Dewey Paul Band

Colorado Americana Music

Colorado Americana music by Dewey Paul Moffitt. JJ Cale Tribute CD. Bohemian Ghosts memoir author. Several albums worth of originals plus covers that range from Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and JJ Cale to Grateful Dead and beyond. True tales of a modern day psychedelic adventurer in the vein of Kerouac, Wolfe, Bukowski, and Robbins. A memoir that chronicles the authors many adventures in the psychedelic Grateful Dead and Jam Band scene (Allmans, Phish, Panic, Blues Traveler, Pfunk). From his parking lot days to working backstage, the book examines how that wild counter-culture world impacted his early adult years and allowed him to discover his passion for the concert industry. 

 *this is a temporary cover; actual cover art  will be released soon.

True tales of a modern day psychedelic adventurer in the vein of Kerouac, Wolfe, Bukowski, and Robbins. Musician and promoter Dewey Paul Moffitt has penned a rollicking memoir of a life spent following his heart into a wild world of sex, drugs, rock and roll, celebrity friendships, Rainbow Gatherings, biker gangs, hitchhiking, UFO sightings, and, finally, true love. Fueled by not much more than luck, fate, and karma, at 18, Moffitt left his record store job in Boca Raton and, through a serendipitous path of self discovery and lite mayhem, soon found himself working for rock impresario Bill Graham, the legendary promoter behind the Grateful Dead scene—living the high life alongside rock’s elite one day and narrowly escaping disaster in crime-worn East Oakland the next. Through it all, Moffitt yearned to find the right woman who would ease his lonely journey as he worked day and night to learn the music business from the ground floor up. Rising through the ranks of major concert production, Moffitt has worked with a long and impressive list of employers and partners as a festival and concert promoter, audio engineer, and talent buyer. 
This memoir chronicles the authors many adventures in the psychedelic Grateful Dead and Jam Band scene (Allmans, Phish, Panic, Blues Traveler, Pfunk). From his parking lot days to working backstage, the book examines how that wild counter-culture world impacted his early adult years and allowed him to discover his passion for the concert industry. Included are wonderful, if sometimes embarrassing, tales that will interest you as music fans and fellow travelers, and there are even some shocking and juicy romantic stories you are certain to enjoy.


Bohemian Ghosts 6x9 standard physical book (signed and numbered)
15.95 17.95

A signed and numbered third cover limited edition standard market version of Bohemian Ghosts: A Memoir. True Tales of a modern psychedelic warrior in the vein of Kerouac, Wolfe, Bukowski, and Robbins.

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Leading up to the the release of Bohemian Ghosts, I will post excerpts here from various sections. Here are a few for now. There will be more posted soon. Thanks for your support!

All material herein © Copyright 2014 Dewey Paul Moffitt, All Rights Reserved.

The following excerpt is taken from: Bohemian Ghosts, Chapter 5: "Honest As A Colorado Man Can Be"

