Fare Thee Well

The Final Chapter of the Grateful Dead's Long, Strange Trip


By Joel Selvin

With Pamela Turley

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A tell-all biography of the epic in-fighting of the Grateful Dead in the years following band leader Jerry Garcia’s death in 1995 The Grateful Dead rose to greatness under the inspired leadership of guitarist Jerry Garcia, but the band very nearly died along with him after his sudden death in 1995. So long defined by Garcia’s artistic vision, the surviving “Core Four” were reduced to conflicting agendas, strained relationships, and catastrophic business decisions that would lead the iconic band into utter disarray for the next twenty years. Acclaimed music journalist and New York Times bestselling author Joel Selvin was there for much of the turmoil following Garcia’s death, and in this book, he offers a never-before-explored insider account of the ebbs and flows that occurred in the decades that followed. Culminating in the landmark tour bearing the same name, Fare Thee Well charts the arduous journey from Garcia’s passing all the way up to the uneasy agreement between the Core Four that led to the series of shows celebrating the band’s fiftieth anniversary-finally allowing for a proper, and joyous, sendoff of the group revered by so many.



Board Meeting


Nobody expected that. True, everybody on the plane had heard him wheezing when he fell asleep on the flight home from the band’s last concert at Soldier Field in Chicago, but his death in August 1995 had come as a complete and sudden shock to all his bandmates and their organization.

The Deadheads, especially the canny older guard of the band’s exceptionally knowing, caring fans, were not so surprised. Many had stopped coming to shows after Garcia returned from his diabetic coma in 1987. They were heartbroken as they watched his waistline explode, his health deteriorate, and his once unparalleled skills on guitar disintegrate. As the band’s performances through the nineties continued to devolve with Garcia’s personal problems increasingly apparent—and their audiences almost inexplicably still growing beyond imagination—some simply stopped attending, convinced they were watching him kill himself.

Just as no other band had ever been like the Grateful Dead, Jerry Garcia had been like no other bandleader. He was the philosophical axis, the virtuoso guitar player, the father figure, the best friend. In fact, each one of the four surviving members thought that he alone had been Garcia’s best friend—they held no such illusions about each other. Garcia was their true north. Since they were young men, they had set their compasses to him. His death hit them like a sledgehammer.

But in the uncertain and bewildering days after Garcia’s death, it wasn’t just the loss of friendship with him that they had to mourn. Their entire foundation had come loose, and they were jolted by the harsh realities that had suddenly intruded into their lives. Distraught and fearful, uncertain of the future, canceling engagements, laying off loyal crew, these men had barely seen each other since the funeral, couldn’t bring themselves to. Each one had largely disappeared into his own world. Four months went by after Garcia’s death before the four surviving members could muster the will to meet and decide what to do about the beast called the Grateful Dead that had ruled their lives for the better part of four decades.

After thirty years of touring, the band ached from a deep weariness that almost no one but their road crew could understand. Over the years, they had realized the Grateful Dead was bigger than all of them, had a life of its own, and created its own momentum. But could it survive without the visionary leadership of its founding father? There had been many lean years in the history of the Dead, but by the time of Garcia’s death, they were playing to stadiums full of paying customers in every city in the country and it was hard not to go out and pick up the money. They had come to enjoy the charter jets, limousines, and five-star hotels. Band members, along with crew and staff, were settling down, getting married, raising families, buying expensive homes. Their employees numbered more than sixty, many of whom had been on the trip for decades.

The band’s so-called career was largely an accident. The Grateful Dead never sought success. They saw themselves as musicians. They played music. The actual business of a rock-and-roll band was a mystery to them, and they couldn’t be bothered with it. They didn’t think in terms of wealth and fame; they hadn’t sought it and didn’t know how to value it. Eventually, they realized if they were going to manage their organization and continue to do what they loved, they had to come to terms with the commerce, and they made a grudging, uneasy peace with it. More than any other rock band, the Grateful Dead had enjoyed freedom from highly structured and rigid business practices. Instead of corporate bylaws, they had lived by a code vigilantly observed, which had served to create the Grateful Dead ethos. They had largely been able to approach life on their own terms, but with the level of success they had stumbled into, that carefree attitude was no longer possible.

