It was midday and the stores on Haight Street were drowsily coming to life under a warming sun. A gaggle of skateboarders, ageing “heads”, dogs and guitars waited at the lights at Stanyan to cross over to Hippie Hill for an afternoon of music, marijuana and merriment.
We had just enjoyed a sumptuous lunch of chicken pesto, Greek chicken wraps and hummus plate at the Blue Front Café, (sadly, one of the many eateries that has subsequently closed), and were entering a brightly coloured establishment which had historically divested us of our holiday dollars more than any other over the previous two decades.
As we planted ourselves in the rear of the store to look for any new tie-dye shirts from Liquid Blue, the silence was broken by a chirpy Californian female voice.
“Hey, you guys, let me explain the layout in here for you. At this end you will find the Grateful Dead t-shirts, organised by size, while over here are my own designs…….”
It was clear that the woman was going to continue with this well-rehearsed speech for some time, and, of course, she was only trying to be helpful. But I have an aversion to being what I perceive as “stalked” in stores by staff when all I want to do is look for myself and ask questions if I have a need.
So, I interrupted her rather abruptly – for which I have since apologised on many occasions – explaining that for nearly twenty years we had been rummaging through her colourful stock, and left laden with t-shirts, dresses, badges, stickers and other paraphernalia.
Rather than being deterred by my rude riposte, she squealed at the news, thanking us for our custom (not service – that is generally reserved for the military) and asking us where we were from, a perfectly reasonable icebreaker if one were really needed. I explained that we were from England, that I had revered the Dead since the late sixties and had visited the store many times before. This triggered a discussion about our mutual love for the music and the city.
I mentioned that we were heading for the Great American Music Hall that evening to see Dark Star Orchestra, the band formed in Chicago that had been replicating entire Dead shows since 1997. Alicia, as she was called, was thrilled to hear and said “we’re going too, do you wanna hang out?” By “we” she had included her partner, Jerry (no, not that one) who was, at the time, the long term owner of the store.
Despite the presumption (at least to British ears) in the question we instantly accepted the offer, and as we left with Casey Jones and Alice in Wonderland tees, arranged to meet in the line outside the venue at 6pm.
Disembarking the 47 Muni, rather uncharitably dubbed by my wife the “stinky bus”, at Van Ness and O’Farrell, we strode excitedly along the two blocks to join a mercifully short line at the venue. Dead concerts past were recalled as the air reeked of pot and a lone, long haired man patrolled the street with a barely legible, but at least grammatically correct, “I need a miracle” message scrawled on a scrap of cardboard with a Sharpie.
Alicia and Jerry joined us ten minutes later and we made our way to the upper floor where we had booked tables, allowing a prime position leaning on the railing that overlooked the stage below. We could not have had a better view as we christened our new tie-dye outfits. The ticket price had included a meal from a limited menu. With Californian and English choices on offer, we all opted for the latter – fish and chips (the American version of several small fish pieces rather than the single, larger British version).
This was the second time we had seen Dark Star Orchestra, the first having been at the House of Blues in Las Vegas on the eve of my sixtieth birthday two years earlier, when they had played a show from the early nineties which my wife had struggled to embrace, leading her to abandon the show midway through the second set halfway through a characteristically lengthy Eyes of the World jam in favour of the penny slot machines on the Mandalay Bay casino floor.
She had still not, at this stage, been fully converted to the Dead’s music, despite the fact that I had tried for thirty years to convince her of their greatness. She did, however, enjoy many of the earlier, shorter songs like Sugar Magnolia, Uncle John’s Band, Box of Rain and her favourite, Bertha.
I had been hoping that, being in San Francisco, they might play a Fillmore (West) concert on this evening, perhaps even from the run featured on the Live Dead album from 1969. And that, with some minor adaptations, is exactly what we got. I was beside myself, and my wife was happy too.
Mid way through the first set they announced that they were being joined by a special guest – Grateful Dead rhythm guitarist Bob Weir! He jammed with the band on St. Stephen and sang one of his signature cowboy songs, Me and My Uncle. The following year Bob similarly “gate crashed” Steve Earle’s set at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass in 2016. And more than a decade later, during which he had headlined Dead and Company, Wolf Brothers and countless other musical projects, and at the age of seventy eight, he shows little sign of putting himself out to pasture.
