It would be glib to say The Shape of Water is like Beauty and the Beast meets The Creature From the Black Lagoon. This is completely accurate, but it doesn’t suggest the profound emotional pull and dramatic resonance of this bewitching new movie from Guillermo del Toro. The master craftsman behind the amazing Pan’s Labyrinth, Del Toro’s career has taken some oddball turns since then, but he’s back in top form with this evocative modern fairytale.
Co-scripted by Del Toro and Vanessa Taylor, the story begins at a secret government facility in Baltimore, circa 1962—at the height of the Spy-vs-Spy tensions of the Cold War. Elisa (Sally Hawkins), and her friend, Zelda (Octavia Spencer), are maids, cleaning up the research labs. An orphan, whose damaged vocal cords render her unable to speak, Elisa lives an orderly, solitary life in an apartment above a once-grand movie theater. Her only other friend, Giles (Richard Jenkins), down the hall, is a lonely, middle-aged gay artist whose magazine illustrations are going out of style.
One day, something strange is brought to the lab, accompanied by volatile government honcho, Strickland (Michael Shannon). The staff is warned to keep their distance, but Elisa can’t help peeking into the tank to find that what everyone refers to as “the Asset” is a man-sized, reptilian, aquatic creature with scales, webbed digits, and gills, captured from the jungles of South America—where “the natives consider him a god.”
The scientists, however, are only interested in his dual breathing mechanisms (both water and air), which they plan to study for military purposes. But Elisa soon discovers he’s a sentient being, able to communicate. It’s agonizing enough whenever Strickland shows up with a cattle-prod to show “the Asset” who’s boss. But when Elisa hears that they plan to dissect him, she goes into action.
That’s the plot, but what’s extraordinary is the time and care Del Toro takes to develop Elisa’s relationship with the “Amphibian Man.” She brings him food and companionship; he learns her sign language (which no one else at the facility bothers to do), and responds to music she smuggles in to play for him. In small deft strokes, theirs becomes one of the most compelling, fanciful, and satisfying love stories you’ll see on screen all year. As Elisa signs to Giles, “He doesn’t see how I am incomplete,” they recognize in each other something everyone else is missing.
Hawkins is as marvelous as ever, full of smoldering fury at Strickland (the real “monster” in the story), yet persuasively tender and giddy in love. But major kudos go to Doug Jones, as the creature. A frequent Del Toro collaborator, he’s a skilled mime who specializes in otherworldly roles (he played the fearsome Fauno in Pan’s Labyrinth, and Abe Sapien in the Hellboy movies). The range of subtle sound effects by which the character communicates are brilliantly done, but it’s Jones’ soulful, expressive presence that gives the movie its heart. And it’s all done with make-up; you’d never feel so much humanity from a CGI effect.
Jenkins is also terrific as wry observer Giles; hopelessly crushed on the guy who serves pie at the diner, he becomes Elisa’s staunchest ally. And Del Toro’s sheer joy of filmmaking is contagious, from precision chase scenes and glimpses of period TV shows like Mr. Ed and Dobie Gillis, cannily chosen to inform the story, to his gleeful homage to vintage Hollywood musicals in a nutty but irresistible fantasy dance routine shot in black-and-white à la Fred and Ginger.
Cat lovers (like me) will find one incident distressing, but even that makes a valid point about letting what’s wild stay wild. Overall, this offbeat love story could not be more timely, or effective. It celebrates diversity with a “disabled” heroine, a woman of color, and a gay man teaming up to thwart the evil schemes of a government of monsters. It’s about a woman who defies the perception that she is powerless against condescending male authority. It rebukes stark political and scientific agendas without compassion. And it stands up for the unalienable right to fall in love—period.
THE SHAPE OF WATER
**** (out of four)
With Sally Hawkins, Richard Jenkins, Doug Jones, Octavia Spencer, and Michael Shannon. Written by Guillermo Del Toro and Vanessa Taylor. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. A Fox Searchlight release. Rated R. 123 minutes.
The cover image for GT’s story commemorating KZSC’s 50th anniversary was a 1978 photograph of an unnamed disc jockey from UCSC’s McHenry Library Special Collections. And there were a million things we wanted to know about that photo, like “Who is this person?” and “How does he have such great hair?”
We figured these questions would go unanswered forever. But luckily, Robin Lewin unexpectedly saw his face on that cover—from four decades ago, when he was 19—thanks to some local friends who recognized him through that curly mop of fro-like hair, hemmed by a scruffy beard.
“When other people heard about it, they didn’t even realize it was me. People haven’t seen me with hair like that,” Lewin says. “It was really cool, when I put it on Facebook, people started coming out of the woodwork going like, ‘Oh my god, that’s you?’ It was a trip.”
Lewin says the cover image was a pleasant surprise, not only because he didn’t know the photograph existed, but also because he went on to be the GT sales manager for two years after graduating. And after a stint in radio production post-graduation, he’s currently working in video production in Los Angeles. And apparently has a lot less hair.
Lewin was the station manager at KZSC all four years of his undergraduate career, from 1975-79, despite his initial lack of radio experience. He recalls that his show was a hodgepodge of progressive rock and jazz, spinning bands like Genesis and Gentle Giant.
