MESSAGE TO GARCIA
by Ken Kesey
　

Hey, Jerry-- what's happening? I caught your funeral. Weird.
Big Steve was good. And Grissman. Sweet sounds. But what really stood
out -- stands out -- is the thundering silence, the lack, the absence of
that golden Garcia lead line, of that familiar slick lick with the uptwist
at the end, that merry snake twining through the woodpile, flickering in
and out of the loosely stacked chords...a wriggling mystery, bright and
slick as fire... suddenly gone.
And the silence left in its wake was-- is-- positively
ear-splitting.
Now they want me to say something about that absence, Jer. Tell
some backstage story, share some poigniant reminescence. But I have to
tell you, man: I find myself considerably disinclined. I mean, why go
against the grain of such an eloquent silence?
I remember standing out in the pearly early dawn after the Muir
Beach Acid Test, leaning on the top rail of a driftwood fence with you and
Lesh and Babbs, watching the world light up, talking about our glorious
futures. The gig had been semi-successful and the air was full of exulted
fantasies. Babbs whacks Phil on the back.
"Just like the big time, huh Phil."
"It is! It is the big time! Why, we could cut a chart-busting
record to-fucking-morrow!"
I was even more optimistic. "Hey, we taped tonight's show. We
could release a record tomorrow.
"Yeah right--" (holding up that digitally challenged hand the way
you did when you wanted to call attention to the truth or the lack
thereof) "--and a year from tomorrow be recording a Things Go Better With
Coke commercial."
You could be a sharp-tongued popper-of-balloons shit-head when you
were so inclined, you know. A real bastard. You were the sworn enemy of
hot air and commercials, however righteous the cause or lucrative the
product. Nobody ever heard you use that microphone as a pulpit. No
anti-war rants, no hymns to peace. No odes to the trees and All things
Organic. No ego-deaths or born-againnesses. No devils denounced no gurus
glorified. No dogmatic howlings that I ever caught wind of. In fact,
your steadfast denial of dogma was as close as you ever came to having a
creed.
And to the very end, Old Timer, you were true to that creed. No
commercials. No trendy spins. No bayings of belief. And if you did have
any dogma you surely kept it tied up under the back porch where a smelly
old hound belongs.
I guess that's what I mean about a loud silence. Like
Michaelangelo said about sculpting, "The statue exists inside the block of
marble. All you have to do is chip away the stone you don't need." You
were always chipping away at the superficial.
It was the false notes you didn't play that kept that lead line so
golden pure. It was the words you didn't sing. So this is what we are
left with, Jerry: this golden silence. It rings on and on without any
hint of let up...on and on. And I expect it will still be ringing years
from now.
Because you're still not playing falsely. Because you're still
not singing Things Go Better With Coke.
Ever your friend,
Keez

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