Sure, you can say I said anything you feel like.
“Sure,” Jerry says cheerily, waving aside my question. “What I’d like to do,” I’m prattling, rather desperately trying to fill with the sound of my own voice the void my incompetence has created, “I’d like to feel free to take as many liberties with this interview as I’ve been taking with the rest of the material, to, uh, interpolate and rearrange things here and there when it seems, uh, convenient. Jerry, meanwhile, is doing exactly what he always does-playing it as it lays, which right now means sitting there beside me in his rocking chair, gazing benignly out the window, beaming within the dark nimbus of his hair and beard like a stoned-out John the Baptist, waiting. Only right this minute, I’m not into scenery at all right this minute I’m deeply engaged in being paranoid about my tape recorder, just sort of stroking the treacherous little bastard before I entrust to its tape-eating maw the wit and wisdom of Jerry Garcia, lead guitarist and chief philosophical theoretician of what some claim is the greatest rock ’n’ roll band in the known world-Captain Trips, they call him. Inscribed on my bathroom wall by Ken Kesey, who attributed it Brother Dave GardnerĪ bright Sunday afternoon in August 1971, just one week after Bill Graham closed the doors of the Fillmore West forever and ever, and I’m sitting in the living room of Jerry Garcia’s new house on the headlands above a coastal village an hour north of San Francisco (a very nice house, by the way, not luxurious or anything, but altogether nice enough to reflect the Grateful Dead’s rising fortunes during the past couple of years) and if I were to glance over my shoulder, I could see beyond the picture window all the way down the tilting rim of the continent to the shimmering Pacific.
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