Last Rites of the Dead

If the faithful indeed related to Garcia more as Claus than as a Christ figure, it was reflected in the often goofily cheerful spirit of their memorials, which couldn't have been more unlike the Prozac-fueled vigils last year for Kurt Cobain, the tortured empath to Garcia's contented enigma. ''I felt his pain'' were words not to be heard here; more characteristic were signs with (naturally) grinning skulls and well-wishing send-offs such as GARCIA LATER!

Yet one of the stages of Deadhead grief may involve eventually acknowledging that even as happy-go-lucky a hero as Captain Trips had demons, that the Buddha-like image behind the beard and bulk may have reflected not just Zen tranquillity but a way of distancing himself from a fame to which the ex-bluegrass picker never quite resigned himself.

''Everybody has problems,'' says Merl Saunders, the 63-year-old keyboardist who frequently played alongside Garcia on side projects. ''He was totally clean any time he hung out with me, because that was one of the things I laid down. I don't want to pass judgment on what he got into, because he had a heavy burden on him. He loved music, and the people put him in the situation. He detested notoriety.

''I think he's resting in peace now,'' Saunders adds, ''but this is not what he really wanted. He just wanted to be little Jerry and play saloons and things. He did this as long as he could, and then he couldn't any longer.'' If Saunders is right in remembering Garcia as happiest when closest to his humble roots, if there's a rock & roll heaven, you know Jerry Garcia's in one hell of a jug band.

Additional reporting by Heidi Siegmund Cuda, Mark Dagostino, Chris Garcia, Kim Ratcliff, and Jessica Shaw