About the Book Cutting Room Floor JG on CD e-mail for Blair



Chapter 12: Wait Until That Deal Come 'Round

Page 221; upper-middle; Pigpen's decline:

"At a certain point," Jon McIntire said, "the chemical [in alcohol] twists you around and it's not enlivening you or giving you inspiration; it's enervating you in many different ways. That's kind of how I perceived Pig's playing for a while — in the beginning it was really imaginative and the tempos were good, and then, after a while, after a certain number of years, it got into that maudlin space where it was just not good playing. The timing was off. I think it led to a lack of musical communication, and that's a band where communication is everything."

It was telling that on American Beauty the Dead had brought in outside keyboardists to flesh out the tracks, and even on the live "Skull & Roses" album, Merl Saunders had overdubbed organ parts on "Bertha," "Playing in the Band" and "Wharf Rat."

However, Garcia noted, "Pigpen was never too drunk to perform. He was never a blear. Pigpen was not a drunk; he was a drinker. He drank all the time — first thing in the morning, all day long. But you never saw him out of it. You hardly ever heard him slur or anything. He'd just get more mellow. He'd get warmer. He was no stumbling drunk."

"He had a way of being able to drink a lot and not show it," Rock Scully said. "He had binges where he'd be obviously too drunk to handle things, but to be honest, we weren't that aware of alcohol abuse. America wasn't. It was a legal thing and Pigpen prided himself in the legality of his drug, as opposed to ours. We didn't even think of alcohol as a drug."

McIntire again: "I remember one day Garcia coming into my office and saying, 'Look, I'm really worried about Pig. I think his life is in danger, and I want to do whatever we can. The band'll pay for everything. Let's find out if there's anything we can do.' So I researched it and I found out the most famous place in the world for liver problems was Sheila Sherlock's clinic in London. But my doctor, Sandor Bernstein, said there was a guy at UCSF [University of California and San Francisco] who was as good. So we slotted Pig with him. And Pig jumped in and did, too. He stopped drinking and he learned all the things about nutrition that he could. He really tried, but it was too late."

Page 221, bottom; more on Keith Godchaux's background:

Godchaux was born in Seattle but raised mainly in Concord, California, east of Berkeley. His father had worked occasionally as a professional pianist and a singer, and he started Keith on piano lessons at age 5. Keith had five years of classical training, but "I didn't have the temperament to pursue it," he said. He had plenty of technique from years of study and practice, "but it wasn't deep; none of it stuck."

In his teen years, Keith landed jobs "wearing dinner jackets and playing acoustic piano in country club bands and Dixieland bands," and then began to form his own trios and quartets to play in local bars and nightclubs, even though he was still technically underage. Though he liked playing jazz and thoroughly investigated bebop and its roots, Keith said he was frustrated playing pop tunes and cocktail lounge standards like "Misty," and that "in the other half of my life, I was looking for something real to get involved with — which I didn't know at the time would necessarily be music."

He never listened to or played much rock 'n' roll: "When other kids my age were going to dances and stuff, I was going to bars and playing." But then he met a young woman, recently arrived in California from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, named Donna Jean Thatcher. Donna had been a successful rock and R&B session singer who had backed up the likes of Aretha Franklin, Elvis Presley, Joe Tex, Boz Scaggs and many others, but she burned out on the studio scene early, and happily took a job in the Bay Area working for Union Oil, just to get out of Alabama. She and Keith were part of the same pot-smoking, psychedelics-imbibing social circle for a while, and together they went to a number of Grateful Dead shows and spent hours listening to the Dead's records. As Donna said, "Every opportunity, every rumor that we heard they might be playing, there we were."

When Keith and Donna got together romantically, Keith was just beginning to play a little rock 'n' roll piano, but he was still mainly a jazz musician, and beginning to tap into the jazz-rock fusion styles of players like Chick Corea and Herbie Hancock. After Keith and Donna were married, they moved to Walnut Creek, near Concord, and "Keith would practice his rock 'n' roll piano at home and I was basically supporting the two of us," Donna said. "One day I came home from work and we went over to our friend Pete's house and Pete said, 'Let's listen to some Grateful Dead.' And Keith said, 'I don't want to listen to it. I want to play it.' And it was like, 'Yeahhh! That's it!' We were just so high and in love! We said, 'We're going to play with the Grateful Dead!' And we really believed it.

