whenever I could.
The financial underpinnings of the project came from some truly gourmet marijuana that was shipped into the United States in ham tins. When opened, the tins emitted the hiss of a sealed container and out wafted the beautiful bouquet of the colitas inside.
Wales and Garcia were pushing the musical envelope in each session. It was thrilling to hear the collaborative, artistic stretch into electronica, fusion, blues and even Stockhausen. The limited budget, unfortunately, did not allow for a continuous roll of recording tape so many magical and spontaneous moments were lost.
It was also fascinating to hear Jelly Roll’s tales from the road, working for a family organization, like the Kallaen Twins were, and have those tales overlapped and intertwined by Garcia’s fascinating stories. Garcia had also been on the road at fifteen with a family outfit, some cousins who played bluegrass. Howard Wales, too, was a road veteran and had played behind some Motown acts. Howard had also played a memorable organ part on what was the Dead’s signature tune, “Truckin’.” Wales added his off-beat and acerbic wit to the road stories.
The deal and musical direction were Wales’ idea and Garcia praised him, on more than one occasion, for his tones and abilities. In turn, Wales would chide Garcia about the quality of his sidemen and mock the Grateful Dead’s occasionally out-of-tune musical renditions. A number of times I heard him pointedly wonder if the Dead’s rhythm guitarist, Bobby Weir, could perform anything other than “chinca, chinca.” The concept of the album was loose and free-form with a lot of tokin’, jokin’ and frequent-food-breaks kind of musical fun for the engineers, roadies and happy fringe few.
One afternoon, the art for their album cover, created by Abdul Mati, was brought to the studio. Abdul Mati had done a dramatic LP cover for the Eric Clapton/Stevie Winwood English super group called Blind Faith featuring a naked, young girl holding a model airplane. Mati had created a naked young girl, holding nothing, for the Wales/Garcia album.
Everybody in attendance wondered aloud if the representation was too young, as the model for the art work appeared to be, as Wales said, “Only about twelve years old.”
Garcia liked the artistic effort if not the concept or the subject.
The road-hardened and Americana expert, Jelly Roll said, “In the southern U.S. they call that young stuff … ‘hooter roll.’ Which led to a recording-free afternoon of tales, jokes and tokes.
“Hooteroll” stuck as the album’s title.
The first desire of all musical groups is a problem-free sound system and dependable transportation. Rabid Rakow was so-called because of his ultra-wired high energy and his big deal-a-minute business propositions. He constantly worked on both and snapped photos of the musicians in between the proposals. Rakow’s main, grand scheme was to have the Grateful Dead own a corporate-style fleet of cars. The plan was to have one car for each player, manager and the sound crew. Rakow found a used car lot full of old Hertz rental cars and bought six. Five were for the Dead and one was for himself for putting the deal together. My old friend, Big Red Ted saved me from being “volunteered” to drive one of the junkers off the lot. As I was, leaving Garcia gave me a patch that read “Keep on Truckin’.” As he lit a cigarette from a cigarette, he added, “Get it sewed on something … it’s somebody’s idea … to promote the Dead.”
It was this unique setting and circumstance that began my love affair with Rebecca. Big Red Ted took me out of the musical funfest and led me towards that fantastic relationship.
Ted showed up at the studio with excitedly offered apologies and dragged me out of the session. On the way to the parking lot he told me that a Tibetan Lama had been smuggled into the U.S. from Canada and was hiding from the powers that be, including Nixon and Henry Kissinger. The State Department had an all-points bulletin out on the Lama just to appease the Communist Chinese. Ted said Nixon was going to play the “China Card” to get re-elected and Kissinger was going to make a big deal about deporting this Lama back to occupied Tibet as a diplomatic symbol of potential political cooperation between the two nations. I felt obliged to help my persuasive, concerned friend help this Lama.
My knowledge of Tibetan history, religion and politics was limited. I had read one chapter on Buddhism while taking a course on comparative religions when I went to college. Tibet I could find on a map. Ted said I would get a rush course and the Cliff Notes version on the way to a suitable hiding place.
“He’s a master of books and is bringing the ancient wisdom and knowledge of Tibet here in order to share it with the world,” said Ted. “You love to read and write,” he added. “It’s the perfect initiation for you.”
The Lama was known as Tarthang Tulku. He could speak English fairly well, having spent a period of his life as a refugee monk in Alexandria, Egypt. He chose Alexandria because of its infamy in human history for having its libraries burned. The Lama was hopeful the world would not allow it to happen again.
Big Ted suggested the Sierra Nevada Mountains, being similar to the geography of Tibet, might ease the fugitive Lama’s mind. It was summertime and fairly easy to secure a ski cabin in the Lake Tahoe area. Being off-season, the ski chalet only had a small TV, AM radio and paper plates. I explained sit-com TV and the rules of baseball. In halting English he explained the Path and how he meditated to physically change the brain for positive happiness; how to “center” oneself. By the fourth baseball game Tarthang Tulku was more than impressed by the variety of skills necessary to be a baseball player … throwing, hitting and especially a player running down a long fly ball.
During the next week, while attending to the Lama, I received a simple education in practical Buddhism from this incredible man who had traveled many a hard mile. He gave me unusual perspectives on life by debating intellectual thought. Tibetans are great debaters and much of their learning is tested in high powered and energetic debates. The Lama posed problems and spoke philosophically and in metaphors. His teachings would begin with a statement – such as, “you must go into the Tibetan mind, the mind that believed in times past that thunder comes from the roar of a dragon, to consider what I am now going to tell you.” He taught me the Tibetan style of theological and philosophical debate wherein points are emphasized by slapping one’s palm with the back of one’s other hand. This ritualistic part of the debate, he informed me, keeps the debate from getting too emotional and from being reduced to rigid argument rather than a fluid exchange of thought.
I was able to work in a good hike and swim every day in Lake Tahoe while the Lama did his meditations. After about ten days, Ted returned and told me he had made other living arrangements. An underground accommodation for Lama Tarthang Tulku seemed safe in Berkeley. Former Peace Corps volunteers had offered refuge.
Tarthang Tulku told us that, before we left for Berkeley, he must perform a blessing and water ceremony for Lake Tahoe. Ted explained that lakes were considered very sacred in Tibet, so to him it came as no surprise. I saw it as a last chance to be on a beautiful lake and suggested that we rent a boat and water ski out. I celebrated the end of my days of unexpected, enforced, though not unpleasant, spiritual training by skiing to where the Lama would perform his ceremony. Ted skied back.
The vision of me and Ted in bathing suits with the Lama in traditional saffron and burgundy robes was, no doubt, unusual when the rented speed boat returned to the marina.
A girl handled the paperwork for the rented boat dockside. The way the sun caught her golden tresses and healthy glow, she looked angelic. Her reaction to the burgundy and gold robed gentleman, carefully off-loading an ornate prayer box, was as if a Tibetan Lama arrived every hour or so. As Ted settled the bill, I officially ended my monkish period
