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This episode of Tales from the Lot is sponsored by Shakedown T shirts.com with unique lot style T shirts, license plate frames, coffee mugs and all sorts of things for Grateful Dead, Fish Zappa, Panic and more. ShakeDownT shirts.com where all US orders over $35 ship free. And just for Tales from the Lot listeners, use the code lot 20 for 20% off of any order. That's lot two zero. Hey, hold on a second there. Rewind the tape. If you're just clicking play. Right now you're jumping into part six of our six part series, Trucking Through Time. We're at the very end of the line here covering 90 through 95. So if you want to skip the introductions and dive straight into the stadium era and the final years on the road. Hey, welcome aboard. Pull up a chair. But if you want the whole story from the beginning, from the kazoos to the acid tests on through the golden era of the 70s, you're going to want to drop back down to the feed and scroll to part one, which is episode 28. Alright, for everyone else who's been riding shotgun with me for the last five episodes, let's get to the final chapter, Tales from the Lot. Trucking Through Time, Part six. Hey friends. We finally made it. If you've been riding with us through this Trucking Through Time series, we've covered 30 years of history. We've seen acid tests, the peaks and valleys of the 70s, and the neon comeback of the 80s. But today, today we're pulling into the station. We're talking about 1990 through 1995. This is the era where the story stops being something I read about and starts being something I lived. This is my era. Between 91 and 95, I saw a ton of shows. I slept on my Chevy Cavalier. Sometimes I ate more lukewarm grilled cheese than any doctor would recommend. And I learned that a miracle wasn't just a religious event. Or maybe it is. Whatever. By the time I got on the bus, the scene was a full blown traveling civilization. But it was also an era of deep shadows. We were watching our heroes get tired and we were clinging to every dark star like it might be the last one ever caught in the wild. So let's talk about that final chapter, the years of Brent's Goodbye, the Vince years, the stadium peaks, and that long bittersweet walk toward the end of the road. We start in 1990 and man, that you started on such a high. You listen to the spring 90 tour tapes, especially those Nassau or Nick shows, the band is a freight train. Brent was at his absolute peak. He and Jerry were finishing each other's sentences. But then July 26th happened. Brent passed. It wasn't just a keyboard player leaving. It was the emotional anchor of the 80s era being cut loose. And even though they should have pulled into a rest stop, they didn't. The bus kept right on trucking. It just picked up a two headed keyboard beast. You had Vince Welnick from the Tubes trying to find his footing. And you had Bruce Hornsby from the heavens sitting in on grand piano, basically acting as a musical lightning rod for Jerry. Every Deadhead from this stretch remembers the Bruce years. He pushed Jerry. He'd play a lick, Jerry would smirk and play it back. And suddenly we were in 20 minute Scarlet fires. That felt like 77 again. And as a personal note, I would recommend the Scarlet Fire from my first show. 6791 at Deer Creek has that exact feel. And, and maybe it's the piano of Bruce, sort of reminiscent of how Keith played and it just gives it that sound. But check that one out. And the lot culture by 91 was just massive. Shakedown street wasn't just a row of vendors, it was a goddamn bazaar. I remember walking through the lot at Soldier Field and seeing people selling everything from hand carved pipes to actual legal advice. Tape trading was at its institutional peak. Drum circles were massive and scattered everywhere. As you walked, you'd hear four different shows playing out of four different vans. And you could tell exactly what year each one was from just by the sound of that guitar. It was beautiful. Those days and those parking lots followed by seeing the dead in the evening is what nirvana must feel like. I've been chasing that feeling ever since. By 92 and 93, the scale of the thing was almost hard to wrap your head around. They were playing to huge crowds. Soldier Field, Giant Stadium, Buckeye Lake. And this is the era where the scene became the main attraction for a lot of people. The family was global. You'd meet someone in the lot in North Carolina and three weeks later you'd see them in line for tickets in Vegas. We were a migratory tribe. I remember the ticking hut of the 90s. Pre Internet coordination was a work of art. You had to know which record store to be in line at and which little city that would have the least amount of people show up. And then I'd fund the rest of my entire summer by selling cold bottles of water and after show grilled cheese off a little Coleman stove. It was a self sustaining community. We didn't need the outside world, and honestly, the outside world was starting to get a little nervous of us. Musically, the highs were still there, but they were becoming moments rather than entire shows. We'd sit through a shaky first set, looking at each other like, is Jerry okay? And then he'd step up for a Standing on the Moon or Stella Blue, and the entire place would go silent. You could hear a pen drop. That was the magic, the collective realization that even if the engine was sputtering, the soul of the thing was still completely intact. Come on, baby. Just make it to the next show. And we're walking.

