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Epilogue: Sleep in the Stars

Page 463, upper-middle; more on the media reaction:

Entertainment Weekly even had four different cover photos for fans to choose from, ranging from "Captain Trips" in '67 to a tasteless '93 shot of Garcia with his eyes closed and no glasses, under a harsh light that made him look like he was laid out in a morgue. Some companies even produced special advertisements for these magazines. Volkswagen ran a simple line drawing of one of their microbuses (which were practically synonymous with Deadheads) shedding a tear, with "Jerry Garcia. 1942-1995" the only type on the page. Levi Strauss, for whom Garcia had recorded a radio commercial in 1987, ran a white page with a single quote from "Franklin's Tower": "May the four winds blow you safely home." VH-1 weighed in with a slightly incongruous quote from "He's Gone": "Nothing left to do but smile, smile smile," with happy faces dotting the i's. Maxell, a manufacturer of audio cassettes favored among Deadhead tape collectors, depicted a cassette of the Dead's final show at Soldier Field, with the caption "Gone, But Not Forgotten."

Even the weekly supermarket tabloids got caught up in the story briefly, after ignoring Garcia his entire life. The National Enquirer rhapsodized about Garcia's courageous fight against drug addiction, while on the cover of The Globe, below a photo of Nicole Brown Simpson wearing a bikini, next to a teaser promising details on a fight between Frank and Kathie Lee Gifford, was a tiny photo of Jerry, Manasha and Keelin and the headline: "Grateful Dead Star's Secret Love Child; Mom Tells All." Inside The Globe, too, a headline fawned about "Jerry's Brave Battle Against Drugs." By the next issue, however, The Globe had regained its senses and run a lurid story headlined "We Sold Jerry Garcia Deadly Drug Cocktail," which purported to be an account of two punky young drug dealers, now remorseful because Jerry was dead, who supposedly sneaked into Serenity Knolls at Garcia's request and sold him cocaine and heroin. This is highly unlikely given that the coroner's report, released later, noted that Garcia probably had not ingested heroin within 24 hours of his death.

Page 464, bottom; more Weir on MTV, and service at Sara's:

Weir went on to say that no decisions had been made about the future of the Grateful Dead or the album that was in progress. "We're gonna get together in a little bit and sort it out. I can give you no definite answer, except that we'll get together and kick it around. And as for what Jerry did, that real special thing, it's still there. I'm sure that if we get together and start kicking stuff around, if we listen in our hearts, inside somewhere, that we'll hear that thread that we've always heard.

"And I'm sure he's still singing. I can hear it. I'm sure anyone who was ever exposed to that joy and creativity and wickedness, all that kind of stuff he used to project — that mischief and love — it's still there. It's in you. You can't lose that; once you catch that it stays in you. And so it's not like he's gone."

That same week in early September, Jerry's first wife, Sara, put together a Jewish Shloshim service at her house in San Francisco "for those people who'd known Jerry with me," she says. "Judaism responds to death in a very psychologically sound way, giving people structure and the opportunity to go through the grieving process in a healthy way. Thirty days after the burial there's a ceremony you can do acknowledging that the mourners are getting back into the world, but it's also a reminder that you're not any where near 'back.' In a way, the idea is that when you've been bereaved, you have one foot in the grave with the person who's gone. So we said Kaddish for Jerry, glorifying and sanctifying the name of the Source in the midst of loss, here in the back yard in the waning light of the day, a month after he died."

"The celebration at Sara's was perfect," Tiff says. "It was a foggy evening. We sang out in the backyard. It was kind of heavy. I felt touched. Heather was there, of course, and it was good to see her."

"In these recent years Jerry and I had talked about getting together and singing songs from the first Watson Family record, but we never quite got around to doing it," Sara says. "There's a song they did called 'Your Long Journey,' in which this couple sing to each other. One of them is about to die. It's a very moving, wonderful song." She stops her thought and begins to sing softly:

God's given us years of happiness here

Now we must part

And God calls for you

I'm left alone

The pains are great against my heart

Oh my darlin', my darlin'

My heart breaks as you take your long journey

"It's a gorgeous song," she continues. "And when Jerry died I kept thinking, 'We'll never be able to sing that song together.' So I sang it when we had our Shloshim service out in the back yard — to him, and for all the hopefulness we had at the beginning, all the missed connections and good intentions and inability to make them come true.