“If you were motivated,” he says of that era at KZSC, “you could do anything you wanted to.”
For a time it seemed that Silicon Valley’s brilliant geeks, mission-driven startups and aspirations for a more open, connected world would evolve the U.S. economy beyond the Wall Street greed that tanked it in the late aughts. But the futuristic sheen obscured age-old problems lurking beneath the surface.
Three in five women in Silicon Valley reported experiencing unwanted sexual advances, according to a landmark survey titled “Elephant in the Valley.” Two-thirds said the overtures came from a superior. Sexism in tech has long manifested itself in the frat-boy antics of young founders and diversity stats that illustrate the imbalance of pay and power that enables men to marginalize women.
Gamergate in 2014 gave the broader public a glimpse of the tech world’s distinctly atavistic hostility toward women when a mob of anonymous trolls bombarded female gamers with death and rape threats. A year later, former Facebook employee Chia Hong filed a lawsuit claiming that the company repeatedly admonished her for prioritizing her career over raising children.
In 2017, the issue took on renewed urgency when ex-Uber engineer Susan Fowler published a damning first-person essay about the abhorrent sexual harassment she endured at the company. Those words forced the most valuable privately held company on the planet to face a moral reckoning.
Fowler’s account helped inspire a chain reaction of lawsuits and disclosures that culminated with the #MeToo movement at the latter end of 2017. The allegations are nothing new, but the consequences are. And so is the sheer number of victims going public about their abuse.
As it enters 2018, the tech world, it seems, is finally at a crossroads. Here, we look at some of the most notable tech figures accused this year of either committing sexual harassment or failing to use their authority to stop it.
Travis Kalanick
Uber’s Travis Kalanick got knocked from his perch as CEO of the $69 billion ride-hailing company by Fowler’s scathing 3,000-word account. In it, she detailed the unchecked sexism under Kalanick’s watch that protected high performers accused of bad behavior—perpetrators that Uber board member Arianna Huffington would later refer to as “brilliant jerks.” Fowler’s essay, which ultimately resulted in the ouster of Kalanick and about 20 other employees, marked the first time a public scandal took a material toll on Uber’s business. It also showed that people in positions of power could be held to task for abuse reported under their watch, whether or not they were directly involved.
Shervin Pishevar
When Bloomberg reporter Emily Chang gave voice last month to several women accusing Shervin Pishevar of sexual assault, the high-profile Uber investor denied the claims, but agreed to step down from Sherpa Capital, the VC firm he co-founded. One of the women claims Pishevar kissed and groped her during a dinner convened to discuss investing in her startup. Another says Pishevar tried to put his tongue down her throat after luring her to his house with the offer of sharing career advice. What’s particularly troubling about the Pishevar scandal is how he responded to the allegations by threatening to file defamation lawsuits against his accusers. It’s a chilling reminder of why so many accusers hesitate to go on the record, even amid a cultural shift toward believing victims.
Andy Rubin
When the Android co-founder left Google in 2014 to launch a startup incubator, it looked like nothing more than a friendly departure. But Information, a tech news outlet, revealed in November that Andy Rubin’s exit came after an internal investigation into an “inappropriate relationship” he had with a female subordinate. Rubin’s defense was that the relationship was consensual. After the story broke, his company, Essential, told its employees that Rubin was taking a leave of absence “for personal reasons.”
Dave McClure
When the New York Times this summer exposed Dave McClure as a sexual harasser, the founding partner of 500 Startups copped to the charge, admitting he’s a “creep” and bowing out from his post at the Mountain View-based tech incubator. In a mea culpa published on the blog platform Medium, McClure said he was guilty of taking advantage of many more women. “I made advances towards multiple women in work-related situations, where it was clearly inappropriate,” he wrote. “I put people in compromising and inappropriate situations, and I selfishly took advantage of those situations where I should have known better. My behavior was inexcusable and wrong.” McClure’s admission undermined his stated intentions—espoused not a month before the Times report—to support female-led startups.
Justin Caldbeck
Just a few months after being accused by a half-dozen women of making unwanted sexual advances, Justin Caldbeck had the gall to attempt a post-scandal comeback. In November, the Binary Capital VC changed his LinkedIn title to “Head of Self-Reflection, Accountability and Change,” and announced that he would set about educating young men about the pitfalls of “bro culture.” Victim advocates questioned the sincerity of Caldbeck’s personal campaign and whether he’s qualified to teach others how to behave considering he never modeled inclusivity at his own workplace.
John Draper
The allegations have dogged hacking pioneer John Draper—aka Captain Crunch or Crunchman—for years, but a BuzzFeed article published in November finally forced the aging Silicon Valley scion to respond to the troubling claims. Several victims told reporters that the revered phone phreaker routinely preyed on men and teenagers at tech conferences by inviting them to what he called “energy workouts,” where he then sexually assaulted them. Draper, oddly enough, admitted to getting aroused during the bizarre exercises but denied they were sexual in nature. The testimonials shed light for the first time on what’s been described as an open secret in the hacker community.
