The 30 Best Grateful Dead Shows

The Grateful Dead had long allowed people to record their shows and trade them for free (as opposed to profiting from those shows via bootleg LPs or CDs). But it wasn’t until their week-long 1984 Berkeley Community Theater run that the Dead debuted an official taper’s section. The Halloween show can be gimmicky (Weir tries out Willie Dixon’s “I Ain’t Superstitious” in a nod to the holiday) and creaky (Jerry’s voice is rough). But they boogie hard on “Don’t Ease Me In” and “Big Railroad Blues,” the second-set opener, “Touch of Grey,” elicits a roar of recognition from the faithful—they’d been playing it for two years at that point, and the song was already a Dead standard, well before they recorded it and the single hit the Top 10 — and the “Space” is particularly haunting, befitting the occasion.—Michealangelo Matos

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Some heads profess themselves unmoved by this legendary fare-thee-well, and there are reasons why —a lot of these songs are played waaaay slower than usual, which is not to everybody’s dosage. But there’s also cunning and tension galore on this four-hour monster, played over the early hours of New Year 1979 (New Riders of the Purple Sage and the Blues Brothers — yes, Aykroyd and Belushi — opened), and the show’s sheer heft and historicity add to the overall effect. Not to mention that sometimes slowing things down really ratchets up the intensity, as on a half-speed “Not Fade Away” that the Dead along with guest guitarist John Cipollina, late of Quicksilver Messenger Service, build into a huge boogying vista, like a high tide crashing to shore whenever the vocals appear, widescreen clarity flecked with itchy details that put one in the mind of (of all things) vintage krautrock. They dust off “Dark Star” and “The Other One” and open with “Sugar Magnolia” for Winterland owner and longtime benefactor Bill Graham, whose closing remarks are the capstone on a monument, and they have fun with them too. And Jerry Garcia is in impassioned vocal form on “Fire on the Mountain,” “Ramble on Rose,” and — improbably and marvelously — the finale, “And We Bid You Goodnight.”—M.M.

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The Dead’s East Coast run in the spring of 1982 is a shining example of how playful, provocative, and freewheeling the boys could get on their early Eighties tours. Something about the gothic surroundings of Baltimore clearly reminded them of the city’s most famous son, Edgar Allen Poe. Because during “Drums,” they wheeled out two massive tanks of nitrous oxide, as Phil Lesh began performing his own madcap version of “The Raven.” They slide into “Space” with demented laughter and bird calls. “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’!” Phil roars. “Or was it ‘Evermore’? ’Twas a dark and stormy night, wasn’t it?” He goes into a long Poe trip, telling the crowd, “More nitrous? Oh, no — not the dentist! There’s been enough drilling for one night! Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore!’” Everyone was in class-clown mode that spring — it was the week after Jerry and Bob went on Letterman and made Dave howl. The night before Baltimore, in Hartford, Phil did a crazed “Space” monologue about the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. But the Deadheads never heard anything else quite like “Raven Space” again — never more.–Rob Sheffield

The Dead had a tradition of kicking off their spring tours in Hampton — and a tradition of making mischief there. But something felt weirdly off about this show — why was the band such a mess tonight? And then it happened. Bob Weir announced, “Now we’re gonna prove that practice makes perfect.” They started playing something familiar — a country riff that didn’t seem possible, or even thinkable, until the moment Phil stepped up to sing, “Look out of any window.” Crazy but true: The man was busting out “Box of Rain,” for the first time in nearly 13 years. Phil had basically quit singing a decade earlier, because of throat damage, so fans despaired of ever hearing him again, inspiring the “let Phil sing” chant. But he sure made a dramatic comeback, giving a comic shrug when he flubbed the “find direction” verse. It was one of the longest layoffs ever for a Dead original — 777 shows without a “Box.” That’s nowhere near the record — they revived “New Speedway Boogie” after 1371, and waited 1588 gigs between “Louie Louie”’s. But in terms of impact, this was the shocker bust-out of all bust-outs, from the ultimate bust-out band. “Box” never left the repertoire again — it was the last song they played together before Jerry’s death. Such a long, long time to be gone, and a short time to be there.–R.S.

