Forever Grateful: John Mayer Remembers Bob Weir

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here are few things more enjoyable to a Deadhead than going deep on the intricacies of their live shows: the set lists, the solos, the strange time signatures, and the amorphic grooves. John Mayer, who joined Dead & Company in 2015 on guitar and vocals, is here for it all — as a fan, and as a friend to the late Bob Weir. 

Mayer took his responsibility as a steward for the Grateful Dead’s canon of timeless songs seriously. As Dead & Company evolved, it was about establishing trust with the man to Mayer’s left. “You give someone your wallet, and they give it back to you enough times where all your money is still in it, you stop checking the wallet,” he says in his signature banter. “Bob was never a highly verbal guy when it came to managing a band. He was the leader, but not through a lot of negotiation or expression.”

Speaking to Rolling Stone while still processing the loss of his bandmate, the seven-time Grammy winner and new co-owner of Chaplin Recording Studios let the tears flow along with fond and funny memories of their time together.

How did you first link up with Bobby? 
The first thing Bob and I ever did together was “Althea” on The Late Late Show, which I guest-­hosted in February 2015. I had met him a couple of weeks earlier in Don Was’ office. They had just announced the Fare Thee Well 50th-­anniversary shows, and Don let me know that Bob and Mickey [Hart] were going to be in that morning. At the time, I was recording at Capitol Studios. And I don’t think I was slated to go in that day, but I did so I could meet Bobby and Mickey. 

By then, I had fallen in love with the Grateful Dead. It’s like they had 24 notes and the rest of the world had 12. That’s how it sounded to me. I was like, “Where have all these notes been hiding?” I liked it so much that I remember taking out my phone and just recording what was coming off of the Grateful Dead channel [on SiriusXM], because I didn’t know what songs these were. I actually liked not knowing. I like knowing, but there’s just as much fun in not quite understanding what moment you’re listening to. 

I probably would have ended up playing Grateful Dead music even if I hadn’t done it with Bobby. I have a way of proselytizing to people what their music means to me. Or, I suppose, in some way, I was reading Bobby’s fortune as I was explaining to him and Mickey what the music really meant [to me] up in Don’s office. Bob looked at me and said, “Do you want to be our publicist?” Then he said, “What are you doing on March 7?” And I said, “Whatever you want me to do,” and he invited me up to his studio in the Bay Area.

What happened next?
Bobby and Mickey were kicking around this idea of taking Grateful Dead music and modernizing it, technologically. And I remember thinking, “Please don’t do that,” because what they didn’t know, and what I could see, was that — and I think I said pretty close to this — the most state-of-the-art thing they could do in 2015 was to present the music exactly as they always had. Don’t get bored. Don’t get clever. If you just go analog Grateful Dead, without any modernization, it’s going to be the most state-of-the-art thing to people my age and younger.

I think probably what I was trying to do, as much as figure out what we could do together, was to try to impress upon them, like, “What you’re doing is cool. Don’t do a software update. You have no idea how much we love this.” 

“I spent every day learning songs. It was like being an actor, immersing myself.”

My generation had finished hearing everything. This homogenization of even things that were supposed to be randomized, like JACK FM; we’d heard every classic song through Guitar Hero, or other outlets. And when you’ve heard it all, and then you hear Grateful Dead, it’s the greatest gift, because you’re like, “Are you telling me there’s another world of music that I could get into now?” Imagine someone came up to you and said, “There’s 20 more seasons of The Sopranos.” That’s how it feels to become a Deadhead. Every fan of the music, at one point, liked what they heard and realized, “Oh, my God, I’m about to get into a thing that’s going to change my life.”

How was it playing the music with Bobby for the first time?
I went up to the studio with maybe eight songs under my hands. And I remember recording it so I could listen back to it later and there being maybe eight seconds at a time that would sound like magic, for me. Like, “Oh, that, right there, was a spark” — and the rest of it, me just cringing.  The songs under my hands first were the ones that I think I gravitated to as a writer. They were a little simpler. They were a little more on the pop side in terms of the way they were written. And it didn’t matter if I didn’t know the other songs. There would just be these moments where the landing gear would go up and we’d just lift.

So that’s when you signed on to Dead & Company? 
It was up there that I had this incredible offer to join whatever the band was going to be, to enter into that partnership. To me, that was like, “I’m going to be in the next Star Wars movie,” or, “I’m going to play on the Yankees.” I’m joining an institution that is beyond an honor. It’s invaluable. It’s above anyone’s ability to quantify what it is. I remember saying to Don Was, “Am I in some form of the Dead now?” And he was like, “Yeah, you are.” We were on our way to dinner, and I was sitting in the car with Don, like, “Um, does this mean I’m in the Dead?” Don is like, “I think it means you’re in the Dead.”

And honest to God, I never dined out on it. I never counted any of it up. I had the gig, and I was going to do the gig as well as I could do the gig. I always knew that I could get it right the next tour. That’s all I was thinking about. I knew the thing is too big to think about. If you really think about what this meant, how could you do it? How could you pull it off? I remember watching the Long Strange Trip documentary on Amazon. That must have come out maybe two years after I joined the band, and I thought to myself, “I am so glad I didn’t know all of this before I took the stage with them for the first time.” 

