Chapter 3

The Pranksters and a Test

In the weeks that followed I didn’t get a chance to listen to another record, but that moment came when I decided to have a lazy Saturday afternoon. The real question was which one was I going to play first. My mind kept saying Woodstock, but once again, I wanted to experience that after I really understood how this record player worked. I still had a faint idea, but I only used it once so I could not confirm this.

Sitting in my favorite listening chair, I sifted through the albums I was given by Peter and that’s when I saw the one, I wanted to play; ‘The Acid Tests - 1965’. I chose this one because it was the one I picked, not Peter or my mom. I felt by picking this one it gave me control of my surroundings and the experience. That didn’t stop my hand from shaking slightly as I picked up the album and looked it over. That’s when I noticed, it didn’t look like any other vinyl I had ever seen. This album didn’t have an etching label or a run-out matrix, but it also didn’t have a traditional groove pattern for the stylus.

Before putting the album on the turntable, I decided to really inspect this turntable and not just a passing glance as I had done previously. Looking it over, I noticed the stylus resembled more of a tip of a pen, and the tonearm resembled something someone would use to write with. Odd, but not something to really give me cause for concern. What made my brain go into overdrive was the platter where the vinyl spun. It had only one setting, and that setting was set to what the writing looked like, the speed of life. Making mental notes, I decided to look more into it after I played this album since the day was wasting away by my getting my head into a tizzy over probably nothing.

Looking around the room, I smiled to myself and took it all in. The two IKEA Kallaxes filled with vinyl, the concert posters on the wall, and the bookshelves on each end of the room. My mom would have loved to see this, as she was the one who encouraged me to explore music and listen to any genre that was out there. Without her, I probably would have been playing video games instead of jamming out to groups like, The Beatles or The Rolling Stones.

Smiling to myself, I placed the album on the turntable and placed the headphones on my head. Preparing for what I knew was to come from the first album I played, I braced myself for the spinning, buzzing and the darkness, and that’s when I heard a fuzzed-out guitar in my head. The sound became louder and louder as the darkness made way to a multi-colored stream of lights.

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Slowly opening my eyes in the hope of adjusting them to the flashing lights that now surrounded me, I felt someone bump into me. “You ok, man?” I heard someone say.

Rubbing my eyes to help them focus, I turned around and saw the man who was talking to me. He had a scruffy beard, long black hair, and a joint pressed between his lips. The red ember from the joint was only inches from my face and I slowly recoiled away as I was still adjusting to the lights. He was so close I could smell the patchouli and marijuana in full; the purplish smoke came from his mouth as he opened it, and he breathed it slowly into my face. Eyes watering, the man said again, “Are you ok?” He grabbed my shoulders slightly shaking me.

“I am ok, I am ok.” Well, I think I was? How could I truly be ok though, I was in the middle of whatever this was; a rave, a party, whatever the hell it was. Extending my hand, trying to be polite to this man who was obviously worried about my well-being, “Joe. Name is Joe.”

“A pleasure. Ken, Ken Babbs” He shook my hand and pulled me to my feet as he took a deep breath in and a larger one out. Once again, the purplish smoke hit me right between the eyes. “And these are my friends, Ken, Bill, and Jerry.” He pointed to the three men standing within earshot of us.

Ken was built like an ox and had the look of a guy who was either a football player or someone who was not to be trifled with. Obviously, the muscle of the group. He was balding, but that only made him even more imposing. His outfit consisted of a pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt, which completely seemed out of place compared to his three other friends.

Bill had billowing black hair, a bright orange shirt, corduroy pants, and something around his neck that resembled a peace symbol. He nodded in my general direction and acknowledged my presence with a smile.

The last of the group was someone I instantly recognized from photos, but it was his music that made me realize who it was. Scanning him up and down, I merely tried to contain my excitement and blurted out, “Jerry Garcia. He is Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead.”