A snowstorm swept through Madison, Wisconsin on this early December evening, but the Dead didn’t even bat an eye. It’s a criminally underrated show that contains quite possibly the greatest “Black Peter” ever — the kind of peaceful sendoff Hunter’s dying titular character would have hoped for. Clocking in at 10 minutes, it’s a dirge that simmers until it climaxes, with Mydland’s swirling organ and Garcia’s ruminating, funeral solo. But it’s not all gloomy: they pick it up for a rowdy “Bertha” and a charging “Truckin,’” proving that the band could weather any storm — literally or figuratively.–Angie Martoccio

This is the Dead at their friskiest, right from the loosely grooving opener, “Bertha.” The band swings hard on “Deal” — the vocals swooping right along with the music — while “Samson and Delilah” works itself into a percussive lather, the whole band, singers included, hitting each beat with a hard chop, and “Eyes of the World” absolutely pops. The second set is where things really take off: Weir rips into “Estimated Prophet” with a snarling vocal, then the band winds thrillingly into “The Other One,” on through a frolicsome “Rhythm Devils”—and even after “Space,” they spring back into action. By the time they close with a cover of Warren Zevon’s then-recent hit “Werewolves of London,” it’s only appropriate—they’ve been on the verge of howling at the moon all night, and now they actually get to.—M.M.

Ron “Pigpen” McKernan died in March, and with him went the old Grateful Dead. New keyboardist Keith Godchaux and his wife, singer Donna Godchaux, had settled in. Wake of the Flood had just dropped on the band’s own label — a transformative, if doomed enterprise — as their pioneering hi-fi concert sound system evolved in fits and starts. Capping this tough year was a 3-day-weekend group-hug run at their home base (see Winterland ’73: The Complete Recordings). Every night had dazzlers. The perfect 10+ minute “Here Comes Sunshine” on 11/9. The sublime “Stella Blue” and double-helixing “Playing in the Band”>”Uncle John’s Band”>”Morning Dew”>”Uncle John’s”>”Playing” on 11/10. But Sunday 11/11 was the one. Three sets, 190 minutes +/-, blueprinting what would become the classic Grateful Dead set flow in platonic, super-sized ideal. Cosmic cowboy vibes galloped hard (“El Paso,” “Big River,” “Me and My Uncle”). A shining “Weather Report” and “Mississippi Half-Step” brought the new. But there’s also a prismatic “China Cat”>”Rider” (with a delicious “Uncle John’s Band” feint) and the run’s only “Dark Star” — which after 35 minutes of existentialism, finds revelation in a fully-ripened “Eyes of the World” and “China Doll.” It wasn’t the longest Dead show ever (see R.F.K. Stadium 3/10/73), but it may have been the most satisfyingly bountiful. And when they closed with the now-vestigal “And We Bid You Goodnight,” it felt like a benediction for Dead 1.0 as much as for their grateful hometown crowd.–Will Hermes

Among the most memorable latter day shows, this hometown gig was the final show that Garcia playing his fabled custom “Wolf” guitar. But most striking was the participation of jazz giant Ornette Coleman. Garcia was invited to play on Virgin Beauty, Ornette’s landmark 1988 album with his electric band Prime Time, after Ornette caught a Dead show and was impressed. Garcia returned the favor, inviting Prime Time to open this hometown show. Afterwards, Ornette sat in for much of the second set, and his drumming son Denardo joined in on “Iko Iko” and “The Other One.” Recordings suggest the live mix may have been off at points. But the high points of “Stella Blue” are very high indeed, and to hear Ornette swaggering out of that gorgeous ballad into “Turn On Your Lovelight” — conjuring his early days as an r&b honker in Fort Worth, Texas, alongside a sorely outmatched Bob Weir — is pure joy. Other sax players have sat in with the band (Branford Marsalis, David Murray, even Clarence Clemons), but none pushed things further out than this free jazz godfather.–W.H.

The unofficial release show for the Dead’s debut LP (3/18/67 Winterland) was a gem. But this late summer-of-love gig shows the band blooming into a psychedelic dance band. 1967 is one of the most poorly-documented Dead years, as soundman/chief taper Owsley Stanley was tied up with his day job as the West Coast’s premiere LSD chemist (it *was* 1967). This matinee set/ evening set combo surfaced just last year on an 8-track tape. Besides the ferocious “Dancing In The Streets” and a soulful, similarly expansive “Morning Dew,” it contains the first known live performance of “That’s It For The Other One,” plus some funny stage banter. Honorable mention also goes to 9/3/67, a dancehall gig in Rio Nido, up in Sonoma wine country, which may be the show that inspired Robert Hunter to pen the lyrics to “Dark Star” when he heard the nascent melody flicker through that night’s “Dancing” jam.–W.H.