Then from that period on, it was like, “OK, I got to go learn these songs.” I spent every day learning songs. It was like being an actor and preparing for a role — immersing myself in the material. I basically stayed in the house and learned the tunes, but I was also falling in love with the tunes at the same time. The fuse was lit. I was in the car, driving a lot at that point, and I just had the Grateful Dead channel on Sirius. Every time I heard something, I’d take a picture of the screen. “OK, so, that’s what that one is called.”

What were some pivotal learning moments? 
I knew “Dark Star,” but I didn’t know the core theme of the tune until I really kept listening to it, and broke it down after several versions and went, “OK, I understand now.” And this happened for every song. As I’m learning how great “Ramble On Rose” sounds, I’m also learning it’s in D. It moves from the one to the major two-seven. They must have not been precious about arrangements. They had something called “a new One.” No one has ever said this in music.

“Well, what is this?”
“It’s just a new One… which means you just count from one again on this beat.”
“Well, does that put it in a different time signature?”
“We don’t know.”

So I’m having this really full experience, not just as a listener, but as a guitar player at the same time, which was so fun.

I remember telling people that I felt like a contractor — like somebody walked me into a space that had really good bones, and were like, “Can you make this a high-end restaurant in six months?” I look around and go, “I can give you a restaurant in six months,” and I just got to work. I would love to say that I had known every one of these songs front to back before I met Bobby, but that’s not how life works. We get into stuff when we get into stuff.

“There were moments where the landing gear would go up and we’d
just lift.”

Talk a bit about playing next to Bobby. Watching you both, it seemed like there was a lot of signaling going on.
It changed over the years, because we both got to know each other and trust each other. And I also became more comfortable with the music. I’ll give you an example: As much as I want to lean back at the very beginning when I’m playing, I couldn’t help overplaying in some of those first few tours. You just do. Even if I knew not to overplay, I’m still going to overplay. It’s going to be wordy. I have to adjust my way into the 10-ring on the target. 

You could tell yourself not to get nervous, you know exactly why you shouldn’t be nervous, and your hands are going to shake. It’s just a natural, physiological moment you have to break through to get comfortable through experience. I was obsessed with trying to get it better. I loved the sport of people saying that I was basically a buffoon. Because obviously some of it’s cartoonish, but some of the notes were good. I loved taking those notes and getting another crack at the ball. … It was very athletic for me. I want to get my pitch mechanics better. I want my mind to go slower. I want to spend more time in the song.

We never talked about it. But towards the end, maybe from ’23 on, and certainly the two Sphere runs, we had done it for so long. How did I read his signals? I just knew the way his head moved — we all do — and had an understanding of what his instincts were night after night. It got to the point where, in those last few tours, he knew when I would step forward and really hit the gas. And because I’d figured it out by then, I knew when to step back, look at Bobby and say, “It’s yours again.” 

We were aligned. Bobby and I both had the same clock — where he knew what I was going to do, and he knew I’d give it back and go, “All yours.” There were times where Bobby started singing as a way of letting me know, “That’s the end of your solo, son.” 

I spent a lot of shows in the beginning wondering if he was upset. I’d think: “I hope he’s happy. He might not be. Oh, he just went and turned his guitar amp up. Does that mean he thinks I’m too loud? Is someone going to come into my [dressing] room and say, ‘Hey, can you turn your guitar down?’” Then one day, you walk up onstage and there’s plexiglass between the amps and you go, “I have a feeling I’m a little too loud.”

This might be hard to quantify, but was there a time when you felt you finally belonged on that stage? 
The first couple of tours were proving to the audience that I had a right to be there. And the rest of the tours were proving to Bobby that I meant well for everything I was trying to do. You got to understand, I never quantified it. And I don’t think Bob ever quantified it. Looking at it now, I think he never interacted with whatever that energy field was of adulation, or “Oh, my God, can you believe?” He didn’t account for it. And oddly, I didn’t account for it — only when I heard what it meant to people.

“I realized Bobby would entrust me with anything, and I would come through.”

These were the things that we look back on now — all the fabric of the sadness — that made these loving feelings I have for him forever. We never got in a fight. When I felt like I had a little tenure, I could speak up. I think, in his eyes, I began as this kind of cocky kid who rolled in and went, “I want to play this music. Let’s go. Here’s how I think it should be.” And he’s like, “Just wait, just hold on a minute.”

But that’s always been the way that I am. I’m not trying to do anything other than enthusiastically get it to where it’s great. And I think whatever conversations Bob had on the bus about me in the very beginning changed over the years. By the end of it, the music taught me how to just play. You’re allowed to get “Slipknot!” wrong. They love it when you do. That’s why “Slipknot!” was written. It’s like a water park, and sometimes you get water up your nose, and that’s what you love.

