This was taken about a year ago. There are a few reasons why it’s just now seeing the light of day. Regardless, I remember as soon as I found this scene, I had a feeling it would look pretty cool on film. For as many times as I’ve cursed the Holga and its limitations, there are moments such as this when it works really well.
As far as options go?
My last post, which was some time ago, lamented a certain lost piece of my life that I really didn’t want to let go of. So I went and found it. And the effort made it abundantly clear that it’s been under my nose the entire time. It also illustrated a wonderful fact of life. And that is, people are everywhere in this world, and there’s a lot of them. More importantly, if you look in the right places and use a little of what it is you seek, with enough effort and passion you can find these people. And you’ll find them willing to do everything they can to help you meet your self-appointed task.
Over the last few weeks, with the direct help of no less than 50 people I’d previously never met, and still as of yet seen face to face, I’ve begun to set about rebuilding a spot for myself in a community for which sharing is it’s bedrock. The breadth of their offerings is staggering. And looking deeper still into the history of the community, the numbers of people who’ve had a hand in the process begin to grow.
What I’m listening to, isn’t just an out-of-their-minds, are-you-kidding-me?, “Eyes of the World” from September 8, 1973. But, forget for a moment, if you will, about the band and the music. That shit’s a given. When this music was originally played and recorded, I was a few months shy of four. And as I listen to it now, I can’t help but think of the long chain of hands that have passed it along all these years, doing everything in their power to keep it alive and propagating. People I will never meet, people who don’t know that I’m alive, but just in case I am, they’re going to make sure I hear every fat Phil bomb.
And believe me, they’re fucking gorgeous.
The kindness is not limited to Jerry and the boys, or even to music. Whereas the music fills me with joy and gives me a sense of grand illusion, a certain chain-of-hands event, recently delivered something just as beautiful, but truly humbling. So I’d like to say, “Thank you Anne. And unlike the tapers, and the guys who pour over a source tape and meticulously re-master the ghosts of Grateful Dead past, something tells me our paths will cross.”
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
This was taken down by the Vltava, right outside of Prague’s city center, on the way to Vysehrad. I didn’t actually see them in use, but I’m assuming that the rings serve to tie up boats, and the ladders serve to allow captains of said boats quicker access to the bars. But again, that’s all an assumption.
But it prompted me to think about things. Life things, and the dichotomy of said life. Something I mentioned a few days back, about the pure bliss of a simple existence, has been brewing in me, and as it happens, my wife. The traveling bug has hit us again and this time very hard. If only because at this point we are helpless to do anything about it. But the bug don’t care about any of that, it just knows the quickest way to your blood and sets its teeth into your flesh while it waves your passport in front of your watering eyes. Boats adrift.
The yang to this yin then, is the tie down. The security of knowing that despite the currents, the winds and any other external forces that might bear down on your vessel, there is a strength that you are tied to, steadfast and true.
When you have children; heath insurance, heating oil, a stocked fridge, all weather tires with a healthy tread, and magical monster dust, are the tie downs you require before you lay your own damn head down at night. There is no drifting when babies are snoring contentedly in rooms down the hall.
I would, at a moment’s notice, give everything for those 2 babies of mine. There’s an amazing line in what I feel is an amazing song by MGMT, “Time to Pretend.”
“This is our decision to live fast and die young
We’ve got the vision, now let’s have some fun
Yeah, it’s overwhelming but what else can we do
Get jobs in offices and wake up for the morning commute?”
Other than the dying young part, I’m on board. We’re going to need a bigger boat.
It was a crisp, cold morning. Waking up in the hotel room, for the first time on that trip, it felt like winter. We had been lucky with the weather in Prague and Budapest, and other than a rainy day in Vienna, all told we had been blessed with a mild November in Europe. Our first morning in Cesky Krumlov brought a light dusting of snow, and a great breakfast. Again, it felt like we had the place to ourselves.
The morning was simple for the sole reason that all we had to do was exist. Life should be more like that, all the time in fact. Wake up, lounge in bed, eat a great meal, dress appropriately, make sure the cameras have film, and choose a direction. Explore, love, laugh, find a pastry shop and eat whatever your heart directs your finger to point at in case you don’t speak Czech. As long as you learn Prosim (please) and Dekuji (thank you) things will go fine, just remember to order coffee with those pastries.
Belly full, new friends made, promises to never forget and off to make more pictures. Simple. The way it should be.
