The Golden Age of The Split/Apple (Or How To Avoid Fame at All Costs)
When Love is Long Part II
When Love is Long
PART II: The Golden Age of The Split/Apple (Or How To Avoid Fame at All Costs))
Scene 1 — The Split/Apple, Chicago — August 9, 1995
“Hey, d’Philip, Garcia’s dead.” Matt Glasson said it coldly, stark snark as I walked out of our room at The Split/Apple and into the common area. No coffee, no filter, just calculated coldness. “Yeah, he OD’d in a rehab center…” Glasson smirked, “So long Captain Tripps, off to his final tour in the afterworld.”
“Fuck you, Matt.” I didn’t believe him. I thought he was just trying to get under my skin because he was pissed about being pushed out of The Split/Apple. I snarled, “Is there any fucking coffee?”
“Brewing a fresh pot, honey…” my Kellygirl, my wife, chimed from behind the counter. “But you should sit down.” I did, on the stool at the counter, waiting for my coffee. Kelly continued to deliver the awful news, but with more love and compassion, “Jerry is dead, early this morning, but they say it was cardiac arrest, not an overdose. Matt’s an asshole, but he’s telling you the truth. Jerry Garcia died in California.”
“Fuck.” I couldn’t say anything else. “Fuck.”
There was nothing else I could say. It was inevitable, and I knew that. There was always this risk. There still is this risk, if not for other icons in my life, then for the very people that people my daily existence. I spiraled down the death doorway all morning, the rest of the day. The phone started ringing—a constant stream of calls: friends and Deadheads from long ago, new people we just met at Deadheads on Parade, some business contacts, and even a few members of my blood family—my brother, a cousin, my uncle—everyone ringing the line to offer condolences, to gain perspective, to come together the way a tribe does when one of their own is struck with such shocking, final news.
With my coffee and my wife, I retreated back to our room. The part office, part bedroom, partly inspired by John & Yoko, partly a matter of available space, function, and security, was truly our only sanctuary at The Split/Apple. If you’ve never been there—and I imagine most folks have never heard of The Split/Apple, let alone ever been there—it was a rare, beautiful, creaky, dusty, dilapidated warehouse space that we leased at 1720 South Michigan Avenue. The 100-year-old, 8,000-square-foot area we leased spanned two floors, included an extra-large freight elevator, was steam-heated (year-round), and had only two small bathrooms. Located two blocks north of the famous Chess Records, and three doors down from Chicago’s infamous Cotton Club in an area now called “The South Loop,” it was a piece of real estate with prime potential but subpar livability—but we made it work for almost three years.
The second floor of the facility, the main space of The Split/Apple, was a wide-open 4,000 sf warehouse with large picture windows on the east, looking over Michigan Avenue and the lake just beyond Grant Park. The whole place was wide open, and there were only two walled-off, lockable rooms in the middle of the space. One room was a tiny bathroom, which we converted into a public bathroom (with two stalls and a shower), and on the back wall of the expanded bathroom, a wet wall for some kitchen space (our concession area during events). Across from the bathroom, there was a large 20x20 office with a locked door and a picture window looking toward the front (east) of the space. This was both an official office for The Split/Apple (where we settled the scores and had the safe) and, in a makeshift loft above and behind the “Resolution Desk” (my command center), there was a futon where my wife and I slept.
This room was the core of The Split/Apple, where the seeds of creativity lived and our little sanctuary and private place within the chaos.
The Split/Apple Creative Co-Op, as it was originally known, was intended to be a 501(c)(3) non-profit arts space, but we were denied, over several attempts and many months. In the meantime, we started making money hand over fist, hosting “underground” events for hippies, artists, bohemian actor/director types, and others on the fringes of grey market commerce. Being the originator of the place, and my name (and credit) supporting the bills—because I literally was the oldest member of the group and the visionary personality that spoke the loudest—I quickly became the de facto leader. They started calling me “The Hippie Godfather,” and I started feeling like Michael Corleone with the weight and gravity of the position. It was fun sometimes, but not a persona I was truly comfortable with and one I performed with sincere reluctance. Kinda like Al Pacino in The Godfather Trilogy.
But if I was Al Pacino, then Kelly was my Diane Keaton, and one way or another, we were in this together. That’s where we were that steamy August 9th, the day Jerry Garcia died—together in the sanctuary of our little bedroom/office, in the core of The Split/Apple. And the phones kept ringing, everybody was asking, “What do we do now?” and “Are you alright?”