Sam Cutler, former manager of both the Dead and the Rolling Stones, spoke to the audience between sets when, naturally, I bought a t-shirt from the merchandise table, an item of clothing I reprised to lead guitarist Jeff Matson’s delight at the band’s concert at Shepherd’s Bush Empire in London in September 2022.
The concert continued past midnight. It had been a special evening, we had bonded with Alicia and Jerry, forging a friendship that continued to flourish and which led to us staying at their home with them in Petaluma on a number of occasions, attending concerts, Giants and 49ers games and meals together as well as them (separately) visiting the UK and all of us, including their two children, Aiden (Alicia’s by a previous marriage) and Ely (their own son) meeting up subsequently in Chicago.
As the Covid-19 pandemic caused a hiatus in our physical connection, we met up on Zoom on a weekly basis as they prepared to go for a morning cycle and we cooked our Sunday dinner! We even danced to favourite Dead songs when the conversation, as it did rarely, lagged.
The story of our relationship has subsequently taken several dramatic and unexpected turns, which I will address on another occasion.
The line for breakfast in Martha’s on Church was long, stretching to the sidewalk. I ordered two decaf lattes and bagels to go. I was assailed by a grey, pig-tailed man around my age in Moody Blues t-shirt and crumpled check shorts, intrigued by my accent and “Closing of Winterland” t-shirt, he enquired:
“Do you live in the City?”
“I wish. But no, I’m staying in a cottage a few blocks away for a month”.
“Wow, you Brits really seem to love it here. Love your shirt by the way. I was there”.
“Thanks, and my turn to say wow. I have to make do with the CD and DVD”.
We stepped to one side as the line lengthened further.
“We’ve been going to concerts here for two decades. We were at the Great American Music Hall with Dark Star Orchestra last night”.
“Nice. Y’know, I’ve never seen them, but I’ve heard they’re pretty close to the Dead”.
“Yeah, they play whole shows and last night’s was the Fillmore ’69 which was view of music heaven. And Bob Weir joined them for a couple of numbers”.
“Double wow! They must have been awesome. It’s funny but you guys are wedded to the Dead, while I’ve travelled all over the UK pretty regularly to see concerts. I’ve seen the Stones, Pink Floyd and the Moody Blues, of course”.
“That’s weird but cool, because we’ve probably seen more gigs in the States than we would at home. In the past few years we’ve seen Crosby and Nash, Elvis Costello, the Doobie Brothers, Steve Miller Band, Phil Lesh and Bob Weir all in the city, and Eric Burdon in South Lake Tahoe”.
Another baby boomer further back in the line began to regale us of times following the Dead on tour in the eighties, but was cut short by the welcome announcement that my bagels were ready.
Many of our trips to San Francisco have coincided (intentionally) with the free Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival in Golden Gate Park over the first, invariably warm, weekend of October.
There have been a number of high spots over recent years with regular performances in particular from Steve Earle (with a guest appearance from Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead), Emmylou Harris (who traditionally closes the festival), Jack Casady and Jorma Kaukonen, guitar gods from Jefferson Airplane, the Neville Brothers, John Prine, Robert Plant, the Blind Boys of Alabama and Moonalice who performed a set of songs penned by the then recently deceased Robert Hunter, principal lyricist for the Grateful Dead.
The atmosphere could not be further from the corporate, money-driven ethos of Glastonbury and similar events and fitting that San Francisco where, along with other Californian venues, the concept of free outdoor rock festivals effectively originated in the late sixties.
But the highlight for me came in 2019 with Judy Collins. But before that I need to take you back twelve months to San Rafael in Marin County. A store owner friend of mine in Folkestone asked if I could deliver a note to Phil Lesh, the former Grateful Dead bass player, at his performance/dining venue at Terrapin Crossroads (sadly now closed, though the music lives on).
Not only was I able to deliver the note, which stated that she had adored him since the Europe ’72 tour, successfully but I also had the opportunity of a few minutes chat with the great man, who signed a postcard of his own for me to pass on to her on my return.
So pleased was my friend that I had succeeded in achieving a task that might not unreasonably have been perceived as unlikely – after all, Phil didn’t rap with random British guys in his bar every day – that she set me an even more challenging task twelve months later.
It appears that she had been as besotted with Judy Collins’s music for more than half a century as she had been with Phil Lesh’s music over the same period of time. So she asked me to deliver a letter from her to Judy on the afternoon that she was performing.