The Grateful Dead’s September 3, 1977 show at Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey was their first in three months, following a car accident that had sidelined drummer Mickey Hart. More than 102,000 tickets were sold—the biggest crowd the band had drawn up to that point — turning the small town into a sea of Deadheads. With parking at the venue scarce, locals rented out their driveways, and some fans abandoned their cars miles away and walked in. The band delivered an intense set, including the first “Truckin’” in over two years and the first “Terrapin Station” since the album’s release. Recorded meticulously by Betty Cantor-Jackson and later released as Dick’s Picks Volume 15, the show stands as one of the highlights of what many see as the Dead’s peak year.–Alison Weinflash

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After the negative experiences of Woodstock and Altamont, the Grateful Dead approached the 1973 Summer Jam at Watkins Glen with both caution and ambition. Sharing the bill with The Band and the Allman Brothers, they performed before an estimated 600,000 people—one of the largest audiences in rock history. The event marked the first iteration of the Dead’s legendary Wall of Sound, and their two-hour sound check the day before turned into an impromptu concert that drew tens of thousands of early arrivals. On the main day, the Dead opened the festival with “Bertha” and delivered two sets lasting more than four hours. For the encore, members of all three bands came together for a three-song marathon: the Crickets’ “Not Fade Away,” the Allmans’ “Mountain Jam,” and Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.” That 90-minute jam brought the day to a close at three in the morning.–A.W.

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Shortly before the Dead settled in for two nights at this music hall just north of San Francisco, the Dream Bowl had been converted from a country bar to a rock & roll haven; a local newspaper praised, somewhat, the “window-shattering volume” of its newly ramped-up sound system. With any luck, those speakers held up as the Dead unleashed their early primal power there. In the midst of recording Auxomoxoa, the band didn’t merely roll out new material the public hadn’t yet heard, like the soon-to-be-standard “St. Stephen” and the Pigpen showcase “Doin’ That Rag,” but played some of those songs with a startling ferocity. With Garcia pushing his guitar into new territory — the tripped-out twang in “Cryptal Envelopment” and the downright ornery tone on “Death Don’t Have No Mercy” — the Dead of this era were leaving their jug-band and garage-band days behind and heading into their own inspired outer limits. Bonus points for pioneering the art of the unplugged set with acoustic versions of “Dupree’s Diamond Blues” and an especially gorgeous “Mountains of the Moon.”–David Browne

This Los Angeles show — a summer night’s idyll — is one of the earliest Dead shows recorded on multitrack; it reached CD early in the band’s archival release flood, as Two from the Vault in 1992. (It reached Number 119 on the Billboard album chart — impressive for a title that sold most of its copies through mail order.) The Shrine is a seated venue, best known as the longstanding home of the Oscar and Grammy ceremonies, and you can hear the early dance-band Dead working to get everyone up and moving. They’re pure rhythmic liquid, zigzagging hard and surging forward, as on the first half of “The Eleven,” or on a particularly romping “Lovelight,” with Pigpen mellow and controlled. The Shrine show offers the core late-sixties Dead repertoire (including six of Live/Dead’s seven selections) in notably charged versions: the Dead seldom sounded this effortlessly unified — the “Dark Star” here says its piece in a breezy 11 minutes. There and everywhere else, this is Jerry’s night — he peels off long solos and chopping comping chords with equal facility and equal delight — all the way up to a ripping “Morning Dew” that gets cut off when the cops show up and unplug the band. M.M.

Before they became their own opening act, the Dead shared stages with plenty of legends. There were fabled acrimonious shows with the Velvet Underground at Chicago’s Electric Ballroom in April ‘69 that, alas, didn’t feature any impromptu collaborations. Chummier and jammier were shows with the Allman Brothers (famously the epic 6/10/73 RFK Stadium) and various sit-ins and side-projects, like the December 1970 “David & The Dorks” shows at the Matrix featuring David Crosby, Garcia, Lesh and Mickey Hart. The most delightfully unlikely, however, was this summit of California’s best-loved Sixties rock & rollers. The collaboration was brief. Pigpen led a take on The Coasters’ “Searchin’” with Beach Boys (sans Brian Wilson) adding harmonies. A suitably hectic cover of The Robins’ “Riot In Cell Block #9” added a theremin siren. Best is the giddy reading of “Okie From Muskogee,” the counter-counterculture touchstone by fellow Californian Merle Haggard (“We don’t smoke marijuana in Muskogee/We don’t take our trips on LSD”) and a rousing all-in “Johnny B. Goode.”–W.H.