   When we finally made it to the Mile High City, I caught up with some dear friends from Middle Earth, the Bama Boys. Freeman had gotten real sick, and he just sat there huddled over his grilled cheese skillet and propane stove in the snow-covered Shakedown Street. He contemplated whether he could go into the show. Fortunately for me, he eventually forfeited his special mail order ticket, and I was further nudged forward towards my unsuspected fate.
   The first I had heard of the almighty Henry Sullivan was some months, or maybe even a year or two, earlier, at a Rainbow Family gathering in the southeast. Drum circles, thundering out tribal rhythms from all directions, nestled deep inside a remote and enchanted muggy Southern wilderness. The full moon was being honored by a nomadic band of psychedelic gypsies. A dark dread-headed warlock named Diamond Fire spoke to me across the ceremonial flames of worship. He picked me out and peered into my soul. He said that one day I would find myself in a troubling situation at a Grateful Dead concert and that I would need to seek out a man by the name of Henry Sullivan. He informed me that someday I was going to be helped by this man.
   Even for me, that was a pretty esoteric pronouncement. Yet I responded, "Sullivan... really?" How precise! "I mean are you sure its not Henry Jones, or Henry Smith, or maybe even John Henry?"
    "Nope. Henry Sullivan."
   "Okay, okay... putting that into the vault. I'm going to remember that, Diamond Fire."
   Destiny, in the form of a man named Henry Sullivan, awaited me.
   Denver's McNichol's Arena howled, like a spaceship that had crashed into a dark and snowy mountain valley, lost and crying out to be discovered. The first sign of trouble was a yellow-jacketed security goon who came to escort several of us backstage over supposedly duplicate tickets. He lured us with the lucrative promise of new and better seating assignments. He collected all of our stubs and I kept my eyes on Freeman's gift, which I was absolutely one hundred percent certain was the very top ticket in his hand. Once backstage, the usher handed the stubs over to a man in a black leather biker coat, a cross between Dennis Hopper and guitarist Tony Iomi of Black Sabbath. He ruled over the hive of yellow jackets. An official Grateful Dead tour laminate dangled on a tethered lanyard from around his neck. The lights in the arena had just gone dark as the band took to the stage. There was a loud roar from the crowd. Distantly, I could hear the opening chords to “Touch of Grey.” He took out a highly technical thermal emission tool (a Bic lighter) and held the flame underneath the top stub. A dark thermal reaction revealed a browning or burning of the ticket. He declared it good. Some asshole from the group shouted abruptly that the ticket was his and quickly stepped forward to retrieve it. He gave him the mail-ordered stub and motioned for him to return back inside the arena. The guy skipped off happily as I stood there silently realizing that something was amiss. That false ticket-stub claiming asshole just ran off with my fucking ticket! Then, just as quickly, the remaining stubs were all tested and declared fake. My stomach dropped. I had been duped. Mister Leather Coat motioned for his hive of yellow goons to herd us out the back door and into the parking lot as he turned in the opposite direction and confidently walked away.
   Frustration and anger overwhelmed me and I suddenly flashed on Diamond Fire’s prophecy. I pushed my way back through the yellow jackets and stood my ground. “I demand to speak to Henry Sullivan!” The yellow jackets grabbed me as Leather Coat stopped and turned around.
   "Let him through," he said. I walked slowly toward him with a gulp. “I’m Henry Sullivan,” he said. The yellow jackets closed in, gripping me by the arms. I explained about the asshole stealing my stub, about being told that we would be reassigned seats, Bama Boy Freeman, the mail order system, and the fact that the whole thing was going down wrong.
   "It was all wrong man!" I was near tears. The yellow jackets tightened their grips on me and demanded that I turn around and go with them immediately. Henry waved them off and told them to give us a minute. He pulled me to the side and asked me how I knew his name. I informed him that someone from inside the "family" said to ask for him if I ever got into trouble and that he would help. He paused, scratched his chin and stared intently at me. His rough tone softened up and he spoke sincerely.
   "Look, you've already made a scene here and although I do believe you've been wronged, I can't fix it right now, but one day I will. I promise I will,” he said, kindly. “Now go back out into the parking lot and find another ticket. You'll get back in. Then find me at the next run of shows, and I'll take care of you."
   What choice did I have? He apologized and walked away. The yellow jackets swarmed on me and proceeded to roughly drag me towards the exit. I shouted a few choice words at them in protest. Henry turned back around and instructed them to, “Ease up,” and they did. The background chorus faded as I calmly walked out the back door of Denver's McNichol's Arena to the faded sounds of the choir's opening number, reminding me that I would indeed get by and I would undoubtedly survive.
   In the parking lot, my adrenaline was pumping but I was determined to get back into the show. I went straight to a known scalper. When I tried the Bic lighter test on his tickets, none of them passed. "Asshole!" I thought. I told him that he had fake tickets. He argued with me. He asked if I was going to buy one or not. I asked for a discount, but he wouldn’t go below twenty bucks. I caved in and rolled the dice on a known counterfeit. In a sweet ironic twist, I got back into the arena, but this time I didn’t make the mistake of going to my assigned seat. That night I was treated to an awesome “Dark Star > Terrapin” that set off an awe-inspiring three-night run. I also managed to get into the next two nights to witness the grand finale of a “Dark Star” reprise out a fantastically stellar “Space” jam. I felt transformed, like a three-night cosmic carnival ride had just dumped me off at the snow-covered altar of freedom and bliss. Ahhh, sweet religion. Soul rejuvenated, direction unknown.

