In 1957, the dreamy Hollywood heartthrob Tab Hunter topped the pop charts with his cover of “Young Love.” The song — written by Ric Cartey and Carole Joyner and originally released by Cartney with his group the Jiva Tones — was also a country hit for Sonny James around the same time. But it was the success of Hunter’s version that led to the launch of one of the largest music companies in the world: Warner Bros. Records.
To some, Hunter is a mere footnote from 1950s pop culture. In an article in The New York Times onthe history of rock n’ roll, Chuck Klosterman briefly referenced Hunter, noting how in 1957, “he was bigger than Jerry Lee Lewis or Fats Domino.” But Klosterman adds that Hunter’s music has been largely forgotten by history.
To my generation, or at least the part of it that watched bad movies on HBO in the 1980s, he will forever be remembered as the biology teacher Mr. Stewart in the 1982 camp classic Grease 2. In that film, he sang lead on the awfullycatchy, “Reproduction,” perhaps the raunchiest song ever written about plant life. “The flower's insatiable passion turns its life into a circus of debauchery!” The song currently has 313,000 more listens on Spotify than “Young Love.”
Hunter himself is a fascinating figure. He was an actor, singer, sex symbol and pinup idol in the 1950s. Behind the scenes, he had to go to great lengths to conceal the fact that he was gay from the general public. In his 2005 autobiography Tab Hunter Confidential (and 2015 documentary of the same name) Hunter talks about his sudden rise to fame as a Warner Bros. contract actor in the Hollywood studio era in the 1950s. He then goes on to detail how he kept his personal life a secret while the company’s publicity machine promoted him as the boy next door and sent him on photo-op dates with young starlets.
According to his memoir, in 1956, during a promotional tour with Natalie Wood for their film The Burning Hills, Chicago-based D.J. Howard Miller asked him “Do you ever think of recording?” Despite Hunter’s insistent replies that he couldn’t sing, Miller introduced him to Randy Wood the head of Dot Records.
In December 1956, he recorded his cover of “Young Love” with a little help from the Jordanaires, Elvis Presley’s backup singers. Though very similar to Sonny James’ version, the song quickly exploded onto the pop charts, hitting the top spot in early 1957. (Billboard Magazine did not actually start its Hot 100 chart until 1958, however, if you look at its various charts in 1957, you’ll see “Young Love” held the number one position on several of them from February 16 through March 23). Billboard would eventually rate it the #4 single for 1957, and Hunter had three other singles on the charts that year. James’ rendition would actually finish the year at #8.
Hunter’s success as a singer started a war between the management of Dot Records and Warner Bros. “Jack Warner may have magnanimously declined to pass judgement on my personal life, but if there was a buck to be made — he owned me,” Hunter wrote. He points out that for years, the studio had fought against starting its own label, but that the success of “Young Love” convinced them otherwise.
When Hunter went into the studio for the newly created Warner Bros. Records, he claims, in sentiments that would be echoed again by major label recording artists: “What had been conjured at Dot Records couldn’t be recaptured. Dot was run by a family of music makers; Warners was full of businessmen,” Hunter wrote. “To cop a jazzman’s term it was a totally different vibe.” He released several singles that charted modestly, but none with the impact of “Young Love.” Though he had a few more modest hits, his career as a pop singer simply faded away.
The Warner Bros. Records story, however, did not end there. The label foundered for a few years, until in 1960 when it signed the Everly Brothers for a million-dollar deal. And the rest is, as they say history, or corporate history anyway. Since then the label has undergone a long string of sales, mergers and acquisitions, and for many years has been the largest American-owned music conglomerate and publishers in the world.
While Hunter’s singing career might have only been a small blip on the music landscape of the 1950s, the success of his one cover song made a lasting footprint on the industry that continues to this day, for better or for worse.
On 1978’s year-end Billboard chart five of the top ten songs belonged to the Gibb family — three by the Bee Gees themselves and another two by their younger brother Andy. So far-reaching was the Gibb’s music that when the Grateful Dead travelled to Egypt for their legendary shows at the Pyramids in the fall of that year, Jerry Garcia experienced a very modern type of culture shock. “What you heard on every street corner was ‘Stayin’ Alive!’ Everywhere! In the darkest bazaars in the middle of Cairo, there’s the Bee Gees and ‘Stayin’ Alive’ blasting out of the bazaar.” In the midst of the great disco explosion, the Grateful Dead recorded and released their tenth and most divisive studio album, Shakedown Street, a record that is a product of its time.