Once they hit the arena and stadium circuit, the Dead rarely played small halls, and they seldom performed sets largely comprised of new, untested material. But such was the case with one of the most unusual shows in the Dead’s history. Eager to promote the upcoming Blues for Allah, the band, with Hart back in tow, played an intimate show at this 400-seat hall for radio executives. The Dead had barely played together over the previous year, but debuting the Allah songs, they sound refreshed and ready to leave their Sixties repertoire behind, at least for a night. The serrated opening riffs of “Help on the Way/Slipknot!”, and the way that song segues seamlessly into “Franklin’s Tower,” sets the tone for performances that show how the Allah songs could jolt to life onstage. Donna Godchaux’s harmonies on “The Music Never Stopped” attest to what she brought to the band when she could actually hear herself onstage, and they even pull off the album-concluding spaced-out suite, arguably the weirdest pieces of music the Dead ever committed to tape. The recording, which sat in the vaults for over a decade before it was released, attests to the way the Dead were eager to push forward as they were about to enter their second decade. –D.B.

Starting the year before, the Dead pulled off many a noteworthy show at this still-thriving venue north of New York City. What makes the first night of this six-night run particularly historic was the set list. In a dazzling sign that the Dead’s collaborations with Robert Hunter were still in first gear, they debuted five brand-new songs that night: “Bertha,” “Loser,” “Playing in the Band,” “Greatest Story Ever Told,” and “Wharf Rat,” the latter sandwiched in between “Dark Star” jams for one of the band’s most beatific and glorious period jams. Some of those songs would greatly improve over the years, but hearing these hot-off-the-pages versions is a treat. With Hart on the way out for a while (this would be his last show with them for three years), we also get a taste of the leaner, meaner rock & roll machine the Dead would transform into throughout 1971. Coming just a few months after the death of band buddy Janis Joplin, their reading of “Me and Bobby McGee” adds a note of unexpected poignancy to the evening. –D.B.

The Wall of Sound — the Dead’s mammoth sound system that the band went on tour with in 1974 — is legendary for its 50-foot height, its huge volume, the cleanliness of its sound, as well as its bank-breaking expense and the backbreaking amount of labor it took to cart the damn thing around. It was used in ’74 and never again. On this spry summer-night show at one of the biggest state fairs in the country, you can hear the band at its most light-fingered — they don’t have to push too hard because the system is doing it for them, and the mood is jaunty, befitting the venue. So is the repertoire, heavy on the Dead’s country leanings (“El Paso,” “Big River,” “The Race Is On”). Actually, the set is heavy on everything; it’s a hefty four hours. (A 73-minute selection is available on Road Trips Volume 2 Number 3.) But the band is clearly having a blast; they sound like they’re feeding on the family energy of the place, and hit gorgeous peaks on “Eyes of the World” and “China Cat Sunflower,” with the latter featuring a late-song turnaround, sparked by Garcia’s liquid high notes, that is simply breathtaking. Corn dogs and cotton candy not included.—M.M.

1966 live recordings are scarce — none have made the Dick’s or Dave’s Picks series, though summer Fillmore shows appeared on Birth of the Dead and some Vancouver, Canada shows turned up on the 50^th Anniversary Deluxe Edition of the debut LP. The era was wild and unique: young hotshots trying and discarding originals, exploding traditional folk songs and other covers, the sound of a nascent supernova on an embryonic journey. A case could be made here for Fillmore 11/19  (or 11/18, glimpsed on a recently-unearthed 8-track tape). But 12/1/66 was a special one — convened at Jefferson Airplane pal Marty Balin’s new club, not far away, site of some of the Dead’s greatest gigs (the Velvet Underground’s, too). The earliest show on this list, it’s also a long one. Three sets, with many songs that would soon disappear from setlists: “Betty and Dupree,” “One Kind Favor,” “Alice D. Millionaire,” “You Don’t Love Me,” “On The Road Again,” “Yonder’s Wall,” “My Own Fault,” “Down So Long,” “Something On Your Mind,” “Big Boy Pete,” and “Lindy.” There are also future staples: “I Know You Rider,” “Dancin’ In The Streets,” and a clearly work-in-progress “Me and My Uncle,” which the boys take three high-speed stabs at. The concept of a “jam band” evolves in real time on “Viola Lee Blues” and “Cream Puff War” — both of which would gel in RCA’s Studio A in Los Angeles in January and February on the sessions that produced Grateful Dead.–W.H.

