Bobby and Gary

Some years ago (June 8th, 1999, OK), I played solo at the Bell Atlantic Jazz Festival, an event organized by the Knitting Factory NYC, down at the South Street Seaport. My tent was right next to Bob Weir's, who was with his trio (bassist Rob Wasserman and drummer Jay Lane). 

While waiting to go on, my roadie, Bob Jacobson, went next door of his own volition and wangled an invitation from gracious Bob for me to sit in with him during his set on National Steel. 

I went into Bob's tent to meet him. He was chilling, sitting there with a lady friend, sipping wine and looking very mellow and casual.

We talked a little about Beefheart. I told him I had my 1921 National steel with me, and he said, "Oh, bring that!"

Then he looked at me intently and said: "Do you know 'Friend of the Devil'"?

Hell, yes! 

I know lots of 'em...

As the sun was setting, I joined his band onstage at the appointed time, and Bobby called a tune. 

The problem is that he and his band were all going directly into the board—no onstage amplifiers—and all were wearing in-ear monitors—all except for me. 

Meaning when they started playing, there was pretty much zero sound onstage, as there were no onstage monitors. The band all had a perfectly great mix going on in their ears. All that I could hear from where I sat was the vague plinkety-plunk of electric instruments being fingered and plucked on dead unresonant strings, keyboard keys being poked soundlessly, and drums being thumped dully, with a vapor trail of vocals hanging over the seemingly bloodless disembodied, some might say funereal proceedings. 

All of the mighty band's music was projected directly at the large crowd, pumping out of the PA speakers which were, of course, in front of us, the band. The stage sound was non-existent, if not atrocious.

I had to twist in my chair and strain to hear what damn key the song was in! I grabbed onto what I thought were the relative chords and hung on for dear life, picking and grinning and sliding my glass bottleneck with all my might up and down the neck, praying I was in the right key. I got through it ok with no apparent gaffes—PHEW!! 

The audience cheered at the end. I got up to leave—and amiable Bob called after me: 

"Hey, man! Where you goin'?? Come on back here!!" 

Which I did. 

And I played four more songs with him, somehow…

The moral being—You Gotta Fake It 'Til You Make It 😄

For weeks, I felt some reverberations in NYC stemming from this guest spot with Bob.

I'd be walking down Houston Street in front of the Knitting Factory, and a random street freak across the road would holler after me and punch his fist in the air:

"HEY DUUUDE! BOB WEAHHHHHH!!"