The album was panned by Rolling Stone upon its release. “With few exceptions, Shakedown Street, rife with blind intersections, comes across as an artistic dead end,” the magazine wrote. “Over the years, the Dead have shown a knack for turning even the most undistinguished material into something at least moderately interesting. No more.” To be fair, the magazine hated most of the Dead’s records that were not named Workingman’s Dead or American Beauty.
Like its predecessor Terrapin Station, the album sold modestly well upon its release, and eventually went gold in 1987 after “Touch of Gray” hit the pop charts. Clive Davis, the head of Arista Records, was disappointed by the album. He felt that the band was distracted by side projects. In his view, “Rubin and Cherise” from Garcia’s solo record Cats Under the Stars and Bob Weir’s “Bombs Away” from Heaven Help The Fool, both released that year, were stronger tracks than anything on Shakedown Street.
Having first bought the album in 1985, I’ve always been a fan but I am not immune to its flaws. Listening to it now, I hear a record that is uneven, especially the second half, but still has some great tunes. And that seems to be how music historians tend to view it. Garcia biographer Blair Jackson said it was his “least favorite” Dead album, but conceded that there were “plenty of good songs” on the record. Allmusic.com calls the album, “a mess,” but with the caveat, “It falls short of flat-out disaster, partially because it's a fascinating listen due to the very things that make it a severely flawed record.”
Most of the ire is reserved for the title track, which has often been dismissed as “Disco Dead.” To evoke former President Obama’s favorite phrase, “let me be clear:” “Shakedown Street” is a disco song, but it’s a great disco song. It has an instantly recognizable guitar riff and a groove that’s every bit as catchy as anything laid down by the Bee Gees or Chic in the late 1970s. Like “Stayin’ Alive,” it’s a song with an infectious groove that disguises its lyrics about inner-city decay.
Nothin' shakin' on Shakedown Street
Used to be the heart of town Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart
You just gotta poke around
Just as the album and its title track were a product of their time, so is some of the criticism. In 2017, rebuking a rock band for laying down disco beats in the 1970s seems especially dated given that most bands of the era were happy to hop on the boogie-fever bandwagon. (Kiss, “I Was Made For Lovin’ You”; Pink Floyd, “Another Brick in the Wall (Part II)”; The Rolling Stones, “Miss You,” Paul McCartney “Silly Love Songs,”etc.) The song is not much of a stylistic stretch from “Help on the Way” or “Franklin’s Tower” on Blues for Allah.
A slower-paced version of the song became a standard at their concerts as they played it live 163 times. “‘Shakedown Street’ developed far beyond its steady rhythmic pulse in concert,” Jackson wrote. “It gave the band a chance to explore the funky R&B side of their roots, which had been nearly dormant since Pigpen’s departure.” While purists may have been upset, if anything the Dead’s recording history shows they were never really rooted in any one style. So why not disco?
The band recorded the album in the summer and fall of 1978 at its rehearsal studio on Front Street in San Rafael, California, where life outside often mirrored the bleak depiction of inner city life in the album’s title track. The studio was “surrounded by a gritty urban landscape of neon signs, shabby motels, and dilapidated storefronts,” Phil Lesh wrote. “We’d hang out in the front room where the big-screen TV was always on, although the view outdoors was frequently more interesting than any TV show, what with all the action involving the cops and the local prostitutes and winos.”
To produce the record, the band tapped Lowell George, the singer and guitarist from Little Feat. On paper the match seemed ideal, as Jackson notes, “The Dead and Little Feat met on a polyrhythmic plane: No one played funky, syncopated N’awlins-style rock ‘n’ roll better than Little Feat, and they also had their share of quirky shuffles — a little like the Dead, but with a bluesier edge.” Weir had even covered Little Feat’s “Easy To Slip,” a song co-written by George, on Heaven Help the Fool.
But what seemed like a perfect fit musically did not play out quite as well in the studio. The recording sessions were marred by excessive drug use on the part of the band, the crew and George himself. “A lovely guy,” Mickey Hart said of George. “But he was screaming on coke the whole time. He was killing himself. And, again, it was a desperation move. Nobody in their right mind would want to be the producer of the Grateful Dead. It’s a death sentence. No one can handle that. They always crack up.” When members of the Grateful Dead think you’re doing too many drugs, there’s clearly a problem.
