bill Kreutzman”

“On the vocals, MISSUS Donna Jean Gordceaux” (half-hearted cheers)

“On lead guitar and vocals, Mr. Jerry Garcia” (wild cheers)

“Would you welcome please, the Grateful Dead!”

And on into Help/Slip/Frank (anyone into the Dead will know what that means; anyone not into the Dead – don’t concern yourselves). This became somewhat of the anthem of Room 23, and I have no doubt that by May, most of the primary players had probably grown quite tired of this whole sequence. Me? I still enjoy listening to this introduction, if for no other reason that it brings me back to those great, fun, nervous, stoned-out, class-skipping times when all I really cared about was whether I’d end up with the next green hit.

Now, I suppose if I had kept my newfound love of rambling hippie music within the confines of my living quarters, it wouldn’t seem so silly when I look back on it. But the thing about yours truly back in those days was that my judgment was so regularly clouded that I never quite realized that I was stepping over the line until it was much too late. Such was the case when my new obsession with the Dead made its way out of Room 23 and into other aspects of my life. I could tell you about my journey to see the Dead during Spring Break, but let’s save that story for another day. No, instead I refer you to the infiltration of my Dead fandom into a place much more inappropriate than a drug den – the classroom.

Up until this point, I have painted quite the picture of my academic mindset back in the spring of ’93 – five discussion sections on Friday, which I almost always missed. An all time low GPA that continued to handicap me three years into my career. Countless projects and assignments rushed through due to the fact that we had a fresh bag of marijuana waiting to be smoked. Yes, it was a banner semester for me! But as hard as it may seem to believe given the stories that have bubbled to the surface, there were those times where I actually got off my ass, shook off the cobwebs and made my way to one of U of I’s fine campus buildings in an effort to fulfill the primary purpose of my actually being in Champaign. One of the classes I happened to attend regularly was my Speech class – a required course for all undergraduate students in the College of Business Administration. What a great class to take while you are watching your ability to speak with any semblance of self-confidence slip away before your very eyes! Truth be told, I didn’t mind the class all that much – when I was forced to, I could still dig deep and turn on my speaking abilities, usually just enough so where I could get through my speech and relax, knowing that there likely was a full bowl or six-pack of beer waiting to wipe all my worries away. Since I actually had a cute teacher for the course (or so I think she was – can’t really remember at this point) and since time not speaking was spent listening mindlessly to others as they spoke, it was a pretty easy class to coast through a few times each week.

Throughout the semester, each student was required to give a number of different speeches – we had to debate a topic, present factual evidence to support a hypothesis, and also deliver a personal belief speech. Any guesses on what my personal belief statement, the one that would be the basis for the 10 minute speech I would nervously deliver to a room full of skeptics, ended up being? Why of course, it was: “I believe the Grateful Dead are the greatest band in music.” Are you fucking kidding me? Of all the commentaries I could have made, of all the axes I could have grinded, of all the causes I could have championed, this was my personal belief statement?? Why in the world would I profess this as a personal belief to a roomful of strangers and a teacher who could prove instrumental in determining whether I will be allowed back at the great University of Illinois in the fall?? My guess? I got stoned, listened to One From the Vault, went to class, had the assignment thrust upon me, and given that I had was humming “Sugaree” in my head during the walk to class thought, “Man, the Grateful Dead are the best band ever.” And yes, I actually have a job that pays me money right now.

So there it was, my personal belief statement, out there for all to judge. My first assignment for this speech was to draft an outline of how the speech would progress. I had to present my statement, give reasons as to why I believed what I was saying, acknowledge potential opinions to the contrary (I had Sadahara for that, thank goodness), present personal evidence as to why my opinion was correct, and reinforce that, yes, I did believe that the Grateful Dead was the best band in music. I’m sure my dad would have been proud to learn how that hard-earned tuition money was being spent. Someway, somehow I cranked out the outline for my speech – I amazingly found enough to talk about for 10 minutes, most likely because I made up all of the stories that I was going to include in the speech, including the one where I started dancing with some random girl at a Dead show during a particularly rousing rendition of “Turn On Your Love Light”, which was made all the more humorous given the fact that at this point I had never been to a Dead show and that the guy who sings it had been dead, literally speaking, since 1970. I turned in my outline to the teacher, who surprisingly approved it as a topic worthy of speaking about in a college-level course, and as I left class I was instantly hit by a wave of panic. “Am I seriously going to give a speech on how awesome the Grateful Dead is? What the hell am I thinking?” I started to realize that by giving this speech I was essentially saying to my teacher and the other 20 people in the class, “Hey everyone, I’m a dopey stoner and you should never, ever take another thing I say seriously, not even for a second!” Another banner moment for our protagonist!

Since every other student in the class also had to deliver a speech, our teacher had to spread our presentations out over the course of a few class sessions – mercifully the speech order in this cas was dictated by where your last name fell in the alphabet. Being comfortably back in the R’s, I knew I had some time to sharpen my angle about how amazing Jerry’s guitar playing was given his missing right middle finger, as well as con myself into thinking the stories I had fabricated had actually occurred. Of course given my fragile psyche, I also knew this extra time could work to my disadvantage should I fall into the trap of over-thinking just how stupid the whole concept behind my speech really was. No, I decided I would tough it out and keep fooling myself into believing I was doing something that was neither academically nor socially damaging. Call it the power of positive thinking.

Then, something amazing happened. As I sat in anticipation of my assigned speaking time, my nervousness approaching new heights, the other students in my class began delivering their speeches. One by one, they came and went, and slowly but surely my concerns that these bright, forward-thinking minds would put me to shame with the sheer depth and magnitude of their socially aware statements of personal belief evaporated into dust. Strange as it may seem given the silly personal belief I had selected for my speech, I found myself wondering how our teacher had approved some of the topics that were being spewed forth. There was the speech from the nerdy guy whose personal belief was that he had been abducted by aliens, which may or may not have been a joke. There was the normal everyman stating his belief that all state trooper automobiles should be painted a bright fluorescent orange (a great idea, I must say). And there was the Jewish girl whose personal belief statement was something to the effect of, “I believe Jewish people should only marry other Jewish people.” Hey, she believed it, so what the hell? There were many other topics too silly or boring to remember, and by the time it came to be my turn, I had little to no reservations about my topic. I stood in front of that class, delivering my heartfelt speech outlining the merits of American Beauty and Workingman’s Dead, barely stopping to fix my hair (if at all), and by the end of it all I led the class in a stirring rendition of “St. Stephen”. OK, I made that last part up, but not only did I not make a complete ass out of myself, I think I may have even looked cool to some of the class, most likely because they thought I might be able to score them some pot. My teacher gave me an A on the speech, leading me to finish with a solid B overall (attendance issues, don’t you know).

Looking back, I tend to believe that my love of the Dead peaked on that day – they carried me through that speech, they helped add to the fun of my Lost Semester, and they gave me a new appreciation for other people’s musical viewpoints. After all was said and done, I threw away all of my notes associated with that speech, went back home, smoked a bowl, went over to the stereo, and popped in some Beatles. And all was right with the world again.

Until next time…

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