In that glorious period between slumber and actual waking, one of the first things that enters my mind is what song I should put on to begin my day. It seems that even in my sleep the entirety of my being craves audio stimulation. I guess I’m addicted to the pleasure of tones.

One of the funniest dreams I ever had involving music centered around Duke Ellington’s early big band jungle sound classic from 1926, “East St. Louis Toodle-Oo”. In the dream, I was standing off stage in a packed circular coliseum as a throbbing mass of people waited in delirious anticipation for the musical festivities to begin. The place was literally overflowing with people. Patrons were spilling over the top of the arena like popcorn and instead of dying when they made impact with the ground, they picked themselves up unharmed and raced back into the jammed stadium. Finally, when the lights dimmed, the stage was filled with the largest collection of obviously metal musicians ever assembled on a performance stage in a dream or otherwise. The only person I could make out distinctly in the assemblage of heavy metal practitioners was Tony Araya from the sweet nectar of life otherwise known as Slayer. As they readied themselves for their opening number, I was anticipating something unholy but they instead broke out into a perfect recreation of Mr. Ellington’s early signature composition. The crowd went nuts. Standing in the wings, I wondered who was going to play the timeless muted trumpet lead that defines the song (it was originally played by Bubber Miller) and, low and behold, out of nowhere my brother steps to the mic with kazoo in hand and belts it out.

I wish I could have stayed asleep longer to see the rest of the concert, but I awoke laughing. I immediately got out of bed and put on my copy of the tune. It was one the best wake-up experiences I’ve ever had.

Sometimes though, you awake to someone else’s choice of ideal morning music. This can lead to awful awakenings. Case in point: I was living at the Chesterfield apartments during my first year in college and my roommate at the time had an annoying proclivity of bedding hapless hippie chicks. He was no hippie, but he enjoyed the extra- circular activities associated with the hippie lifestyle. On this particular morning, one of his conquests decided that the day should begin with the Grateful Dead’s, “Working Man’s Dead” at peak volume. That was a bad idea. I awoke from a blissful sound sleep into a ball of rage as the insipid melody of “Uncle John’s Band” filled our apartment like a stale, suffocating fart. I raced down the hall, kicked open his door screaming on top of my lungs. I didn’t fully awake until I saw the horror on their faces. As they lay there stunned, I pulled the needle across the record, picked it up off the turntable and sent it sailing out the window of our seventh-floor corner apartment onto Franklin Street where it smashed beautifully into a million non-audible pieces.

After that, the girl never came back to our apartment and I never heard the Grateful Dead in our humble abode ever again. Mission accomplished. I went back to sleep feeling I had made the world a better place.

Now that I’m a father, the first sounds I hear are my daughter’s babblings. It is the sweetest sound in the world. 

I like everything about the Dead except for their fans and their music…

The Grateful Dead were not only the best at what they did, they were the only one’s who did what they did. Mixing a blend of Folk, Rock, Jazz, Country, and Psychdelia, the Dead made nothing but honest true music. Sure you can go to a Metallica concert or even the Rolling Stones and see the same, pre-packaged show every night, with little or no surprises and music that maybe once came from the soul, but now it’s just dollar signs and shiny shirts. But not the Dead. Not one show was alike, ever. In their 40 year career they kept the music true and honest and they took risks that sometimes paid off, and sometimes they failed miserably. But one thing can be said about the Dead, they weren’t in it for the money, they didnt do it to get famous. Hell they didnt even do it for the fans. It was all about the music, just like Ellington and Baise and Coltrane. The music was number one, and that’s why the Grateful Dead was and always will be, the greatest music makers of all time. Now go pick up the pieces of that broken record and say sorry.