With the addition of Brent Mydland in 1979 came a gradual sonic upgrade in the Dead. Mydland’s synths, harmonies, and gruffly personal songs bolstered the band’s repertoire and lathered a fresh coat of paint to their oldies. His impact was felt on innumerable shows during this era, but the second night of this two-show run is one of those keepers – and not just because the Dead were billed as “Formerly the Warlocks” as both a nod to their original band name and a way to ward off some of the oppressive crowds starting to arrive at Dead shows by then. “Uncle John’s Band” has a new skip in its step and flows into a luscious “Playing in the Band.” But the high-water marks point to Mydland’s impact: Garcia leading the band through a jaunty “Built to Last,” Myland at peak Brent urgency on his “We Can Run,” and a carousing version of Weir’s “Throwing Stones.” The Garcia-Mydland guitar-organ interplay during “Death Don’t Have No Mercy” was surely one reason all those desperate fans without tickets would flock to shows like these. — D.B.

Weeks away from releasing Workingman’s Dead (followed by American Beauty), the Dead gave the world a little preview of their stunning transformation from acid rockers to Americana aces. Seizing the stage at New York’s Harpur College (now SUNY-Binghamton) on May 2, 1970, they performed a structured acoustic set packed with now-classics like “Candyman” and “Cumberland Blues.” The highlight is Robert Hunter’s barnyard beauty “Dire Wolf,” where Weir stops to smell the firecrackers in the air: “I smell gunpowder!” The show is rounded out with an electric set, featuring a thrashing “St. Stephen” and joyous “Casey Jones.” Released in 1997 as Dick’s Picks Volume 8, it’s the quintessential representation of early Dead. From that spring day upstate, the future was bright.–A.M.

The Dead have never been able to escape drama, and their eight-night residency at the historic Radio City Music Hall was no exception. There were sledgehammered stairwells, smelly, blown electrical panels, Deadheads roaming around the famed art-deco lobby, and many disagreements with the Rockefeller Corporation. But it was all worth it, especially the magical final night, on Halloween. They even broadcasted it live, featuring a sketch by SNL’s Al Franken and Tom Davis. The highlight is the eight-song acoustic set the band kicked off with — ideal for the spooky season — featuring a very rare “Sage & Spirit,” Garcia’s devastatingly beautiful “It Must Have Been the Roses,” and, of course, the beloved “Ripple.” They plugged in for the latter half, and no matter how you feel about “Little Red Rooster,” Weir delivers a scorching one here, while they all join in for a celebratory “Franklin’s Tower.” Come for the legendary venue, stay for Davis’ cracks about acid-dosed urine.–A.M.

Even by the lofty standards of 1972, the Dead hit new heights when they traveled to Veneta, Oregon, a miserably hot summer day that somehow turned into one of the most glorious musical peaks of their lives. Their old buddy Ken Kesey asked them to play a benefit for the local Springfield Creamery, home of Nancy’s Yogurt, in the Old Renaissance Faire Grounds. Nobody planned on this being any kind of historic occasion. But in the 104-degree heat, in a field full of sun-dazed dancing hippies, dogs, and kids, the Dead caught fire, jamming all-time classic versions of “Playin’ in the Band,” “Sugaree,” “China > Rider,” and a “Bird Song” full of guitar to break your heart. Bob Weir told the crowd, “We’re changing our name to the Sun-Stroked Serenaders.” As you can see in the concert film Sunshine Daydream, much of the crowd lost their clothes — including the legendary Naked Pole Guy dancing behind the stage. But the band and fans seem to be flying on the same solar delirium. And as the sun finally begins to set, the Dead top everything else with the deepest, wildest, scariest “Dark Star” they ever played. No wonder this show went down in history.–R.S.