The band members and their most trusted associates showed up Thursday morning, December 7, at the band’s old Victorian in downtown San Rafael that had served as their headquarters for more than thirty years—the new Novato headquarters on Bel Marin Keys Road was not quite ready. They were there for a meeting of the board of directors of Grateful Dead Productions, the corporate arm of the famed psychedelic rock band. They were weighed down with grief and the burden of having to decide the fate of not only themselves, but of all the people who depended on the organization for their livelihood. Their long-suffering staff stood by anxiously. Drummer Billy Kreutzmann still couldn’t bring himself to attend and stayed behind in Hawaii.

It would be the last board meeting at the Lincoln Street complex, held in the upstairs room in an auxiliary building across the street from the ramshackle two-story gabled house on the quiet corner. In typical Grateful Dead fashion, the band had rented the building since they first moved to Marin County and had only recently purchased the former Coca-Cola bottling plant in nearby Novato where the band’s thriving merchandise enterprise had already been located under a rental agreement for several years, and where the entire Grateful Dead operation would now be centered. Just before he died, Garcia had visited the new rehearsal hall and offices and given his approval.

For the last ten years, the band had been the leading box-office attraction in rock, pulling down a hard-to-believe $370 million in gate receipts over the decade. Now that roaring river of revenue had come to a sudden and complete halt. The operation was in immediate economic free fall. They had already scrubbed an East Coast tour scheduled to start in September and laid off their thirty-person road crew. Between the office and the band’s merchandise business, there were still another thirty employees.

Like many families protecting an addict in their midst, the Dead had lived in denial over Garcia’s health issues. They had survived one near-death episode years before, but carried on while Garcia continued to sink deeper into the abyss. He had struggled for ten years with his heroin addiction. Only band management knew that he had secretly made plans to enter rehab at the Betty Ford Clinic after Soldier Field that July. The management team had questioned among themselves whether the September tour would happen. Garcia, chafing against the detailed routine, bolted Betty Ford after a few days, but had checked into another treatment facility in Marin County when he was found dead in the middle of the night.

With such a large organization, it would make sense that a financial plan would have been in place to cover unexpected catastrophic events such as the death of the leader. Yet nothing like a plan had ever been developed. The Grateful Dead operated like a minimum-wage worker living paycheck to paycheck, without preparation for the future, acting like things would never change. They had worked for years, but had little to show for it other than expansive lifestyles and large debts. With a number of Dead employees already gone and more layoffs looming, Garcia’s death forced instant hardships on those he left behind. These were mostly people who had labored beside the band for thirty years or more. The egalitarian Dead treated them like family. They paid salaries well above the industry norm and extended all kinds of financial assistance to their people. When a fallen redwood tree crushed manager Cameron Sears’s home (during a New Year’s Eve show while the house was vacant), the band loaned him the money for repairs. The band routinely extended cash advances to crew and employees and then carried the debt on the books for years. Such generosity was typical of the Dead. The type of loyalty the band members showed the people who worked for them was rare in the music industry, and these layoffs cut them to the core.

Guitarist Bob Weir and bassist Phil Lesh had attended the first company meeting within two weeks of Garcia’s death conducted by band attorney Hal Kant, the first round of layoffs, where anybody who had worked for the band less than ten years was let go. They hung around after the meeting to commiserate.

“This place has been a haven for the chronically unemployed,” Weir told the band’s computer specialist, Bob Bralove, whose relatively recent hiring meant he did not make the first cut. “You’ll be all right.”

