garrison beau scott

Punctuation courtesy, The Specials.

Over the last 3 days or so, I’ve been; nervous, pessimistic, jaded, hopeful, devout, energized, diagnosed with and treated for css (chronic smiling syndrome), proud, dutiful, pained, thrilled, awed, and inspired.

And I’m not even talking about the utter beat-down laid upon the Cowboys on Sunday. Or last January for that matter.

I’d gladly, 10 times out of 10 times gladly, have traded this year’s shot at the Super Bowl for the kind of victory I (we) experienced Election Night. Hallelujah, Amen, Om, and any other expressions equaling a resounding “yes!” The kind of “yes” that comes with high-fiving, tear-wiping, and jaw-dropping as standard equipment.

At one point during the coverage, one of the panelists recalled a time when politics was America’s past-time. No World Series existed, no Super Bowl. They had elections. The emotional investment, rooting interest, and all around vibe of watching the returns come in on Election Night was an exact match on all levels to the experience of watching your team play for the Super Bowl. The only difference was the stakes.

I think we can all agree that this is an amazing country. And should any hate-monger from the fundamentalist right question the patriotism of anyone who voted for Obama, I eagerly offer the replay of what erupted in Chicago, New York and various other spontaneous spots in this and other, other I point out, countries. What the replay shows is an undeniable majority of Americans, all kinds of Americans, intensely celebrate a return to the ideals of a country they fell in love with in 1776, 1941, and 1960. Not the sham of 2000 - 2008.

But enough of the negative (for now). It’s time to celebrate. And it’s time to go to work. Obama is already on the job. Some say that he has been planning the transition and his first 100 days since he got the nod for the ticket. Some say he’s been preparing his whole life. The last thing America needs is for another blatantly obvious, tongue and cheek presidency. If he’s anything, Obama is serious about this job, he has to be, the task is large.

For the last 8 years, a hole has been dug. Dug with the highest priced, most technically advanced shovels a National Treasury can buy. The effort has been relentless, carried out at a 24/7 clip, sometimes appearing as if the existence of the hole was the sole excuse for the existence of those digging it. And now that the orders have been mandated that the digging stop, those responsible for this blight on human history will pack up their machines and simply walk away. This isn’t the Clinton Administration supposedly removing all the “W” keys from all the computer keyboards prior to handing over the keys to the Whitehouse, this is much worse. Partly because the audience is large, the expectations are immense, and the stakes are higher.

We as Americans, and especially those of us that have railed against Bush, and demanded a change in how our government governs, need to help the guy we voted for, enact the change we want. To further the “hole in the ground,” analogy, we need to show up with spoons and shovels or our bare hands if necessary, and help our 44th President with his task.

The exciting thing is we have a chance to partake in the reconstruction of so many good things. It seems as if he is asking for our help. Time to get off our asses and pitch in. Otherwise, all that standing in line and debate and effort and passion and hope will be for naught.

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

What a night this was. I had just crossed the States on a bus for what would be my 2nd Greyhound trip. Winter 1996. The entire scheme hatched to get me from California to Philadelphia in time for a pair of Phish shows at the Spectrum. And of all things I run across my friend Gus in the parking lot. That Gus, he’s a fun guy. Anyways…the show melted my face and all the surrounding snow, as evident by the conspicuous lack of any of the frozen stuff on the ground.

I don’t know what the percentages are in the argument over wether or not these guys should just pick up their instruments and re-take over the world of “jam band” but for what it’s worth, I vote a resounding yes. Looking through some of the set lists I faithfully compiled over the years while attending my fair share of shows, I can’t help but think that a second set that looks like this….

David Bowie
A Day in the Life
Bathtub Gin >
Lizards
*You Enjoy Myself >
16 Candles >
You Enjoy Myself >
Vocal Jam >
Harpua >
#Champagne Supernova >
Harpua

and a Rocky Top encore

…would just have a little positive effect on mankind as a whole. Don’t you think? Besides, I’ve yet to find anything remotely as good as a parking lot gooey ball since they shut down shop a few years back.

*instrument switch
#Tom Marshall on vocals

Man…I remember it as if it were yesterday, even though it was over 11 years ago. Damn.

But I suppose if you had every nerve ending hooked up to a lightning bolt and decided to stand in a puddle of water, you’d remember that feeling a hundred years later.

As a photographer making my first trip to the city, that’s kind of what it felt like. It’s very cool for me to look at the proof sheets from that glorious week I spent there, and re-live the stories and the sequence of events that led from one picture to another.

I had just resurfaced after a ride on the subway and was getting my bearings when I felt a rush of urgency push past me. It was one of those things where you look, too late, behind you, as that’s where the push had come from, but the energy was moving too fast to see it, so you had to look around to find what it was that lit your senses up. When I turned around, I found this guy.

Forget about getting my bearings, this guy was my bearings, my compass, my path for as long as it took. I caught up to him after a half block or so and tried to match his pace without being noticed. It was hard not to get distracted by how cool he was, by how his attitude poured out of his creepers, shot out of his cigarette, creating a wake that washed over the litter of New York’s streets. He owned the fuckin’ place. At least he acted like he did, and I was a believer.

The thing about shooting people when they’re walking, and don’t know you’re trying to get a picture, is to capture them just as their legs have hit the longest part of the stride, anything else looks like they’re dancing, standing on one leg, or about to tip over. That’s what makes this shot work, other than the coolness quotient being blown to Mars courtesy of the subject. I just got lucky there was a complimentary shadow provided by a parked car to balance things out. Not to mention the Bud sign in the upper right corner. You think this guy drinks wine coolers?

After I got the shot, I sped up and walked past him, just wanting to see who he was. And as I was passing him, I looked down into his left hand and saw that he had a copy of the Village Voice in his hand.

I wonder if he got the gig.

If there is a heaven/nirvana/utopia/paradise/comfort inn with 72 virgins waiting, and I’m granted entrance, and for some reason the great creator decides to let us chose our own version of said bliss, well, I want it to go something like this.

I’m transported back in time to a place called Magoo’s Pizza Parlor in Menlo Park, Californaia, circa May 1965, the 5th of May to be exact. Just in time to catch what was one of the very first live performances of a band called the Warlocks. But not the very first show, for that I would have to pick Menlo College sometime in April. Date uncertain. But Magoo’s sounds like a cool place, and besides, they have pizza there, which is what anyone who’s designing their own heaven would list in the top 10 of things to be sure to have.

And then I’d make sure to be at the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco on December 10th, 1965 when the Warlocks became the Grateful Dead. And then I’d go see them the next night at The Big Beat in Palo Alto. A week later at Muir Beach Lodge and then every show after that all the way up to 1995 after they had played 2,317 concerts. Not one of them the same.

After it was all over, and Phil closed up shop with the final Box of Rain, I’d go back and do it all over again. In between shows I’d walk around a perpetual Shakedown Street with my OM-2 and an infinite supply of TMZ, eating gooeyballs and grilled cheese sandwiches, trading smiles for stickers for patches for tape covers for sticky, for a ride to the next show.

And taking lots of pictures.