Despite his praise, Hart and George actually got into a fight in the studio after George made a derisive comment about one of Hart’s solo recordings. According to the band’s publicist and historian Dennis McNally, “Hart tackled him and began to choke him, at which point Lowell began to hyperventilate and have heart palpitations.” George would ultimately die from a heart attack in June 1979 at the age of 34.
The other half of the Dead’s drum section took a warmer view of George’s contribution without the extra fireworks. Bill Kreutzmann called him “my favorite producer to work with.” In his memoir he said, “[George] had a wonderful way about him; he was always really relaxed, which is a great quality to have in the recording environment, and he was a real soulful guy.” Kreutzmann thought the problem with the record was the Front Street studio itself, as it was not well-equipped to record an album. “It was a raw practice space. There wasn’t much in terms of sound isolation or separate booths or a control room or anything like that, so it ended up being more like a really awkward live recording.”
George’s influence is clear on the opening track “Good Lovin’," a cover of a song originally recorded by the doo-wop group the Olympics in 1965 and remade into a number one hit by the Young Rascals in 1966. The tune had been a concert staple for the band during the Pigpen years. This version, sung by Weir, has a rollicking keyboard intro and multi-layered percussion in the background, with a decidedly good-time, southern-boogie feel, like a lost Little Feat song.
The second track, “France,” is one of the group’s more baffling songs. Co-written by Hart and Robert Hunter, the song was recorded as a duet between Weir and Donna Godchaux, though it sounds almost as if it could have been sung by Elton John and Kiki Dee. Just like “Shakedown Street” is a great disco track, “France” is a really catchy pop tune. Still whenever I hear it, I can’t help but think the band had its locales confused. The guitar tracks have a decidedly Spanish flavor and the outro is filled with Caribbean steel drumming.
On that note, the album also seems to answer the question asked by many Dead detractors, “Why does a band need two drummers?” By having two drummers, the band could go beyond the simple backbeat and add another layer to the album’s sonic complexity. One can hear this with “Good Lovin’,” the steel drums on “France,” the low-pitched tom toms on “Fire on the Mountain,” and their percussion-focused instrumental “Serengeti.” It just gives the whole album a fun, danceable feel, which may also explain why it’s the only Dead record I can workout to.
Side A closes with “Fire on the Mountain,” another song penned by Hart and Hunter, and originally written for Terrapin Station. When performed live, it was often included in the second half of a jam with “Scarlet Begonias,” dubbed “Scarlet Fire.” Again, the real strength lies in the percussion, with low-tuned drums adding what sounds like a second baseline. The melodic outro riff on the song is reminiscent of a jam from “The Eleven” on 1969’s Live Dead.
Side B (or the second half of the album) opens with the fiery, good-time-blues-boogie track “I Need A Miracle” — the Dead’s “it’s-tough-to-be-a-rock-star” song.
It takes dynamite to get me up Too much of everything is just enough One more thing I just got to say I need a miracle every day
It’s after this that the album begins to feel a bit stale, starting with Donna Godchaux’s, “From the Heart of Me.” The song was not as much of a departure from the Dead’s sound as her previous lead vocal effort “Sunrise,” but is not a particularly strong track. Then there’s the Dead’s version of “Stagger Lee,” a retelling of the American folk story that fits well into their canon of mythical scoundrels. The second-to-last track is “All New Minglewood Blues,” a reworking of their cover of “New, New Minglewood Blues,” which appeared on the group’s eponymous 1967 debut album. This version is closer to how the band played it live at the time and George’s production gives it a southern-rock vibe. The song holds the distinction of being the only song to appear on two different studio albums, but part of me can’t help wonder why they even bothered.
The album closes with “If I Had the World to Give,” a Beatlesque piece that Jackson called, “the most straightforward love ballad that Hunter and Garcia ever wrote together. On the surface it seemed almost like a traditional pop love song from the ‘40s or ‘50s.” The song quickly faded from view as it was only played live three times. Despite this, the track was covered on the 2016 tribute album Day of the Dead by Bonnie “Prince” Billy, demonstrating that the Dead’s lesser-appreciated recordings did make an impact on future generations of musicians.
