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workingman. Garcia got a nice steel pedal sound out of his guitar during the piece. It seems thaLhe plays both instruments in a similar fashion. After one song, the audience was on its feet and smoke spiralled through the lights. Stony Brook gym is a limited environment, yet the band seemed to need little time to feel it out. The set was somewhat abbreviated, perhaps due to the overtime alloted to the first show or even a lack of enthusiasm on the part of the Dead themselves. The customary acoustic section was sorely missed. ‘Round things are... boring’ by Alan Meerow Spectrum Staff Writer The Bronx! The Bronx! How unholy it seemed, walking awa> from Kevin’s house - still, yet watchful; Halloween pumpkim glowing beside American flags in shaded windows. Change in the Bronx is subtle - always - a few more cracks in the pavement, another tree missing from Mosholu Parkway. I talked with the folks for a while over coffee and then collapsed into sleep. The little three rooms that compose home never seemed smaller. cries of card players. The guy from driver’s ed walked to the back of the train and got quietly stoned outside the car. As we pulled out of some Long Island town, a rock crashed through the window alongside his seat. Calmly, he pulled a frightening splinter of glass out of his ear. “China Cat Sunflower” followed and flowed into “Know Your Rider.” The combination was possibly the best work of the evening. The Dead seemed especially nostalgic that Friday evening, getting deep into material off Vintage Dead. Besides, “Know Your Rider,” “Dancing in the Streets” and “It Hurts Me Too” were heard. Seeing the Grateful Dead ever more becomes a complex situation, filled with ritual, worship and even madness. There are those who would (and do) pursue them across the country or put their asses on the line by attempting to- steal past fences and security guards that they might trip out of their faces on stage behind Jerry Garcia’s amplifier- If any band is enchanted, it is the Grateful Dead and if any night is the Dead’s night, it is Halloween. Cryptical development Nonetheless, too many questions were raised in my mind. The Grateful Dead have been playing quite a few concerts these days. In truth, can they be expected to be enjoying themselves even 50% of the time? At what point does pleasure become business and business become drudgery? During “Lovelights” Pigpen wandered away and had to be frantically called back by Weir. And, as a billion flashbulbs popped when Garcia lit a joint, he was heard to mutter: \Big fucking deal.” And as for us, packed inside a gymnasium, the sweat rolling down and joining the sweat of basketball and calisthenics, how far will we go in our frantic worship? Outside the concert, several people attempted to gain free admission. A cop singled out one and proceeded to beat the living shit out of him as an usher implored: \There is no need for that, no need at all!\ Who then is the manipulator? The manipulated? It is said that Garcia's new rap is that we don’t need the Grateful Dead; we should learn to entertain ourselves. He should know better and perhaps he does, only falling a victim to wishful thinking. As Robert Hunter, the Dead’s lyricist said; “One man gathers what another man spills.\ Trick or treat, Jerry. High time Stony Brook is a completely schizoid environment. Perhaps that is the nature of Long Island. After all, suburbia is in a tenuous position, never knowing when the first project will mark its absorbtion into urbanization. “Dancing in the Streets” was the spiritual highlight of the set. Bob Weir turned the vocal into a high-powered plea that brought everyone to their feet. The gym shook as the lights played upon several thousand wiggling asses. The entire set was field day for Pigpen. His vocal graced “It Hurts Me Too,” “Too Hot to Handle” and the inevitable “Lovelights.\ He also displayed some fine harp work on “It Hurts ... Unfortunately he almost completely avoided his organ except during tune-up, when it could be heard grumbling above all else. Dire wolf The next day’s visit to my high school left me shaken. Perhaps it should not have; the stagnancy that has beset every human artifact, movement and situation certainly should not be exempt from a high school. I spoke for some time with last year’s English teacher who, for me, was that one person who remains synonymous with the high school experience. We talked long and the resignation was in his voice, the last voice in which I’d expect to hear it. Well, high school was always a joke, wasn’t it? So why shouldn’t it now simply become a different type of joke? A guy I know raced up to me. “Hey, next week we plan to lower the American flag and put up the YIP and NLF. Plus we got a special knot so they won’t be able to get it down!” Said with all the political fervor of a kid with a new toy. My friend, Maria, in the three weeks 1 hadn’t communicated with her, had transfered to night school close to her home. Stony Brook is where a person suddenly lays down a rap about Marvel Comic Books and just as suddenly disappears or where two folks with painted faces join your game with the salt shaker at a table in the snack bar or where some non-descript individual joins your plan to locate your friends and just as soon melts back into the crowd that spawned him. It is where people’s social games are either much to obvious or else non-existent. We journeyed to see the Grateful Dead at Stoney Brook on Halloween as, no doubt, thousands did, until Penn Station, it seemed nothing less than a pilgrimage. I was enchanted from the very beginning. With Kevin’s car incapacitated, the only alternative was hitching. So, two friends and myself waited along with six others in an intermittant