What It’s Like to Play in a Band With Some Guy Named Jerry Garcia

“Hi. I liked your concert very much,” she answered.

“Thank you,” I replied, wanting painfully to say something witty or intelligent, but failing. “I’m glad you did.”

“Jesus, Bob, you sing ‘Man of Constant Sorrow’ like an operatic aria. It’s a Southern mountain song, for God’s sake.”

“What do you want me to do, sing it like I just had my throat operated on, the way you do?”

Jerry looked exasperated. “Look, that’s the way it’s supposed to be done…Listen to Mike Seeger or the Carter Family do it.”

“Well, goddamn it, I’m neither the Carter Family or Mike Seeger. If you want to do it like a damned hillbilly, you can do it alone.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then: “I’ve been thinking about that, Bob.”

I was startled. “What d’you mean?”

He sat down on the desk, scrutinizing the sound hole of his guitar. Then he looked up. “It doesn’t swing, I mean. I…well, hell! That’s just it; it doesn’t swing anymore, not the way I want it.”

“Big thing to say….Why?”

He ran his fingers across the frets, picking out the runs of “Man of Constant Sorrow,” stopping partway through to retune an errant string. “Well, you know the ‘walls’ you talk about knocking down? It seems to me we did pretty well for a while; we’ve got all those down, but there are new ones.”

“New ones?”

“Well, frankly, I feel like I’m being held back. Not that we don’t hit it off pretty well as a duet, but that’s established now; in fact…stagnating. I want to move ahead. You’ve got your writ- ing, man, and you’re not doing too bad from what I’ve seen…but the singing is a pastime for you…Anyway, it’s what I want to do. It’s kind of hard to explain, so I won’t go into it, but I feel like we’ve come to a standstill, or at least I have. ‘Santy Ano’ and ‘Cotton Fields’ are fine in their way, but they just scratch the surface. I’ve been studying and reading…listening, and I’m just beginning to find out how near the surface they are. It’s an art, Bob, one that will take a long time to learn well, but that’s what I want to do. So…” He scratched the strings, then put down the guitar.

“So…I guess I understand. It doesn’t even surprise me too much, really. Anyway, good luck, you know.”

He clasped my shoulder. “Thanks.”

I sort of half smiled. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. “Want to make it down to the coffeehouse or something?”

“No; I’ve got work to begin.”

“Right. See you later.”

I walked toward the coffeehouse with a vague, empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something important had suddenly dropped out, and in its place was a feeling of bewilderment; a carousel stripped of its music while the horses continued to glide, phantomlike, around the never-ending track.