In an act of either pure faith or, more likely, blissful ignorance, my parents, when I was not much older than Violet, allowed me to spend a summer back on Long Island. My supervision, to the extent that it existed, was either by my angelic but naïve grandmother or a series of rambunctious college kids that served as my coaches. Those months were an education, formative in multiple facets, a foundational time in my development.
Barely an adolescent, I pretended I had a clue as to what was going on around me, but mostly I just observed and absorbed and tried not to embarrass myself too much. I survived, maybe thrived, acquired knowledge and vices, saw the promises of a life fully lived. Mentored by those that were a beguiling mix of intelligent and mischievous, that time set the blueprint for my own desires for balance, formed the archetype for the friends by whom I am still now surrounded.
Music was the central current, the unifying force. I was turned onto bands that are still my sonic backbone. With Jerry still alive, the Grateful Dead was the lodestar of this scene, a bootlegged show blaring from car speakers or home stereos or restaurant systems seemingly without pause. My musical upbringing had theretofore been a bit more staid, my folks being not even really hippie-adjacent. I was immediately enraptured by the improvisational spirit, the free-flowing riffs.
The first time that an extended jam hooked me, it was a revelatory moment. Riding in the back of a beater silver Volvo next to my buddy, a Brown sophomore at the wheel and a Colgate coed on whom I had a massive unrequited crush in the passenger seat, we were bound for Marblehead. As was standard, a Dead tape blared, but this one hit me different. It was the announcer’s introduction to the “oldest juveniles in the State of California” that got my attention. Instead of background, the tunes came to the fore as the conversation receded.
The opening lyrics of Viola Lee Blues were compelling — a courtroom/jailbird saga — but it was the ensuing interplay between the band members that had me transfixed. A sonic exploration ensued, a steady rhythm slyly building into a crescendo. In the groove, the band was loosely connected, but as the song hit what EDM folks would call “the drop,” everything came back together. When the meandering notes coalesced back into a resounding return to the inmate’s lament, I was blown away.
That moment was the true commencement of my musical life, one that continues unabated, one that has led me into myriad venues, graced me with mystical minutes. I have borne witness to many mind-bending solos, but there is nothing that can supplant that initial listen to what I now understand to be a rarely played part of the Dead repertoire. That feeling of ecstasy is indelibly sealed within me.
One of the many joys of parenthood is to revisit scenes from one’s childhood from a new perspective. On the road to Utah today, a JRAD cover of Viola Lee Blues streamed through CarPlay, a modern update on the circumstances of my first listen. Violet was riding shotgun and, as the familiar notes poured forth, I smiled broadly at the circular nature of existence. Lost in the unfolding jam, scenes from my past rolled through my vision, not just every time I had heard the song, but a veritable hit parade of laughter and mayhem.
I felt overwhelmingly thankful to have been given the freedom to find my own place in the world. Looking over at Violet, I knew that I had to let go a little bit, a simultaneously sad and jubilant realization. Now raising a teenager, my core instinct to protect her needs to give way slightly to the need for her independence. Having led by example, I can continue to show her the way while also letting her figure out how to create the life she wants to live.
The epiphanies that will descend on Violet, the experiences that she will enjoy and endure, they are already arriving. She is her own woman in all of her glory and also she will always be my little girl, curled up in my lap. All of this occurred to me as Viola Lee Blues entered its frenzy stage, my thoughts speeding with the pulsing beat, a coalescing of memory. I saw my younger self in Violet and vice versa and cherished the feeling of continuum, of legacy.
And then the peak hit and, in its lee, a coda of peace, a return to the present tense, a new song to sing, a new road to cruise, a continuation of the journey.