Robert Scoble
Longtime tech pundit Robert Scoble left his company in October after being outed for sexually harassing and assaulting multiple women. In a public Facebook post days after the allegations came to light, the former Transformation Group executive offered a half-baked apology that named no specific actions or victims and blamed his actions on alcohol—even though some claims came after he’d supposedly gotten sober. It’s unclear how long Scoble plans to withdraw from public view.
Soul-blues rocker Tommy Castro is an unofficial ambassador for the San Jose music scene, having grown up in the South Bay’s musical mixing bowl of lowrider soul, San Francisco hippie rock, and Bay Area blues. He picked up a guitar at the age of 10, and went to as many concerts as he could as a young man, where he studied legendary musicians like Eric Clapton, Elvin Bishop, Taj Mahal and Mike Bloomfield. Now Castro is the one onstage, inspiring future generations of artists in the South Bay and beyond. On Jan. 28, he and his band the Painkillers hit Moe’s Alley to celebrate the release of their new album, Stompin’ Ground.
INFO: 4 p.m. Sunday, Jan. 28. Moe’s Alley, 1535 Commercial Way, Santa Cruz. $20/adv, $25/door. 479-1854. WANT TO GO? Go to santacruz.com/giveaways before 11 a.m. on Monday, Jan. 22 to find out how you could win a pair of tickets to the show.
Bret Bailey has been drumming in local jam bands for years. He was hoping to do something a little different, so he figured he needed to start his own project.
“Usually the people singing are the ones picking the material,” says Bailey.
Together with bassist Pete Novembre, a longtime friend, he started putting together a band that in a lot of ways would be the exact opposite of the style he was used to playing in. His main emphasis would be the vocals.
“I’ve been playing in a lot of jam bands where vocals were really kind of an afterthought, and long instrumentals and improvisations were the emphasis,” Bailey says. “I really wanted to do something different. I wanted to have a funky, crunchy kind of vibe where the vocals were really the emphasis.”
He felt so strongly about having mind-blowing vocals that he got three lead singers to join the project. At first, there were two lead singers and two backup singers, but when the two backup singers quit, he replaced them with a third lead singer and figured whoever wasn’t singing lead at any given moment could be the backup singers.
“We’re doing songs that work best with at least two people backing up the lead singer. Like ‘Baby I Love You’ by Aretha Franklin,” Bailey says.
The group is partially a cover band, but also has its fair share of originals. The primary style of music is funk, and the band’s name is a reference to that.
“When I think of Cosmic Pinball, I think of more funk and disco retro, ’70s retro,” says Bailey.
Live music highlights for the week of January 3, 2018.
THURSDAY 1/4
PSYCH-METAL
DREAMING GHOSTS
Do Americana artists make better heavy metal than metal artists? I don’t have the answer to that, but you will certainly be considering this question if you check out local quartet Dreaming Ghosts, an all-star psych-metal group featuring members of bluegrass band Brothers Comatose and Americana rockers Coffis Brothers and the Mountain Men. Their side project takes elements of ’70s classic rock, sci-fi imagery, and tripped-out ’60s psychedelia and packages them into an undeniably raging rock sound. Don’t worry, metalheads, there’s no sign of country or roots rock in the mix whatsoever. AC
Indie rocker Henry Chadwick is poised to be a Santa Cruz music scene success story. In 2016, he popped onto the national radar seemingly overnight when Rolling Stone and Time ranked “Guest at Home,” the title track from his solo debut album, one of the best pop songs of the year. The recognition surprised Chadwick as much as anyone. Last year, the one-time member of local punk outfit My Stupid Brother told GT the nod was “very surprising” and “bizarre,” and that he “didn’t really know what to think.” This Friday, the local sensation, who continues to impress, joins local country rocker Jesse Daniel and singer-songwriter Lauren June. CJ
Carlos Santana gets a lot of credit for his work in fusing Latin music and rock, but let’s discuss the sometimes underappreciated force that is Los Lobos. They’ve not only created brilliant Latin-fused rock music since 1973, they have a sound that is much more eclectic, and consistently creative, than Santana’s. Los Lobos singer/guitarist David Hidalgo is joined on this tour by his sons David Hidalgo Jr. (Social Distortion) and Vincent Hidalgo. Thus the name. AC
Nef the Pharaoh may only have hit the big time three years ago, but at 22 years old he has already made quite the name for himself. Hailing from Vallejo, Nef’s “internet freestyle” rapping has earned him collaborations with Bay Area heavy hitters like E-40, whose Sick Wid It Records signed him in 2015. That same year, his “Big Tymin’” single became a major hip hop hit, with critics from Pitchfork and Noisey praising the homage to New Orleans’ bounce. Earlier this year, he dropped the guest-star infused The Chang Project, what he calls a prelude to his long-awaited full-length album Big Chang Theory. MAT WEIR
It’s been an amazing year for local hero James Durbin. For one thing, he’s officially become the singer for Quiet Riot. The band was so stoked on him, they had him re-record vocals for their new album Road Rage, which was set for an April release, but pushed back to August to make room for Durbin. And he is the best thing to happen to Quiet Riot in a long time. He rips! Those high notes will make your brain explode! Even though Durbin is a big hotshot rockstar now, you can still catch him in Santa Cruz with his group the Lost Boys. AC
INFO: 9:30 p.m. Crow’s Nest, 2218 E. Cliff Drive, Santa Cruz. $7. 476-4560.