Now walking across a barroom floor to request a quick chat with a music superstar is a piece of cake compared to gaining access to another legendary artist in the middle of one of the world’s largest parks and when there are tens of thousands of other people in close proximity.
The afternoon arrived, and as the appointed time for Judy’s set approached, I gingerly made my way to the front of the stage – there did not appear to be an obvious place to go “backstage” – I was accosted, firmly but politely, by a burly African-American gentleman who may have been thinking I was getting a little too close.
I explained my predicament – which, even to my own mind, seemed a bit odd. He listened carefully and took the letter from me without making any promises. I did not hold out much hope for a positive response, but around five minutes later he returned in a similarly measured way and informed me that “Miss Collins has received the note”.
My joy would have been unconfined had Judy referred to it whilst she was on stage, but she did not. She did, however, sing Both Sides Now to me – well, me and many others – on my birthday.
On what would have been his 106th birthday, a poem from the great Lawrence Ferlinghetti, founder and owner of the City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. Never have its sentiments been more pertinent.
Pity the nation whose people are sheep And whose shepherds mislead them Pity the nation whose leaders are liars Whose sages are silenced and whose bigots haunt the airways Pity the nation that raises not its voice but aims to rule the world by force and by torture And knows No other language but its own Pity the nation whose breath is money and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed Pity the nation Oh pity the people of my country My country, tears of thee Sweet land of liberty!
From the days of the Gold Rush and Barbary Coast, and through the last century when celebrated local columnist, Herb Caen, could be found perched on his favourite stool at the Washington Square Bar & Grill or Gold Dust Lounge, San Francisco has been a notorious drinking town.
For nearly thirty years we have frequented a lot of bars in the City, but one in particular continues to beckon every time we touch down at SFO.
A few groggy steps across Jack Kerouac Alley from the equally legendary City Lights booksellers, we had first crossed the threshold of Vesuvio Café on the final night of our first visit in 1995. Emerging from the nearby Stinking Rose restaurant where they “season our garlic with food” (and wine for that matter), we were parched.
Almost anywhere that sold alcohol would have been welcome.
But this was no ordinary bar.
It gave the appearance of having changed little since the days it was the epicentre of the Beat Generation. The walls were festooned with artworks, photographs and newspaper cuttings of celebrated visitors. Free cultural leaflets and magazines lay scattered on every available surface.
After a show or dinner, this became the place to conclude an evening’s entertainment. Equally, following an afternoon shopping expedition from Union Square through Chinatown to North Beach, it was the natural place to relax. Initially, we would sit downstairs at one of the glass topped tables, preferably at the one with the slatted wicker chair that became increasingly rickety over the ensuing years.
The return visit from the quirky gents toilet in the cellar allowed me to tip my imaginary hat to Dylan and Ginsberg in the photo of them at the top of the staircase.
In later years, we headed for the table in the alcove upstairs beneath the large framed photograph of James Joyce – perfect for people watching and following live Giants action on one of the small televisions above the bar.
Hot days would demand beer (Sierra Nevada Pale Ale or Sam Adams), but especially during the evening, gin and tonics were called for in advance of walking back along Montgomery Street towards Market and journeys back to apartments in Hayes Valley, NOPA, Noe Valley and Bernal Heights, by Muni, taxi, or more latterly Uber.
One seemingly ordinary incident on a quiet Tuesday afternoon in April ten years ago sums up Vesuvio’s appeal.
Two balding young men in hooped t-shirts and navy blue shorts planted their bulky backpacks on the sidewalk while they searched for their I.D. to gain entry. The doorman, in tweed jacket and brown corduroy pants, lounging on a chair that looked like it might cave in under him at any moment, gave them a cursory, but professional, glance, took a heavy drag of his cigarette, and waved them in.
As they threw their swag down on the first seats inside, and took large quaffs of their Amstel beer, one said:
“This is the place, man. We’re home bro”.
As I sit now upstairs at a table overlooking the alley, I occasionally avert my eyes from the Giants game in Colorado to observe an elderly tour guide, with frayed satchel over her shoulder, halting on the corner to recount the night Jack Kerouac spent in the bar when he was meant to be joining Lawrence Ferlinghetti at Big Sur. His small coterie of Japanese students, however, giggle and snap enthusiastically away at the bare bottomed woman sign above the door.
Tony Quarrington 