Static Live Magazine September 2019

Frank’s
Odd Machines
By Hank Harrison
Phil Lesh looks pretty much like his dad. Pale, blondish, with
kind eyes. I met Frank Lesh several times when Phil and I were
roommates in San Mateo; he even came down to the Fireside Club
on El Camino Real the first night the Warlocks played there. That
was about June 1965. I didn’t get to hang out with him very much
that night because I was too busy trying to get Weir a fake ID, going
back and forth begging Bobby’s mom to write him a permission
letter to allow him to play at a club that served drinks. Nobody
remembers the stuff I did for the Warlocks, the hassles with the
union and the club owners, but at the time I was just doing my job.
I managed to wangle that deal by promising that the band would
be set up in the restaurant area were only food was served so the
cops, in case they came in, would be at least punked off a bit, but it
was a thin excuse since the Fireside didn’t serve food…oh, maybe
Beer Nuts, from the back bar, but that’s all. Luckily, nobody spotted
Weir’s innocent face beaming out from the lights, so it went ok.
The Fireside sessions went white-hot for the band. I managed
to get bookers and club owners from all California and the Far
West to come to those sessions. A few weeks after the Magoo’s
gig in Menlo Park we had several paying gigs lined up including
the intense shows down the road at the In-Room in Belmont
and a series of dates at the Batman club in a converted bank in
Sunnyvale. That club was named after a type of LSD that was
going around which was coincidental to the popularity of the camp
Batman flick. KAPOW ! TV series.
For some reason, all of the families, the moms and the dads -
even my sister Kathy - showed up at the Fireside…that’s when I
knew the word was out. In and amongst this mixed crowd, Phil’s
mom and dad showed up. Two real fish out of water, but still very
intrigued by the destiny their son had chosen for himself - like any
of us had a choice in those days. They even tried to
dance to Wooly Bully.
My sister and I were extremely accomplished dancers
because our dad, in spite of his other faults, was
a terrific dance instructor as part of his Physical
Education work and we learned early, all of the dances,
even cha-cha…so we danced a lot. I remember Garcia
coming up to me between sets with envy in his eye,
saying “Hey Harrison what are you doing?” Like maybe
I should not be dancing with my sister.
I said, “Dancing.” and, as if he had the answer ready,
Jerry said, “Oh man is that what you call that shit?” My
sister, a probation officer at the time, thought his non
sequitur was rude and that he was very smarmy…but
her wee opinion didn’t resonate in Garcia’s egocentric
brain. Little did he know she was the namesake for the
Chatty Kathy baby doll, invented by my uncle. You know
the one that talks when you pull the string. We figured
Garcia was mad because our dancing drew attention
away from his solo, Yes we were that good.
Envy and jealousy turned out to be two of Jerry’s
intrinsic problems. His stardom did very little to smooth
out his pain. He did paintings about his cardinal sins
later in life, I guess he used art to help him explore
his inner workings, but outside of the music world, he
rarely gave anybody any credit for doing something he
could not do. Jerry was a born cynic, that’s probably
one reason why he got kicked out of the Army. But in
civilian life, being mean to people was hip, especially in
those days before Vietnam.
Later that night I remember walking Phil’s dad out to
his car for the long drive home to Yountville near Napa,
like about 80 miles North. For some reason, Frank
was drinking to overflow and Phil’s mom was going to
drive. I only found out years later that Frank had a few
problems of his own.
This sadness I felt coming from Phil’s dad that night
at the Fireside Club came from the fact that he had
just been arrested for Grand Larceny. Frank Lesh was
a business machine repair instructor at Laney Trade
School (Oakland Tech) in Oakland, and he supplied
many of the adding machines and typewriters
for the school. Frank had a small retail and
repair shop, in a faux rococo building near the
Oakland Auditorium a short walk from Lake
Merritt. I went there with Phil on at least two
occasions, mainly because I had a car and
my driving was always better than Phil taking
a bus. Phil would put the tap on his dad for
gas money, maybe the rent check and some
lunch. I remember the strong smell of typewriter
cleaning fluid circulating in the place; there was
an old black fan, but no air purifiers around.
The fixed-up machines stood proudly in the
window with price tags on them, while the
interior shelves were stacked to the ceilings
with Underwoods and Smith-Coronas and an
occasional Portable Hermes. I was amazed to
hear that a lot of those machines were stolen
and that Frank had to do some small jail time for
them. Phil said later that the bust broke his dad
emotionally and I did not see him around much
once Phil moved to Marin County. But Phil loved
him just the same.
I was living with Phil in 1972, at 144 Toyon Drive
in Fairfax when we got the word that Frank died.
The shock from carbon tetrachloride fumes, and
smoking a pack of Viceroys every day, finally
gave him cancer. Phil was very upset for a long
time. Suffice it to say that Frank died with Phil
at his bedside and the last thing he said was
prophetic, “Don’t trust the Russians.”
I guess he was worried about Phil going over to
the Soviets. After all, both Bobby Petersen and
Garcia were card-carrying WOBBLies, Phil and
me Not so much. It was as if the Grateful Dead
had become part of the “One Big Union,” and
somehow, Phil’s dad knew it. After that Phil took
care of his mom who moved to a really clean
house in an elder park in Livermore.
But I can assure you Phil was raised on Love. It
is in his music and his work ethic.
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