“That’s half right, this is Jerry Garcia, but who are the Grateful Dead?” one of them replied, but I was unsure of who as I was in a trance as I was toe to toe with one of the greatest musicians in American history.

I am certain my jaw was moving but not exactly sure that formative sentences let alone words were coming out of my mouth. I continued to babble on and probably make a complete ass out of myself in front of these people I just met. “The Grateful Dead? I mean, umm, The Warlocks, sorry got ahead of myself there. Sorry about that, just had a lapse in my memory.”

Jerry spoke softly, his eyes glazed over but warm. He showed no sign of ill-feeling, and extended his hand to mine, “Grateful Dead, you say? Interesting.” Scratching his black beard and then combing his fingers through his black hair he continued to speak, “Joe, you might be onto something. I will have to run this by Bobby and the guys, but I am sure they won’t be opposed. It is something, something groovy and far out. I dig it.”

It was like a wave of tension that left my body, and I felt relaxed for the first time in what seemed like hours, but it was probably a mere 5 minutes. Smiling at everyone, I decided I was going to fit in and try to make conversation and that’s when I was blinded by a large flash. The flash was like a lightning bolt to my eyes and the burn was instant.

My eyes still not fully adjusted to the lights in the room; the flash only made it worse. Rubbing my eyes all I saw were purple and blue streaks.

“Easy with the camera Allan. Our friend here just took a fall, and we were just helping him get his wits about him.” That was the other Ken speaking in an authoritative tone that commanded respect and attention.

“Sorry about that Ken, just on a timeline and deadline, but can I get one more photo please?” a man with bushy black beard and receding hairline said. “You there,” he said pointing at me, “get in there and act like you guys like each other.”

“Who me?” I was wondering why he wanted me in the photo, but Jerry’s arm pulled me into the photo, and he put his arm around my shoulders.

“Yea man, you. I mean if you’re good enough for Jerry, you’re good enough for me.” He began to raise his camera again and Ken stopped him before he could take the photo.

“This is the trips festival, and Allan, I am not missing an opportunity to promote it.” He raised his hand and put up one finger. “One minute please. Babbs roll each of us one of those famous things you call, Purple Haze, and I will go get us a drink to toast this momentous occasion.” He then walked quickly over to a table that was about ten feet away.

My eyes followed Ken’s footsteps to the table where the drinks were. The bowl had a reddish tint to it that resembled Kool-Aid. It looked innocuous enough, but my mind said, I am at the Trips Festival, that’s not mom’s fruit punch. A million thoughts were going through my head, and I began to wonder, what would happen if I drank this? Would it affect me like the others. So many questions, so little answers. Zoned out with my thoughts, I was handed a glass by a girl with long black hair and a flower in her hair, covering her left ear who was accompanied by Ken who was back from the table where the drinks where.

“One for you.” She handed me my drink, “A half batch for you Jerry since you have to perform in an hour.” She handed him his drink and kissed his cheek. “And that’s for good luck!”

After being handed my drink, I was then handed a rolled-up version of this famous, “Purple Haze” from Bill. “Put that to your lips and take a deep breath in so I can light this thing.” Subconsciously, I opened slightly parted my lips and he placed it in my mouth. “Now breath in on the count of three. One… Two….” He didn’t get to finish as he lit it, and I instinctively took a deep breath and held it in my lungs for what felt like an eternity. The burn was real in my lungs was real but so was the calm washing over me.

After a long exhale of the same purplish smoke, I saw earlier, I instantly felt lighter, more aware, but my thoughts were quickly interrupted by Allan and his camera. “Everyone take a sip when I say so. I want this photo for a project I am working on, the San Francisco Oracle.”

I was trying to hold my cough in, but it did not work as Jerry patted my back lightly, which helped me expel whatever was in my lungs and throat. He looked at me and winked, “First time? It was like that for me too, but you’ll be ok.”