At some point, late in the day, I stopped taking calls from everyone except my new partners, and I was only focused on the weekend’s upcoming event; we had an art gallery walk on the docket for Friday evening, and on Saturday night we had a show with Ralph’s Kind (a local hippie-jam progressive group) scheduled. We had about $2k in ticket sales (about 200 people) and estimated doubling that attendance with walk-in traffic. But the phone kept ringing—people from all over the Midwest wanting to know if we were planning anything to honor Jerry. The only official gathering was a candlelight vigil at Hippie Hill in Lincoln Park on Saturday night, hosted by unknown Deadheads but promoted on local FM radio. So like The Godfather, I gave the commands of how to deal with this and what we needed to do next.
When Kelly and I returned from Las Vegas three weeks earlier, we were not welcomed with open arms. No congratulations, no hugs of joy or pats on the back—not even any half-assed wishes for good luck. Nothing. Nothing except a betting pool for how long our union would last. The six people I terminated and their dozen or so friends were betting against us. They were rooting against Love. Most of them were giving us 3–6 months, and only one person thought we would make a year. It was more upsetting to my bride than me, but I was pissed because she was hurt.
This was what we came back to: unmitigated hatred for our impossible relationship and snarky attitudes.
We came back to that—and now Jerry Garcia was dead.
I knew what the answer was: the show must go on.
Scene 2 — August 11, 1995 — Friday
The six men I pushed out and their band of disharmonious acolytes were gone by Friday morning. As per the agreement we made in July, all of them had to vacate by August tenth. On Friday evening, the Art Walk event was somber and had a low turnout, but we broke even. We also had several unexpected out-of-town guests showing up all evening and past midnight. Kids from across the country—some from nearby states and others from as far as Florida, Virginia, and Alabama.
They were Deadheads who had been guests at the Deadheads on Parade events during the Grateful Dead’s final performances with Garcia at Soldier Field (six blocks east of our place). One of the guests, a kid from Alabama who called himself Dizz, was excited to share the fresh psychedelic mushrooms he had just picked. They were very fresh mushrooms indeed—still soggy and wet, still covered in cow shit and smelly—a few dozen of them jammed together, stuffed inside a boot box.
Dizz politely asked if he could sell the very fresh mushrooms at the show on Saturday night, and he gladly agreed to pay the franchise fee we charged all the gray market entrepreneurs ($50 flat access charge plus 10% of all sales). Our nitrous balloon vendor, Lefty, dropped off three N2O tanks, and One-T, the weed dude, had a half pound of Humboldt County available and some cold water hash. Since we had six newly available rooms and the empty half-sized warehouse available, we accommodated the dozen or so unexpected guests easily.
The overnight passed swiftly, especially after everyone had settled in for the night. There was a volunteer group of shoppers who went on an overnight run to the local superstore for water, munchies, and other refreshments to vend at Saturday night’s gig. Some people volunteered to sweep and prep the main room on the second floor, and others got into doodling on the 200 or so flyers we made to promote the event—“The Fat Man Grieves” — these were going to be circulated at the candlelight vigil on Saturday—an after-vigil psychedelic-soaked wake with live music. Furniture was rearranged and by sunrise on Saturday, we were ready for the heavy-duty equipment to be delivered.
Scene 3 — August 12, 1995 — Saturday Daytime
Chicago, by August of 1995, was experiencing some of the hottest weather since record keeping began. The heat index, in mid-July, had peaked at 120 degrees, and over 750 people had lost their lives due to the heat wave. A second severe weather warning was issued for the second weekend of August—the highs were expected to again soar into the triple digits. The weather was reflective of the grief-heavy agony and sadness that swelled and swallowed our hearts.
The Sound Wizard, our in-house audio engineer and sound technician, arrived first, around the 10th hour of the morning. Along with his partner and sidekick, Darrin the Kid (who was only 16 years old), they set about creating their own unique mini-Wall of Sound system—a scaled-down version of the Grateful Dead’s infamous “Wall of Sound”—along the back wall of the second floor main venue area. In addition to the sound system, The Sound Wizards rented four huge, industrial-sized fans, a portable AC system, and strategically placed the fans throughout the venue.
