Ornette meets Healy

jazz tangent: one thing that has pulled me away from more consistent GD/JG listening (besides the ebb and flow of life) is my new hobby (calling it a "practice" makes me wince) of listening slowly to entire discographies of jazz greats who I want a more comprehensive overview of (so far, since you asked: Bobby Hutcherson, Yusef Lateef, and Sun Ra). I am working on Ornette Coleman right now.

In August 1968, Ornette was in the Bay Area with his band that included, controversially, his 12-year-old son Denardo on drums. His brief spell with Impulse! Records produced two live albums, the first of which, Ornette at 12, was recorded at the Greek Theater in Berkeley on Aug 11, 1968. Working that show was the GD's soundman Dan Healy -- the LP notes credit him as engineer (misspelled Healey), so I don't know if he was also mixing the live sound or just recording it (I suspect both, since I think Ornette produced this himself and just licensed the tapes to Impulse!).  There is more from this concert that remains unheard: it was billed as Ornette Coleman & Orchestra, since part of the SF Symphony joined for his composition "Sun Suite" (unrecorded, afaik, though that's the score on the Fillmore West poster below!), as did his former bandmate, trumpeter Bobby Bradford.  But the album only features performances by the quartet, so maybe the rest didn't go as well? I would sure love to hear it anyway.

The week before the Greek concert, Ornette's quartet played at the Fillmore West on Aug 5, apparently one of Bill Graham's only single-night/single-act bookings (the poster advertises the band as a quintet with Bradford, but he has confirmed that he was not there). A month earlier, Graham had taken over the venue formerly known as the Carousel Ballroom and renamed it.  Given that his capitalist ways marked the end of the hippie dream of a communal venue, the story goes that local musicians were briefly boycotting his new venture, and Rhoney Stanley recalled in her book that Jerry Garcia broke with principle only to go see Ornette play (thank you again, Light Into Ashes, for sharing that quote), although I can't help but notice that the Dead were booked at the Fillmore West on Aug 20-22 and again on Aug 30-Sept 1.

 

Healy had been working with the Dead from mid-1966 until mid-1968.  The exact reasons for his departure are unclear, but Corry Arnold speculates that, with Owsley returning to the GD organization, Healy may have sought fresh opportunities elsewhere. He worked with Quicksilver Messenger Service (as soundman, producer, and sometimes bassist!), played with his own band (the nearly forgotten Hoffman's Bycycle; Corry ibid.), and worked as a freelance engineer with some connection to Mercury Records (Corry again, also Light Into Ashes). And he didn't really fully cut ties with the Dead: he recorded them in Los Angeles on Aug 23-24 (interestingly, Quicksilver was booked those nights at the Fillmore West), using Warner Bros' fancy 8-track equipment, which was eventually released as Two From the Vault (some info), and evidently was in and out of the studio with them until his full-time return in 1972. But could Healy have also worked the Ornette show at the Fillmore West? It's certainly possible, but we'll never know unless someone asks him.

So what? So I think that's all pretty cool. Healy gave plenty of interviews, and I have only looked at a few of them. But I am guessing no one has asked him about this Ornette concert at the Greek. As far as I know, this is his one jazz recording credit, and, of course, it sounds good.  And Healy did, of course, mix for Ornette at least twice again: when he opened for the Dead and then sat in on 2/23/93, and again on 12/9/93.

11/7/93 until he organizes his best potential

wrong show, wrong band, great pic: 9/29/93 by Robbi Cohn

 

I have alluded to loving this overlooked show before, so for its 30th anniversary (at the eleventh hour, of course), I figured I would kick myself to write about Jerry Garcia again and say a few things about it.

In his great book Every Song Ever (2016), Ben Ratliff observed that being a deadhead -- specifically, collecting and listening to all these shows -- means "to practice long stretches of suspended judgment until the group organizes its best potential."

It is listening in the long view, with a basic understanding that the band’s music only significantly changes when the body gives out; otherwise, that music represents one long discourse, all of it intrinsically valuable.

If you enjoy Garcia's music from his final years, then surely this must be true for you, whether you think of it this way or not. It is certainly true for me, but not for reasons of "I was there!" nostalgia or relativism ("I guess Jerry sounds pretty good... for a guy who could barely keep his head up and was near the end"). There are things I hear Jerry play in 1993 that hold up as being as powerful as anything he ever did, although very different from his work as a younger man. In 1993, Garcia's best potential, as Ratliff would put it, was not the same potential as 1973 or 1983. Assessing the work of artists who rely on technical ability (like musicians) as they age can be challenging, given that our terms of engagement with their work often focuses on innovation or "development" rather than consolidation and refinement. Jazz critic Stanley Crouch argues this about Louis Armstrong:

As maturity increases, the speed of perception and experience becomes denser, fewer details are needed to recognize essential meanings. While the younger person is still contemplating, the old master has moved on to the next point, digesting through the shorthand made possible by the passage of many moons. In art, that law allows the individual gesture to take on greater resonance. The best of Louis Armstrong's work after fifty proves that his expressive ideas didn't reach their peak until he was nearly sixty. (Crouch, Considering Genius)

I realize I am wandering out on the thin ice of romanticizing "old Jerry," and let's be real: his physical health was in real deterioration by 1993, and his mental/emotional well-being was not being helped by, to use another shorthand, the Burden of Being Jerry. And yet, all those shortcomings aside, the old master Jerry does make some gestures here that do take on a greater resonance for me, and hopefully for you too.   