SATURDAY 1/6
ROCK
COFFIS BROTHERS
Hometown favorites the Coffis Brothers & the Mountain Men—or simply the Coffis Brothers for us lokes—return to Moe’s Alley for a night of country-folk-infused rock. Only this time, the five-piece group will be rocking out to a brand new repertoire of songs, fresh off the release of their third LP, Roll With It. Unlike their previous albums, Roll With It steers away from rock’s gritty blues roots and travels the dusty paths of musicians like Townes Van Zandt and Justin Townes Earle. MW
In the late 1970s, rock guitarist Ronnie Montrose tagged Scottish vocalist Davey Pattison to front his new band GAMMA. The two co-wrote numerous hits, including
“Thunder & Lightning,” “No Tears” and “Voyager.” An album-oriented band, GAMMA grew into an arena sensation and released three albums, cleverly titled GAMMA 1, GAMMA 2 and GAMMA 3. After numerous lineup changes, the band broke up in the early ’80s, only to reunite in 2000, release GAMMA 4, and disband again. After Montrose’s tragic death from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in 2012, the band reunited again, and, led by Pattison, is still rocking. CJ
A decade after the release of her last album, Joni Mitchell casts a more imposing shadow over the musical landscape than ever. No singer on the West Coast is paying more scrupulous attention to Mitchell’s wondrous book than Santa Barbara’s Kimberly Ford. Possessing a bright and flexible soprano that effortlessly rises into Mitchell’s upper range, Ford has spent the past four years honing a vast array of Mitchell material, from the hits to the misses (as Joni once called her favorite songs that didn’t connect at the time). Her five-piece band makes its Kuumbwa debut, a few months after a triumphant performance at JoniFest in New Orleans. ANDREW GILBERT
INFO: 7:30 p.m. Kuumbwa Jazz, 320-2 Cedar St., Santa Cruz. $25/gen, $40/gold. 427-2227.
SUNDAY 1/7
ROCK/TRIBUTE
GRATEFUL SUNDAY
The music of the Grateful Dead lends itself nicely to group jams. The band set a tone of experimentation, improvisation and anything-goes instrumentation early on that remains a defining feature of its tunes, culture, countless tributes and post-Jerry iterations. The Grateful Sunday concert series at Michael’s on Main showcases Dead tribute bands and appreciative artists jamming and reworking the music of the legendary band. This Sunday sees John Hanrahan’s Another Ones—featuring Jerry Brown, Steve Sofranko, Noah Flint, and Skippy Sherred—hitting the stage. CJ
INFO: 5:30 p.m. Michaels on Main, 2591 Main St., Soquel. Free. 479-9777.
IN THE QUEUE
PAPIBA & FRIENDS
Afro-Brazilian grooves. Thursday at Crow’s Nest
PACIFIC MAMBO ORCHESTRA
Latin big band. Saturday at Coconut Grove
DAVID BOWIE TRIBUTE
Tribute to the rock ’n’ roll legend. Saturday at Crepe Place
JOINT CHIEFS
Funk, acid jazz and R&B. Saturday at Michael’s on Main
7 COME 11
Organ-driven local funk outfit. Tuesday at Crepe Place
The 23rd annual “8 Tens @ 8” Festival is one of the most popular and highly anticipated theater events of the year. With a selection of 16 Actors’ Theatre award-winning scripts, the 10-minute plays spotlight some of the best local actors and directors around. The plays are separated into A and B series nights, with eight 10-minute plays at, you guessed it, 8 p.m. A lot can happen in just 10 minutes. Short attention spans are welcome, in fact they are encouraged.
INFO: Shows run Friday, Jan. 5-Sunday, Feb. 4. Center Stage Theater, 1001 Center St., Santa Cruz. $23 senior/student, $26 general admission, $45 two-night package. sccat.org.
Green Fix
Davenport Beach Cleanup
January is a time of self-renewal, brought to you on the heels of the giving season. In the spirit of a brighter new year, let’s all take a walk on the beach, and exercise our back muscles as we stoop to pick up trash. A beach cleanup is one of the most enjoyable ways to give back to the community and boost your local pride. Join Save Our Shores and help rid Davenport’s beautiful main beach of plastic and all other unnatural detritus—and maybe even make some new friends in the process. Years from now you’ll tell the story of how you met: bonding over bottles and butts. Don’t forget to bring reusable work gloves, buckets, hats and a full reusable water bottle.
INFO: 9-11 a.m. Sunday, Jan. 7. Davenport Main Beach, 446 Hwy. One, Davenport. 462-5660, saveourshores.org. Free.