The layoffs only heightened the emotional toll on this traumatized group. There was no consensus on what to do. Weir, along with drummer Mickey Hart, eager to return to performing, had committed to a summer tour to be called the Furthur Festival, which would feature a repertory-style program that included Hot Tuna (featuring Jefferson Airplane alumni Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Casady); the East Los Angeles Chicano rockers Los Lobos, who were a favorite of Garcia’s; former Dead sideman Bruce Hornsby; and others. It was a hurried and unorganized effort to find employment for at least some of the crew and help cover lost income for some of the Dead’s concert promoters across the country. Phil Lesh, sick of strenuous touring and father to two young sons, wanted to stay home, raise his kids, and have nothing to do with any future performances. Kreutzmann, one of two drummers in the band, who initially had dived into a bottle, went through rehab, divorced his wife, and vanished to Kauai, where he was surfing and scuba diving. He didn’t even take a drum kit with him.

When Garcia died, Weir was in New Hampshire touring with his solo band RatDog. He played the show that night and returned to California the next day for the funeral, leaving his band and crew waiting in an East Coast hotel for the tour to resume the next week. The band had evolved out of a collaboration with bassist Rob Wasserman (originally called Scaring the Children) and had only recently added drummer Jay Lane. Garcia’s death was announced the morning of Lane’s third date with the band. After the funeral, Weir went right back on the road and stayed. He was only in town for the fateful board meeting, flying to Las Vegas for a gig that night.

Mickey Hart had been sequestered in the recording studio in his Sonoma County ranch with an ambitious solo album, a monstrously complex project that Garcia had known about and encouraged. The drummer brought in British record producer Robin Millar, best known for his ultra-sleek production with soul singer Sade, to finish the record. Millar smoothed Hart’s massive percussion overdubs into silken Europop sonics highlighted by a British female vocal group, the Mint Juleps, along with some powerful songs from Dead lyricist Robert Hunter. The album brimmed with exquisite instrumental tracks and sublime vocal textures. Titled Mystery Box, the record became a far more polished and fully realized piece of work than any previous solo album from members of the Dead and, astonishingly enough, sounded like a record that could be a hit. Hart said later that making the album saved his life.

Such was the emotional landscape when the band members dully crowded their cars into the tiny, cramped parking spaces behind the back of the house. Grateful Dead Productions CEO and band manager Cameron Sears was to chair the meeting. The band’s chief financial officer, the straitlaced former banker Nancy Mallonee, was there. Hal Kant attended, as did the head of Grateful Dead Merchandise, the band’s direct mail operation, Peter McQuaid. The two remaining members of the road crew, Steve Parish and Ram Rod, came. They had already announced they would be pooling their salary and sharing it equally with their crewmate Kidd Candelario to keep him on the payroll. Keyboardist Vince Welnick, who just joined the band five years before and was given a full share from day one, was the only one wearing tie-dye. Sears’s assistant Jan Simmons would take the minutes of the meeting. Even lyricist Hunter, hardly an organization man, came. Publicist Dennis McNally hovered around, in case they needed to draft a press release. The atmosphere was grim and hardly chatty.

In the boardroom, sitting in one of the dozen custom chairs, one arm draped over the signature armrests hand-carved with the stealie—the skull-and-lightning bolts trademark of the Dead—was Phil Lesh. His sock-clad feet rested on the massive twenty-foot antique oak table the band brought back from Germany on their 1972 European tour. He rolled an unlit cigar in his mouth.

The band members knew each other well. They had, quite literally, grown up together. Weir had joined the band at age sixteen; Lesh, the oldest, was almost ten years older. After almost a decade of chaos and touring in 1974, the band took a yearlong hiatus. They came back together having come to accept the role the Dead played in their lives and settled into a remarkably steady, harmonious collaboration with Garcia at the helm. There had been the typical miscellaneous arguments and shifting alliances, but no major political disputes inside the Grateful Dead.

