garrison beau scott

Right now I’m dripping with it. Any more and I’d need a snorkel.

Maybe I should start at the beginning…

I used to collect and trade Grateful Dead bootlegs on cassette tape. Hundreds of them. One of my all time regrets is that I stock-piled my Max Points waaaay past the date in which I could have redeemed them. I was saving up for the Corvette. Back then, had you asked me to pick my poison, I would have answered a Don King bowl and a twenty pack of Maxell XL-II’s. 90 minute or 100, it didn’t matter. It started out innocently enough, just among a few friends I went to school with, and a small circle of people I met through the previously mentioned poisonous pursuits.

Now, this wasn’t just music. I’m not sure if I can fully express the importance of these recordings. When I went on my Greyhound trips, I measured the miles between stops in how many bootlegs it would take. The summer I spent living in a VW Bus on an 80 acre plot of undeveloped Wisconsin forest, it was a rinky-dinky cassette deck and a handful of my favorite boots that provided the soundtrack. May 8th 1977, February 13th and 14th 1970, August 27th 1972, June 10th 1973. These are historical documents. And this might be resin-coated hyperbole, but they’re every bit as important as the Bible or the Bill of Rights.

Tapes trickled in. Each one fondled with loving fingers, my eyes pouring over the physical form of them, identical to the tens, the hundreds that would come before and after, yet so original to the night it captured. A date marking the unique character would soon become synonymous with a feeling or a mood. There were tapes for road trips, for chilling, for introducing those poor souls not-as-of-yet indoctrinated, and tapes for setting the hook. There were tapes for laughing, tapes for weeping.

And then the internet hit, and all of a sudden there were hundreds of lists posted on-line from fellow Heads all over the country. Next thing I know I’m dabbling in blanks plus postage, five for five swaps and not just any show will do any more, it’s got to be a soundboard, crisp and with documented lineage. But it was still a community. We’d get on-line in a Dead forum and talk, arrange trades, update lists. Then one day it stopped. It wasn’t immediately after Jerry died, in fact his death spurred a growth in my collection.

But one day the internet went from being a little sneeze, to a full blown disease. The community I knew, no longer needed to exist. Bandwidth, storage and applications evolved to replace it and trading became a thing of the past. My collection of tapes ceased to grow. They’ve been replaced not just by CD’s, but hard-drives, backed up as data on DVD’s. Now for the irony. I’ve been lamenting all this the past few nights as I’ve been out walking the neighborhood, plugged into my iPod, listening to live Grateful Dead.

Where it used to take a few weeks to get tapes in the mail from one of my trading partners, I can now download a complete show in a few minutes. But is it progress, or does it even get measured in those terms anymore because the world has been re-defined by this technology?

The irony continues.

A few days ago, I was made privy to (via the internet) a woman who was unloading a bunch of free, out-dated film. When I went over to claim it, we got to talking and she wanted to know if I wanted a few of her old Polaroid Land Cameras. They were in MINT condition, including original boxes, instructions, warranty cards and filters. I, of course, gladly accepted them. This, despite knowing full well, that in a few months time, if not sooner, I very well might not be able to buy the film intended for these cameras. Who knows, I might not be able to get it even now.

I thought about this too, on these walks I’ve been taking the past few nights. The reason for the walks have been caused by the recent influx of live Grateful Dead music I’ve been acquiring, and despite not taking a camera with me, I’ve still been “seeing” pictures I’d like to take. So it was, I went out last night, with my camera. My digital camera. The very same beast partly responsible for the demise of Polaroid and the film I could have used in those Land Cameras.

And what do I take a picture of? Well, irony of course.

Who needs this clock anymore, especially as it was only 11:30? And why is it still lit? When was the last time anyone used this clock to tell the time? Had I really wanted the irony to pour from this, I would have taken a picture of it with my cell phone. Convenience indeed.

But, BUT! At my very core, I guess I am a romantic, a wistful practitioner of nostalgia, which explains the reason I kept 47 of my all-time favorite boots on cassette. I still pick them out of the old wooden Coke-a-Cola box I stored them in, though I haven’t listened to them in years. I love to look at the set-lists faithfully written down on the carefully crafted, home-made, custom tape covers I made for each show. On photoshop no less. And I still love to set the hook in those poor, unfortunate, as-of-yet indoctrinated souls. So, SO! Should any of you reading this wish to begin your collection, let me know, I have a few shows you need to hear. I’d gladly do a B+P (blanks plus postage) for you, or hell, I could even email you them.

It’s cold, dreary and the longing for the warmth of spring is overwhelming.

One of the things I like most about photography is the essence of the moment and how, more than any other medium, photography is able to capture it. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but when you see something that you think might make for a great image, then, at that moment, you have to take it. I’m pretty sure there are quite a few photographers who’ve made the mistake of thinking that they could come back later and get the shot, only to discover a car parked in the wrong spot, or a tree has been cut down, or the light isn’t right, or any other number of changes in scene that makes what they saw a memory as opposed to a photograph they can share.