"It seemed like Jerry had to be a musician and it was going to be at the expense of everything else. The only real meaningful relationships he had were in the music — to the music and to the people he played with. That's where he could really let himself be. Other relationships just didn't have a chance. There was no way he could do it."

Page 466, middle; more aftermath:

Meanwhile, all during the fall of '95, various projects and products that had been in the works before Garcia's demise were released. The best of these was probably Hundred Year Hall, an exceptional two-CD set culled from the Dead's April '72 appearance in Hamburg, Germany. Whereas previous archival releases had been put out by the Dead's merchandising company, this one had the power of Arista Records' promotion and distribution wings behind it, and it sold about 200,000 copies in the first couple of months.

The Music Never Stopped: Roots of the Grateful Dead wasn't a Dead album; rather it was a compilation, produced by David Gans and Henry Kaiser, of original versions of songs the Dead had covered through the years, including Obray Ramsey's backwoodsy "Cold Rain and Snow," Woody Guthrie singing "Goin' Down the Road Feeling Bad," Bobby "Blue" Bland's "Turn On Your Lovelight," Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried" and many others. That disc, too, was an impressive seller for what was basically an album of old folk and blues tunes.

As often happens after a musician dies, sales of the Dead's many albums were brisk. Predictably, the most mainstream works — American Beauty, Workingman's Dead and In the Dark — led the way among the group's regular releases. But the Dead album that sold the most after Garcia's death was the poorly-chosen "best of" anthology called Skeletons From the Closet, put out in 1974 by Warner Bros. with no input from the Dead, after the group had left the label. With sales of more than 3 million copies, it is, astonishingly enough, the Dead's best-selling album.

Rock Scully's memoirs, Living With the Dead, came out that fall to a decidedly mixed reaction from Deadheads and Jerry's friends. The book had been in the works for about two years, so it wasn't put out simply to cash in on Garcia's death. Nevertheless, many people were turned off by Scully and co-writer David Dalton's dark, depressing portrait of Garcia's early '80s drug addiction. This was the first time anyone had attempted such a frank demythologizing of Garcia's and the Dead's story, but the timing of the book could not have been worse for the authors. In their grief, Deadheads did not want to be reminded that their hero had feet of clay. Also, Scully's depictions of the other band members were facile and often insulting: Phil was portrayed as a conceited wine snob; Bob a shallow space case; Billy an out-of-control hothead, etc. With its obviously fictionalized conversations and numerous factual gaffes, the book was roundly criticized as not credible. Yet for all its faults, Living With the Dead captured the wild, anarchic spirit of the Dead in the late '60s and early '70s better than any work before it, and its grim depiction of Scully's and Garcia's descent into a heroin haze had the unmistakable ring of truth to it.

Just in time for the Christmas buying season came Harrington Street, completed by Deborah Koons Garcia in conjunction with editors and designers at Delacorte Press. Jerry was nowhere near finishing the book when he died, so what we have is only a fragmentary part of what he intended. At $22.95 for just over 60 pages of Jerry's art and recollections, the book was a tad overpriced and it did not sell as well as expected—certainly not well enough to earn back Jerry's large six-figure advance. (A few months after it came out, the publishers dropped the price.) Slight and unfinished though it may be, however, the book offers a wondrous glimpse into Jerry's alternately colorful and shadowy childhood. It's a credit to Deborah's persistence and the creativity of the designers who had so little completed art to play with that the book works so well as a quick, intentionally distorted snapshot of part of Jerry's psyche.

Page 466, lower-middle; the impact of Garcia's death on John Scher's Metropolitan Entertainment:

"I'd be lying if I didn't say that Jerry's death has had a significant financial impact on the company," Scher says. "But I think, in all honesty, it's had more of an emotional impact — especially with the people who've been with the company for a long time. Just working with the Dead was the real fun. It was hard work, but it was the real deal. And they were extremely righteous people to work with. We got to work with them day in and day out; they became our friends. I used to speak on the phone with Jerry on almost a daily basis; we were very close. So there's a lot of hurt on the personal level. Truthfully, we can always find more business, but we'll never work with another act the way we did with the Dead. It was special.