"We went home, looked in the paper and saw that Garcia's band was playing at the Keystone, so we went down, of course. At the break, Garcia walked by going backstage, so I grabbed him and said, 'Jerry, my husband and I have something very important to talk to you about.' And he said, 'Sure.' I didn't realize that everyone does that to him. So Garcia told us to come backstage, but we were both too scared, so we didn't. A few minutes later, Garcia came up and sat next to Keith, and I said, 'Honey, I think Garcia wants to talk to you. He's sitting right next to you.' He looked over at Jerry and looked back at me and dropped his head on the table and said, 'You're going to have to talk to my wife. I can't talk to you right now.' He was just too shy. He was very strong but he couldn't handle that sort of thing. So I said to Jerry, 'Well, Keith's your piano player, so I want your home telephone number so I can call you up and come to the next Grateful Dead practice.' And he believed me! He gave me his number."

(Actually, Keith was not completely unknown in the Grateful Dead world. Betty Cantor had used him on a studio session for a record by James & the Good Brothers and thought very highly of him.)

"They asked me to sing right away," Donna said, "but somewhere in my ignorant wisdom I said I wanted Keith to do it first. So Keith and I went into it as green and innocent as could be. I'd never sung before an audience, and Keith had only done very small gigs. We had no idea what joining a band of the magnitude of the Grateful Dead would mean. And the Dead is more than just a regular band, too. It's this whole extended reality. It's not just a band, but a way of life. We were young and in love just having the time of our lives, and we were really still in our own world at the beginning."

Page 224, bottom; more on Garcia leaving the NRPS:

"Basically, Jerry got to be too busy," John Dawson says. "But also, it was sort of understood that he was helping get what I wanted goin'. He dug what I was doing and he dug the fact that my trip let him do something different, because he was always looking do different things. It gave him a chance to warm up and also to relax a little bit before he had to concentrate on the Grateful Dead's set. At some point he said, 'I don't think I can do this too much longer; I think you guys should get someone else.' But he knew at that point that we'd already met Cage and that's who we'd probably go with. So he knew we were covered and then he took that opportunity.

"And it worked out great. When we changed from Garcia to Cage, the pedal steel playing got better. Garcia wasn't a steel player; it's as simple as that. He definitely brought a certain panache to the whole thing and a certain style that had never been explored on that instrument before — like the fuzz-tone on 'Dirty Business.' But Cage was so good and he could even pick up on all that — he loved the fuzz tone, for example. He did some stuff on 'I Don't Need Doctor' that was unreal. I don't know whether Garcia actually influenced how Cage played — it was more like it was a green light for exploring directions he'd already checked out a little. He picked up where Garcia had been headin', but with a professional touch that he already had. We were after a more traditional kind of thing, to tell you the truth. We welcomed and liked that improvisational edge, but Cage was even better at that, because he was a real steel player." Garcia agreed, and often credited Cage with teaching him much about the steel during the Festival Express trip.

Page 226, upper-middle; more on the East Coast tour:

Alas, the tour wasn't completely problem-free. Some concerts still attracted legions of ticketless fans determined to get in by or hook or by crook, and inside the halls there were occasional battles between fans who wanted to boogie in their seats and by-the-book security types who believed that sort of behavior would lead to anarchy. In Chicago's historic Auditorium Theater, for instance, the management left the house lights on while the Dead played, and white-gloved Andy Frain ushers worked frantically to keep anyone from standing in front of their chairs, shining flashlights in the face of offenders.

"Texas was great," Garcia said near the end of the tour. "Yes, amazingly enough it was. Atlanta was a bummer. I mean that was kind of like the old days. It was a police scene. It was a civic center, public-owned building. They always have a lot of police there to protect the property, that sort of thing. At one point a cop jumped up on stage and started goin' after Phil. In their mind there's a riot going on because everybody's standing up. And with us, we know that isn't happening, and we're capable of handling it in a way where nobody gets hurt and nobody gets uptight, either. But the police always have to try and do it their way." Later in the same interview he noted, "We never wanted to be bait for a trap where you go to have a good night with the Grateful Dead and end up getting gassed."