The entire world seemed to be aware of the band’s predicament. Hart and Lesh had attended a fundraising lunch for President Bill Clinton and Vice President Al Gore, and the president asked about their plans. Since shortly after Garcia’s death, rumors had been flying about his replacement. David Hidalgo of Los Lobos, Neil Young, Carlos Santana, Jorma Kaukonen, and Mark Knopfler were all mentioned. The band members heard the rumors and so did the guitarists named, but there was no basis in fact. There were no plans. Nothing had been seriously discussed. The four musicians had only seen each other once since the funeral and the Golden Gate Park memorial two days later. They held a brief meeting a couple of days after, sitting around one of the front offices at the new place in Novato, vaguely tossing around some thoughts, but mostly staring at their shoes and enduring the awkward silences. Nobody thought the idea of continuing as the Grateful Dead sounded right, especially Kreutzmann, but nobody had the belly to deal with anything but the most fundamental business, certainly not facing any difficult issues at that early stage.

Four months later, this board meeting would have to address the question. It seemed almost sacrilegious to consider replacing Garcia, but there was a need among the band to come to some decision. These men were tired, bereaved, frustrated, and scared, with the enormous weight of the massive Grateful Dead organization on their shoulders and, without Garcia, no idea how they were going to hold it up. The meeting was called to order before a standing-room-only crowd.

There were many items on the agenda, but staring everybody in the face was the most basic decision that needed to be made about the band’s future—how they would continue.

Discussion was relatively brief. Cameron Sears, who never met a decision he would not rather postpone, argued that no decision need be made yet. Welnick, who had been flat broke when he was hired by the band and had become greatly enamored of the Dead lifestyle, enthusiastically supported getting the band back on the road as soon as possible.

Talking from a speakerphone, Kreutzmann put the matter to rest. “I’m not going to tour anymore,” he said.

With Kreutzmann’s simple declarative statement, Lesh no doubt felt a sense of relief flood through him. He, too, must have been tired of the Grateful Dead hamster wheel. Maybe they weren’t ready to pull the plug on their carers, but Kreutzmann’s words were liberating. The overwhelming sense that they couldn’t continue without Garcia took over the meeting. Nobody had the drive or interest in remodeling the band. It seemed to them that their long, strange trip had finally come to an end.

Hunter stood up to speak. More than anybody except Garcia, Hunter had been responsible for creating the Grateful Dead. While Garcia was the undisputed genius musician and bandleader, Hunter’s job was to articulate the vision, to detail out the Dead world in his songs. He had risen to the occasion many times. A crusty, whimsical professorial sort not given to getting involved in band business, Hunter remained outside the day-to-day turmoil and rarely deigned to express himself. Standing to speak, he had the room’s attention.

Hunter simply quoted a couplet from the end of his song, “Fire on the Mountain.”

“The more that you give, why, the more it will take,” he said, “to the thin line beyond which you really cannot fake.”

Then he walked out.

The meeting moved on. Much business needed to be conducted, decisions that had been set aside for the past four months. The band members had held almost daily telephone conversations with the front office, but spoke with each other very little. Counselor Kant raised an issue about Garcia’s will that concerned him. In the will, Garcia bequeathed the custom-made guitars he played back to the man who made them. Kant was certain that the guitars were purchased with Grateful Dead Productions funds and, consequently, belonged to the band. He wanted to take steps to make sure the guitars did not get away. Some of the musicians didn’t understand that the band owned their instruments, let alone Garcia’s. Garcia himself probably hadn’t known.

Publicist McNally was summoned and he quickly composed a press release. A trained academician who landed his job because Garcia liked his Jack Kerouac biography, Desolate Angel, McNally hardly turned out typical press mill copy. It was a brief statement, tinged with poetry and regret, but it effectively closed the door on the future of the Grateful Dead:


The wheel is turning and you can’t slow down

You can’t let go and you can’t hold on

You can’t go back and you can’t stand still…

“The Wheel,” Robert Hunter

After four months of heartfelt consideration, the remaining members of the band met yesterday and came to the conclusion that the “long, strange trip” of the uniquely wonderful beast known as the “Grateful Dead” is over. Although individually and in various combinations, they will continue to make music, whatever the future holds will be something different in name and structure.