So: Nov 7, 1993 at the newly rechristened USAir Arena (formerly the Capitol Centre) of Landover, MD.  The JGB's final east coast tour, very close to the abrupt end of the great David Kemper era, but traveling in fine style nevertheless. From what I understand, this particular venue was known then for its particularly tough security, and the two circulating audience tapes both suffer from that.  I personally prefer the earlier unknown Schoeps source which to my ears is slightly more palatable than the tape made by the usually reliable Clay Brennecke (no fault of his own; he gets busted early on, sounds like he bribes his way out of a pickle, and gets the rest of the show, albeit with a bit more discretion, I'm sure)

• Not much to say about the start of the first set, but ol' Jerry was saved more than once by the adage, "when the going gets tough, the tough slow down." And the first important thing that happens is the late-set Señor: my single favorite performance of this amazing song, thanks to its guitar solo. Find me a better one (official released included). Four choruses of perfection -- okay, then two more choruses of unnecessary but by no means bad extra stuff. Vocals have their rust spots and occasional brainfarts, but that's rarely on my rubric when he is playing so well. I suspend my judgment until the group organizes its best potential.  

• Everybody Needs Somebody to Love.  I have more to say in general about Garcia's stripped-down arrangement of this already simple song (all good things), but by fall 93 it had turned into a behemoth, a slow-rolling tribal stomp, and a thing of glory. This is not quite the best that it got -- at the moment, I would nominate 11/3/93 for that (another post) -- but this is pretty damn near the top.  14 1/2 minutes of a giant ball of energy just rolling around and around and around the stadium.

• The second set opens with another all-timer: show me a better The Way You Do the Things You Do. Another tune that warrants a more in-depth look sometime, it was performed in a straightforward Motown-goes-barband style for eight years, left the repertoire for six, then reappeared in 1990 with a reggae-ish sway, courtesy of Jahn Kahn's most memorable bassline and a gently spacey groove.  The end jam would swell and occasionally became ground for some inspiration to blossom, and this version is the epitome of that (although see also 11/18/93 for a sprawling 20+ version that is also a treasure).  Jerry grooves along, slides into some jazzy comping for a minute and a half, but never fully cedes to Melvin Seals. Instead, he builds tension by playing not much but teasingly just enough, finally eases back into more proper lead guitar, but the focus seems more rhythmic than melodic, and then finally lets all that tension boil over (@12:35ish) with some climactic fanning for about 40 seconds. This will be a very nice surprise if you primarily associate this tune with a few jammy minutes of light, bubbly grooviness.

• Money Honey. Not quite a rarity, but not a setlist staple either, and my hunch is that it was generally a good sign when Jerry felt like belting this one out.  Again, not perfect lyrically, but he delivers a few choruses of divebomb blues with his claws out.

• Knockin' On Heaven's Door. A semi-rarity; the only one of the tour, and only played three more times onstage in his life (once with the JGB, twice with the GD). You know how you feel about this song, and this version is lovely.

• Don't Let Go.  All-timer? No. But damn good, I say. Appreciate how Jerry playfully sings way down looow in the final round of "hold me tight and don't let go"s, while Melvin mimics his vocal. Then he tears the heck out of the jam, brings it up to a nice climax, then collapses into lonesome space for a few minutes, the Hammond B3 framing Jerry's moaning in the moonlight, before he brings it back home. Not too many Don't Let Go's were ending in free space anymore (list forthcoming, hopefully?), so that's a nice touch. Overall: a mighty fine Don't Let Go.

• Mississippi Moon.  A real rarity for the 90's, and the only one of the tour again. Again, there are some rust spots on the vocals and the turnarounds, but Jerry digs in for the solo, and then digs in again for a unusual(?) second solo after Melvin's featured spot (which was usually the piece's climax).

• After all that, I wish that Tangled Up in Blue came crashing into the end of this set like a missile, but it does not. It's a little slow and maybe too carefully paced at first, but he gets the truck out on the highway and invites you to ride it out with him. He might be coasting a bit during the solos, but as the jam begins, he seems to pause for a breath, braces himself, and channels some that Leo energy into a regal final jam. There's nice energy bump just before the 11 min mark that gets us across the finish line, but it all sounds pretty good to me.

Best potential organized? I would say so, yes. One long discourse, all of it intrinsically valuable. So I will end, as I ought to, with a salute to the tapers.  Midway through Tangled, there's a moment when the high frequencies drop out, when (I assume) the mics are lowered and hidden. Then @6:45, the quality increases and, with a "whoo!" of relief, one taper hollers to the other, "the things we have to go through!"  Thank goodness you did!  Thank you tapers!

scan courtesy Fate Music/JGMF