Friday 1/5
Shroomy Art
Santa Cruz might just be the fungi-est place on the Central Coast. Some wait all year for mushroom week, others can’t wait that long and are bringing the fungi early. Rain dances to help this process along are appreciated. In anticipation of Santa Cruz’s 44th annual Fungus Fair (mark your calendars for Jan. 12), Artisans Gallery is showcasing local art centered around fungi during January’s First Friday, with several artists, including the dreamy botanically inspired watercolors of McKella Jo. There will also be some (legal) shroomy snacks available. Sure, you’ve seen and eaten them, but have you ever done this while simultaneously taking in the mushroom’s natural beauty through an artist’s eyes? After that, head over to Agency and take in ocean-inspired paintings by pro surfer Shawn Dollar, who began painting while recovering from a brain injury.
Ten musicians and four choreographers from various cultural backgrounds collaborated on this one-of-a-kind African culture-based dance performance celebrating the “oneness of humankind through dance.” We can’t think of a better way. The show is sponsored by Cheza Nami, a nonprofit aimed at preserving and encouraging the appreciation of African culture through the arts, and melds a myriad of different African cultures together. It’s no secret that Santa Cruz is severely lacking in African culture and representation, and here is a great opportunity to learn more about it while witnessing a knockout performance.
INFO: 2 p.m. and 6:30 p.m. Louden Nelson Community Center, 301 Center St., Santa Cruz. essenceshow.eventbrite.com. $20/$30.
Growing roses apparently isn’t as intimidating as it seems. Naturally, the Queen of Flowers needs a little advance love and care if you want her petals to bloom their best. Preparation is key when growing roses; you need to choose what kind of flower you want to grow, have the right fertilizer, and plan the irrigation and pruning. An eye for pests and disease is also handy, which are easy to prevent and deal with if you know what to look for. But hey, today’s hard work is tomorrow’s beautiful blooms, and while Santa Cruz’s rose game is already pretty strong, a few more roses to smell this spring doesn’t sound bad at all.
INFO: 9:30 a.m.-noon. Alan Chadwick Garden, Corner of McLaughlin Drive and Merrill Road
You’ve arrived at the virtual voting booth of Good Times’ Best of Santa Cruz County Awards, where the pen, paper, and “I voted” sticker are all imaginary, but the results are the real thing.
Remember: Vote for a minimum of 25 categories to have your ballot counted.
Voting ends at midnight on Sunday, January 21, 2018.
Some guidelines:
1. We appreciate the creativity of local, independent business, and these are the businesses that Best Of celebrates. Therefore, we consider Think Local First guidelines when selecting winners: businesses that have majority ownership based in the counties of Santa Cruz, Monterey, Santa Clara or San Benito. We make an exception for chain stores that were founded in Santa Cruz County, and are proud to include them.
2. Votes for businesses with multiple locations are divided among the total number of locations.
3. There are a few categories in the food section that are so popular we offer a vote by city. Voters don’t always know where city lines are drawn, so we place the total votes according to where voters tend to ascribe them. For example, Pleasure Point winners are included in Capitola because most voters associate Pleasure Point with Capitola (it’s in Santa Cruz).
4. We reserve the right to eliminate a category with so few votes that it’s imprudent to assign “best” status.
It’s a privilege and an honor, this voting thing. And remember, you only get to vote once.The results will be announced on March 23 in our Best of Santa Cruz County issue. Thanks for playing!
If you are experiencing difficulties filling out the survey, email our Web Editor, Lily, at lily[at]goodtimes.sc for help.
On a Grateful Dead tour, you met the best people on Earth. People from all walks of life were drawn to shows like Richard Dreyfus was drawn to the Devil’s Tower in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
But there were also narcs, feds, drug addicts, clinically insane misfits and jerks. There was a series of “religious” groups, like the Golden Roaders, selling backless dresses and Sufi spinning at shows. Then there were the Moonies, although I only saw them at shows in the Northeast, who were aggressive and deceptive, selling lame stickers and incense. The Krishnas gave out free rice, but they also played their freaking tambourines and drums at sunrise to greet the day! Not a good group to camp next to. From Scientologists to evangelical Christians to mini-messiahs that paraded around in full regalia (mostly a robe, a loin cloth and a conch full of burning sage) there was no shortage of wackadoodles to join up with or be abducted by. I know that I and hundreds (or at least dozens) of other Deadheads took it upon ourselves to be the ones to “look out” for the weaker ones as the scene grew exponentially and then collapsed upon itself. I am grateful for my time in that world and recently I reflected on that journey. At least the parts I could remember.
09-06-80
Maine State Fairgrounds
Lewiston, Maine
I had like 20 or 30 Grateful Dead concerts under my belt. But this show in Lewiston, Maine was my first outdoor show. Personally, my life was in a bit of a downward spiral. I was 18 years old. I had recently not graduated from high school. I failed gym—don’t ask. For good or ill, I still hadn’t found a steady girlfriend. Most of my buddies had left for college. I was reluctantly working at Swenson’s Ice Cream and dreading starting Kean University, in Union, New Jersey. I only applied because my father thought I was mentally deficient. “Who fails gym?” was the battle cry around the DNA household.