Page 227, middle; on the cover of Garcia:

There was a bit of controversy surrounding the record, however. Photographer Bob Seideman's intriguing collage on the cover didn't include the title of the record or Garcia's name, but it did prominently feature a naked female torso, with a breast and pubic hair plainly visible, the latter somewhat hidden in shadow. After the "Skullfuck" episode just a few months earlier, it's incredible that Warner Bros. allowed this cover to be produced. To fend off possible public and retailer outrage, a sticker with Garcia's name on it was strategically placed over the offending genital area. The collage also depicted Garcia's right forearm and hand, the stump of his middle finger clearly visible, emerging from the hip of the nude torso, passing through the center of a numbered wheel, and rising dramatically up into an azure sky, like the Lady of the Lake handing Excalibur to young Arthur Pendragon. Seideman, who had shot the first commercially available poster of the band in early '67 and was also responsible for the controversial cover of Blind Faith's lone album (censored in America), explained how the collage came about:

"Jerry was doing his first solo album, and when the mix was virtually finished, he invited me into the studio at 1:30 or 2 o'clock in the morning to listen to it. He and I sat at the control room board and I conjured up that image for him. I said, 'I see a wheel,' as if I was having a vision. 'A wheel of fortune floating over a female form symbolizing life, and the wheel symbolizes geared chance and the industrial age, and as the hand reaches through the hole in the center of the wheel of fortune, it's cut off by a numbered playing card. Let's keep it clean — just numbers, just digits. Let's get the hand up.' Jerry said, 'What hand?' I said, 'Your right hand,' and he almost jumped out of his chair. He flinched as though he'd been electrically shocked. At that time, most people did not know that one of the great players in American rock 'n' roll was missing a finger on his right hand. He thought long and hard about it. I said, 'A subtle secondary image is an American flag — there's a blue field, with a red and white stripe. The female form is white, the red panel is the red and white stripes, and the blue field is the star field, and the hand ascends into the heavens, severed from the body by the card of chance. The numbers on the knobs [there are four black knobs on the red field] — NGC 205 and so on — are actual coordinates for galaxies in our sector.' And he went for it. He kind of shook his head and smiled and said, 'OK, let's do it.'"

Page 227, bottom; Merl Saunders' album:

"Jerry always encouraged me to write material for the group," Merl says. "Fantasy was saying stuff like, 'The music is great, but these words about ecology and whatnot, you gotta tone 'em down.' I said, 'I like the words.' And Jerry's attitude was, 'Yeah, fuck 'em! Do what you want, Merl!' He was really my inspiration to do things the way I wanted to do them. I would maybe be leaning toward giving in to the record company and he'd say, 'Merl, you wrote these songs from the heart, so fuck 'em. It's your music, man. Put it out the way you want to.' And I needed to hear that."

Page 228, middle; Garcia and Saunders at Keystone Corner:

"After a certain point, there was never an empty seat in the club when those guys played," says Todd Barkan, who ran the Keystone Korner in San Francisco and went on to become a top jazz producer.

"What was amazing to me is that even then there was an incredible network of fans who followed Garcia that transcended the usual entertainer-consumer relationship. It was so much deeper and broader than that. I remember the last time we booked Jerry and Merl, before we went to a full-time jazz situation [in the summer of '72], there was no ad in the newspaper, no press release, nothing. We put their names up on the marquee around 10 o'clock in the morning, and by 7 o'clock that night there was a line down to the end of the block. And that has to do with networking; that has to do with community. It was phenomenal."

Barkan's recollections of Garcia are all favorable: "He was a teddy bear. He was always very accessible and very personable. Also, he knew that I was a jazz musician and that let us connect a little more maybe. With some of the rock guys there was kind of a distance, but not him. He was very respectful about jazz. He was a universalist musically. He didn't consider what he did to be confined to one genre or another. He didn't like being limited by labels and he didn't relate to other musicians and other music with any kind of remoteness at all. You got the feeling from him that everything is related. And he proved that by playing so many styles so well."