drizzle on the entrance to the Thruway. But the spirits of the day were partial to our malaise and within four hours, by way of two long rides, we arrived at Binghamton, cramped and woozy. Kevin and 1 grew uneasy. Things that go too smoothly are always subject to suspicion. Certainly the worst was yet to come. Garcia took a back seat for the first half of the concert, allowing Weir to get into some of the finest guitar he has ever produced. Gradually, Garcia began to cook and the entire band swung into that old Grateful Dead magic. Somewhere around here, during “St. Stephen” - “Not Fade Away,” they launched into some incredible jamming that had everyone mesmerized. Stony Brook is where the Grateful Dead played on Halloween weekend. The early show never ended at midnight, having begun late and we massed outside the gym until 2 The Dead’s cars, nice, shiny limousines, were parked outside. Limousines, “I thought the Dead don’t use limousines?” someone remarked. He sounded offended. “Seize the Time” lay on the front seat and we slipped some nonsensical note into the book. We left our friend at Harpur with night an hour old already and the cold becoming quietly noticeable. At last, the Dead moved into a comparatively short “Love-lights,\ a smoke bomb exploded and they left the stage. The audience screamed and stamped their feet but the Dead didn’t reappear. I found Kevin, who'd disappeared early in the evening. He had found Maryam and spent half the concert in a liny room backstage, drinking cider, eating cheese and talking with her as the New Riders quietly nodded out in respective corners. The second half, he stood behind Garcia’s amplifier, tripping out of his face. We stepped outside as the sun crept up, red through the grimy air of New York City. The Dead had come across THE UUAB FINE ARTS FILM COMMITTEE PRESENTS A short ride left us, along with one other passenger, several blocks from Route 17. Together the three of us walked down Susquehanna Ave, in this silly town of Binghamton. Our guide, short and large with curly hair, a ring in her nose, an American Indian and four months pregnant to boot. Being with her was one of those few fragile and precious human interchanges that remind you, if need be, that you are alive. Lastly, 1 spoke to Maryam, a friend visiting from Cornell. Maryam is half Black and Cornell is no place for halfway situations. She sounded beleagured. We parted, and she told me to try and get in touch with her backstage at the concert that night. Maryam has been with Pigpen for about a year now'. Security was quite prominanl as they began to admit us slowly, the ushers begging the crowd not to push. The gym filled to capacity. The New Riders opened. A bit unsure at first, they quickly gathered momentum, mixing the old with the new, until they climaxed with “Honky Tonk Woman.\ We walked slowly through the ghetto of Binghamton while our little lady rapped on about most everything. Early trick or treaters in masks and sheets danced around in the streets. Don’t step on tracks Kevin and I took the subway to Penn Station. It was an old train, its floor littered with that morning’s Daily News: “Brunette Found Stabbed In Apartment.” I had never seen the New Riders of The Purple Sage before, but I am convinced that they tightest music around Marmuduke is an intense strong, even in the lace ol several hassles. During “Not l ade Away” Weir's mike .passed out and he spent a moment in a tamed Boh We decided to walk from 34th performer and his songs are all She asked us if we were hungry and Sixth to the station. New fine boys are hungry, y’gotta eat\). We hour. Suddenly being thrust into his steel'pedal (an instrument lo I of Weir fit before moving lo another xplained that we .1 ll wa blessed her kindness silently a wah-wah They left stage a He “Honky Tonk” to a stand in •fficiently h\ Ihe Dead s whi/ kid v a n We left her at her house and wished us luck, reminding us amazing elevation of the senses. Unable to keep pace, we w'alked After a Bel I \ he best with the new baby and -be laughed. \Oh don’t you roasting chestnuts conversation and the smell of cartoon, (he Dead came oul. They opened with a brand new song about the hard life ol Ihe I did not do my chores today. worry none 'bout the baby, it’s When I bought the tram nc y°u gotta worry ’bout with tickets, one-way to Stony Brook, the teller smiled knowingly and of them now. running fTimTa Something h° r roommate in Spanish A short ten-minute ride and Track IK. people with pucks and guitars, flutes After 10 P.M. each A FILM BY ERNIE PI NTOFF -til the way to New York with two S u Vs Irom Cornell. Well, we thought, the worst doesn't I met a guy from (of all places) nry driver's ed class EMBASSY RESTAURANT 189 Delaware Ave. of a mad housewife Joan Baez Sha-Na Na necessarily have to come The trip was long and the car filled with cigar smoke and the The Ace Trucking Company a (rank parry film Lenny Bruce Paul Krassnet John and Yoke Lennon Leonard Cohen Ron Carey Peter Max Allen Ginsberg Al Kooper etc WKBW AND BUFFALO FESTIVAL present Greek dancing to the music of a Bouzouki and Guitar ensemble from Athens “TRAFFIC” nchard benjamin frank langella STEVE JIM CHRIS WOOD Serving Greek Specialties & Wines came snodgress WINWOOD CAPALDI Added Attraction: CAT STEVENS Monday, Nov. 23rd, 7 P.M. - Kleinl-ans Music Hall Re%9rvt1i0Hi Accepted Call 874-9140 CONFERENCE THEATRE Friday, Saturday, Sunday NOW! On the Screen Time & Ticket information Tickatt now on talc at Festival Ticket Office, Statler-Hilton Lobby (man orders accepted with (tamped, telf-addiessed envelope); Satler*. Seneca Mall; U.B. Norton Hall; State College Ticket Office and Brundo i Mafic, Niagara Falls. ju; our car at Esso. Sunoco. lanova Friday, November 6, 1970 . The Spectrum Page fifteen