When the Dead released Terrapin Station in 1977, Arista Records took out an ad in Rolling Stone proclaiming: “A NEW DEAD ERA IS UPON US,” but it was after the release of Shakedown Street thatthe band truly entered a new age. Keith and Donna Godchaux would depart in early 1979 — with Keith dying in a car crash in 1980. By the time the band began recording its eleventh studio album Go To Heaven, they would have a new keyboardist, a new producer and a new sound to divide fans and critics alike: Yacht Rock!
Sources
Browne, David. So Many Roads: The Life and Times of the Grateful Dead. Da Capo Press, Boston, MA. 2015.
Davis, Clive and DeCurtis, Anthony. The Soundtrack of My Life. Simon & Schuster, New York. 2013.
Gans, Davis. Conversations with the Grateful Dead: The Grateful Dead Interview Book. Da Capo Press, Cambridge, MA 2002.
Jackson, Blair. Garcia: An American Life. Reissue. Penguin Books. 2000
Kreutzmann, Bill and Eisen, Benjy. Deal: My Three Decades of Drumming, Dreams and Drugs with the Grateful Dead. St. Martin’s Press, New York. 2015.
Lesh, Phil. Searching for the Sound: My Life with the Grateful Dead. Little, Brown and Company, New York. 2005.
McNally, Dennis. A Long Strange Trip: The Inside History of the Grateful Dead. Broadway Books, New York. 2002.
Richardson, Peter. No Simple Highway: A Cultural History of the Grateful Dead. St. Martin’s Press, New York. 2015
Trager, Oliver. The American Book of the Dead: The Definitive Grateful Dead Encyclopedia. Fireside, New York. 1997.
Music producer Keith Olsen’s resume looks like a who’s who of mainstream rock artists from the 1970s and 1980s, including Fleetwood Mac, Rick Springfield, Ozzy Osbourne, Europe, Whitesnake, Bad Company and Joe Walsh, among others. His work also appeared on soundtracks for such iconic films as Top Gun, Footloose, Flashdance and Vision Quest. Before the 80s hit full blast, Olsen also produced the Grateful Dead’s ninth studio album Terrapin Station in 1977. In true Grateful Dead fashion, the album failed to set the charts on fire, and it contains some of the band’s most interesting studio tracks, and at least one of their worst.
A band like the Dead hiring someone like Olsen may seem a bit odd in retrospect, like if Phish or Wilco suddenly flew to Sweden to work with Max Martin. But in 1977, the Dead were in a bit of career funk. Ten years removed from their Haight-Ashbury heyday, the band’s business was in trouble. Their label, Grateful Dead Records, had recently folded after the release of Blues for Allah due to bad management and disappointing sales. This led them to sign with Arista Records. When the label’s founder Clive Davis brought the band into his stable of artists, one of his many demands was that they hire an outside producer to make them more palatable to mainstream radio. The band had self-produced its last few albums with uneven results.
To handle such a daunting task, Davis handpicked Olsen, who had recently scored his major breakthrough by producing Fleetwood Mac’s self-titled 1975 album, which contained such hits as “Rhiannon” and “Landslide.” Olsen was a true neophyte to the Grateful Dead’s music. “I didn’t know their records. I was as far away from what they did as possible.” Before taking on the band, he listened to some of their records and thought, “How am I going to fix this?”
When the project began, Olsen forced the group to rehearse extensively in their Front Street studio in San Francisco before bringing them down to Los Angeles for the actual recording sessions. “Keith was cracking the whip, but we liked it,” Mickey Hart said. “It made us sharper. We became much more disciplined. We were trying to make a real record, for Clive.” Once recording started, Olsen was less than impressed by his new charges working habits. David Browne writes that “25 percent of [Olsen’s] time was devoted to rounding up the band: just when a few of them were ready to get to work, others would wander off. And even when he managed to get them together, they didn’t always stay in the same room for very long.”
Despite Olsen’s concerns, the efforts clearly paid off as the album is bookended by two Dead classics, the opening and closing tracks “Estimated Prophet” and “Terrapin Station.” Olsen’s studio wizardry is all over both of the songs, to the delight of some band members and the downright outrage of others.
The opener, “Estimated Prophet” is the band’s ode to their home state of California, depicted in the chorus as an Eden-like paradise:
California, a prophet on the burning shore California, I'll be knocking on the golden door Like an angel, standing in a shaft of light Rising up to paradise, I know I'm gonna shine.