"What other modern band had more of an impact on society than the Dead?" he continues. "I really believe that in rock music it's Elvis, Dylan, The Beatles and the Grateful Dead. I don't believe that the Stones or The Who, great as they are, have sociologically impacted the culture. And we knew that about the Dead. We were very conscious of being an integral part of this trip. We lived through extraordinary times with them. We lived with them from being outcasts to being invited to have dinner with the vice president at the Naval Observatory. The last two or three times we played Washington, D.C., there were more Secret Service guys than security. You had the vice president and his family, you had the secretary of the interior, you had three or four U.S. senators and eight or 10 congressman. I mean, can you imagine in 1972 or 1975 the vice president of the United States coming to a Grateful Dead show? So to be part of that musical and sociological experience — losing that was a far greater loss than the money. Money is just money."

Page 467, middle; more musical tributes:

Older acts such as Bob Dylan, the Allman Brothers, Hot Tuna and Santana always drew quite a few Deadheads; their numbers probably increased after Garcia died, as people looked for alternative entertainment. Some groups directly paid homage to Garcia in their sets. Dylan had already been performing Hunter-Garcia tunes for a few years — "Friend of the Devil," "West L.A. Fadeaway" and "Black Muddy River" to name just three. After Jerry died, he made "Alabama Getaway" a regular part of his set for a tour. Los Lobos closed most of their concerts with "Bertha"; the Neville Brothers added "Fire on the Mountain" to their repertoire; and the Allmans regularly jammed on riffs from "St. Stephen" and "Franklin's Tower." Even punk-rock poetess Patti Smith began performing "Black Peter" partly in tribute to Garcia (but mostly because she dug the song). She and Robert Hunter admire each other's work and have since become friends and played music together.

David Grisman convened the surviving members of Old & in the Way (augmented by Herb Pedersen on banjo) for a concert at the Warfield Theater in April '96. The picking was hot, the singing smooth and the vibe in the room warm and affectionate as these veterans, all of whom had traveled down different roads during the two-plus decades since they'd played together, dusted off one great old tune after another. They even had a CD on Grisman's Acoustic Disc label to promote: a second live LP, That High Lonesome Sound, culled from the same '73 shows that yielded the group's first record. After Jerry's death Grisman also added two songs from the Garcia-Grisman album to his regular quintet's repertoire — "Arabia" and "Grateful Dawg." With his graying hair, beard and paunch, Grisman looks a bit like Garcia onstage these days, and the mandolinist's exquisite melodic sense also recalls Jerry at times. A year after Garcia's death, Grisman released what he promised would be the first in a series of thematic albums drawn from the more than 40 sessions he and Garcia recorded. Shady Grove captured the duo's folksy side, with versions of traditional tunes ranging from "Hesitation Blues" to "Louis Collins" to "Stealin'" to "Casey Jones."

Page 470, top; "ashes ashes all fall down":

Even the scattering of Jerry's ashes in the spring of 1996 proved divisive. Bob Weir said the idea came to him "in a flash in between being awake and asleep" — he and Deborah would spread some of Jerry's ashes in the Ganges River in India. He took the idea to a band meeting, where it was heartily endorsed. Deborah was already planning to visit India as a guest of Sanjay Mishra; in fact Jerry and Deborah had hoped to visit India with Sanjay sometime during 1996, and after Jerry died, "I told Deborah that my offer to show her around still stood," Sanjay says. After he heard about Weir's idea, Sanjay chose the day and place for what they hoped would be a quiet private ceremony. He picked a spot in the northeast tip of India, where the Ganges flows out of the Himalayas, a couple of hundred miles south of Tibet, near the spiritual hub of Rishikesh. The date he selected, April 4, turned out to be auspicious — it fell on a total lunar eclipse and was, according to some, Buddha's birthday and also the day he attained enlightenment. As Sanjay says, "No travel agent could have planned that."

Sanjay, Deborah and three of her friends spent the 10 days before the ceremony traveling in arid sections of northern India and shooting video footage with an eye toward using the images for music videos of the songs Jerry and Sanjay had recorded together on Blue Incantation. Weir flew to New Delhi on March 31, hooked up with Deborah and Sanjay, and they headed north to a small mountain village near the tiny island nature refuge where the ceremony would take place in the early morning hours of April 4.

"We didn't have any priests there or anything," Sanjay says. "I know basic rites of Hinduism because my father's ashes and my grandfather's ashes are all there, so we did a prayer to the sun at dawn and then, basically, what you do is bathe in the Ganges to clean your body, before you do anything else. So we took a dip — it was freezing, as you can well imagine; winter was just over.