Page 228, bottom; Garcia's growing celebrity:

At the end of January, Rolling Stone recognized Garcia's importance in the rock world by putting him on the cover of the magazine's 100th issue and running the most extensive interview ever done with him, in two consecutive issues. Stone editor Jann Wenner and the hip Yale law professor Charles Reich, who was something of a counterculture phenom himself at that time because of his best-selling book, The Greening of America, went out to Stinson Beach and interviewed Garcia and Mountain Girl at great length. Later that year, Rolling Stone's book division, Straight Arrow Press, put out a book called Garcia: A Signpost to New Space, which contained the interview (edited from nearly 12 hours of conversation) and what was accurately billed as "A Stoned Sunday Rap with Jerry, Charles and Mountain Girl." Reich, especially, believed that Garcia was an avatar of a new consciousness that signaled a basic evolutionary change in Western thinking — a change that recognized the importance of spontaneity and magic in day-to-day life, and accepted that getting high was a significant avenue for tapping into an expanded consciousness. Asked by Reich why it was important to get high, Garcia said:

"To get really high is to forget yourself. And to forget yourself is to see everything else. And to see everything else is to become an understanding molecule in evolution, a conscious tool of the universe. ... I'm not talking about unconscious or zonked out, I'm talking about being fully conscious. Also, I'm not talking about the Grateful Dead being an end in itself. I don't think of that highness as being an end in itself. I think of the Grateful Dead as being a crossroads or a pointer sign, and what we're pointing at is that there's a lot of universe available. That there's a whole lot of experience that's available over here. We're kind of like a signpost, and we're also pointing to danger, to difficulty, to bummers."

"You're a signpost to new space?" Reich asked.

"Yes, that's the place where we should be — that's the function we should be filling in society. And in our own little society that's the function we do fill. But in the popular world — the media world and so forth — we're just a rock 'n' roll band. We play rock 'n' roll music and it's part of our form — our vehicle, so to speak — but it's not who we are totally."

Page 229, middle; more on the bus tour of Europe, 1972:

"The dynamics of who rode on what bus was pretty funny," said Annette Flowers, who worked in the Dead's office. "It was usually determined by who was getting along with whom. You usually didn't know till people came out of their hotel rooms in the morning. The hard part about it was the bar was on one bus and the bathroom was on the other. So we had to stop a lot."

One can only speculate what audiences in Denmark, Germany and France who knew the band primarily by their reputation as exponents of West Coast acid rock thought of the Dead's musical crazy-quilt, which was so fundamentally rooted in American styles and traditions. Looking at the song list for a random second set on the tour — Tivoli Concert Hall in Copenhagen on Monday, April 17 — we find the group opened with the rockin' "One More Saturday Night" (which the Dead played nearly every night that tour), and then slowed things down with Pigpen's version of Elmore James' blues classic "It Hurts Me Too." That was followed by the lighthearted bounce of "Ramble On Rose," the gunfighter saga "El Paso," the electrified '20s jug tune "Big Railroad Blues," and "Truckin'," which was the first song of the set to really open up. Then the last 45 minutes or so was one long, continuous stretch of music comprised of "Dark Star," "Sugar Magnolia," "Caution" and "Johnny B. Goode." That's quite an eclectic mιlange of styles and moods, to say the least.

But the audiences were enthusiastic nearly everywhere. Outwardly, the language barrier didn't seem to make much of a difference — the crowds boogied happily in their seats, proving true the clichι that music and rhythm are universal forms of communication. Even in Paris, notorious for cool and aloof crowds, "the audience was every bit the New York audience," Weir said. "Just as loud, boisterous and clamoring. The regular eat-you-alive New York audience, only it was Paris." The Paris police evidently were expecting trouble: they had assigned 180 gendarmes to watch over a crowd of just over 2,000 people the first night. When les flics saw that the crowd was not going to be a threat to public order, they scaled back their presence considerably. That second night in Paris, though, there was a small problem that eventually escalated into a big one.

A couple of militant communists decided that the show should be free for everyone, and one of them got into a minor altercation with members of the Grateful Dead road crew, who showed him the door and dumped a container of chocolate ice cream on his chic mauve jacket. "That was, I think, the final trigger that caused him to a) piss, or b) put water in the diesel fuel tanks of our trucks, so that our equipment couldn't go anywhere," Phil remembered.

"The next morning," said Weir, picking up the story, "everybody got up. The truck headed out of town first, bright and early, then we all got up and got on the bus and headed to Lille [where they had a gig scheduled that night]. Well, the truck made it about eight miles out of Paris, and it broke down and that was that. But we didn't know this. We arrived at the hall in Lille to a mob of people shouting anti-American stuff, and since it was deemed that my French was the best in the crew, I was awarded the onerous opportunity to go out and tell a howling mob that, 'Hey, folks, no show tonight, and not only that, the promoters bolted with your money.'"

