things for our boys, so we don’t mind him.” Unfortunately, a few weeks later her letter would relate that Stan had skipped town owing everyone at least sixty dollars. Far more their style was the newest club around, the Offstage, in San Jose. It was run by Paul Foster, a dropout computer programmer who’d been known to attend political demonstrations with a sign that read “Now.” Foster had fallen in with a group of Santa Clara–area folkies that included Paul Kantner, David Freiberg, and Jorma Kaukonen, and created a club that would give them a home. The charge was a dollar, except for drunks, in which case it was four dollars. There was, of course, no liquor, and even the coffee had to be consumed before the music began so there would be no clinking of cups. They sold pot under the counter to make the rent, and it became a regular stop for Garcia and company.
It was a difficult fall. Phil Lesh had settled in Palo Alto, but a romantic entanglement had encouraged his swift departure. He went off to San Francisco, where he moved in with T.C. and dabbled with amphetamines. His active participation in music seemed to have come to an end. Garcia was painfully learning the demands of being a husband. Because of her pregnancy, Sara couldn’t tolerate drugs, tobacco, or alcohol, not only for herself but for anyone around her. In her own words, she “made life miserable for poor Jerry,” trying to “domesticate him.” “He’d come home silly and I’d get pissed.” It did not occur to her that her hormonal mood swings were natural, and she shoved her anxiety on her husband, whom she described as a “traditional sexual redneck.” “He was moody and I was critical.”
In the country at large, a glorious coming-together was followed by two great tragedies. In August, hundreds of thousands of Americans had gathered at the Lincoln Memorial to hear Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. give one of the masterpieces of American oratory, the “I Have a Dream” speech. And not only did the younger generation join the March on Washington, but its minstrels, Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, were able to participate, singing “Blowin’ in the Wind” there. Not since Woody Guthrie had song joined moral purpose so persuasively; the dream was vivid and alive. Three weeks after the march, unspeakable horror struck down four little girls in Birmingham, Alabama. Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Carol Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley died when the 16th Street Baptist Church was bombed. And on November 22, 1963, there was further madness, with the murder of President John F. Kennedy.
Like so many Americans, Phil Lesh turned “into a robot” on Friday the twenty-second, and he was still in shock on Sunday morning. Driving down McAllister Street in his post office van, he heard music coming out of a barroom door, parked the van, and went in. It was the funeral march from Beethoven’s
Eroica
Symphony, conducted by Leonard Bernstein. “That was the day that my illusions were blown away, one hundred percent. The only gleam of light was Beethoven . . . things shifted an octave, like consciousness rather than political control. Good-bye everything we ever believed in. Welcome to the modern world, where a coup d’état is everyday business.”
Two weeks later, on December 8, Sara Garcia gave birth to Heather, named after the folksinger Hedy West. It was a natural childbirth, so Sara was conscious and could inquire, halfway through the process, “Is it a boy or a girl?” “Only the head’s out, honey.” “If she’s smiling,” Sara replied, “it’s a girl.” Garcia charged down the hospital corridor, yelling to Hunter, who would be Heather’s godfather, “It’s a broad, it’s a broad.”
“I can’t describe to you the feeling,” he said, grinning, shrugging, shaking his head. However unready, he was a father. Sara came down with an infection, and had to return to the hospital for a little while. When she got out on December 18, she
It was a difficult fall. Phil Lesh had settled in Palo Alto, but a romantic entanglement had encouraged his swift departure. He went off to San Francisco, where he moved in with T.C. and dabbled with amphetamines. His active participation in music seemed to have come to an end. Garcia was painfully learning the demands of being a husband. Because of her pregnancy, Sara couldn’t tolerate drugs, tobacco, or alcohol, not only for herself but for anyone around her. In her own words, she “made life miserable for poor Jerry,” trying to “domesticate him.” “He’d come home silly and I’d get pissed.” It did not occur to her that her hormonal mood swings were natural, and she shoved her anxiety on her husband, whom she described as a “traditional sexual redneck.” “He was moody and I was critical.”
In the country at large, a glorious coming-together was followed by two great tragedies. In August, hundreds of thousands of Americans had gathered at the Lincoln Memorial to hear Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. give one of the masterpieces of American oratory, the “I Have a Dream” speech. And not only did the younger generation join the March on Washington, but its minstrels, Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, were able to participate, singing “Blowin’ in the Wind” there. Not since Woody Guthrie had song joined moral purpose so persuasively; the dream was vivid and alive. Three weeks after the march, unspeakable horror struck down four little girls in Birmingham, Alabama. Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Carol Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley died when the 16th Street Baptist Church was bombed. And on November 22, 1963, there was further madness, with the murder of President John F. Kennedy.
Like so many Americans, Phil Lesh turned “into a robot” on Friday the twenty-second, and he was still in shock on Sunday morning. Driving down McAllister Street in his post office van, he heard music coming out of a barroom door, parked the van, and went in. It was the funeral march from Beethoven’s
Eroica
Symphony, conducted by Leonard Bernstein. “That was the day that my illusions were blown away, one hundred percent. The only gleam of light was Beethoven . . . things shifted an octave, like consciousness rather than political control. Good-bye everything we ever believed in. Welcome to the modern world, where a coup d’état is everyday business.”
Two weeks later, on December 8, Sara Garcia gave birth to Heather, named after the folksinger Hedy West. It was a natural childbirth, so Sara was conscious and could inquire, halfway through the process, “Is it a boy or a girl?” “Only the head’s out, honey.” “If she’s smiling,” Sara replied, “it’s a girl.” Garcia charged down the hospital corridor, yelling to Hunter, who would be Heather’s godfather, “It’s a broad, it’s a broad.”
“I can’t describe to you the feeling,” he said, grinning, shrugging, shaking his head. However unready, he was a father. Sara came down with an infection, and had to return to the hospital for a little while. When she got out on December 18, she
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