“One second Allan, got a tickle in my throat.” I started coughing repeatedly. After about a half a minute, I stopped coughing and weakly smiled to the rest of the group. “Sorry about that, probably some resin.” They all laughed at my joke. This made me relax a little bit and was thankful that I successfully broke the ice.

Allan chuckled and was not in an obvious hurry, but I could tell a few of the others were. “Show starts in 15 minutes, and I need to go out back and make sure the band is ready to perform. Can we please get this picture, Allan? The war might be over before you take the photo.” Bill sighed.

“Sure thing boss!” he animatedly held up his hands and pointed to our glasses. “Hold that sweet punch up to your lips and take a good swig. Oh, and try not to spill it, it’s a bitch to clean up and get out of your clothes.”

Looking at the group, I held the cup to my lips not wanting to take a sip, but that quickly dashed when Jerry put his hand on my back and tapped it. This caused my mouth to open and the liquid to pour down my throat. It didn’t burn, but instead, surprisingly went down rather smoothly.

A few seconds later the flash from the camera went off in three quick successions. That’s when my head started spinning. The bright lights slowly began to flicker, and I felt as light as a feather, but my head felt like it was detached from the rest of my body. I was conscious but I felt like someone opened a locked door to my senses. Everything was floating, the lights dimmed slightly, and I became aware of even the slightest sounds

“Good stuff guys! Thanks for taking the time.” Allan walked over to the group and was holding up a photo. “Does anyone want the first photo I took; it isn’t going in the article I am writing.”

Before anyone else spoke up, “Do you guys’ mind if I take it? I will make sure I keep it safe.” They nodded in ascent as Allan handed it to me. “Thanks Allan, I truly appreciate it.” I took the photo from his hand, shook it a few times to help the exposure, then placed it in my pocket.

Immediately after putting the photo in my pocket, I heard a loud buzzing sound and some of the people started working their way to the makeshift stage in the back of the room. The shuffling of feet sounded like elephants trampling down the grass in the savannah and they started to cheer. This side of the room instantly became a hotbed of activity. It slowly took on a melted, distorted look, that reminded me of something straight out of Picasso painting. Looking in the direction of the crowd, which was covered in that same purplish smoke, the bodies seemed to blend into one large mass moving in unison.

“Gotta run backstage and get this show going.” Bill shook all our hands and motioned for Jerry to follow him. “Don’t want to be late, plus Bobby wouldn’t appreciate us upstaging the band.” The two men walked away, blended into the crowd and they were swallowed up by the throng of people making their way to the stage.

“That’s our cue, Babbs,” the two Ken’s started walking quickly towards the group of people wearing the bright orange Day-Glo shirts. “Joe, come join us if you want. There is always room for one more Prankster.”

Walking a double step to catch up, I finally caught up to the two men after meandering my way through a group of people. That’s when my eyes started to burn and the spinning in my head made way for a sense of ethereal lightness. The room took on a new shape, and my mind was playing some sort of parlor trick on me. Not wanting to panic, I looked for an exit and the door in the distance resembled a spinning portal, beckoning me to step inside. Ignoring it, I brought my attention back to what was happening in the here and now right in front of me.

That’s when I heard a voice inside of my head, “Do not meddle any more than you already have.” The voice sounded rather ominous and dark, but continued, “You are a guest in this time, not a participant.” I shook my head and put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the photo I was given by Allan. The photo developed and it showed me, Jerry Garcia, Ken Babbs, Ken Kesey, and Bill Graham, all with big smiles; purplish smoke, joints in our hands, and we were drinking some of this Kool-Aid.

The voice started echoing in my head, “The Warlocks”, and that’s when I looked to the stage; it was Jerry and the band taking a bow. They were standing next to Bill Graham. Jerry took the microphone from Bill and said, “Actually, thanks to a young man, we are, The Grateful Dead!”

