Friend of the Devil, by the Grateful Dead
Listen, I know there are more interesting Dead songs, but Friend of the Devil was the quietest thing I could think of to play after running out the kids bedtime clock on Blank Space, which I’ll have to come back to when I have some more time to learn it in something approaching the right key that either Ryan Adams or Taylor Swift sing it in.
The thing about American Beauty, as an album, was its over the top ubiquity in bargain CD bins in the early 90s. Like, as soon as CDs existed, you could find this record and the entirety of Bob Dylan’s catalog for $8.98 a pop.
At the same time, other than Truckin’, this was probably the first Grateful Dead song I ever heard on the radio.
I heard, um, much, much more Grateful Dead in college. I saw two of the last shows at MSG, including one on my 18th birthday, had a roommate who played a ton sophomore year, and picked my favorites from there. May of ’77. Europe ’72. None of the songs on American Beauty really seem that important any more, although Ripple might still make me weep in the right context.
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