Entering Lewiston, Maine, it seemed as if the entire town was welcoming—or looking to cash in on—the invading horde. People were standing in their driveways offering $10 parking to anyone desperate enough for the promise of an indoor bathroom. Restaurants had “Welcome Deadhead” signs in their windows. The line of VWs, broken-down wrecks and school buses en route to the show was viewed as a parade. Children were waving. There was no undercurrent of judgement. It was a true community spectacle. Post-show articles cried about the wild atmosphere that the Dead circus brought to town, but they cried all the way to the bank.
The Grateful Dead performing in Washington, D.C., on Saturday, June 20, 1992. From left, Phil Lesh, Bob Wier, Jerry Garcia, and Bruce Hornsby.
I was used to people scampering to the stage and setting up perimeters, establishing little Trumpian invisible walls between their space and my space. This was different. This was my first outdoor show, and in the big field that had been in use since 1898, there was space enough for everyone. The Dead played for three hours, and it was a slice of heaven. An undeniable connection between fans, band and environment occurred. Gone was the cement underneath. I took my shoes off. This might seem, especially to my California friends, a simple enough move, but it was revelatory.
Unlike the Great Nothing in The Neverending Story, there was a great something afoot, and the music of the Grateful Dead was the conduit. And much like The Neverending Story, every person there felt like they were the central character in a cosmic tale. It was a grounding experience. My roles that I played at home, mostly that of a lowly ice cream scooper with a GED, melted away. I felt lucky as hell to be there, and I knew I wanted more. Now, as many have argued before, it could have all been a dream brought on by hallucinogens and projected expectations. But the way I saw it, a dream was better than no dream at all—or worse yet, suburbia.
10-11-83
Madison Square Garden
New York City New York
If I had to call one venue my home, it was Madison Square Garden. I must have seen the Dead there 20 times. From my parent’s house, it was less than 40 minutes to get to the city and wind my way to 7th and 33rd. In the world of concert experiences, MSG is a singular adventure. Opened in 1968, the roof was built with shock absorbers, so when the entire venue is rocking with 19,812 fans going apeshit, the roof literally bounces up and down. I’ve been in a lot of coliseums, but MSG has that special feel of being a world-class stage where magic has occurred over and over again. The original space was five blocks away, opened in 1879, and had people like Nikola Tesla performing. But from Ali vs. Frazier’s “Fight of the Century” to Ringling Brothers’ home to the birth of Hulkamania, the “new” MSG has a thousand stories. It is every East Coaster’s Mecca.
It should be remembered that as reverential a space as MSG is, right outside the door is New York City. The city that never sleeps. The city with an incredibly organized police force that deals with crazies 24/7. So when the Dead came to town, they geared up. Yes, the cops could be helpful in their brusque, in-your-face NYC way. But every police squad needs to generate arrests, and Dead crowds were easy pickings. On the street, 25 undercover cops were putting on their tie-dyes—that they had just confiscated—and walked around filling garbage bags with Deadheads’ crafts and shirts. Everyone knew it was risky to sell anything on the streets of New York, but Deadheads need gas money just to get to the next show, and often selling a few trinkets was the only way to do it.
The tour lot, dubbed Shakedown Street, was a bazaar of crafts, food, drumming and anything you could imagine. It was our Silk Road. It was the original Dark Web. Over the years, I sold shirts, drums, these purple face masks you blew in that created a hypnotic experience, grilled cheese, anklets (these were my bread and butter), hand-painted sun dresses and baby food. Some friends made a killing with a “Steal Your Face” metal license plate business. It was pure copyright infringement, but the profits were enormous. Huge Guatemalan dealers made a mint at shows.
For most of the Deadheads trying to hustle a few stickers, it was dire straits to not sell them, so the risk was worth it. Being stuck in NYC after a show could be grim. One summer, I paid for the entire journey with just a few balls of hemp string and a big bag of African trading beads. Ninety percent of what you saw people selling was handmade. It was Etsy in real time.
I was 21. I had turned my life around. My dad had a string of heart attacks, my grandparents died, and something in my head clicked. Even though in my first semester I got a 0.00 GPA at Kean University, I finally “got” that if I just repeated back to teachers what they said to me, I could get an A. I decided I was going to go to graduate school in California, to be closer to the band, and doing well in my undergrad was my meal ticket. I was working full time, going to school full time and helping my family out. I was also ingesting everything that came my way.
Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead playing with Slightly Stoopid at TRI Studios in San Rafael last year.
Rumors were circulating at this MSG show, as rumors would circulate at almost every show about something: songs overheard in sound check, possible guest appearances and Jerry’s health. I disregarded all the pre-show talk. I could give a wharf rat’s ass about guest appearances. I wanted the core band; everyone else was a distraction. I was feeling my oats at this show. The crowd was on stun, and I sat in my seat like all the others through the first set. I almost bailed and went to the hallways where the real action was, but I wanted to actually see whatever the band had up its sleeve. Top of the second set, I decided I was going to stand for the entire thing. I let the people behind me know. I told them, “Look guys, there’s no fucking way I’m sitting down.” At least everyone around knew that I knew I was a dick. In NYC, this is known as “being courteous.”
