piercing sheer and altogether triumphant version with plenty of barrelhouse winking fun that recalls 78 marathons. great midwest bew!

consonantly epic woodshedding on Bird at a special spot, swimming through time.

Good lush midi cassidy into this speedmeister jaunty shuffler. Bruce and weir aim high. Inspired smooth flow. Propulsive coda. Zoo wee mama!

Another gorgeous headlong peggy for caves and knolls, formidable 90's new age orb head textures. Rosebud arpeggiation takes off gloriously in solos.

intensely hot pan seared Bruce version. Five alarm chaw with thematic accompaniment and hootenany feelings

Woke up feelin' mean, went to play the slot machine \m/ the guys takin' chances and destroying on this version, barrelhouse flower stuff!

intense major 77

Pure awesomeness from the 90's lineup of the band. Vince's marimba patch thing gives us access to a great fantasy of Enya collaborating with GD. There's no irony in that, Enya is one of my favorite 90's artists capable of sculpting beautiful pieces beyond our imagination with her synths. "Sometimes we live no particular way but our own, And sometimes we visit your country and live in your home" The pure resonance of these lines for a life energy constantly suspended above its habituation to its own dismay. Pure twinkly lush bliss, Phil in the style of Jaco Pastorius or Thundercat, simply rocking out hard over there. (Lesh is probably my new favorite "rock" bass player after getting into the Dead in 2020). Eyes of the World in its hypnotic beguilingness, its perfect symmetry, will always guide you to aural transportation. Then here comes Hornsby, tinkling like Roy Bittan or Billy Joel in '75. Especially into its natural partner, a hot Estimated, this is bliss and fortune indeed. A real treat of hardcore tight jamming at 13 votes. Eyesie 90. Estimated eyes is like the Dead's version of a day in the life. Lennon/mccartney contrast. bobby and jer bear contrast. You see it.

Unbelievably smokin', definitely a twilight peak style of playing Promised Land. Bruce and Vince name the game in this barnstorm stomper, shreddin' Dead cut. It's riveting to see everybody ripping the place apart with reckless abandon. RIP to Chuck Berry, the architect.

JG's shaky tenor is rather touching. Feels like the sermon about Jonah and the whale before the moby dick crew sets out on the pequod, in its momentous finality. MSG, autumn 90. RIP Brent