By the 14th hour, as our unexpected out-of-town guests were emerging from their temporary rooms on the first floor, the bands—Ralph’s Kind and The Krinkles—arrived for their load-in. Setup and staging was everything. They were going to share the stage, and The Krinkles, a three-piece power pop group, had a small drum kit, a guitarist, and bass player and were the opening act.
The main event, Ralph’s Kind, was the big draw, however, and they needed three-quarters of the stage to accommodate their larger set of equipment—including a Hammond B-3 with a Leslie speaker and a 22-piece percussion kit that would make Carl Palmer envious. Ralph’s Kind would also be joined by John Kadlecik, who would later start both the Dark Star Orchestra and become the lead guitarist for Further.
This was already feeling very epic—and the sun had yet to set.
Just as the magic 4:20 moment arrived, the stage was set and everyone was ready to caravan up Lake Shore Drive to the Montrose Harbor area of Lincoln Park where hundreds of mournful Deadheads were gathering for the vigil. Our group of twenty spread out—some with flyers to pass along and others with flowers, beads, and joints to share. The crowd was large, the heat was intense, and within a couple of hours, the cops had surrounded our Hippie Hill vigil and closed in with an unsympathetic push to disperse.
Scene 3 — August 12, 1995 — Saturday Nighttime
In that liminal state of twilight dusk, that seminal state when the sun is set but not yet released the sky to darkness, the energy shifted but the temperature remained a hot mess.
As we pulled around back, we saw a huge crowd gathered outside the door—maybe 100 people or more—standing along the sidewalk and around the corner on 18th Street. Slightly confused, a bit bemused, but all of them peacefully waiting to get into The Split/Apple.
Inside, confusion and mild chaos swept through the venue. With the six members and their acolytes gone, we were left with an inexperienced crew and skeleton staff—and nobody but me to lead the way. Kelly took care of setting up the welcome table—where we collected tickets and cash in exchange for a hand stamp and bottomless cup—and I supervised the gray market vendors in getting set up. The Sound Wizard was ready for the final sound check, and each band did one quick number as we were unlocking the doors.
The crowd outside had almost doubled, and inside things were ready to roll. The kegs were tapped and ready to serve from the oversized freight elevator, the N2O tanks tucked under the back staircase where hippie-crack balloons of nitrous were served for $10 each and $5 refills. The weed dude, One-T, took his residence by the windows in back, and the fresh psychedelic mushroom kid from Alabama, Dizz, parked himself at the end of the welcome table with his giant boot box of very wet and smelly fungi. Within the hour, the place was rocking before The Krinkles had even started their 45-minute set.
If it was still 90° outside at night, it had to be 20° hotter inside The Split/Apple. Even with the four strategically placed industrial-sized fans, despite the portable AC blowing like it was January’s breath in the back corner, and no matter how many misting bottles we passed out, everybody was a slippery, sweaty mess. The floors and walls seemed like they were sweating. The air was thick with smoke, steam, patchouli, and the ever-present sadness that Garcia was gone. And Dizz, still sitting on the end of the welcome table, was selling his too-fresh mushrooms hand over fist.
Ralph’s Kind took the stage a little before the 22nd hour, opening with a slow, somber, and soulful rendition of “He’s Gone,” and then ripping right into a long two hours of never-ending jams starting with a rollicking “U.S. Blues.” Meanwhile, the people kept coming, and by the end of the first set, we had close to 500 people in that hot box of a warehouse venue. We were stoked, so soaked in sweat and wet with a confluence of sadness and joyous relief.
Then things started to get weird.
During the 20-minute second set opener (“China Cat Sunflower / I Know You Rider”), after Dizz had sold most of the moist, musky, mushy magic mushrooms in his extra-large boot box, I was alerted to a problem. Two girls were locked in the only available bathroom and they wouldn’t come out. We managed to get the latch off from the outside, and what we saw made the girl next to me vomit instantly.
The two girls were laughing and laying on top of each other in the shower, both of them covered in a blackish vile bile and vomit. They were slipping and sliding, pushing off each other and falling, like two puke-stained, hippie girl versions of Laurel and Hardy on a bad trip. The girl who escorted me into the bathroom was puking all over the toilet, and the second girl who came in to see what the ruckus was about started tossing her cookies immediately. As she stepped over to the sink, she slipped on her own vomit and then started screaming as she rolled around in the puke.
And that was all it took.