In making this announcement, band members were especially mindful of their partners in this adventure, the Dead Heads, urging them to remember that the music, the values and the spirit of this marvelous shared journey endure.

Business operations will continue at the band’s long time Marin offices.

The release would go out the next morning. Would that it could be so simple.


Terrapin Station

LIKE MANY Deadheads, Rick Abelson was consumed by grief over the death of Jerry Garcia. Unlike most, he was in a position to act on his bereavement. Abelson, who attended his first Dead concert in 1977 while growing up in New Jersey, was a Harvard School of Design–trained landscape architect who specialized in theme parks. He had built attractions and designed exhibits all over Asia and Latin America, remodeled American amusement parks, and consulted on projects around the world. His profession put him far outside the realm of the Grateful Dead, but Abelson was about to converge with the band in ways he could not have predicted.

Garcia’s death shook him and, as he thought about what the other band members were going to do without their leader, Abelson began to develop the germ of an idea. He sketched out his thoughts for a Grateful Dead exhibition that would re-create the atmosphere of the Dead concerts without the band itself. He called it “The Grateful Dead Experience.”

In October 1995, only weeks after Garcia died, Abelson sent his quickly improvised plans, some notes and a few drawings—“eye wash” in the parlance of his trade—unsolicited to the Grateful Dead office in San Rafael. His cover letter outlined a vague proposed idea detailing how the surviving members could move forward into the future without Garcia, a kind of museum/theme park. Abelson held out no special hope for the proposal. It was something he did to make himself feel better, and to offer a small contribution, perhaps, but mostly to work out his own feelings through the design process, something he had learned to do over his years in the field.

What Abelson didn’t know was that the Grateful Dead had fancifully considered such an idea for years. The band, weary of the drudgery of touring, loved to talk about having a home base of sorts, often bringing up the subject among themselves in the middle of the concerts. The musicians would spin fantasies of establishing a headquarters where they could play music without having to travel and let the audience come to them. It was the kind of wishful thinking that nourished their spirit, a joking pastime the band members indulged in over the years.

As far back as the seventies, the band struggled with the whole idea of traveling from hockey rink to hockey rink, playing music in the most uncongenial environments imaginable, and enduring extraordinary hardships simply to get to the stage where they could finally play the music. Onetime manager Ron Rakow, one of the shiftiest characters in a Grateful Dead past littered with shifty characters, used to keep plans posted on his office wall above his desk for an inflatable amphitheater that would simply float from concert to concert. In case those drawings didn’t adequately impress visitors, he also posted a letter from acclaimed genius of the day Buckminster Fuller agreeing to consider “certain aspects” of the project, if it ever got going. The floating arena idea never went anywhere, but the Dead always kept their eyes open for innovative alternatives to the conventional system of touring.

Abelson had no way of knowing that his package dovetailed with this long-standing fantasy of the band, more hallucination than vision, but probably only the goofy Grateful Dead would have even explored a crazy idea dropped on their desk over the transom from someone they never met. After some consideration and discussion at the San Rafael office, Cameron Sears picked up the phone and reached Abelson.

Not expecting to hear back at all, Abelson was more than surprised by Sears’s phone call and that he was summoned for a meeting. He showed up at the Lincoln Street offices on December 5, one day prior to the board meeting where the band decided to retire the Grateful Dead. By this time, Abelson had brought aboard Economics Research Associates (ERA), the firm founded in 1958 by Harrison “Buzz” Price, the Stanford MBA graduate who did all the research and planning for Disneyland. After that, the firm was a principal in virtually every major theme park development around the world. Abelson and the two ERA associates, Steve Spickard and Jim McCarthy from the firm’s San Francisco office, knew not to wear their neckties. They parked behind the shady Victorian in downtown San Rafael and were greeted cheerily by Sears’s assistant Jan Simmons. “You’re on time,” she said. “That’s not very rock and roll.”