We bathed in the river and then we came on shore and Deborah had the ashes and she gave some to Bob — I didn't have any because I felt I was just there to help them along — and then we got in the river again and what I'd done is gotten some marigold garlands for everybody and when we bathed in the river and went under the water, that made the marigold garland come off your neck and float down the river. Then Bob read these poems from Hunter and from Mickey and some others, and as he read each one he put it in the water, put a little ash on it and I'd take a handful of flowers and let them float down the river. Deborah read a poem she had written and then we joined hands and walked out of the river. It was a very simple, very dignified, nonreligious postmortem cleansing, as Deborah called it." The ceremony was videotaped at Deborah's request for possible later use.

Hunter's poem was called "Last Words for Jerry Garcia":

Go naked in the world,

wind for your cloak and coverlet.

Whom the Gods love best

they reward with early death,

gather them into the sun,

reflect them in moonlight,

crown them with comets,

annoint them with shooting stars.

Go naked to the Throne of Love,

go as the stars go,

arrayed in their own

incandescent light.

Go and our hearts go with you.

Return to the source of the soul

by way of the Sacred River,

royal road to the sea

where all shall be music

and dreams shall be dreams

no more, but visions

of the World's foundation

scattered among stars.

Dust shall be dust

and the voice of dust shall be music,

pleasing to God who sent it forth

in search of melody

to crown His silence

with eternal song.

Unfortunately, when word came back to California that Bob and Deborah had disposed of some of Jerry's ashes without informing members of his family, there was quite an uproar. The San Francisco Chronicle ran a story about the India trip on its front page, with inflammatory quotes from Annabelle, M.G. and Tiff. M.G. said, "There was no reason on Earth to take Jerry's ashes to India — a country he'd never been to — and dump them into the most polluted river on the face of the Earth." (It turns out the Ganges is fairly clean in Rishikesh.) Annabelle commented, "We all feel left out. We have been extremely shafted by this woman [Deborah]."

Weir was stunned by the ferocity of the attack. "I am chagrined," he told the Chronicle. "I had gone over there intending to do this quite privately, on a mandate from the band. This was for us."

Shortly after the India trip, a second ceremony took place, in accordance with Jerry's wishes to have his ashes scattered at sea. This, too, was marred by bitter acrimony. The ceremony, which took place on a yacht owned by Bill Belmont, was to include Jerry's daughters and a number of intimates, such as Weir, Steve Parish, Laird Grant and various others. The problems began when M.G. showed up at the dock with Annabelle and Theresa. When Deborah arrived a little later, she began shouting at M.G., insisting that she not be allowed to get on the boat. "She was screaming at my mom right in front of me on the day she was going to spread my father's ashes," Theresa later told the San Francisco Examiner.

Deborah told the paper that she believed M.G. was planning to make a mockery of the service by having people on the boat put on clown noses and Groucho Marx-style nose-and-glasses when the ashes were being put in. But according to M.G., "We took two huge boxes of gardenias and many, many bouquets to put over with the ashes. We were going to simply throw over the Bozo noses to lighten it up a little because Jerry was fond of Bozo noses and Groucho glasses. It was to be a touch of lightness."

In the end, Carolyn Garcia was left on the dock crying. Bob Weir reportedly came close to jumping back onto the dock to join her, but decided to go on with the voyage. On a cold and miserable day with choppy seas, the boat headed under the Golden Gate Bridge into the Pacific Ocean near Point Bonita and people took turns throwing handfuls of flowers and Jerry's ashes into the churning waters. "It was so windy," Laird Grant remembers, "we all ended up with ashes all over us. They blew back in our faces. I just rubbed them right into my hair."

Page 470, bottom; more on the trial:

During the early part of the trial there were few spectators in the courtroom besides Annabelle and Trixie Garcia, Sunshine Kesey, and a mysterious woman M.G. claimed was a psychic in Deborah's camp who sat directly behind M.G. day after day. But as the trial went on, more and more people tuned into Court TV to watch the proceedings and the local and national press picked up on the story — Garcia vs. Garcia! '60s icon Mountain Girl does battle with the Black Widow over Captain Trips' fortune! — and Deadheads began to show up in force. Amid the dull legal wrangling and tortuous testimony by forensic accountants, there were a few fireworks, particularly from Steve Parish, whose blatant hostility and mocking tone toward Paul Camera was undoubtedly shocking to those who had never seen Parish gruffly dispatch an unwanted backstage guest. Parish was also the only witness to venture into the social history of the Dead, explaining to Camera (and the television audience) that Grateful Dead (band and extended family) was a great experiment outside the conventions of society that maintained its own standards of behavior.