The second set rolled through “China Cat”/“Rider”/“Miracle”/“Bertha” and still nobody around me got on their feet continuously. People would get up and then sit back in their metal folding chair. Then the band broke it down, slowed it to a halt and drifted into a haunting “China Doll” (the band’s most personal song about suicide and depression). It appeared perhaps I was wrong, perhaps the boys were wrapping it up—but I still had a feeling. Then, out of space came the first notes of “St. Stephen.” They hadn’t played it since 1979, and suddenly everyone was on their feet. When the lyrics “In and out of the garden he goes” were sung, the Garden exploded. 20,000 people were now screaming along: “Wherever he goes the people all complain.” New Yorkers, the butt of everyone else’s jokes, knew better than most what this meant. Now we were all standing on our chairs, and the magic of Madison Square Garden was in full effect.
It was a supersonic jolt. Everybody behind me was smiling. Whatever neurolinguistic programs were running got a hard reboot. Although there was another Dead show at MSG the following night, and then two more in Hartford, Connecticut (where they played “St. Stephen” again, my second and last time hearing it), this show was the peak, the pinnacle that Maslow runs on about. Was it their best show? No. Not even close. But, for a short amount of time, something occurred that turned a coliseum of strangers into a community.
8-31-85
Manor Downs Speedway
Manor, Texas
Driving into Texas, I was following a black Porsche that was doing a cool 85 miles an hour. Following me was a Texas trooper. Flashers on, he motioned for me to pull over and went after the now accelerating Porsche. I had been in Texas for five minutes, and I had no intention of being arrested—I slowed down, saw the cop disappear from view and kept going. I was young and fearless. I also had a lot of weed in the car. It was the beginning of a 13-show run.
The temperature in Texas in late August borders between Holy Hell and Kill Me Now Hell. Not only was it sweltering, but massive storms extended to the horizon. I always wanted to spot a twister, and sure enough in the distance a black funnel cloud was touching down.
Finally I got to Austin, and I fell in love with the town. Lotta ’heads. Plenty of bars. Music was playing in the streets. Imagine the TV show Deadwood if everyone in Deadwood was on mescaline.
The Manor Downs Speedway was being run at this point by Sam Cutler, ex-manager of the Dead and the Rolling Stones. So it was going to be a full-blown freak fest. Manor Downs is on the edge of town. It was Saturday night. Every cowboy and cowgirl within 100 miles was coming to see the shindig. Time to blow off steam, Texas style.
Upon entering, I noticed a Greenpeace booth. This was a good sign. This was before every dipshit in America had a clipboard on the corner and pestered you for a signature. Back in 1985, Greenpeace had serious cred. Besides the Rainbow Warrior, this booth might have been the only place it was disseminating info.
I beelined for the front row. I was going to go toe-to-toe with Texas. Saturday night, oversold show, front row, Jerry side. The energy was off the hook. Everyone in the front row realized early on that there was a 50/50 chance we would all be crushed to death. Keeping balance and helping anyone near you that dipped down was key, and went without being said. The show started, and out came the Saturday night party accoutrements. Booze, joints. But this was Texas—and, as you might have heard, everything is bigger in Texas. The joints were the size of a baby’s forearm, the Jack Daniels was in either a novelty-sized gigantic bottle, or that’s just the way it comes in Texas. Everything was shared. We were the front-row army, locking arms and keeping the ship of fools behind us.
Now, did Deadheads really believe that the Dead and sometimes specifically Jerry was communicating with them? Short answer: yes.
It’s common to label the Dead a psychedelic rock band, a ’60s relic and a jam band. But a lesser-known fact is that they were also a kick-ass country band. That night, pumping out Marty Robbins and Johnny Cash, the Texans crowed, caw-cawed and hooted, and the electricity was jumping around the crowd like a frog in a hailstorm.
Second set ended with 15,000 people clapping the Buddy Holly song “Not Fade Away” until the band left the stage, leaving drummer Mickey Hart conducting the 10-gallon crowd with just one drumstick. Then he left as well.
Show ended. Pleasantries exchanged. Suddenly, I lost my bearings. Where was the Greenpeace booth, had they already packed up and left? My foot hit a piece of wood. Looking down amidst the mud was scattered debris. The Greenpeace booth had been shattered, decimated, and was already decomposing in the mud. It wasn’t ominous, it was Texas, and that’s just the way they do things.
Sitting on the hood of my car in the middle of the cornfield like something out of Hee Haw, young Texans began popping up between the stalks, adjusting overalls straps, pulling down shirts and blouses. The cornfields were full of people fucking! And at that moment I finally understood Texas. Nobody, and I mean nobody, parties like Texans on a Saturday night.
The Grateful Dead never played Texas again.
