Bobby Weir: ‘I’ve Never Made Plans. I’m Too Busy’

B
obby Weir has been on the road virtually without a break since 1965, but the past few weeks have been crazy even by his standards. In December, he and his band the Grateful Dead were honored at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. Now, in late January in Los Angeles, the jam-band legends are being celebrated as MusiCares’ Persons of the Year. In a couple of days, Weir will attend the 67th Grammy Awards, posing for a photo with Taylor Swift that will make Deadheads trip out even more than usual. In the photo, Weir stands next to the superstar and her sparkling red dress, smiling through his massive white beard and black bolo tie as if he time-traveled from an Old West saloon. In March, he’ll return to Las Vegas for another Dead & Company residency — 18 more shows at the Sphere. His solo project Wolf Bros. also plans to continue performing with symphony orchestras around the country. “That’s what I do,” he says. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Weir, 77, isn’t the least bit overwhelmed by any of these accolades. “If you hang in there long enough, people start paying attention to you,” the singer and guitarist says nonchalantly. “I guess if I ever have grandkids, they’ll probably take me a bit more seriously. But really, I’m the same guy. I still have to get out of bed in the morning, and my back’s cranky. Nothing much has changed.”

Weir was famously the little brother in the Grateful Dead, joining after he met Jerry Garcia in a Palo Alto, California, alleyway in 1963, at age 16. But he’s now one of the band’s few remaining members, alongside drummers Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann. Just before bassist Phil Lesh died (or, as Weir likes to say, “checked out”) in October 2024, the four bandmates were discussing reuniting in honor of the Dead’s 60th anniversary this year. Now that Lesh is gone, Weir isn’t so sure.

“We speak a language that nobody else speaks,” Weir says. “We communicate, we kick stuff back and forth, and then make our little statement in a more universal language. For us, it’s a look or a motion with one shoulder, or the way you reflect a phrase or something that tips off the other guys where you’re going with this. And then they work on being where you’re headed, getting there with a little surprise for you. That’s a formula that’s worked real well for us over the years, and there just aren’t enough of us left now to do that anymore.”

I meet Weir at the Jim Henson studio lot, recently purchased by his Dead & Company bandmate John Mayer. We’re inside a cozy room of the famed A&R Studios, complete with twinkly lights and a tapestry on the wooden wall. Weir is transfixed by a massive mixing board in the room. “That’s a big one,” he says. “Christ, it’s got to be a 48-inch.” He’s wearing that same bolo tie from the Grammys, clutching a highball glass of Coca-Cola that he’s asked his wife, Natascha, to bring him. We sit on a couch, our Birkenstocks parked next to each other.

“Well,” Weir says. “Let’s dive in.”

“Nothing ever works out like you expected it to. So why bother?”

With the state of our country right now, it’s good that these Sphere shows are happening. People will really need the music.
I have a feeling that it’s music that’s going to bring this country together. Nothing else is going to work. There’s this enormous marketing program — the news outlets target a demographic and they feed them what they want to hear. In the case of the right-wing stuff, they keep their demographic pissed off at the lefties. And then the lefty news outfits keep their demographics pissed off at the right-wingers.

I loved that you endorsed Kamala Harris on social media. I’m sure the outcome of the election was disappointing.
Yeah. I don’t know much more to say about how it’s going right now, except for it’s going to be an interesting ride.

You’ve seen a lot of administrations over the years. What advice would you give to younger people at the moment?
Hang in there. That’s the best you can do. If the Trump administration comes after California, like they might, it’s not like we have no options. I hope that they’re taking that into consideration.

What made you want to return to the Sphere?
Well, the Sphere itself is a work in progress. The opportunities for storytelling from onstage are at some point going to surpass opera in that environment. I can’t think of anything you can’t do. That said, there’s still some technological development that needs to be done. And then, practice makes perfect with regard to how all that stuff is going to be used. I’m not sure that you can get a better sound system anywhere.

How clear is the sound for you when you’re playing onstage?
Well, the onstage business is, by nature, the laws of physics. It’s a little difficult. We had to go into in-ears, and I had to make peace with them — in-ear monitors. With the slapback echo that happens, you really can’t… You have to. You’re stuck with a report back from the back wall that’s almost as loud as what’s happening onstage. And it’s almost always out of time. So you go into in-ears, and you’ve dealt with that pretty much.