Both M.G. and Deborah were bloodied by the skirmish, and the trial didn't do much for Jerry's image, either. He was made to look weak and powerless, a pawn of two strong-willed women. And the world got a strange, rather tawdry glimpse of the Grateful Dead's inner circle — Phil Lesh noted during his testimony that the entire 30-year history of the band was just a "smoky haze" to him. But M.G. definitely won the P.R. war: the Deadheads who attended the trial were nearly unanimous in their support of her; old friends were proud of her solid, level-headed demeanor; and most of the press coverage of her was very sympathetic. By contrast, Deborah seemed cold and businesslike, and a few writers voiced skepticism about her claim that there was no enmity between her and Mountain Girl, citing the incident on the boat and confrontations from the '70s as proof. And Deborah endeared herself to no one when she told a San Francisco Examiner reporter that she believed that M.G. and her daughters were "jealous of me because I'm beautiful. They're jealous because I have money. They're jealous because Jerry loved me."

Page 472, top; more on Furthur II:

"The Great Spirit will favor different bands on different days for different reasons," Robert Hunter wrote in his online journal at the beginning of the Furthur tour. "But there will be times in each [show] when people look at each other and say: 'Yeah, this is what it was like back then. I thought I was there!' Crowds can make that agreement if the music permits and the sun shines.

"Does the enigma show itself twice in a generation? Is what was once a steady source of radiation still available in fits and starts? Is Further just an ill-fated attempt to regain the past, or a hopeful attempt to start a new time with roots in the past? Will it reveal itself to be a Frankenstein made of old body parts, or a werewolf in a Dairy Maid costume? The answers to those and other questions will unfold over the coming weeks."

Page 472, middle; more Phil:

Beyond playing music, Phil involved himself in a variety of activities connected to the Dead, the most notable being a proposed Grateful Dead museum/sensorium/performance space to be called Terrapin Station. Though no site had been chosen or architectural plans finalized for this ambitious undertaking when it was announced in the fall of 1997, the prospect of a multimedia Grateful Dead funhouse had Deadheads all over the world salivating in anticipation of its projected completion before the new millennium arrives. Phil went so far as to predict that the Dead would re-form to play there on December 31, 1999, but with the project moving forward at glacial speed, it was clear by the summer of 1999 that the hoped for show would not come to pass: at least not at Terrapin Station.

Robert Hunter came out of a seven-year retirement from performing with a very well-received solo tour of clubs and small theaters in the spring of '97, followed by a number of guest appearances on the Furthur tour and another solo swing in the fall. Though he kept a very low profile during the first half of the '90s, after Garcia's death Hunter developed a fascinating Internet website where he kept a journal of his daily activities and articulated his thoughts and feelings about the post-Garcia world. He wrote candidly about the inner workings of the Dead organization, and in his "Mailbag" he posted hundreds of letters from Deadheads, answering many of their questions and trying to help them work through their grief. He also uploaded pages of his original handwritten lyrics for many of his best-known songs, and he reprinted sections of his journals from the '70s and '80s. The natural next step was a return to performing, and in his journal he recounted every large and small move he made in that direction, including regular reports from his tours.

Hunter's decision to hit the road was much more than an attempt to recapture some of the legacy that is rightfully his; it was him choosing to step into the void created after Jerry's death, to reconnect with the bard in him and to take his songs to people who were hungry to hear them. Working in a solo format, he was able to maneuver through his amazing catalog of tunes however he pleased — connecting them in interesting ways, unexpectedly placing songs within songs, and moving off on odd tangents when the fancy struck. A courageous but uneven guitarist with a fondness for various pedal effects, Hunter even dared attempt some Garciaesque leads and space jams from time to time, with varying degrees of success.

"I'm keenly aware of the significance of the gatherings I've been presiding over," Hunter wrote in his online journal after his spring '97 tour. "Innocence on that matter would be hard to come by with open eyes. ... People are coming for more reasons than a tune — they're coming for each other — and honoring me extravagantly by doing it at my gigs. They know this, and so do I. It's a humbling experience salted with moments of exaltation. I want very much to be doing this for the right reasons, because the reasons will, and must, inform the music. That can't be written into the chords and charts. It's a rhythm thing and it's all over the map. It's more like a candle flicker in a dark room than a steady beam. It continues to feel like a more valuable way to proceed than sitting around waiting for something to happen and making comments. Getting too old for that. The Spectre is ever near at hand, manifesting in a hundred ways. A good show faces it off and reclaims time. Don't know exactly how else to say it. Stuck with metaphors."