The crowd went crazy and started chanting, “Grateful Dead! Grateful Dead!” They were entranced as in a frenzied but subdued cult-like state. Many had a glazed look that was not from the purple haze as I have seen what stoned people look like. This had to be the Kool-Aid that I drank about 5 minutes prior. And that’s when it hit me and I realized what I actually was drinking.

“Fuck! That was LSD.” I started shaking and freaking out. “Dammit! I just had acid.” Quickly looking around and working myself up, I panicked and just as I was about to run to the door, but my legs had other ideas. My head was spinning along with the room. I was now breathing heavily and trying to calm myself down, but no matter what I tried, it wasn’t working.

“Someone get him some water.” A firm set of hands was on my shoulders holding me steady.

That’s when I thought I saw the faces of the people helping me. They were flickering orbs of purple, blue, and green. “You’re ok. We are getting you some water,” the voice sounded reassuring, “I want you to drink all of it when it gets here.”

I found my footing and turned my head to the voice coming from the stage. With things coming back into focus, that’s when I saw them, The Grateful Dead. Jerry, Phil, Bobby, Bill and Ron (aka Pigpen), in all their glory, performing one of their first live shows in front of an entranced audience. Getting a tap on my shoulder, it was one of the Pranksters handing me a glass of water, which I eagerly took without taking my eyes off the stage. “Thank you.” I said as I was eagerly awaiting the band to begin playing.

The band began to play and started the show with Jerry, Phil, and Bobby playing their respective instruments. This was music to my ears and all I could think was, never in a million years I thought I would have had a chance to hear this on vinyl, let alone live. Their slow rhythmic playing was soon accompanied by some drums and percussion. The room matched the mood as it was moving back and forth with the rhythm of the band.

I closed my eyes just to take it in and that’s when I reached my hands inside my pockets and felt the photo that was taken previously, but the other pocket had a rectangular device. Feeling the item over, I suddenly gasped. It was my cell phone. I must have left it in my pocket by accident. How could I be so careless, I had to be more careful. I was warned about this, but this wouldn’t change anything, would it? I mean if I just subtly hit record on my phone, no one would notice right? The thoughts raced through my head but in the end, I realized it wouldn’t hurt if no one saw it. I scanned my surroundings to make sure no one saw the phone and quickly set the phone to record. Then just as quick, I put it back in my pocket.

Looking around the room, seeing these kids just living in the moment without a care in the world, just enjoying the moment. Albeit it was in a tripped-out haze, this was an Acid Test after all. They were harmless kids from Berkley, surrounding colleges, and possibility some high school kids just along for the ride and what a ride it would be in the coming months and years. This was to be the epicenter of the counterculture and anti-war movements. These kids would face the hardest challenges that most generations only read about.

As the band continued to play, they brought out a keyboard on stage, and Pigpen began to play a bluesy solo. Jerry started to strum his guitar in a familiar tone, and it took me all of 5 seconds to realize what they were about to play, and I screamed, “DARK STAR” at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t believe it; I was going to get this rare treat.

I had to get closer for this to truly experience it firsthand rather than my 1969 copy of Live Dead that I had in my listening room back home. I slowly made my way forward to the stage as to not interrupt anyone’s experience. As I walked closer to the stage, the audience, I noticed that everyone was sweating profusely and most if not all, had a similar smell; patchouli and weed. I really shouldn’t have been surprised as I was. More than a handful of folks who had pipes or joints in hand, smoking as the band played on.

Stopping for a few minutes to enjoy the music and soak in the scene, I looked around and my eyes became transfixed on someone who was in the middle of a large group of concert goers. He was a younger man with sandpaper brownish blonde hair, a pair of corduroy pants, and starched white shirt with a peace symbol on it. Wracking my brain, I knew this guy, and I felt like I saw him before. Thinking to myself, and then it finally came to me; it was Peter, the guy from the shop who gave me this turntable. There he was, dancing away, but our eyes locked as it appeared that he was shaking his head at me. That could have easily been my mind playing tricks on me as it had been doing most of the night.

