Roses, letters, and half-smoked joints threaded through the gate in front of 710 Ashbury St. on Sunday morning served as a backdrop to Deadheads sharing cigarettes and stories in honor of the recently departed Bob Weir.
The Grateful Dead founding member, who helped score the city’s Summer of Love and the subculture that bloomed in its wake, died at 78 from lung cancer.
A statement on Weir’s website (opens in new tab) said that he was diagnosed with the disease in July and started treatment just a few weeks before returning to San Francisco — his hometown — for a series of sold-out shows in Golden Gate Park.
Celebrity tributes poured in. Playlists were swapped. The Empire State Building went tie-dye.
But for 29-year-old Russell Beattie it made sense to return to where it started: the Ashbury Street Victorian that served as a home base for Weir, Jerry Garcia, and bandmates Phil Lesh, Bill Kreutzmann, and Ron “Pigpen” McKernan during two of the band’s most formative years in the 1960s.
Bob Weir playing with the Grateful Dead in the Panhandle, circa 1966-1970. | Source: Courtesy Bill Delzell
In tandem with the band’s name, he expressed gratitude, alongside grief.
“It’s highly unfortunate,” he said, “but at the same time, I’m reminded of how grateful I am for the friends I’ve made through this music.”
He had made the pilgrimage down to the Haight from Sonoma with his friend Tim Davidson, who squinted at the sunlight for a minute or two when asked what Weir’s legacy meant to him.
“Beyond the music is the human side of things,” Davidson said. “It teaches you the best version of yourself and to accept everyone around you.”
Born in San Francisco, Weir grew up in Atherton with adopted parents before meeting Garcia at the age of 16 in Palo Alto on New Year’s Eve in 1963. Weir had been the countervailing force to Garcia during the band’s heyday with his road-worn voice and quirky guitar lines. But in the aftermath of his bandmate’s death, he became the guardian of the Dead’s legacy as the group shifted through iterations and lineups.
By the time Mayor Daniel Lurie arrived, the sidewalk and street were packed with dozens of onlookers. “What he did for our city and community is hard to describe,” Lurie said. “You can’t qualify it.”
Lurie said he spoke to Weir before one of the band’s shows in Golden Gate Park, where Weir thanked the mayor for putting the show together, and the mayor thanked him back.
“He couldn’t have been more gracious,” Lurie recalled, “and the feeling was mutual.”
Ed and Laurie, two married retirees who declined to give their last names for privacy, have been following the Dead since they were teenagers growing up on opposite sides of the country. They both felt that Weir’s passing was akin to the loss of a close friend.
“They mean everything to me,” Ed said of the band. “His passing is a real moment.”
“You spend your whole life knowing Bob,” said Laurie.
Down on Haight Street, cardboard signs paid tribute to Weir as passersby and buskers reflected on Weir’s legacy. Norm Cunningham, 71, took a hit from his skunky-smelling pipe, donning a brimless Grateful Dead hat when he reflected that Weir “was the voice of the Dead for many years” noting his influence over the 35 different Dead albums he owns.
A block away, a street performer who gave the name Steve was making the “sad day” meaningful by playing his way through it. Listening in was Michael France, a 59-year-old who followed the band around through the 1990s, selling LSD to make ends meet.
By the middle of the afternoon, pop-up shows were electrifying two different street corners on the Haight Street strip. At Haight and Masonic, deadhands flowed out into the street, blocking traffic and bopping up and down. Drivers honked as the scent of sage and sativa filled the air.
Source: Chloe Weir for The Standard
Back at the memorial, Maris Gregory, an unemployed 25-year-old from Sacramento, imagined that Weir is “playing with Jerry right now” in heaven. Laura Braun, 39, recalled how often Weir popped up at various shows headlined by other artists around the city.
Braun, who moved to the city in 2012 and worked as a music critic before turning to copywriting, and her friend, Russ Natalie, a 41-year-old sales worker living in the Presidio, bantered with others outside the house about their memories of Weir, and pondered over where the band might go from here.
“My first thought is it’s over,” said Natalie, “but it never really is.”
Across the street, Jeremy Saunders, a 28-year-old teacher from Oakland, blasted a series of the band’s tunes out of his car radio. He recalled that Jerry Garcia’s memorial was the same day as the birth of his brother. Some of his family went to the hospital, while others went to the memorial.
They all gathered back home later in the day to listen to the band. For Saunders, the Dead was always a magnetic force to bring people together — in joy or in tragedy.
“It’s a somber occasion,” Saunders said, “but it’s good to see everyone out here.”