Reflections on being married to a Deadhead….

Ever hear of Shari Lewis and her sidekick, a sock puppet named Lambchop? Shari and Lambchop had a television show back in the 60s that must have been rerun in the 90s as I remember watching it with my then-young sons. At the end of each show, she and Lambchop would sing a song as annoying as the title suggests, The Song That Doesn’t End – “ It is the song that doesn’t end, it just goes on and on my friend…” 

Fast forward and fast backward, I’ve been listening to another version of this song since 1977, courtesy of The Grateful Dead.  You see, my husband is what is referred to as a Deadhead.  Believe it or not, Deadhead is in the Oxford Dictionary and is defined as: a fan and follower of the rock group The Grateful Dead.  It is also defined as the verb deadheading: to remove dead flowers from a plant to encourage further blooming.  As a gardener, I do a lot of deadheading, while the Deadhead on the porch listens to The Song That Doesn’t End. 

Let’s get a little history on this sad story. I was never a Deadhead. My musical taste was more along the lines of The Eagles, Moody Blues, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and Chicago.  Please keep your opinions to yourself.  Meeting my husband Tom, I began to see this carefree and dedicated (no pun intended) group of followers who tried then and continue to try now, to see the band, or what remains of it, and anyone remotely affiliated with the band, as many times as possible.  In addition, any free time between shows is spent listening to other shows, which are all “the best show” or “the best version” ever! As a parent, he is a kind and dedicated (again, no pun) father.  However, as one can imagine, growing up with this music constantly being played has undoubtedly influenced my three sons.  Not in a bad way, most Deadheads are kind, patient, and respectful people, even if they did, or do, smoke a lot of pot and have what I consider to be a need for a fashion makeover.  (When you hit 60 and have the body of a 60-year-old, a very bright tie-dye T-shirt is not the best choice of tops.) My youngest son, with the wisdom of a child, once referred to the continuous Dead music as “The Soundtrack of our Lives.” Yikes! 

My eldest son, who probably attended more shows than the other two boys since his Dad was younger and more able to go just about anywhere to see a show, has a deep appreciation and understanding of the music.  You see, he is a musician. Initially drawn to jazz music and jazz guitarists such as Wes Montgomery and John Scofield, whom he still listens to and greatly admires, he, like many musicians, branched out and experimented with other musical genres.  His dad often suggested forming a Dead cover band, secretly hoping to have one playing in the backyard at all times, and his second reason was the large following he saw for the music.  Son 1 finally steps up to the plate and gets this band going.  Organizing four other exceptionally talented young men, they form Deadmeat. If you have never heard of them, check them out. Their harmonies, voices, and exceptional music make even a non-deadhead like me enjoy their playin’, playin’ in the band.

Son 1’s Dead band plays in multiple states and various venues. As an observer, I take in all of those who come to enjoy and listen to the music.  There are the serious ones, the ones who are now old and have many stories to share of their travels to shows and escapades during those journeys.  At a show in Nyack, New York, my husband pointed out a friend of ours from college who was in attendance, and when I asked him where he was, he said, “The older guy over there with a white beard and a tie-dye shirt.” Really? That was basically everyone standing within the first ten rows. This makes me wonder if the Grateful Dead franchise ever considered going into the 55-and-older market.  Jimmy Buffett did it with the Margaritaville Communities, so why not The Dead?  They might call it Franklin’s Towers and offer classes such as spinning (not on a bike, the real thing), Tie-Dying, Hula Hooping, and Hackeysack for those who can still do it.  Casual dining might be served at Bertha’s, and an upscale diner experience is available at Ripple.  Mmmm…. Worth a thought?

Son 2 is an easy-going guy and a very creative thinker. His choice in music is unique.  While going through his grandparents’ old albums, where others select Sinatra and Crosby, he chooses The First Family, a 1962 comedy album about the Kennedy Family, and The Long Island Banjo Band.   This son reintroduces us all to amazing songs from the past that our parents loved, like Louis Prima’s Banana Split for My Baby, and songs from our youth that seemed goofy at the time, yet we all loved them, They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa! by Napoleon XIV ‧ 1966. (Go ahead, sing it, you know you know it.)  On holidays when he and his brothers cook all day long, his music choices keep us laughing to lyrics, bopping to bossa nova and samba beats, and confusingly asking him, “What is this song?”.  I love when this son comes over, as we get to take a brief hiatus from The Song That Doesn’t End and listen to something old, new, and just plain fun. It is only a matter of time before we sit down to eat, talk, and laugh, and the familiar soundtrack of our lives begins playing again, with the Greatest Show of All Time that my husband always remembers being at. When I hear the year of this show and remind him that that although he seemed to have had a lot of freedom as a child with regards to taking the Long Island Railroad to Madison Square Garden and hanging out drinking beers on a so-called “Log”, he was only ten that year and I do not think he was there. 

Son 3 has his own taste in music.  When driving in the car and he asks to put on his music selections thinking that he might introduce his parents to a new band, singer or sound, I see my husband sort of grimace, and say “Sure”, secretly hoping the bluetooth in the car will not work and we can return to Sirius Radio Channel 23, where you can “hear music spanning the band’s career with unreleased concert recordings, original shows hosted by band members, and even rare archival interviews with Jerry Garcia…” 

Give me strength…. 

Although they are all different types of music fans, they do share a common place in their musical hearts for The Dead.  Growing up with The Dead, they watched their father’s music be played on albums, cassettes, CDs, and Sirius radio.  The albums lie somewhere in our basement, but the cassettes, ahh… the cassettes.  I venture to say that there are over 1000 cassettes of shows.  They are stored in cabinets purchased explicitly for this storage. They are organized by date and show, and are rarely used now.  Back in the day, when the shows were being taped religiously, we would have to stay in on Saturday nights so the taping could be completed.  Eventually, we found an excellent babysitter who not only would keep a watchful eye over our sons, but would get paid an extra twenty dollars if she could do “the flip” of the cassette at precisely the right time so as not to miss a note of the “Greatest Show of All Time!”  And don’t get me started on Dick’s Picks.  I do not even know who Dick is or was, but he had a lot of Picks, and we had to purchase them all, and I’ve all the CDs to prove it! 

Need some space?  Space has been explained to me as the time when, if you are at a show, you go to the bathroom.  From what I gather, it is a time between sets when experimental music and sounds are played.  To me, it sounds like the music to a nightmare, if nightmares had a soundtrack. And, it goes on for a long time with the hopes that soon a familiar tune will start to be heard, and then everyone begins the guessing game of what that tune might be.  The band is tricky though, and what might sound like a song you recognize could easily be switched to one you never saw coming.  But no fears, as it will be the best version ever! 

Then there was the year that Jerry Garcia died. We had rented a rustic house on Fire Island for a month when the news arrived.  My husband climbed the stairs to the crow’s nest on top of the house and stayed there for a good two weeks, grieving Jerry’s death. He was in a perfect location to watch sunsets, hang his tie-dye shirt on a flag pole, and play the music, which he did, loud. He must have really admired the man, as I can not think of any musician whom I would have done this for.  We have multiple pictures of Jerry Garcia around my house: photographs, pencil sketches, and concert posters from various stages of his career.  My father, who always seemed to know how to get under someone’s skin, would go up to a sketch hanging in our family room, look at it oddly and ask Tom, “So whose this Spanish woman that you like so much?” all the while knowing exactly who it was.  Tom would laugh, and Dad would too.  Jerry would probably laugh as well if he were there. 

I guess my takeaway from it all is that it doesn’t matter what your song is, as long as it brings you joy. We may all be going to hell in a bucket, but at least the Deadheads are enjoying the ride.