As it turns out, the promoters hadn't taken the money; they just didn't have it on the premises, which is not what this mob wanted to hear, either. "There was a lot of fist-shaking and a lot screaming," Weir said. "And they sure did crush forward. They were all around us onstage. We had to form a V to get to the back room and slam the door and lock it. We actually had barricades — chairs up on the doors, and all that. ... We finally lost our nerve and went out the back window. We climbed down this drainpipe 20 feet to the ground and escaped through the back streets of Lille on a moonless night, kind of chuckling. It was great; a lot of fun. Chicks out the back window, the band out the back window, running for your lives..."

The promoter returned the money to the customers the next day and the Dead came back to Lille 10 days later and played a free concert at the local fairgrounds before an enthusiastic French crowd that seemed to bear no ill will toward them. In the meantime, the tour had traveled back to England, where the Dead played the huge Bickershaw Festival in what David Nelson of the New Riders described as "a squall," and then went to the continent again for shows in the Netherlands, Luxembourg and Germany. The tour ended triumphantly in late May with four concerts at London's Strand Lyceum, where the New Riders, who had been touring Europe on their own, opened for the Dead — just as they had in the States.

"When we played in London at the Lyceum, it was fabulous," John Dawson says. "It was this old theater where the seats had been ripped out and the floor made flat. But all the peripheral stuff — the boxes — were still there. So CBS [the Riders' label] had rented all the big private boxes on one side and Warner Bros. had the boxes on the other side of the stage. So it was the battle of the record companies, with both sides spraying the audience with freebies, throwing all this promo stuff down on the crowd."

Dawson's favorite image from those last few days in England was much more serene, however: "Garcia, Weir and I took our guitars and jammed in this amazing 10th century chapel. It was really, really great-sounding. It was kind of eerie, especially thinking about all the people who'd been through there over the centuries — the Crusaders, and then us!"

Page 232, top; Pigpen in Europe:

"[On the tour] he rode on the hard bus, this Danish bus, which was sort of like the crew bus," Annette Flowers said. "It was the quieter of the two buses usually. Pigpen lived on the back bench of that bus. ... I think that trip sort of sunk it for him; put him over. It was really grueling in a lot of ways.

"He got knocked off that bench five or six times," Rock Scully recalled. "He rolled off that bench and a couple of times he really hurt himself — I could see it; he really hurt his kidneys and bruised himself. I'd have to help him off the bus."

Page 232, middle; Mickey's solo album:

Meanwhile, the Dead's prodigal son, Mickey Hart, was staying busy on his Novato ranch, finishing his debut album, Rolling Thunder, for Warner Bros. The album took nearly two years to record and it involved even more luminaries from the Bay Area music scene than David Crosby's or Paul Kantner's records. It contained early versions of two songs the Dead played — "Playing in the Band" (called "The Main Ten" on the album, because it's in 10/4 time) and "Greatest Story Ever Told" (called "Pump Song" here because a pump on Mickey's ranch inspired the song's rhythm). Garcia appeared on three instrumental tracks — two of them trio jams with Mickey and Indian tabla master Zakir Hussain — but also helped on the technical end, as David Freiberg explains:

"Garcia saved us on a couple of mixes there. He was a really good mixer. Mickey had this long instrumental we could never get mixed called 'Deep, Wide and Frequent' and I remember Garcia is the one who finally managed to get all these guitar solos that really had nothing to do with one another in and out at the right time. He did it in pieces. He was able to concentrate really well in the studio and still always keep an eye on what he was ultimately trying to do with a track."

It's ironic that Garcia always said that making records didn't mean that much to him, because he was actually a perfectionist in the studio, deeply involved with every record he or the Dead ever made. This is not a guy who played his axe on a few tracks and then went home. "Jerry could spend more time in the studio than anybody I've ever seen," M.G. observes. "It was absurd. He would just go on and on and say, 'Well, that's not good enough.' I would go in there to see what the hell was going on, what was taking so long, and they would be on their 19th mix of some three-minute segment of some tune. Everybody would have left except for Jerry and the engineer. And there would be pizza boxes and coke, mirrors; all this kind of stuff. People had been there for days, and they weren't done yet. He seemed to have an endless appetite for studio time."