They walked into the kitchen, where Simmons seated them at a table for the meeting. Office manager Eileen Law met them. The kitchen was the nerve center of the hive. The ladies who ran the Grateful Dead office located their desks in the kitchen, where nobody ever really cooked. A sign above one desk read, “Do you want to talk to the man in charge or the woman who knows what’s going on?”

Hal Kant, the band’s rough-hewn lawyer with the business cards reading LEGALLY DEAD, had flown in from Reno, where he had been playing poker. He was a world-champion poker player and pursued the activity with fierce devotion. Kant, a right-wing, old-fashioned conservative, was an unusual associate for the hippie rock group, but he was unswervingly loyal and vigilant in his representation of the band. He was first hired by the band with the stipulation that they would be his only music business client and he had stayed true to his word. He and Cameron Sears were joined by band member Phil Lesh, who not only enthusiastically greeted the design research team, but immediately informed them that he had a name for what they were planning: Terrapin Station.

Abelson outlined his vision. He exuded confidence and energy. He saw nothing but success. He said the Dead museum project was a “slam dunk.”

“You forget who you are talking to,” said Eileen Law. “The Grateful Dead.”

“Yeah,” said Lesh, “if anybody can screw it up, we can.”

The meeting migrated upstairs to the more clubby mood of manager Sears’s office. Abelson explained the concept of “charrette” to the Dead people. Originally drawn from the French word for the carts that collected final papers at the last minute from students at Paris’s École des Beaux Arts in the nineteenth century, in the design community, the term had come to refer to the collaborative process of quickly collecting input from a number of people. He wanted to arrange such a workshop session with the Dead folks as soon as possible. They came to terms and the Dead agreed to underwrite the modest budget.

Three nights later, two days after laying the Grateful Dead to rest, Phil Lesh appeared on an early Internet broadcast called Grateful Web with Dead tape archivist Dick Latvala. Such Internet events were in such a fledgling state that the press release felt compelled to advise anybody who wanted to participate that “you need a computer with an Internet hookup and a graphic browser to read the World Wide Web.” They were celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of the Dead’s first appearance at the Fillmore Auditorium. Latvala’s archival CD series, Dick’s Picks, had already proved a surprisingly strong source of unexpected revenue, with orders arriving at the band’s headquarters in the mail daily and experiencing a strong boost in sales following Garcia’s death. Lesh and Latvala were sampling tracks from Latvala’s two most recent releases, Hundred Year Hall and Dick’s Picks Vol. 3. Three days after first meeting with designers, an enthusiastic Lesh was already talking about celebrating the band’s legacy and culture through some kind of institution, “some kind of gathering place,” Lesh said, “perhaps to be called Terrapin Station.”

He envisioned a meeting place for people to continue the Grateful Dead experience without the band actually having to perform. He mentioned a performing space and virtual reality rooms, a combination of computer technology and audio science, with Grateful Dead music and videos playing continually. “San Francisco is the most logical place for it,” he said, “but we are entertaining offers from elsewhere.”

Lesh had no plans for the band to play. “We want to have a place where Deadheads can come and recapture as much of that experience as they can without actually having a live performance,” Lesh said.