The Dead were infamous for blowing it on the big occasions: Woodstock, Monterey, the Pyramids. But they rose to the moment in their legendary double-date with the Allman Brothers Band, on a scorching summer day in 1973, at Philly’s RFK Stadium. They challenged the massive crowd with their most epic jams: opening with “Morning Dew,” then “Playin’ in the Band,” a bass-heavy “Dark Star,” a 22-minute “Eyes of the World.” But the highlight was the final hour, long after midnight, when they jammed with the ABB’s Gregg Allman and Dickey Betts, plus old pal Merl Saunders. The Allman Dead blasted off with manic 1950s raves by Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley, and Buddy Holly, before exploding into “Goin’ Down the Road Feeling Bad” — 11 minutes of rowdy jubilation—and “Johnny B. Goode.” Since both bands had just lost founding brothers — Duane and Berry Oakley for the Allmans, Pigpen for the Dead—it’s incredibly emotional to hear Jerry lavish his “Not Fade Away” solos with licks from “Blue Sky” and “Mountain Jam,” two of Duane’s shining moments. A psychedelic rockabilly party that feels a bit like an Irish wake — and a stadium show that brought out the best in both bands.–R.S.

In later years, shows were measured by the appearance of a “Morning Dew,” a “Dark Star” or a “That’s It For The Other One” sequence. An “Eleven” or a rare “Spanish Jam” (inspired by the Miles Davis/Gil Evans LP Sketches of Spain) would be a lottery-ticket bonus. This Valentine’s Day show unleashed them all, most at dizzying speed; “Dark Star” percolates along for 6+ minutes at the tempo it would take on the 2:45 single (!) the band would release in April. Here, pretty much all the components that’d define future 20-30 minute unspoolings are in place.

The gig’s backstory is notable — the first show since the death of Neal Cassady, the mythic bus driving tour guide of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters. Garcia dedicates the second set to him. Weir leans into the “Cowboy Neil/at the wheel” couplet (written by him, in fact, the day Cassady died) on a fierce “The Other One,” Garcia’s tone snarling, in a full preview of Anthem of the Sun, whose recorded versions were in fact a collage of these live versions with studio segments. This was also the Dead’s first live radio broadcast, and one of their first at the Carousel, a venue the Dead — dissatisfied with Bill Graham payment schemes at the Fillmore venues — had begun renting out themselves. Sound is rough, but it’s fire; Lesh once called it his all-time favorite show. One of the first of the Road Trip CD series (Vol. 2.2), it’s got plenty of Pigpen r&b muscle, and is second only to the 8/24/68 Shrine Auditorium gig (see above) among the ‘68 transitional shows that took the Dead from from dancehall ragers into psychedelic deep-sea divers. (WH)

Dedicated to improvisation as a first principle, the Dead were a lot like jazz without ever really being it. But when saxophonist Branford Marsalis floated in a few songs into a late stint at Nassau Coliseum, they rose to the occasion, and not by playing jazz, either. Instead, everybody adjusts to one another in subtle, surprising, often gorgeous ways. Marsalis always sounds like himself, the Dead always sound like themselves, but together they sound different. The guest is enmeshed inside the music, an instant initiate. This is immediately audible, when Marsalis is announced at the top of “Bird Song.” Sometimes Branford snakes in alongside the guitar lines, sometimes he plays greasy fifties R&B (a rollicking “Lovelight”), and deep into a rare late “Dark Star,” he engages in a thrilling duel between, among other things, MIDI-abetted sound FX played through the band’s instruments. (On the other side of the coin: the brilliantly rearranged jazz version of “Dark Star” by saxophonist David Murray, from 1996.) When pianist Brent Mydland throws in a New Orleans R&B-style flourish near the top of “Estimated Prophet,” the saxophonist catches the ball and throws it back overhand, and later he echoes the melody in energetic counterpoint. The band picks up the charge; Mydland has the time of his life. And the “Eyes of the World” here is justly celebrated—while it’s playing, it’s the best version imaginable.—M.M.

The Dead’s legendary 1972 European run began and ended in London. In between, they’d gone everywhere from Denmark to France, refining new material like the dazzling, bluesy “He’s Gone,” and perfecting the art of tossing hash pipes out the bus windows while crossing borders. So by the time they returned to London for a four-night stand at the old Lyceum, they were one groovy, well-oiled machine, reaching an all-time high for the finale on May 26. Only one problem: one of the mics needed adjusting. Dennis “Wiz” Leonard left the truck (you know, the band’s makeshift mobile recording studio) to fix it, just in time to witness a 10-minute “Morning Dew” that stopped him dead in his tracks — and even brought Garcia to tears. That masterpiece, and several other tracks from that performance, make up the bulk of the jaw-droppingly great Europe ‘72. Decades later, in 2011, the 5/26 show was finally released on its own, so you can hear that magnificently clean “Sugaree,” and shake it, shake it, till the end of time.–A.M.