I bring this up only as an observation about place. And how it can change despite a permanence to the things that make up a place. Sun, light, people, trash, snow. An unknown amount of variables determine the feel of a place. I could go back and stand in this same spot ten times, a hundred times and get as many shots.

There’s a scene from a great movie entitled “Smoke” with Harvey Keitel that pretty much sums up what I’m trying to say. Rather than try to explain the scene, I’ll just suggest watching the movie. And in the meantime I’ll offer this and all the ways it could have been different.

According to the date stamp of this post I’ve been at this blog thing for one year. Well, it’ll officially be one year exactly at 9:08 pm EST, but I’ll be having a celebratory glass of wine then, so the party will have to start a wee bit early if that’s alright with you guys.

To be honest, I’ve been aware of the impending one year mark for a few days and have been thinking about how I’d mark the occasion. What I decided on was something akin to a “Greatest Hits” record. The kind that comes with a new, previously unreleased bonus track. Or something like that. Anyway, consider this post the linear notes to this compilation.

I started this thing with a mixture of curiosity, purpose, and a desire to share not only the images, but the 1,000 words they’re supposedly worth. I also wanted to meet some other like minded souls out there who’s work inspired me and to see if I could return the favor. I consider myself to have succeeded on both counts and look forward to another year of doing just that. When I began this blog, it was very much akin to standing alone in a room with a lightbulb and a microphone. Slowly, people began to show up with their own light bulbs and decided to stay, but when that was I’m not exactly sure.

So what I’d like to do now is, link to a few of my favorite moments from the past year in case anyone missed and/or cares to check out what might have gone down in this place before they showed up. And I’d like to sincerely thank those who’ve brought their own light to this party and left it on.

•Funny Story

•Looking Back

•Race Car Driver

•Her

•Pablo

•Emmy and Her Camera

•My First Leica

•Maxxx

•Memory

•The King

•Another One From My Pops

•Chalkdust

•Eulogy

•Wild Geese

•Bonus Track

So, I was out walking around the neighborhood the other day at late dusk. It was a dreary day, wanting to rain, but too lazy to get it together. I saw a bit of color and this was it. Spring…?

I like to consider myself a fairly spiritual person, higher power and everything. That’s all you’ll get out of me on the subject, as I believe it’s a personal trip. And make no mistake, there is a huge difference between spirituality and religion. They’re not mutually inclusive or exclusive, I guess it depends on what side of the cosmic fence you’re on.

And while I won’t talk to you about the specifics of my spirituality, I will talk to you about my religion, for you see, music is my religion and that dear friends, is not something we should keep to ourselves.

I’ve always been into music, despite the severe handicap of having no older siblings to turn me onto their records and a father who thought Ray Conniff and Johnny Mathis were the shit. Which will have to explain why I still harbor a deep love for Neil Diamond and the Moody Blues, considerably the hippest albums in his collection.

Despite those limitations, I was able to make a few discoveries early enough in my life to turn the tide of Pat Boone and similar cardigan toting crooners and lead me down a much more righteous path. The first vinyl I bought with my paper route allowance was The Specials, “The Specials.” And that was a compromise with my mom who wouldn’t let anything labeled, “The Sex Pistols,” into our home. And you can flat out forget the Circle Jerks.

Since that first purchase; I’ve gone to, and done, some crazy, ill-advised, desperate and devoted things to see, hear, and experience the music I loved. All of which I’d do again in a heartbeat. These alters that I’ve worshipped at spread from Tijuana, to Maine. 100,000 seat stadiums with flying pigs and 100 person capacity bars with flying hair, flying beer, and flying people.

I’ve stood on stage with Kurt Cobain, watched Carlos Santana bow down in reverence to Stevie Ray Vaughn, and earned battle scars in a Ministry mosh-pit. The people closest to me are the ones whose own musical threads and passions weave brightly through my life’s tapestry. Their colors shine so much brighter and radiate a passion that seems to make most everything else dull and listless by comparison. Black Sabbath to Bob Marley.

And then there’s the Grateful Dead. If music is my religion, the Dead are the Sermon on the Mount, the Holy Trinty, the Ten Commandments, the Old and the New Testament. Not to mention the burning bush. So much went into my experiences with the Dead, that it’s impossible to say why exactly I feel this way. The music, obviously, is the starting point as that’s the thing that brings everything else into the frame.

Sometimes it hurts, just a little, knowing I’ll never see them again, or be able to share that experience with my children in a first hand sort of way. But I’ll always have this to remind me of one little part of why the Dead, music, and the people who feel the same way I do about it all play such a critical role in my life.

Amen.

*Taken following a Sunday Afternoon show in the parking/camping lots behind the venue. Autzen Stadium, Eugene, Or. 06.19.1994

First Set
Touch of Grey
Walking Blues
Brown-Eyed Women
El Paso
Shoe Fits
Bird Song

Second Set
Scarlet > Fire
Samson & Delilah
Way to Go
Playin’ in the Band>
Uncle John’s Band>
Drums>
The Other One>
Wharf Rat>
Good Lovin’

E: Heaven’s Door