10-25-1985
Hollywood Sportatorium
Pembroke Pines, Florida
By September of 1985, I’d made it to California. I was living in the SF Mission District with my brother and his wife. That lasted about two weeks. It ended with him, naked, pinning his wife to the ceiling. I’m pretty sure it was real, but it also was a good stunt to get me to leave. A childhood friend was going to Dominican College in San Rafael and before you could say “Aoxomoxoa,” I was living right between the Grateful Dead studio and office. So now I was hanging with my childhood buddy in Marin, painting apartments, chilling out with John Cipollina (our roommate’s brother was his manager) and decompressing by hiking Mount Tamalpais every single day. I don’t know about holy spots and vortexes, but Mt. Tam is very special to me. I had no desire to go back to New Jersey, but life is funny that way.
This next part is hard for me to write about. Long story short, I made a phone call that interrupted a friend’s suicide attempt. I felt obligated to fly back to New Jersey. She was stuck in the mental ward for a week. While there, I met her estranged father, and he told me I could stay in his Florida condo for a few days if I needed to get away.
Well, the Dead were playing two shows in Florida, so I agreed. He might have never done anything for her, but I was going to take advantage of this opportunity. I’m sorry to say that Deadheads will capitalize on misfortune if it leads to seeing a show.
Florida was the Orange State, and I was coming with orange sunshine. If you removed all of the tourists, gangs, spring breakers, face-eaters and old people from Florida, it would still be the weirdest state in the country. It’s the land that’s weird. It’s spongy. There’s a higher and higher percentage of water in the landmass that increases until you hit the Everglades. Alligators, pumas, panthers, poisonous snakes and bugs the size of your fist abound. Florida would be overrun with wildlife in a week, given the chance.
There were two shows in two days, about seven hours apart. The Sportatorium was a monstrosity. The acoustics were terrible, and it was evident somebody built this place as a cash cow rather than a sacred—or even comfortable—space. I didn’t care. My mind was full of thoughts, and I needed to unravel my helix with my favorite band in the world. That night the band spoke to me.
Now, did Deadheads really believe that the Dead and sometimes specifically Jerry was communicating with them? Short answer: yes.
Short response from you is probably one of disbelief, possibly even scorn, like “What, are you crazy?” I get that. Believe me, it’s swirled around my head for decades. It seems to me saying the “band communicated with us” and “specifically Jerry” is too narrow a way to talk about it. There was a “something.” How each person interpreted it was up to them.
Was it at every show that this “something” happened? No, which is one reason we all went to as many shows as possible, increasing the odds of catching it.
Once, at a show in Laguna Seca, I had the privilege of spending some time with a Navajo chief. He said his tribe is called Dineh. I kept thinking he was saying DNA. Eventually we figured it out and had a laugh. He told me that the Deadheads were part of the Navajo prophecies. He laid a story on me about how once the rainbow people gather, the buffalo will return.
Were you expecting something more nuanced? It’s prophecy, people, it’s supposed to be cryptic!
Another time I saw writer Joseph Campbell at the Palace of Fine Arts. It was a symposium called “From Ritual to Rapture: From Dionysus to the Grateful Dead.” It was Campbell’s belief that what he witnessed at some recent Dead shows in Oakland, where we locked eyes for a while, was an ecstatic movement, a Dionysian catharsis, where, through dance, music and intoxicants, transformation was happening.
All right, I’m with you, this could all be bullshit. But I’m also a Deadhead who saw some wild stuff.
January is a time of self-renewal, brought to you on the heels of the giving season. In the spirit of a brighter new year, let’s all take a walk on the beach, and exercise our back muscles as we stoop to pick up trash. A beach cleanup is one of the most enjoyable ways to give back to the community
Santa Cruz might just be the fungi-est place on the Central Coast. Some wait all year for mushroom week, others can’t wait that long and are bringing the fungi early. Rain dances to help this process along are appreciated. In anticipation of Santa Cruz’s 44th annual Fungus Fair (mark your calendars for Jan. 12), Artisans Gallery is showcasing local art centered around fungi during January’s First Friday, with several artists, including the dreamy botanically inspired watercolors of McKella Jo. There will also be some (legal) shroomy snacks available. Sure, you’ve seen and eaten them, but have you ever done this while simultaneously taking in the mushroom’s natural beauty through an artist’s eyes? After that, head over to Agency and take in ocean-inspired paintings by pro surfer Shawn Dollar, who began painting while recovering from a brain injury.
Ten musicians and four choreographers from various cultural backgrounds collaborated on this one-of-a-kind African culture-based dance performance celebrating the “oneness of humankind through dance.” We can’t think of a better way. The show is sponsored by Cheza Nami, a nonprofit aimed at preserving and encouraging the appreciation of African culture through the arts, and melds a myriad of different African cultures together. It’s no secret that Santa Cruz is severely lacking in African culture and representation, and here is a great opportunity to learn more about it while witnessing a knockout performance.
Growing roses apparently isn’t as intimidating as it seems. Naturally, the Queen of Flowers needs a little advance love and care if you want her petals to bloom their best. Preparation is key when growing roses; you need to choose what kind of flower you want to grow, have the right fertilizer, and plan the irrigation and pruning. An eye for pests and disease is also handy, which are easy to prevent and deal with if you know what to look for. But hey, today’s hard work is tomorrow’s beautiful blooms, and while Santa Cruz’s rose game is already pretty strong, a few more roses to smell this spring doesn’t sound bad at all.