That vision presents a stark contrast to the more somber tale in the song’s verses, where Bob Weir is constantly reminding the listener that: “My time coming, anyday, don't worry about me, no.”
Weir claims the song, which he co-wrote with John Perry Barlow, is his personal reaction to the adulation he received from fans. “Every time we play anywhere there’s always some guy that’s taken a lot of dope and he’s really bug-eyed and he’s having some kind of vision. Somehow I work into his vision … So I guess I just decided I was going to beat him to the punch and do it myself. I’ve been in that space and I know where’s he’s coming from. If there’s a point to ‘Estimated Prophet’ it’s that no matter what you do, perhaps you shouldn’t take it all that seriously.”
The music itself has a decidedly West Coast (aka Yacht Rock) feel. This is thanks in part to the sax solo, performed by fusion jazz musician Tom Scott, who was brought in by Olsen. While other members of the band would ultimately be dismayed by some of Olsen’s constant tweaking of the process, Weir was happy with the final result. “As it is, I’m kind of pleased overall with what [Olsen] did on ‘’Estimated Prophet’ — it’s not often I heard one of my tunes all dressed up like that.” Weir would subsequently hire Olsen to produce his 1978 solo record HeavenHelp the Fool.
The album closes with “Terrapin Station,” sometimes known as “Terrapin Station Part 1,” the Dead’s sprawling 16-minute masterpiece. The band was no stranger to long-form, multi-track suites on its albums. Previous extended efforts included, “That’s It For the Other One” on Anthem of the Sun, “Weather Report Suite” on Wake of the Flood and the notoriously awful title track to Blues for Allah, all of which contained several different movements. But unlike those tracks, which are very jammy, “Terrapin Station” is a tighter and more calculated work, similar to epic prog rock pieces of the era, like Styx’s “Movement for the Common Man,” Rush’s “2112,” or Genesis’ “Supper’s Ready.” The work is so complex the band would never play it live in its entirety.
The song opens with “Lady with a Fan,” a ballad similar to the old standard, “Lady of Carlisle.” The lyrics then delve into an exploration of “Terrapin,” an ethereal destination not all that different from the depiction of California on “Estimated Prophet.” “Some rise/Some fall/Some climb/To get to Terrapin.” The suite then proceeds into a series of divergent passages. There’s the baroque jam on the middle section, also called “Terrapin Station.” This then veers into the fusion jazz on “Terrapin Transit” and “At A Siding.” The tune then speeds up to capture the hyperactive sound of a moving train on “Terrapin Flyer,” which with its rattling bell percussion, is similar to “Caution (Do Not Step on the Tracks)” from Anthem of the Sun. The song ends with the a reprise of “Terrapin Station” complete with a bombastic orchestra and a choir calling out “Terrr-aa-peen” as if it were the finale to a grand opera. While the song is certainly long, it has enough variety that it does not feel tedious or overstretched, unlike so many of the band’s endless jams.
Robert Hunter claims he and Jerry Garcia wrote the lyrics and music separately on a single day in 1976. “When we met the next day, I showed him the words and he said, ‘I’ve got the music.’ They dovetailed perfectly and ‘Terrapin’ edged into this dimension,” Hunter said. Garcia’s biographer Blair Jackson dubbed the song, “a culmination of sorts for the Hunter-Garcia writing partnership — a place where the deep folk roots blossomed into a mythic dimension outside of time and space.” Garcia actually heavily edited the lyrics, but Hunter’s full version can be heard on his 1980 solo record Jack O’ Roses.
The band initially struggled to put the whole thing together. Describing the recording process in his memoir, Bill Kreutzmann writes, “After we’d been wrestling with it, unsuccessfully, in the studio, I came to the conclusion that part of the problem rested on Mickey and me. We hadn’t agreed on a precise arrangement, and a song like “Terrapin Station” needs a precise arrangement. Late that night, I went to Mickey’s apartment — we were all in the same basic apartment complex — and I told him that we were going to stay up and work on the song until we got it right. No more faking it. We sat down and mapped it out. … We went back into the studio, the next night, and got it right.”