Dismissing this from my mind, I continued to jam out and enjoy myself. I wasn’t going to let a maybe or less than likely ruin this moment. I decided to make my way to a spot with a group of folks that I could blend in with. I figured this way those eyes that locked onto me would have a harder time spotting me.

The group was a motley crew of kids with wildly long hair and scraggily wispy long beards. All had either had a joint in hand or a glass of the ‘Kool-Aid’. Looking harmless enough, I figured I would just make my presence known and introduce myself.

“Hey guys!” I said a little louder than usual, just so they could hear me.

“Hey yourself.” One of them replied without taking his eyes off the stage as he took a long drag from the joint in his hand. Exhaling, the smoke wasn’t the normal purple but instead was more of a thick heavy white smoke.

Smiling, I instantly felt right at home. Without a care in the world, I then looked up to the stage. Here were, The Grateful Dead, before the world knew.

The minutes seemed like hours, but as Dark Star began to fade out and make way for the next song on the playlist, The Golden Road (to Unlimited Devotion). This song was to be the opener for their first album that they’d release next year. Next year meaning 1967 not 2026. That really shook me for a moment and I thought, ‘hell these guys haven’t even put an album together yet.’

I was about five feet from the stage at this point and I noticed Bill Graham. He was sitting off to the side of the stage, looking right at me. He gave me a wink and motioned for me to come around the side and join him on stage. I was initially hesitant, but the group I was with weren’t having it, and they slowly pushed me to the stairs the led up to the makeshift stage. Apparently when Bill wants you to join him, you just do it and don’t question it.

People moved out of the way and the opening to the stage was clear, so I slowly climbed the stairs and made my way next to Bill. Finally, sitting down, I could truly enjoy the band and their genius. My mind was in another dimension, partly experiencing everything that this night had to offer, and the second part, was just listening to music history unfold right before my eyes.

Once I took my seat, I saw a rolled-up poster and something that resembled a set list for the band. Tapping Bill, I motioned to the two things at the foot of my chair, he just shrugged, so I picked them up and placed them on my lap. I did not want to step on them or ruin them, so I just held them there in my lap while the band continued to play.

From my seat I had a bird’s eye view of the crowd and the band. Looking around the room, I spotted my new friend, Ken Babbs, drinking what looked like more Kool-Aid. He was speaking to another gentleman who was wearing an olive drab jacket. The kid had a crew cut and was clean shaven, unlike most here. This guy did not fit into this place as he was surrounded by the younger counter-culture movement. Recalling from memory, Ken himself, served in Vietnam as a helicopter pilot and had returned to San Franscisco from his tour in the early 60s. Maybe he was just giving the kid a pep-talk, but it looked like they were very friendly with each other.

Ken was talking with his hands and as I tried to read his lips, it looked like Ken was saying, ‘Stay safe. Don’t get killed.’ He then wrapped him up in a hug and patted him on the back like a father does to a son.

Wise advice I would say, given the political and military climate in Vietnam that was rapidly escalating during the last few months. If this poor kid was shipping off, he’d have one year in country and there’d be a decent chance he would see combat. My heart sank for him not knowing who he was or what life had in store for him in the future.

That’s when I shifted my focus back to the band and the reason I was here. It wasn’t about being depressed over the thought of a kid shipping off to Vietnam, but it was instead to enjoy the music and experience the gift I was given.

As the band played on, it was easy to see why they’d make musical history and become one, if not, the most important band to come out of this era. Jerry had charisma and stage presence, Bobby and Phil were masters of their guitars, Pigpen on the keyboard and harmonica, and Bill was just phenomenal on the drums. They had it all, and these people were just drinking up the experience, figuratively and literally.

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The band continued to play for another hour or so, maybe longer but I couldn’t be sure as I closed my eyes to relax. That’s when everything faded to black, and I heard a voice call out, “Wake up Joe. Wake up! We’re going to be late for brunch.”