  • "This phenomenon after its leader dies and how and what it became is a great and inspiring story."--Marty Balin, founder of Jefferson Airplane
  • "A deep--and deeply reported--dive into the highs and lows of the Grateful Dead world post-1995, Fare Thee Well is the in-depth postscript we need on life after Garcia. As the surviving members navigate their jarring new world, you'll be shocked, surprised, and unexpectedly moved."--David Browne, author of So Many Roads: The Life and Times of the Grateful Dead
  • "Fare Thee Well is a masterful summation of the agonies, trials, and tribulations that beset the Grateful Dead after Jerry Garcia passed away. It made me sigh with sorrow AND give thanks (virtually simultaneously) for such a gifted group of musicians. This book will appeal to every Deadhead on the planet. I loved it."--Sam Cutler, author of You Can't Always Get What You Want: My Life with the Rolling Stones, the Grateful Dead, and Other Wonderful Reprobates
  • "As always, Joel Selvin boldly goes where others fear to tread. Fare Thee Well is essential reading for all those who have followed the saga of the good old Grateful Dead to this point in time."--Robert Greenfield, author of Dark Star: An Oral Biography of Jerry Garcia and Bear: The Life and Times of Augustus Owsley Stanley III
  • "Fare Thee Well tells the tale of how the Deadheads rescued the Grateful Dead from themselves. Bereft of their heart leader after Jerry Garcia died in 1995, the love of Deadheads kept the music alive so that the phenomena is not merely enduring but growing--long, strange, and still a trip."--Dennis McNally, author of A Long, Strange Trip: The Inside History of the Grateful Dead
  • "I felt like the child of a divorce, but this book showed me I never needed to worry, not when I was under the power of something as great as the Grateful Dead."--Steve Parish, author of Home Before Daylight: My Life on the Road with the Grateful Dead
  • "A hundred years from now, Jerry Garcia may be remembered as a prophet and Bob, Mickey, Phil, and Billy as his disciples. Illuminating, astounding, and accurate, Fare Thee Well is a remarkable account of the successes and failures by the talented, individualist remaining members of the Grateful Dead since the death of their leader Jerry Garcia. I read it in one sitting."--Steve Miller, founder of the Steve Miller Band
  • "Most [Grateful Dead] books end with the 1995 death of Jerry Garcia. Fare Thee Well...takes the opposite approach...[it] examines every sad twist, turn, and betrayal involved in the Dead's various offshoot groups leading up to their 2015 Fare Thee Well reunion."
    Rolling Stone
  • "An unblinking and balanced look at the infighting, backbiting, rancor and resentments among the surviving 'core four' band members."—Paul Liberatore, Marin Independent Journal
  • "An enthusiastic but clear-eyed and enjoyably gossipy piece of modern rock history."—Publishers Weekly
  • "[Fare Thee Well] engages readers intrigued by the Dead's mystique. For Deadheads, sure, but also rock fans who may wonder where the road led after Jerry died."—Kirkus
  • "Well-written...[Selvin] has covered the Dead nearly since their inception and did extensive research and interviewing for this book."—Library Journal
  • "Selvin's history of the resurrection of the band after Garcia's death is at the same time a sad and (somewhat) heartening story."—Vintage Guitar
  • "Fare Thee Well is by turns sad, surprising, and uplifting, and a crucial addition to any Bookshelf of the Dead."—Houston Press
  • "Fare Thee Well tells Classic Rock's film noir story."—Daily Beast
  • "Selvin smartly steers clear of tie-dyed '60s mysticism, offering instead a reported look at the lives of the remaining "core four" members. It is a breezy history, not only of the many incarnations of Dead bands that popped up, but also of how the four men grappled with their own ambitions."—Washington Post
  • "Fare Thee Well is a detailed look at the post-Garcia careers of all remaining Dead members, rendered in engaging, storytelling fashion."—Under the Radar

On Sale
Jun 16, 2020
Page Count
304 pages
Hachette Books

Joel Selvin_Author Photo_Fare Thee Well

Joel Selvin

About the Author

JOEL SELVIN is an award-winning journalist who has covered pop music for the San FranciscoChronicle since 1970. Selvin is the author of the bestselling Summer of Love and coauthor, with Sammy Hagar, of the #1 New York Times bestseller Red. He has written sixteen other books about pop music. Selvin lives in San Francisco, California.PAMELA TURLEY is an Atlanta-based freelance writer and editor.

Learn more about this author