What else changed over the years?
I learned exactly where Bobby wanted his tempos. That was huge, because tempos were important to Bob. Once he let me start the tunes, even the ones he sang, I put that fucker — the song, not him — in the right tempo so that Bobby could do his best stuff on it. I loved that part.

Even as he got older, I started to give myself the responsibility of being another set of eyes and hands and ears. It was like, “I want to put it where you want to put it. I want to help you get it to where you hear it.” Because I think as the years went on, I knew what he was saying. He was ultimately right about where to put the song, where to make it relax.

I sat in with him with Wolf Bros one night, and it was the best experience for me, because I think Wolf Bros was Bobby’s opportunity to have a band where he’s not collaborating with somebody. I always understood that. And when I got to see Bobby do Wolf Bros shows, I went, “Oh, if this is what he’s thinking, I can give him that. I can give him that in Dead & Company.”

And I think towards the end I did. I knew what he wanted and also started knowing that my best versions of some of these songs had already been played, that there were tours that probably had the versions of some of these songs that would go down in the books. So let’s get it.

Dead & Company at the Sphere was an interesting undertaking in that it didn’t allow for as much improvisation, but still provided a true Dead experience. 
Yeah. And I know the Sphere had a little of a hermetically sealed thing to it, if you are a purist when it comes to the vibrations of going to a Dead concert. But it was a big step forward in terms of how you could make the technology work with the music. And that is where the Bobby and John crossover was complete. Those last two Sphere concert runs, those residencies, is where Bob loved going over the show, knowing that you can’t change the content because it takes them half a day to lock the [visuals]. 

I really saw him enjoy a Vegas residency, and he got to be a little bit of Mr. Showbiz, in terms of [call times] every day. I think Bobby loved flying to Vegas for the big show, and having the same dressing room, and the same bus, and the same hallways.

It was never spoken, but there was a moment I realized Bobby would entrust me with anything, and I would come through. Those final years, Bobby would be walked to the stage by his security guy, and I was the guy who took it from that point. Like an auxiliary. I would always take care of him. 

What went through your mind when Bobby died?
When Bobby died, I thought, “These circuits are going to light up so bright. The love for him is going to be so off the charts, it’s going to shock people who aren’t in the know.” And then I immediately thought, “Boy, that’s a lot of people who become disconnected from the mainframe.”

I have a feeling that a lot of people were like, “I don’t know this guy or this music, but why is everyone I love really upset?” And it’s because this guy was so integral to the entire structure. He carried it. I mean, he couldn’t explain it when it was here. You can’t explain it when it’s gone. How do you explain the loss of something that they tried to write books explaining the presence of?

And I get upset when I talk about it because that’s the part … Now that I’m on the other side of that, and obviously it’s not the first time I’d ever thought about life after Dead & Company, but I had no idea exactly what would light up, both in the things I’m grateful for and the things that I’m so sad not to have. 

Your eulogy at Bobby’s memorial in San Francisco was so perfect and loving. Did you struggle writing it, or did it just flow out? 
Well, I struggled with it because it all came out so quickly that it wouldn’t fit Instagram, and I didn’t want to do “continued in comments.” I had been writing it since the day after he died. 

You said, “I’ll do it your way, Bob.” What did that mean? 
I realized that none of what I could say was going to get me anywhere. The more I wrote, the further away I got. The more I wrote, the bigger the book got. I knew I had hit it because I started sobbing. And I wrote, “OK, Bobby, I’ll do it your way. Thank you for letting me ride alongside you. It sure was a pleasure.” Do you have any idea how brutal that feels to be that simple? It broke me, because I had found the way to say it. When I looked at it, I just sobbed and went, “God damn it, this is going to be it, isn’t it?” 

“His way” is a short tip of the hat in which everything else is implied. It’s “Vaya con Dios.” It’s “See you down the road.” In my mind, it’s a violent simplification of emotion.  And I was so emotional when I did it because I was proud that I had figured out how to honor him. I couldn’t believe that I was going to press send and hated letting go of someone’s hand, that it was going to be that short. But by the way, that’s my greatest tribute to Bob Weir, the guy who couldn’t wait [for me] to finish talking. I mean, he loved it by the end, but I’m verbose. “His way” is sending him off in his language, and I think he would’ve been so touched. My offering was doing this thing I have never done before in my life, and probably never will again, which is: forgo language.

It’s hard not to take note of the universal alignment of having Jerry lead the Dead for its first 30 years, and Bobby for the latter, from 1995 to 2025. 
And now that Bob has moved to that other side of the veil, I don’t know what I’m listening to. I don’t know where to put my ear. I don’t know where he is. I know where Jerry is when I listen. We all knew where Jerry was, because we all knew where Bob was. And these two were so close. They just represented one another. They were on either side of the split. Jerry was on the afterlife side and the spiritual side, and Bob was on the earth side.

Well, the first days are the hardest days …
We’ve got to learn. Bobby would want us to learn how to listen to this music without him, but with him. Deadheads did it in the Nineties. They figured out where to place Jerry. And now it’s our job to figure out where we put Bob in the listening. Where do we put our hearts?