Page 475, upper-middle; Kesey on Deadheads:

"Deadheads believe in magic and ritual and the input of spirits," Ken Kesey told me in August 1986, when Garcia was still teetering between life and death after his diabetic coma. "When you talk to Deadheads about what it is they're after ... They go to Dead concerts asking questions and sometimes the Dead provide the answers. It's not the same reason you go to a Barry Manilow concert, or even a Harry Belafonte concert. Going to a Harry Belafonte concert, as good as he is, or going to an Ella Fitzgerald concert, as good as she is, still has to do with enjoying nostalgia. But the question is still being asked by Deadheads, and the Dead are still trying to provide the answer. And the answer has something to do with trying to make it through the spiritual impasse we've gotten ourselves into, without self-destructing and going crazy and bombing everybody.

"It's like there's a little map and you'll hear a little bit over here and that's part of the map, and you'll find something else over there and that's another part of the map. You hear these twisted pan pipes off in the ghetto and you follow it a little ways and the pan pipes drop off. Then you'll hear something at a [Dead] concert in Red Rocks, when the stones begin to ring in a circle, and you'll follow that a little way. It's part of a map that's trying to show a certain number of people how to make it through a harsh time and survive. ...

"When Garcia went down everybody could feel ... 'Oh no-o-o-o.' Because the Dead are a way through. There's a gap there. Without that gap, boy, our choices are cut down and it's harder to make it through this river, because the Dead lead us through a certain part of the rapids."

"The whole thing is about a social movement," Owsley Stanley says. "It's tribalism, which is the only social structure that is truly human. The world today runs on feudalism — governments, companies. All those structures are feudalistic, arranged in hierarchies which at their root follow Parkinson's law — that is, once you create a hierarchy or bureaucracy, it has only one purpose, and that is to continue; there's nothing else. But that has nothing to do with the tribal entity. The tribal entity exists to abide in harmony with its environment. It's something that benefits everyone, not just this one structure."

Thayer Craw on the dark and light:

"The Grateful Dead tapped into something that was so special, and no one has ever done that and will be able to do that the same way they did. For me it was the only experience that would make me feel good and cleansed and alive and regenerated. No matter what was happening in the world or in your life, you went to a show and it made you feel wonderful and you could actually sustain that feeling for a long time.

"And although there was always a lot of dark stuff in there, compared to the goodness that came out of it, it was well worth putting up with it. Because the music said it all, and anything that makes you feel that good, you feel so privileged to be a part of and the rest was minor."

Page 476, lower-middle; Hornsby's reflections on Garcia:

"He was one of the funniest people I ever knew," agrees Bruce Hornsby. "He was a hilarious guy, always ready for a laugh. We'd listen to Henny Youngman tapes. We were listening to the Jerky Boys [the infamous phone pranksters] in Garcia's tent way before that record came out. He was such a great cat. And more than just funny, of course. He was really bright and interested in absolutely everything and he could be really, really warm. It was just part of him.

"Let me tell you a cute story," he continues. "My [twin] boys were about one-and-a-half and we took them up to RFK Stadium because I was going to sit in with the Dead. This was '93, when Sting was opening. So we took the boys to the gig and before the show we were backstage and Sting comes over and he says, 'Oh, these are the babies,' and he picks one of them up: 'Waaaah!' Big shriek. The typical thing with strangers. Then Don Henley, who was hanging out at the gig, comes over: 'Hey, here are the boys! All right!' Picks one of them up: "Waaaaah!' Shrieking again. About an hour later we're up onstage and Sting is finishing his set and now here comes Weir. 'Hey. Here are the boys!' Picks one of them up, same thing: 'Waaah!' Then Garcia drops by: 'Hey, far out , man. Here are the boys!' I put one of them in Garcia's arms and boom — they just grooved. He was the only one they would let hold them. In fact, we have a great picture that's up on our wall of Garcia with this huge grin on his face, holding one of the boys. The big Papa Bear was the only one who could hold them."