The call comes late in the morning. I’m surprised by the buoyancy in his voice—the excitement, the way he seems to have recaptured some of that zeal for life, even now, after all the pain and abuse, all the aborted attempts to get clean and healthy, the junkie kicks that failed and chipped away at his genius—and for a moment it seems like the magic has returned, that perhaps this isn’t the end . . . that maybe the long, strange trip ain’t over just yet.
“Meet me at the studio,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
The highs and lows run through my mind during the drive-in, a quarter of a century with the greatest band in the world, the irony of my life having been saved, quite literally, by a band known as the Grateful Dead. I think of the fun we’ve all had (those of us who are left, anyway), the friends I’ve made . . . and the ones I’ve lost, the casualties of the rock ’n’ roll life: keyboardist Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, whose liver gave out back in ’73; his successors, Keith Godchaux (auto accident, 1980) and Brent Mydland (drug overdose, 1990); my buddies on the road crew, Jackson and Heard; my first wife, Lorraine, and my two children.
All gone.
But I’m still here, and so is the band. So is Jerry, and now he wants to meet me, to talk about the future, perhaps, and what we’ll do next. I find myself smiling as the breeze blows through the open windows, the clean, crisp air of another beautiful day in Northern California. A day of hope.
For nearly three decades the unofficial home of the Dead has been a Front Street studio in San Rafael, but that’s not where I’m going. My destination is a new building the band has just purchased, a cavernous place on five acres of land in Novato, empty and waiting. The plan is to transform this warehouse into our new studio, as well as the ultimate boys’ club, a place where we’ll all hang out, conduct business, and make music. Great music. Just like in the old days.
He’s waiting when I arrive, and although he looks pale and weak, there is an enthusiasm, an energy, that I haven’t seen in some time. I manage his band now, and in many ways I’m his closest confidante and friend—the best man at his wedding, the guy who had flown to the Betty Ford Clinic with him just a few weeks earlier, and who had picked him up when he bolted halfway through his allotted twenty-eight days. But he’s still the boss, a man I admire and respect and love, and for whom I would do almost anything, so I let him take the lead. We walk through the building, and he keeps talking and pointing, designing the floor plan in his head.
Right here . . . see it? A big guitar room . . . where we can lay everything out, the whole collection, every instrument I own . . . a place where I can just sit and play . . . anytime I want.
His eyes are wide, slightly yellow at the edges. He’s heavy, heavier than he should be, and his gait and breathing are labored. But he’s animated, gesturing with his hands, trying to keep busy, busy, busy, as if he knows that he needs something, that without the heroin and the morphine his armor is gone and he’s just a sick man trying to get well, and what better prescription than art? Music had made him, and maybe it could save him.
He’ll need help, though, he explains. Help from the rest of the band, help from his legion of fans, help from everyone in our extended family, including me, if he is to make this clean, bright future a reality. I nod in agreement, for he’s right. We’ve all gotten a little sloppy, lazy.
He glances again at the empty room that will become his sanctuary, a home for all those once-glorious guitars that have been locked away in closets, silently, sadly, gathering dust.
Can I count on you?
I tell him he can.
With a smile parting his thick, gray beard, he thanks me. His eyes reflect a mix of apprehension and anticipation, maybe even desperation. I want to believe it’s possible, that he can pull himself out of that dark place once and for all, but he seems so fragile, so weak. We shake hands and agree to meet again the next day, to put the plan into action. As the door closes behind me, I have no way of knowing that I will never see him again. By morning, Jerry Garcia, my friend and mentor, the heart and soul of the Grateful Dead, will be gone.