Page 232, lower-middle; more on Ron Rakow's plan:

"I ran into the Grateful Dead office that day and explained this vision to Jerry and McInitre at the same time, and they both seemed to love the idea. So I got a separate letter from each of them that said essentially, 'Introducing Ron Rakow. He's doing some work for us. Any help you can give him would be greatly appreciated by us.' And I used that to go around the record industry and gather data, which I then used to augment this vision I had and create a series of cash-flow charts to explain different scenarios that might come up if we had our own company."

Page 232, middle; the problem with Warner Bros.:

"We did an experiment to prove that Warners wasn't doing a very good job with our records, and that experiment was really simple," Rakow says. "On one Grateful Dead tour we sent an itinerary to Warner Bros. 21 days in advance — where we were going to play, what our [venue] capacities were, etc. And I went along on that tour and went from city to city, and went from record store to record store, right out of the Yellow Pages — seven, eight, nine cities, 12 record stores in each; that's a lot of record stores. I made a chart of all the records in our catalog at that point and I checked off how many copies of each of our records were in the bins at the record store, on the theory that records really move when a band is in town. So if I went into a big record store in St. Louis, for example, and they were out of all our albums, only had two copies of two different records in the bins, you would call that inefficient. Well, that's what happened, store after store, city after city. In other words, we'd have to be absolute mental cases to do it that badly ourselves. And Warners knew we were looking at alternatives. You'd think they would do the best job they were capable of, but they did shit, period."

Rakow used his letter of introduction to meet record industry heavies, a few of whom made no secret of their interest in signing the Dead. Columbia's Clive Davis, for one, rolled out the red carpet for Rakow — with Garcia out of the New Riders, Davis no longer had Jerry on his label. "I went to an A&R meeting, and Clive was at the head of the table and 25 Columbia employees were around the table. And I came in with a camera and crawled around on the floor and took some great pictures of them. But they treated me very well."

Another person Rakow extracted information from was Albert Grossman, Bob Dylan's manager and Janis Joplin's former manager. Rakow's trip to Grossman's house in Bearsville [upstate New York] netted this fun anecdote:

"As I was leaving after a very friendly day, Grossman said to me, 'What are you doing this for? What motivates you?' I said, 'What motivates me is I actually only know one thing and I build everything from the one thing. To do anything, you start with a theme or a fact or a datum and you build and empire on it.' And he said, 'What's your datum?' I said, 'Jerry Garcia is a great guitar player.' And he said, 'Wow, not only is Jerry Garcia not a great guitar player, he's not even good. In fact he can't even play at all!' I laughed and we said goodbye, and I left.

"Then I found out that the band was flying back to California from Europe on TWA and were laying over in New York City for three hours. So I called TWA and I arranged for the Grateful Dead to be held over in an executive suite room at Kennedy Airport. So I go there with my screen and my slide projector and a whole rack of slides that I'd taken all over New York. This was a ritual around the Grateful Dead — Rakow's slide shows; they were famous. We're sitting there in this room, I'm kneeling on the floor next to the projector flashing one picture after another. And while I'm doing this, the repartee, which is usually about the pictures, is instead about everything I've done for the last three months on this project that Garcia and McIntire assigned me.

"And then I get to Albert Grossman. I have a picture of the Bearsville Cafe and a picture of Grossman and, and I said, 'Oh, Jerry ...' and I told him the story about Grossman asking me why I was doing what I was doing, and I said, 'because Jerry Garcia is a great guitar player,' and so on. This is with everybody in the room — band, wives, kids. I'm telling Jerry this story. 'And so Grossman said, "Not only are you not great. You're not good. You can't play at all."' This is a pitch-black room so nobody can see each other. And Garcia says, 'Jesus, Rak, I may not be a great guitar player. I may not be good. But I can play a little!" We broke up, man. It was great. That was Jerry in a nutshell."

Page 232, bottom; more on Rakow's scheme:

"I put a big chart on an easel and on the top, with the arrow flowing into Grateful Dead Records, was the word MESBIC and an arrow, and $300,000 was written on that arrow. We only had to put up $1,350 dollars and we could lever that into 300 grand. It was not designed for Wall Street-trained hippies. And when I explained it, Garcia went nuts. He thought it was the greatest. And Phil went nuts. But Bonnie Parker, who had worked for a small business investment company, didn't like it at all. 'No government! No government!' she kept saying. Because the government would come by and check everything out and nobody wanted to worry about that. So we didn't do it."