© Copyright 2014 Dewey Paul Moffitt

The following excerpt is taken from: Bohemian Ghosts, Chapter 18: "And You Know It Has To Get Stranger"

    My thumb was in the air for probably twenty minutes or so, and then I gave up. I was too tired and distraught. I walked down the highway embankment and made my bed in the dirt with a rock as my pillow. I could’ve been in the arms of a beautiful woman, but, instead, I slept on the side of the fucking highway. I dreamt of being back in Telluride.
    The sun brutally woke me up in the morning, and I was quickly reminded that I was in the desert. The heat was unbearable. It wasn’t long before I got a ride from some old hippies in a brown Dodge van. I showed off my new tattoo to their kids who kept asking me a million questions. They drove me as far as the Green River exit where they dropped me off at basically high noon in the middle of the sweltering desert, leaving me with a bag of sunflower seeds.
    Lucky for me, I didn’t have to wait that long. An hour or so later another sports car pulled over. It was a guy on his way to Las Vegas who had just returned from serving in the Gulf War. I had a great conversation with him and thanked him dearly for his service to our country. He was intrigued by my tales and said he wished I could go all the way to Vegas with him. But that was far beyond my route; instead, I hopped out at the turn-off to Salt Lake City.
    The next ride was just in time to miss a torrential thunderstorm, an elderly couple on their way to Ogden, north of Salt Lake City. They dropped me off on the side of the I-80 interchange. Traffic was bustling, and I assumed it would be a tough spot to get a ride, but a rusty old Ford pick-up pulled over, and I hopped in the back. The couple in front said they would take me to a great spot for hitchhikers, but I would have to come along with them while they made a couple of pit stops.
    What came next was basically a kidnapping. I had no idea where I was, except that I was somewhere in the suburbs of Salt Lake City. The scene played out like a very long episode of the Jerry Springer show. The woman was the sister of the wife of the man who was driving. An attempt to stop by the man's house found the wife throwing her husband's clothes out the window and onto their lawn while death threats were shouted back and forth by all three. Apparently, the wife had just learned that her husband was fucking her sister. It was nasty. After that, two quick stops for drug deals followed. Every attempt I made to exit the back of the truck was met with stiff resistance. I was being held captive by white trash Mormons. I ended up in a shouting match with the couple as they fought with each other. It was night and we had been driving through rough neighborhoods for hours. I felt unsafe, but also knew it was a greater risk to make a run for it. Finally after hours of intense negotiations, I convinced my captors to get me to a highway, any highway would do. So where do you think these dumb ass motherfuckers dropped me off? Yep, that's right. They deposited me back at the very spot where they first picked me up.
   I walked down off the highway and found a patch of sand next to the Great Salt Lake where I put down my weary body and slept off a crazy day.
    In the morning, seagulls attacked me. They were angry seagulls. Mean, disrespectful seagulls. They were some punk-ass bitch seagulls from hell that had some sort of score to settle with the likes of a dirty hippie sleeping on their beach. They woke me up by pecking at my head and trying to eat my dreaded-up blonde hair, which must have resembled French fries to them. The attack didn't end on the beach. The gulls followed me out to the highway and began dive-bombing me. It was like a Hitchcock movie. The drivers that whizzed by seemed to be amused at this sight. My only path of escape was treacherous. I balanced along a narrow strip of pavement. On one side were concrete construction barriers, on the other, morning traffic barreling by at high speed. The seagulls continued their bombardment until someone felt sorry enough to pull over to give me a lift.
    The driver said he had never seen such a vicious bird attack on a live human. He dropped me off a few miles down the road at a truck stop where I washed up and ate some breakfast. The news on TV told of a psycho serial killer named Jeffrey Dahmer who picked up hitchhikers only to take them home and eat them. It was a lovely time to be on the road.
    Undeterred, I headed back out to the highway to continue my journey. A trucker pulled over and, just as I was climbing up into the cab, leaned over and shouted, “Hold on jus‘ a sec... MY MISTAKE, I DON'T HAVE ANY ROOM FOR YA!”
   Confused, I asked what the problem was. “WELL, I THOUGHT YOU’S A LADY THERE, yer long hair, ya‘ know.”
    I backed off the perv's truck immediately and responded, “No problem! I'll take the next ride. Thank you very much.”
    A white mini-van pulled over and a chubby Native American gentleman was behind the wheel. He had a friendly smile and seemed like a good, safe ride. I hopped in his van and we headed west toward Nevada. The back of his van was loaded with merchandise, cartons of cigarettes, boxes of candy, chips, cases of soda—all of which were offered to me free, for whatever I needed to stock up on. He explained that he was picking up goods for his general store that he and his lover ran at a nearby reservation. He then informed me that he was a homosexual and asked if that made me uncomfortable. At that point nothing seemed to surprise me anymore so I couldn't help but just laugh. The guy had a mellow vibe about him and made it clear that he wasn't hitting on me. I did not feel threatened by him at all, and I couldn’t have cared less about his lifestyle. I thought it weird that he found it necessary to make that pronouncement, actually, but the rest of the time he was funny and a joy to talk to. As we neared the exit for Goshote, he invited me to the reservation to have dinner with he and his partner. I politely declined, but did stock up on cigarettes, drinks, and snacks before I bailed out.
    Almost immediately, my next ride came along—a semi-truck being driven by a man resembling Paul Newman. He said he was going as far as Reno, which was a straight shot across Nevada, and that worked out perfectly for me. He taught me CB radio lingo and let me chat with a few truck stop hookers over the airwaves. He also confided that he was living a double life—he had a family in Reno and a family in Utah, and they knew nothing of each other. Eventually, he offered me a job driving trucks if I wanted, but it was just another opportunity I would have to pass on. I was amazed at how many of these doors of opportunity opened around me while on my quest.

