The Eleven
Dec. 29, 1968
Gulfstream Park Race Track
Liquid, dark raw free and flowing cascade of notes, ducking and skipping with loose ferocity and coherent imaginations, collectively interplaying to the rhythm of the times, pure fire and brimstone jamming. Metallic shimmering silver rimmed notes bouncing of one another, stringing together, freely separating and dispersing through the air-zone. Lesh with a mad tone, Garcia with an electrician's touch, rolling lightning bolts from the cloud's themselves. Dropping entire torrents of tsunami level flow, seguing into a Kreutzman and Hart tribal encore, only to continue the psychedelic acid bath.
