With his white gold-rush beard and supersized 'stache, Bob Weir currently resembles a cross between Merle Haggard and the Smith Brothers. Except for the shorts and sandals, of course; onstage at the Beacon Theatre in New York Friday night, where he was performing the second of three shows with his 11-year-old band, Ratdog, Weir was the first man I'd seen wearing shorts in several weeks. And because has hasn't been the cute Grateful Dead member for a while, it's both disconcerting and kind of cool to see a thoroughly seasoned musician play satisfying and often sophisticated rock while dressed like a second grader.
These days Ratdog is the looser-goosier of the Grateful Dead's two primary spin-off bands. While bassist Phil Lesh curates his Phil and Friends shows like a German conductor, barking instructions into the ear monitors of his temporary sidemen, Ratdog is a laid-back, loose-vibed, but no less musically ambitious version of a Dead repertory group. And why shouldn't Weir play the Dead's music, having written a substantial chunk of it?
Friday night began with "Truckin'" and concluded with heartbreaking a cappella encore version of "Attics of My Life." In-between we heard more or less familiar versions of "Playin' in the Band," "Tennessee Jed," and "Foolish Heart." Lead guitarist Mark Karan sounds remarkably like Jerry Garcia at his most buoyant while saxophonist Kenny Brooks kept things jazzy and conversational. The rest of the band remained solidly on the same improvisatory page for nearly three and a half hours of loose-limbed playing. For better or worse, they're the best Dead cover band around.
Beyond being one of the world's most inventive rhythm guitarists, Weir continues to write great new material at something of a snail's pace. Dark and moody as they were, "Even So" and "October Queen" were arguably the show's highlights. With lyrics like "I wish you were naked/ I wish you were wholesome and sincere" ("Even So"), they were written from the points of view of a couple of men who seem outside of their respective elements due to the demands of desire. Not unlike, say, a sixtyish California dude in shorts and sandals laying down venerable acid-rock truth in the middle of a New York winter.