You guys announced your final tour as Dead & Company in 2023, and then the Sphere shows came along. I would imagine that the Sphere was so special that’s what made you guys do it again.
It was impossibly attractive.

Could you see why fans were maybe a little surprised when those shows were announced?
Yeah, but every day, things change. You can’t overlook an opportunity like that.

In 2016, you told us about experiencing a “little flash” onstage with Dead & Company: “Suddenly I was 20 feet behind my own head.… I started looking around, and it was 20 years later.” Right now it’s 2025, so you’re halfway there.
Right.

Did you imagine that it would last this long?
The interesting thing is, I’ve never made plans. And I’m not about to, because I’m too damn busy doing other stuff, trying to get the sound right, trying to get the right chords, trying to get the right words, trying to get all that stuff together for the storytelling. And really, making plans seems like a waste of time. Because nothing ever works out like you expected it to, no matter who you are. So why bother?

So you and John [Mayer] haven’t discussed the future of Dead & Company?
No. We go where it takes us.

Do you ever see Bill Kreutzmann coming back into the fold? He left Dead & Company in 2023, but he’s since played his own shows.
We’re just going to see. We’re not spring chickens anymore. Bill, I guess, he’s making it by.

The 60th anniversary of the Dead is this year. It was recently revealed that you, Phil Lesh, Bill, and Mickey Hart were discussing the idea of reuniting. With Phil gone, is that still on the table?
I think when Phil checked out, so did that notion, because we don’t have a bass player who’s been playing with us for 60 years now. And that was the intriguing prospect.… I think you need somebody holding down the bottom. Phil had all kinds of ideas that were pretty much unique to him. I grew up with Phil holding down the bottom in his unique way.

I suppose I could go back out. I wouldn’t put anybody in his place, so it would be a trio at this point. It’d be me and two drummers. I’d have to think about that. I haven’t thought about it — it’s just now occurring to me that it’s a possibility that we could do that, since you asked.… I guess we’ll just see what the three of us can pull together.

“There just aren’t enough of us left now. I suppose i could go back out. ”

It’s no secret that you and Phil had your differences at times. What was your relationship like in the past few years?
We did have our differences. But the last phone call I had from him was when the news came out that we were being honored at the Kennedy Center. He called me just simply to congratulate me and us, and that was his entire reason for calling. And when we were done talking about that, I was spun out, he was spun out. We tried to make sense of it for a little bit. And then said, “Well, OK, see you there,” basically. I guess that wasn’t to be.

You’ve been talking about writing a book for years. Is that something you’re still interested in doing?
Yeah, I’m working on that. For the last year or so I haven’t done much on it, but I’ve got the first few chapters down. I’ve got to get back to it, and I’ve got to get collected. What I was doing was, I was writing first thing in the morning, spending an hour or so working on the book. And I got a fair bit done. I’ve just got to get back to that. That’s going to be excellent news for my publisher.

Is there a title yet?
The working title is It’s Always July Under the Lights. Except that’s not true anymore. The new lights that they have, it’s not always July under the lights.

Did you happen to see that Bob Dylan movie?
Not yet.

There’s just so many rock biopics. Do you guys ever think about a Grateful Dead movie, one day?
It’d be interesting. There’s a story there. I’m not sure how easy it’s going to be to settle on. Jerry was a great place to start, but a lot’s happened since Jerry checked out. And a lot has happened with the music as well since Jerry checked out, and a lot more is going to happen with the music. Of course, he had a lot to do with that. Past attempts to do documentaries on the Grateful Dead, Jerry’s been the focus of that. But I’m not sure that’s the whole story anymore.

There was going to be a Jerry biopic with Jonah Hill a few years back. Is that still in the works?
I think [Martin] Scorsese was thinking about doing that, and I’m not real sure where that project is headed.

Like you said, much has happened in those 30 years — and even more since Pigpen [McKernan] died.
Pigpen, he was our frontman for the first few years. Jerry and I were sidemen. Yeah, there’s a story there. There’s a lot to be told. And I’m not entirely sure that anyone has the attention span to be there for all of it, to sit through the whole story. I don’t know how you’d pare that story down.

