![]() Although the Dead had played Deer Creek six times before without major incident, tonight began on a sour note. Out there the straight world never felt so distant. Springing up amid cornfields and cow pastures a half-hour north of Indianapolis, the amphitheater was, like the band, an enclave unto itself. “Please, don’t murder me,” Jerry Garcia sang again, now in a voice weathered by age and abuse, as cops pivoted their heads, hoping to catch sight of the man who’d vowed to kill Garcia before the night was over.Īlong with the likes of Alpine Valley Music Theatre in Wisconsin, the Deer Creek Music Center had become a destination spot, a revered haven, for the Dead and their fans alike. ![]() But tonight, in the middle of Indiana, they again injected it with the crisp, merry gait of the recorded version, and even the song’s refrain harked back to its original impending-death inspiration. They’d played it innumerable times since, occasionally slowing it down a half step. Twenty-five years had passed since the Dead had recorded that song at Pacific High studio. ![]() Three songs into the show, the house lights still on, the time had come for “Dire Wolf,” but with a perverse twist no one had anticipated. Excerpted from "So Many Roads: The Life and Times of the Grateful Dead" ![]()
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