Music Blogs

Thirty years ago, the Grateful Dead played the pyramids during a solar eclipse. Paul Krassner was there.

This month marks the 30th anniversary of the Grateful Dead's unforgettable concerts in Egypt, with Rhino Records releasing a double-CD album with a DVD of the event. I was fortunate enough to be there with Ken Kesey and a bunch of Merry Pranksters. The Dead were scheduled to perform on three successive nights at an open air theater in front of the Pyramids, with the Sphinx keeping close watch.

Bob Weir looked up at the Great Pyramid and cried out, "What is it!" Actually, it was the place for locals to go on a cheap date. The Pyramids were surrounded by moats of discarded bottlecaps. A bootleg tape of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis doing filthy shtick was being used for a preliminary sound check. Later, an American general complained to stage manager Steve Parish that the decadence of a rock 'n' roll band performing here was a sacrilege to 5,000 years of history.

"Listen," Parish said, "I lost two brothers in 'Nam, and I don't wanna hear this crap."

The general retreated in the face of those imaginary brothers. There were a couple of real injured veterans, though. Drummer Bill Kreutzmann had fallen off a horse and had broken his arm, but he was still playing with the band, using one drumstick. And faithful Deadhead Bill Walton's buttocks had been used as a pincushion by the Portland Traiblazers' doctor so that he could continue to play basketball, even though the bones of his foot were being shattered with pain he couldn't feel. Having been injected with painkilling drugs to hide the greed rather than heal the injury, he had to walk around with crutches. Maybe Kreutzmann and Walton could team up and enter the half-upside-down sack-race.

An air of incredible excitement permeated the first night. Never had the Dead been so inspired. Backstage, Jerry Garcia was giving final instructions to the band: "Remember, play in tune." The music began with Egyptian oudist Hamza el-Din, backed up by a group tapping out ancient rhythms on their 14-inch-diameter tars--pizza-like drums--soon joined by drummer Mickey Hart, Garcia ambled on with a gentle guitar riff, then Kreutzmann, Phil Lesh, Donna, Keith, and as the Dead meshed with the local percussion ensemble, basking in total respect of each other, Weir segued into the forceful opening chords of Buddy Holly's "Not Fade Away."

"Did you see that?" Kesey shouted. "The Sphinx's jaw just dropped!"

Every morning, my Prankster roommate George Walker got up early and climbed to the top of the Pyramid. He was in training. It was to be his honor to plant a Grateful Dead flag on top of the Great Pyramid. He would attach it to a pole at the peak of the pyramid where the stone block that should've been the final piece was missing.

Pranksters' Mountain Girl, Goldie Rush and I decided to score some hashish at a courtyard in the oldest section of Cairo. It came in long thick slabs, and we eagerly sat down on benches to sample it. The official task of a teenage boy was to light the "hubbly-bubbly," a giant water pipe which used hot coals to keep the hash burning and us sweating like crazy.

Later, I found myself sitting and chanting in a tub-like sarcophagus (burial tomb) with fantastic acoustics, at the center of gravity in the Great Pyramid, after having ingested liquid LSD that a Prankster had smuggled into Egypt in a plastic Visine bottle. It was only as I breathed in deeply before each extended Om that I was forced to ponder the mystery of those who urinate there.

There was something especially magical about the third concert on Saturday. I had a strong feeling that I was involved in a "lesson." It was as though the secret of the Dead would finally be revealed to me, if only I paid proper attention. That night would feature a full eclipse of the moon, and Egyptian kids were running through the streets shaking tin cans filled with rocks in order to bring it back.

"It's okay," I assured them, "the Grateful Dead will bring back the moon."

 And, sure enough, a rousing rendition of "Ramble On Rose" would accomplish that feat. The moon returned just as the marijuana cookie that rock impresario, Bill Graham, gave me started blending in with the other drugs. Graham no longer wore two wristwatches, one for each coast. He now wore one wristwatch with two faces. There was a slight problem with an amplifier, but a sound engineer said that it was "getting there."

"Getting there ain't good enough," Garcia replied. "It's gotta f***in' be there."

This was a totally outrageous event. The line between incongruity and appropriateness had disappeared along with the moon. The music was so powerful that the only way to go was to be ecstatic. That night, when the Dead played "Fire On The Mountain," I danced my ass off with all the others on that outdoor stage as if I had no choice.

"You know," Bill Graham confessed, "this is the first time I ever danced in public."

"Me too," I said.

That was the lesson.

PAUL KRASSNER is the founding editor of The Realist and a founding member of the the Yippies. He blogs regularly for ARTHUR MAGAZINE, the FREE all-ages counterculture magazine. Find out more about this Great American freethinker at paulkrassner.com.