San Francisco has always been a city of symbols and iconography. And as I get older, many of the things that come to mind when I think of San Francisco seem to be fading away.
Bob Weir’s completely normal death (considering his age) feels more tragic due to the fact his passing can be interpreted as another nail in the coffin of a city whose past appears increasingly divorced from its present.
I never listened to The Grateful Dead, and would never call myself a ‘Deadhead,’ but I have recognized that they were part of the city’s fabric in a predictable ‘sky is blue’ kind of way. The band was a manifestation of the impact that the ‘60s left on the city.
This is significant because the ghosts of that era still lure people into the city, for better or worse. Some people make the most of it and find a way to survive, albeit begrudgingly. While others are spat back out to whatever corner of the world they originally came from when they realize the culture of ‘free love’ has been replaced by people who are less interested in what you have to say if you didn’t go to Stanford.
If you attended or read reports about Bob Weir’s celebration of life in the Haight though, you wouldn’t be able to tell that Silicon Valley even existed.
There were Roses, handwritten notes, and half-smoked joints tucked into the iron gate at 710 Ashbury St. set the scene Sunday as Deadheads lingered, sharing cigarettes and stories in memory of Bob Weir.
The Grateful Dead cofounder who helped soundtrack San Francisco’s Summer of Love and the counterculture that followed died Saturday at 78 after a battle with lung cancer.
According to a statement on Weir’s website, he was diagnosed in July and began treatment only weeks before returning to his hometown for a run of sold-out shows in Golden Gate Park.
The shows were kicked off when Mayor Daniel Lurie came on stage, wearing a green flannel, looking like the archetypal San Francisco ‘cool dad.’ The type of father figure who would let you do shrooms in the backyard and play Enya on big ass speakers to guide you on your trip while he sipped white wine and marveled at the beauty of youth before having to go to an all hands meeting at some corporate job that bought him a beautiful home and a sometimes boring life.
But with Weir’s death, it also feels like somewhat of a passing of the baton. Daniel Lurie is a very corporate mayor. That isn’t an attack on him. Some people like that. But as the city grows more corporate, the city’s organic cultural heritage will slowly vanish and suddenly people will forget its existence. Just like the Coke sign that used to glow above the Bay Bridge as you headed into the East Bay, Bob Weir’s death feels more like a city saying “goodbye” more than just someone passing away.
Rest In Peace, Bob Weir. I never liked your music, but I liked that your music is part of what made a place I love so memorable.