When the tracks were completed in the spring of 1977 Olsen took the tapes to London where, along with arranger Paul Buckmaster, he recorded several orchestral sections to the piece. In the process, Olsen erased part of the drum track, replacing the section with strings, a decision that ultimately didn’t sit well with the Rhythm Devils. “Without telling anyone in the band, he erased Mickey’s part entirely and then hired a string section to fill out that passage instead. I was pissed off about it, but Mickey was deservedly outraged,” Kreutzmann said. Hart called it “one of the most disrespectful things that has even happened to me musically … He didn’t ask — he erased it off the master and replaced it with strings.” Olsen claims he was given authorization by Garcia and Weir, “I said, ‘Do I have to go through every member of the band?’ They said, ‘No we’ll take care of it.’ But I don’t think they ever told anybody.” Clearly, this was all done long before anyone gave any thought of releasing a rarities or alternate cuts album.
Despite the strength of the opening and closing tracks, the middle section of the album is more uneven. After “Estimated Prophet, Track 2 is the band’s discofied cover of Martha and the Vandellas “Dancin’ in the Street,” a song universally hated among Deadheads, critics and band historians. Then there’s “Passenger,” a hard rock track written by Phil Lesh. “The only reason I made up ‘Passenger’ was that I wanted the guitar players to play with a little raunch” Lesh said. The album also includes a cover of the old gospel/blues tune “Samson and Delilah,” canonized by the Reverend Gary Davis. In this version, the band gives it a funky dance feel with a much more agreeable groove than on “Dancin’.” While Weir takes the lead vocal responsibilities, Donna Godchaux’s voice has one of the song’s most definitive moments. In the opening line of the chorus her voice punctuates the song, “If I had my WAY,” taking it up several octaves in a manner that the band would rarely be able to replicate live, especially after her departure.
Perhaps the oddest song on the album is Ms. Godchaux’s lead vocal effort, the side A closer, “Sunrise.” Written in honor of the band’s manager Rex Jackson, who died in a car crash in 1976, the song is a sad, mournful ballad, with heavy orchestration (also recorded by Olsen in London), and is one of the band’s few forays into mainstream pop. In fact hearing the song today, it almost sounds like a lost James Bond theme song (what a strange trip that would have been). It’s one of those rare moments that demonstrates the power of Ms. Godchaux’s voice. Before joining the Dead with her husband Keith, she had been a crack session singer who had worked with the likes of Elvis and Percy Sledge. When listening to “Sunrise” I can’t help but think her vocal talents were mostly underutilized by the band.
Terrapin Station sold modestly well upon its release, eventually going gold in 1987 when “Touch of Grey” helped boost the group’s back catalogue album sales. Though the album failed to produce a radio hit, Davis claimed in his autobiography that he thought it was a strong record.
Despite the band’s conflicts with Olsen, the collaboration clearly strengthened the group’s sound. The Dead’s 1977 tour is still considered one of its finest. Famous dates include the near mythic performance at Cornell’s Barton Hall and a show played in front of 150,000 at Englishtown Raceway in New Jersey. Browne credits the strength of this tour to the band’s work with Olsen. “All the hours the Dead had logged in the studio with a chart-minded producer had transformed the band into a monstrously strong unit. … Whether in college gyms, theaters, or arenas, they’d rarely sounded so well oiled.” The pop charts would simply have to wait another decade.
Sources
Browne, David. So Many Roads: The Life and Times of the Grateful Dead. Da Capo Press, Boston, MA. 2015.
Davis, Clive and DeCurtis, Anthony. The Soundtrack of My Life. Simon & Schuster, New York. 2013.
Gans, Davis. Conversations with the Grateful Dead: The Grateful Dead Interview Book. Da Capo Press, Cambridge, MA 2002.
Jackson, Blair. Garcia: An American Life. Reissue. Penguin Books. 2000
Kreutzmann, Bill and Eisen, Benjy. Deal: My Three Decades of Drumming, Dreams and Drugs with the Grateful Dead. St. Martin’s Press, New York. 2015.
Lesh, Phil. Searching for the Sound: My Life with the Grateful Dead. Little, Brown and Company, New York. 2005.
McNally, Dennis. A Long Strange Trip: The Inside History of the Grateful Dead. Broadway Books, New York. 2002.
Trager, Oliver. The American Book of the Dead: The Definitive Grateful Dead Encyclopedia. Fireside, New York. 1997.