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Roadside Assistance. What's Your emergency? We're 70 miles outside Wichita. The transmission is gone, and we accidentally locked the keys in the van. Stay calm. We'll be there soon, and the four winds will blow you safely home.

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So whether you're driving a tour bus, a Subaru with 300,000 miles, or a Volkswagen that's technically being held together by stickers, trust Help on the Way, because the show starts in two hours, and somehow you're still gonna make it. Help on the Way. Roadside Assistance. We've been there before.

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In 1994, the energy started to shift, if I'm being honest, and we have to be honest on this show, right? Or else what are we doing here? You could feel the strain. The tempos were getting slower. Jerry was looking way older than his years. But the loyalty of the fan base, that loyalty was unbreakable. We were seeing shows because we knew the window was closing, even if we didn't want to admit it. Every Deadhead I know has a 94 story, usually about a night where the band struggled. But then Jerry hit that one note in warfare that made you cry that you had to be there. Culture was at an all time high. Tape traders weren't just looking for perfect shows anymore. They were looking for soulful ones. We were preserving the decline with as much love as we preserved the peak. We were all just huddled together watching the sun go down, listening to a band that had become the soundtrack to our entire lives. It was bittersweet. We were still dancing, but we knew the end was near. And then came 95. It's hard to talk about 95 without getting a lump in your throat. The spring and summer tours, they were heavy. There were moments of brilliance, sure. Of visions of Johanna or so many roads. But the air felt thin. The lot was getting darker too. The gate crashing at Deer Creek, death threats, the lightning strike, the wooden deck collapse. It felt like the universe was telling us the party was over. But we kept going. I was at a lot of those final shows. I remember being at Deer Creek before the Gatecrash show started. Looking around at the thousands of tie dyed souls and feeling this overwhelming sense of gratitude. I remember breathing it in and thinking, I never want to forget this moment of beauty. It was almost tainted by what happened later that night. But I managed to hang on to that moment of pure joy through it all. It helps me through tough moments, even today. And when Jerry passed in August, it wasn't just a musician dying. For those of us who had spent time in those lots and those arenas, that felt like church. It was crushing. It felt like the clubhouse was closing. I remember where I was when I heard it. Most of us do. I went to a local park with some friends and puffed and celebrated and mourned. Nobody was crying. We were just quiet, stunned. Maybe we were realizing that we were the ones who had to carry the music now. The band, they had done their part. So here we are. 30 years of history. And it all leads back to a feeling. When I look back at my shows, I don't just remember the musical moments that changed my life. I also remember a drum circle in St. Louis, a glorious day of pre show hacky sack in Michigan. The party we had with so many friends that we didn't even know. When Richfield got snowed out, I remember the people I met whose names I never knew. Who I'd share a bottle of water with in a heartbeat. The Grateful Dead weren't just a band. They were a permission slip. They gave us permission to be weird, to be kind, to be curious. To build a world that functions on something other than greed. The series Trekking through time was my way of saying thank you. From the Jug band days in 65 to the final notes at Soldier Field in 95, this journey has been the greatest story ever told. And even though the bus stopped in 95, the tracks are still there. Every time you put on a tape, every time you meet a stranger in a dead shirt and give them a nod, it continues. I want to thank you for riding with me through these six episodes since been an emotional one for me, especially this last stretch. I've had to stop the recording a few times. Take a breath. I'm Will this has been Tales from the Lot trucking through time. I'll be back with more interviews and stories from the scene soon, but for now, keep that joyous feeling alive and keep spreading it. Stay kind friends.

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Sa. It.

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