He died in 1973, so he didn’t get to see the full impact that the band would have. How do you think he would have felt about it?
The answer is, I don’t know. I lived with the guy, and I really couldn’t tell you.

The Sixties have been described by some people as an American renaissance, a uniquely special time. Do you think that’s just nostalgia? Was it truly special?
I think it was truly a special time. There was a preponderance of youth in our culture at that point. So much so that youthful considerations were at the forefront. And then as the boomer generation got older, there was a preponderance of older folks in our cultural makeup. And with every passing day, that boomer generation gets a little thinner on the top of our culture, and soon things will be balanced out again.

But back in the Sixties, there was a convergence of new factors in our cultural makeup. Rock & roll had emerged. Music was the code by which we communicated. For instance, after the Kent State business, that song [“Ohio”] was on the radio: “Tin soldiers and Nixon’s coming/We’re finally on our own.” Everybody really did have a good, solid handle on how they were thinking and feeling about whatever was going on.

David Crosby used to say that the hippies were right about everything — except for the drugs. Do you agree with that?
Probably, yeah. At least 80, 90 percent.

What are you most proud of in your career — maybe something that people might not expect?
Well, to begin with, if I find myself being proud of something, I try to find the challenges that are associated with that, because I don’t trust pride. I try not to allow myself to go there. Being prideful is not going to get you much of anywhere, as far as I can see.

Is it strange for you to be regarded as a legend while you’re still alive?
Yeah. I’m getting used to it, I guess. But that doesn’t mean it feels any less strange, or stilted.

I can’t imagine how Jerry would feel about music-biz events like Kennedy Center and MusiCares.
There are pluses to his being out of here, because I wouldn’t want to be torn between what management thinks about all this and what Jerry’s reaction might have been. For what it’s worth, it seems like they’re making more of our body of work than need be done. But at the same time, these folks who honor people at the Kennedy Center, they’ve got to hang that around somebody’s neck. And I hate to say it, but I can’t think of anybody who I would offer as more embodying what these folks are honoring. [Editor’s note: This interview was conducted before Trump’s takeover of the Kennedy Center board.]

It’s been a while since I’ve seen the awesome fitness videos you used to post online. Are you still doing that stuff?
I’m about to get back into it because I miss it. I had to take a little break. I got swamped with other stuff. I’ve gotten awfully busy in the last little while.

I’ve taken up running barefoot in the morning on rocky roads. Because I think that’s a great way to get grounded. I don’t run very fast, because I want to breathe through my nose. And I try to incorporate meditation into that. And sometimes I meditate with a mantra and sometimes I just straight-up meditate while I’m running. Or trotting, I guess, really. It’s a practice that’s amounting to something for me. You’re the first person I’ve talked to about it. I’ve been doing it about a year, a year and a half. I’m finally ready to start evangelizing about it.

Why do you run barefoot?
I just followed my footsteps, really. We’ll see where it leads to. Maybe I’ll live longer, or at least happier.

“Being prideful is not going to get you anywhere.”

Do you envision a day when Dead & Company continue on, long after you and Mickey are no longer here? Do you think the music will live on, even in tribute bands like Dark Star Orchestra and Joe Russo’s Almost Dead?
Oh, absolutely. I have no doubt about that. What I’m trying to do is get my concerto project to the point where that is self-sustaining, and then I would probably want other folks to step in when I’m no longer here, and Wolf Bros. is a different deal. That whole thing is constructed so that anyone can step in and do it.

How do you want to be remembered when you’re gone?
Body of work. And I’m still working on that. It’s still very much a work in progress, so I won’t bother to go into much detail. But one of the things that I hope that I’m remembered for is bringing our culture and other cultures together — by virtue or by example of. I’m hoping that people of varying persuasions will find something they can agree on in the music that I’ve offered, and find each other through it.

You joined the band in your teens. At this point you’ve seen so many of your brothers go. What has that been like for you?
Every day, things change. I’ll say this: I look forward to dying. I tend to think of death as the last and best reward for a life well-lived. That’s it. I’ve still got a lot on my plate, and I won’t be ready to go for a while.