This show, midway through a multi-night run, wasn’t the first or last time the Dead played the Garden. But from the moment the set starts with a careening “Hell in a Bucket,” the band sound especially keyed up and celebratory. Maybe it was due to Garcia having survived a coma the year before and that In the Dark was heading into the Top 10, a first for the Dead. Whatever the reasons, the band blew off some of the creaky or uninspired shows of the mid-Eighties in favor of a show that, while perhaps not their most experimental, demonstrated how tight, in control and focused they could be. Garcia’s voice is newly supple on “Candyman”; Mydland’s piano sparkles on that tune and on a “Bird Song” that expands, contracts and blossoms; and a 12-minute “Shakedown Street” grooves harder than the comparatively tame studio version. Dylan covers were hardly a surprise in Dead sets, but the set-closing “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” acknowledged, if playfully, the way Garcia stared down his own mortality the year before. –D.B.

The quintessence of the band’s early years took place over four sets in two nights — Valentine’s Day ’70 is nearly as beloved, and selections from each performance would make up Dick’s Picks Vol. 4, released in 1996. But on its own, the late show on February 13 personifies the Dead’s rough-edged magic. Newly trimmed down — second keyboardist Tom Constanten had left only two weeks before — the Dead was navigating earthier terrain than usual, but they still stretched the music like taffy; Garcia’s guitar breakouts are constant, always welcome, and often come from unexpected places. And that’s before the insane 90-minute climax: “Dark Star” > “The Other One” > “Lovelight,” half an hour apiece, each one stuffed with twists and why-not? gamesmanship, cf. the “Feelin’ Groovy” jam in “Dark Star,” where Garcia riffs at length on the melody of Paul Simon’s “57th Street Bridge Song.” That stretch earns the band’s legend all by its lengthy self. As for the Fillmore East, it shut down in 1971; the building eventually turned into the legendary gay disco The Saint.—M.M.

But of course. This is the show that put the concert Dead on the map of the general listenership, the source of the first two tracks on the epochal Live/Dead, released in November 1969 — the record whose robust sales and production costs of zero finally began to endear the band to their label, Warner Bros. But this show is more than just “Dark Star” and “St. Stephen,” even in their definitive versions. The band starts in fine fettle, with “Good Morning Little Schoolgirl” and “Doin’ That Rag.” But the gaps between them yawn, and finally Jerry has enough, chiding the situation on-mic. The tension crackles, and then, after a count-off, Garcia channels that irritation into action, leading the band into a throttling “Other One,” the focus absolute, Phil Lesh his trusty (and sneaky) lieutenant. It may be the definitive version of that song — and “The Eleven” and “Lovelight” compare favorably to any others, as well.—M.M.

“We’re gonna play everybody’s favorite fun game: ‘Move back.’” Every Deadhead is familiar with these words, commanded by Weir on May 8, 1977 at Cornell University — the ultimate holy grail of Dead shows. Inside Barton Hall that snowy evening, they played a wicked-tight set, locked in for many magical moments that are talked about in the Dead world almost as often as Weir’s shorts phase. What’s the highlight here? Take your pick: “Scarlet Begonias” into “Fire on the Mountain,” a sparkling, seamless transition they only started executing three months prior? The fierce “Brown-Eyed Women,” where Jerry’s euphoria gives your skin goosebumps? Don’t even get us started on the 14-minute “Morning Dew,” or we’ll be here all night. “The ‘Morning Dew’ is, without any doubt, the most rousing and thrilling one ever,” Dead tape archivist Dick Latvala wrote in 1983. His opinion varied over the years, and some fans aren’t so sure Cornell is really their finest moment (for Weir, it was just another gem in their magnificent 1977 run). But Cornell is the one-size-fits-all show for every listener, whether you’re a seasoned Deadhead or a newb just looking for a vibe. That — paired with its high-quality recording — is what makes it shine. The show was first captured by taper Jerry Moore, then officially released in the Eighties via engineer Betty Cantor-Jackson and her iconic Betty Boards. It’s been enthusiastically circulated and passionately studied ever since. Disagree with us? Take it up with the Library of Congress, where it’s now in the National Recording Registry.–A.M.