“Chaos and calm. Frontman and straight man”
By Clayton “Tiger” Hulin, photo by Jay Blakesberg
One went down in a blaze. The other kept riding.
Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir were never built the same. Jerry was the gravitational pull… mercurial, poetic, fragile. Bobby was the tension… precise, eccentric, and stubborn as hell. And yet for decades, they moved as one. Not always in harmony. Not always in sync. But always forward.
You could say they were Butch and Sundance. One with the ideas. One with the legs to carry them.
And sometimes, it showed up in the little things. Like the time they sat down on national television in front of David Letterman in 1982, acoustic guitars in hand, looking like they’d just stepped out of a stoner Western.
Letterman tried to teach Garcia a Creedence song backstage. Jerry played along, cigarette dangling from his lips, all curiosity and quiet cool. Bob, meanwhile, cracked a joke about a frog in a glass of milk… a line so awkward it nearly derailed the interview… until Jerry picked it up, gave it rhythm, and turned it into a laugh. Then they played “Deep Elem Blues” and “The Monkey and the Engineer” like they were sitting on a porch, not on prime-time television. The charm wasn’t rehearsed. It was lived-in.
I just rewatched it. And man, I miss Jerry. But it also reminded me: Bob Weir is still Bob Weir. Still famous for his wild tangents. Still veering off course mid-sentence like it’s part of the setlist. Still as loose and cosmic and ungrounded as ever.
That was Jerry and Bobby. Chaos and calm. Frontman and straight man. Brothers in the weirdest American band that ever mattered.
The Days Between isn’t just about remembering Jerry. It’s also about recognizing who stayed in the saddle. Bob Weir didn’t just survive the Dead. He evolved.
He toured with Rob Wasserman, performing as an acoustic duo that leaned into space, tone, and fearless reinterpretation. Just bass and guitar… and somehow it sounded bigger than most full bands. That pairing gave Weir breathing room and began reshaping how he carried Dead songs into the future.
From there, he built RatDog… a jam-jazz-rock hybrid that let him stretch into his own space. He held down Furthur with Phil Lesh. He helped form Dead & Company, then carried that torch further than anyone expected. In the quieter spaces, he made Blue Mountain, a dusty, acoustic solo record born from his cowboy roots in Wyoming. And lately, he’s led Wolf Bros… a band of jazz-country misfits now fully fleshed out with The Wolfpack, a string and horn section that takes Dead music to unexpected, orchestral places.
He’s performed with symphonies. Been honored at the Kennedy Center. Played barefoot on some of the grandest stages in America. He’s a cowboy, a mystic, a gym rat, and a rhythm guitarist whose playing has only gotten weirder… and better… with age.
He outlived the myth and kept showing up with the music.
If Jerry was the spark, Bobby was the fuse that never burned out.
And for the parts of the fire Jerry left behind, others have stepped in. Not replacements. Not copies. Just kindred players who knew the assignment and showed up with soul.
Trey Anastasio took the helm for Fare Thee Well in 2015. Some heads doubted it… a Phish kid in Jerry’s spot? But Trey didn’t imitate. He elevated. He came in with humility and burned through solos like he was carrying a conversation that had never ended. That weekend, he reminded the world that the music could still breathe.
Warren Haynes, steeped in southern rock and blues, brought his own weight to the legacy… especially in The Dead and Phil & Friends. His tone was thick, emotional, grounded. He didn’t float like Jerry. He roared, he cried, he testified. His playing didn’t mirror Garcia. It saluted him… and then found new roads.
And then there’s John Mayer, maybe the most unlikely of all. When he signed on for Dead & Company, most fans rolled their eyes. But Mayer did the work. He studied the catalog like sacred text. He pulled back his ego. And he leaned into the weirdness. By the time the band played its final tour, Mayer had earned his place… not as Jerry’s heir, but as someone who helped carry the load with grace and groove.
The music didn’t stop when Jerry did. And Bob Weir didn’t carry it alone. But he was the one constant… the cowboy in the wind, pushing forward, every night a little weirder, a little wiser.
If Jerry was the dreamer who built the castle in the clouds… Bobby was the guy who kept showing up to patch the roof.