I wish … well, Phil made it to his eighties. Jerry didn’t, and there was a lot that Jerry had to offer that he didn’t get to offer.

Fifty-three is very young.
Yeah. There’s a cautionary tale in that. He burned brightly while he was alive. But …

We did an interview with Trey Anastasio recently, and he spoke about Jerry: “I wish everybody had just stopped, and left him alone, and let him get his shit together.”
It would’ve been nice. Jerry made attempts. He went vegetarian for a while, or he made a stab at it. He was into living healthy. We used to vacation together, and he got me into scuba diving. He made attempts. Really, I think it was the fact that he was too goddamn famous. And too many people had too many notions about who he was. All erroneous, none of them really hit home.

It’s easy to say we wish Jerry had been able to take a break, but realistically, there were so many people who were depending on him to keep the circus going.
Well, he had to play. He had to connect with people. He found an equilibrium of being on the road a certain amount of time and being home a certain amount of time. And that worked for him, pretty much. What didn’t work for him was the diet. He couldn’t go out, and it wasn’t easy to eat healthy in hotels back then. It was the diet and lack of exercise, really. The only exercise he ever got was onstage, and he got that pretty much nightly when we were on tour. And that kept him alive for 53 years, in spite of a horrendous diet. You can’t eat like he ate and live for all that long. It’s not going to happen for you.

“I look forward to dying. I think of death as the last and best reward for a life
well-lived.”

You yourself had a scare, a little more than a decade ago. What do you think you learned from that experience?
Which scare was that?

When you collapsed onstage in 2013.
Oh, right. Take it easier on myself a little bit, and stuff like that. I have ambitions. I build my life around challenges and that kind of thing. If somebody tells me I can’t do something, watch my dust.

One day, Jerry was hammering me about how I was lazy. I don’t know exactly what caused him to think of that. I think it was the Eighties some time, in a private moment. I’m not real sure that was the case, but I also don’t think I was as industrious as he was. He practiced more than I used to. I now have taken to practicing a lot myself. He was a dear friend of mine, so if he criticized me for being lazy, then we’re going to do something about that. But I’ve probably been going a little too far in the other direction.

My old friend Ken Kesey, one time we were talking — it was just us — and he was telling me about living on a farm up in Eugene [Oregon], where he was parked. Every two or three years it snows overnight up there. There’s a decent accumu­lation. And if he gets up in the morning and he sees a blanket of snow, he just automatically goes out to his four-by and gets in and drives on out to the highway and starts pulling people off the side of the road. He was telling me about how in every single instance you can follow the tracks of the car that goes off the road, and you can see that they start to drift in one direction, and then crank the wheel and go off in the other direction. Every single time. It’s a matter of overcompensating. The point he’s making is pretty obvious: Don’t overcompensate.

And it’s hard not to do. I have a feeling that if there’s anything that Jerry said to me that he’d like to take back, maybe that business about me being lazy was one of the things. It was maybe ill-considered, because I got myself into trouble overcompensating.

Are there any songs when you play live that you’re tired of playing?
Yeah, I drop them. “Beat It on Down the Line,” I’m not sure I can sing that anymore. “Monkey and the Engineer” is another one that I’m not sure I can sing anymore.

Are there any Jerry songs that are hard for you to sing, or even play at all?
No. I’m just beginning to work on those songs. Now that I’ve learned those Jerry songs, I’ve got to go back and listen to how he did it again. Because there are levels of all those songs that I need to go back and, for instance, learn his phrasing. And then do it or not do it. But I need to be able to quote him before I can move on.

There was a brief period in 1968 when you were kicked out of the Dead. How do you think your life would’ve been different if you hadn’t come back?
I would have been in music. I was raised by great folks, but I was dyslexic. I was born dyslexic in the extreme. It was a word that didn’t exist back then, I don’t think. I grew up in the shadow of Hoover Tower, so my folks always pretty much had Stanford [University] in mind for me. And really, an academic career — a professional career that involved a lot of reading — was not a move on the board for me. And they didn’t really know that.

I still would’ve had no choice [but to make music]. It’s a compulsion for me. I have to write music. I have to create.

ANGIE MARTOCCIO is a senior writer at ­Rolling Stone. Her boygenius cover story recently won a Southern California Journalism Award.