© Copyright 2014 Dewey Paul Moffitt

The following excerpt is taken from: Bohemian Ghosts, Chapter 22: “Join The Party”

   There were two music festivals scheduled to converge on French's Camp. The first weekend was the Jerry Garcia Band playing a festival called Electric On The Eel; the following weekend was Reggae On The River. I helped out Henry with some security duties and also joined in Danny’s backstage ambiance crew, setting up the dressing rooms for the bands. The latter mostly included moving couches, tables, lamps, and rugs—something that would soon become my full-time job. The vibe backstage was beautiful. It was mostly old school Hog Farmers and Merry Pranksters around. Jerry Garcia and Ken Kesey's old flame, the infamous Mountain Girl, was organizing things in the catering tent while Kesey and Garcia reminisced in the hospitality tent. I felt honored to be in the presence of such psychedelic royalty.
   The Bama Boys made it to the festival, and I would hang out with them when not with Phoebe or doing some backstage work. The scene was incredibly peaceful except for some federal agents that were camped out on the hill, spying on everyone through their binoculars.
   There was no lack of getting high and it seemed that my behind-the-scenes initiation was well under way. The production office was located in an old hippie school bus, which belonged to the Hog Farm Commune. One night, I was sitting on this bus with Henry, getting high, when things started to really take off. Ken Kesey, Wavy Gravy, and Bob Weir appeared. Bill Graham made a brief appearance along with several of his top people, including Bob and Peter Barsotti. Shortly after Graham left, a full-fledged carnival began. There was nitrous flowing, drinks passed, joint after joint after joint after joint of some serious space ganja being toked, mushrooms eaten, pills popped, and powder snorted. The bus was buzzing and pulsing with energy.
   At some point, I was finally so high I just couldn't toke anymore. I couldn't keep track of everything going into my system and the crowd of voices and laughter surrounding me. Bob Weir was sitting to my right and Bob Barsotti was directly across from me. The three of us were locked into some hysterical laughter of unknown origin. I stood up but couldn't maintain my balance.
   “Where are we going?” I shouted to Weir. He continued his laughter and replied with something typically cryptic. I returned the laughter holding onto my gut. “No, really, where is this fucking BUS going man? We're moving tooooo fast maaan.” I stood and staggered in the cloud of smoke that filled the aisle. Wavy Gravy danced past me and muttered something funny about the bus rolling on forever and ever. I had no idea exactly where I was and how I ended up in such strange company. I didn't recall being informed as to where we were headed. It was like the spirit of Neal Cassidy himself had been summoned to drive us madly through the giant redwoods. Weir and Kesey were having quite the laugh at my expense. I, too, was laughing, but with utter confusion as the bus bounced from left to right while I pulled my way to the front. Henry was standing at the front and offered to help.
   “You need some air?”
   “When are we going to stop maaan?”
   “Just step outside for a few minutes and get some air. You need a drink. Here, drink this.” He tried to hand me bottled water with a brownish liquid inside.
   “No more Mushroom Peyote tea, or whatever that is. Must get off this bus.” Some Spanish lady who sat in the front seat passed a joint to me. The energy was still buzzing from the back of the bus to the front. The party was raging. “Can you ask the driver when we are going to get to wherever? I don't want the bus to stop on my account.” They were all laughing at me. It was night, and I could not see very well into the dark and blurry landscape.
   "Here kid, try some of these," someone else suggested. Playing along, and always the good tripping shepherd, Henry leaned over to the driver's seat and asked the invisible driver something. Oh, that was just more confusing. Nothing made any sense anymore. Who was driving this bus? Was it the invisible psychedelic cowboy, the very ghost of Cassidy? Why were we rolling down a hill out of control with no one behind the wheel? Mammoth redwoods whizzing by us in the dark! For God's sake, someone at least turn the headlights on!
   Henry helped me to the steps. “Go ahead, you can do it.” He nudged me towards the outside. I staggered on the bottom step as the trees and ground went flurrying by at high rates of speed.
   “You want me to jump?” I laughed. “Can you slow the bus down at all?”
   Henry convinced me that the bus was moving slower and slower. It was safe now to jump. So I just did it. I jumped off the carnival bus and rolled three times in the grass and came to a stop with my eyes staring into the night sky above. The sounds of the bus were now a cloud at my feet. I leaned my head up and noticed the bus parked with an enormous giant redwood towering firmly in front of it. So we were never moving in the first place? I'm really that high? I continued to lie on the ground becoming one with the earth, squirming and wiggling. Some time passed and a familiar face appeared over me smiling. It was Phoebe. Her words seemed to warp in and out of focus, but I managed to hear her say, “… something-something I've been looking all over for you beautiful something-something...”