Like a chain reaction, one person after another started getting sick. People were throwing the windows open on Michigan Avenue, hanging their heads out and puking—blackish, vile bile, and whatever food contents they had in their little hippie bellies. More people puking on the dance floor—from the heat, from the stress, from the intense, awful, putrid smell of vomit everywhere you turned! Ralph’s Kind had to interrupt their second set after only a half hour. More people getting sick—including one of the members of the band.
Kelly had the good sense to turn on the house lights. The Sound Wizard made an announcement that the show had been temporarily suspended, and everybody was asked to leave in an orderly fashion. But that didn’t stop the puking, the wailing, the crying, and the laughing. I had a moment of pause, thinking about sending out a hundred or so hippies dosed on some bad mushrooms, unleashing them on the world to drive back to their suburban security. But then I slipped in the puke and didn’t think about it again.
It took several hours to clean up the mass, but we were entertained by a long, slow blues version of John Lennon’s “Cleanup Time,” led by John Kadlecik and the remaining members of Ralph’s Kind. The loose jam continued for about an hour and helped motivate me and the few other brave and strong-stomached people on the cleanup crew.
It was probably about four in the morning when we finally had things cleaned up enough to settle in for the night and settle up with our vendors. There was one vendor, however, who was noticeably missing—Dizz, the mushroom kid from Alabama. However, at the end of the night, the bottom line was pretty damn good. We ended up clearing close to $10,000 and promised everyone a make-up show at some point in the near future.
A couple of friends of the band had run out to get some carryout breakfast food for everyone, and back at The Split/Apple, the band—along with a few others—picked at the food, smoked some weed together, laughed about the absurdity of the evening, and planned for the future.
Two of the members of the band and I solidified an agreement for Ralph’s Kind to have a standing house gig at least once a month at The Split/Apple. We all talked about how now that Jerry was gone, it was on us—the logical next generation—to keep that hippie energy together. To further it into the future and commit ourselves to keeping this community of Deadheads, hippies, and other weirdos growing.
Scene 4 — The Golden Age of The Split/Apple — August–December 1995
And as gross as the ending was, as hot as that summer night felt, it seemed we were on a new vibe, a new high, and we’d be reaching for something none of us had ever reached for before or since. The make-up show we promised was two weeks later, and that kicked off four months of regular performances, events, and other strange pop-up shows at The Split/Apple.
September was our “FUCK ART!” event—an almost X-rated dance/multimedia event featuring simulated sex on big blank canvases and strategically placed dollops of day-glo paint and black lights. October had its John Lennon Dance (a fundraiser for the coalition against handgun violence) and an epic Monster Mash Costume Ball. November started with The Guy Fawkes Memorial Dance Revival and ended with The Second Annual Day After Thanksgiving Massacre—a potluck leftover charity event to feed the local homeless and party for two days straight.
The final show of the year was a four-band, two-stage concert which included lasers, nitrous oxide, and it netted our organization almost $20k and cemented our legendary status. I was in the center—the hub of the wheel—and I had a unique perspective. As great and golden as the period felt, there were cracks in the sheen and darkness in between.
For many—the regulars and the strangers alike—it was considered the golden age of The Split/Apple. We were making money like we were printing it ourselves. Sold-out shows and people booking the venue for semi-corporate events. The phone rang constantly. Our newsletter always disappeared within days. We were gaining in popularity and notoriety. And that misguided mythos about me being the Hippie Godfather never became more real than from that moment moving forward.
The only thing that I knew was golden was Kelly and me; we were ride or die, every day. I didn’t like the attention and growing infamy The Split/Apple was getting. Attention brings speculation, investigation, and trouble for an under-the-radar operation like The Split/Apple.
But that New Year’s Eve gala, as I sat in the VIP balcony, I remembered the thing Ken Kesey said to me at a Grateful Dead New Year’s Eve concert in 1986… I told him that because of him, I too wanted to be a writer. He was walking briskly toward the backstage—before I was stopped by the security guard, Kesey said:
“Kid, if you’re gonna be a writer, avoid fame at all costs.”
I have been successful with that advice ever since…
Again, thanks for reading with me today. There is, of course, more to the story and I hope to drop it next week, Tuesday…but for now, this moment, I’m relaxing in Reno with my loverly wife…Please Do Not Disturb!
Take Care, Be Safe and Keep Yer Dobber Up!
d’Philip
Day #23,233 — Reno, Nevada