© Copyright 2014 Dewey Paul Moffitt

The following excerpt is taken from: Bohemian Ghosts, Chapter 30: “A Gold Ring And A VCR”

   At the end of April, 1992, the Jerry Garcia Band was putting on a series of shows at San Francisco's Warfield Theater while Bama Boys J.B. and Kilgore happened to be paying me a visit. We parked Calvin a few blocks away from the Warfield, in front of the Civic Auditorium, and walked around the area a little. We noticed a couple of punk rockers putting up a flyer on a light pole. The flyer read:

Rally against the Rodney King verdict, 4pm today

    Within minutes, the crowds marched in from different directions, and began meeting up at California and Van Ness near the steps of the City Hall. We stood near the rear of the crowd, listening to folks air their grievances when some disgruntled kid next to us began shouting that we needed to get the crowd on the move and “do something.” People started turning around and listening to this kid. I remember giving him a high five just as he managed to get the crowd of thousands to start marching again. Kilgore's recollection is that I encouraged him quite a bit and gave the kid that extra bit of confidence he needed to speak out in the first place. I'm not going to admit to that because what followed became a very ugly incident that I'd rather not assume any responsibility for.
    I looked over at the kid who had gotten everyone going and watched him pick up a rock with the very hand I had just high-fived and then I witnessed that rock soar through the air and smash a window in San Francisco's Federal Building. At the very moment the glass shattered, the crowd of thousands all gasped in unison. And then it was on. A full-blown riot started as we all approached the police line. All the violent punks that were there suddenly jumped out in front and engaged the cops, throwing rocks and bottles at them. We had no choice but to move forward with the crowd. The cops backed away and let the mob have it. To our left, cars were being smashed and flipped over. To the right, a carnival was setup in the square, but no one messed with the carnies as they created a barrier between the mob and the square, standing firmly with lead pipes and wrenches in their hands. It was absolutely surreal. J.B. and Kilgore knew for certain that their little red Ford Escort, Calvin, parked nearby, was probably going to get a good beating.
    Helicopters buzzed above us. The cops scrambled around in the distance but the streets belonged to the people. The crowd was made up of many colors, as people from all ages and walks of life marched, some hand in hand. You could clearly see the tears on many faces as they felt this was a necessary but difficult action to do. The mob was moving straight ahead toward Market Street and the Warfield Theater, where the hippies were all camped out looking for miracle tickets, swinging doses, and bartering kind grilled cheeses and veggie burritos.
    I knew this was going to be a mess and thought immediately of how I could get over to the theater to warn Henry, who was there running security for the Jerry Garcia show. Somehow I managed to get out of the mob and head up hill two blocks into normal everyday San Francisco, where there was no sign of civil unrest. It did not seem real to me. Suddenly the whole riot was gone. But I knew the peace wouldn't last long, so I scrambled down a few back streets and over to the back door of the Warfield and met up with Henry. I told him about the riot and the chaos that was about to go down. Just then, it hit Market Street and seemed to be spreading like wildfire. The peaceful gathering of hippies in front of the theater was ambushed by looters, as window after window on Market Street met their shattered fates.
    Jerry Garcia stepped out the back door and onto the sidewalk and stood next to Henry and me.
   “Wow, what’s going on over there?” he asked curiously, as we all stared down at the mess that was Market Street. A guy pushed a shopping cart by with pieces of a drum set and a TV on top of it.
   Jerry chuckled, “Someone get me a gold ring and a VCR!”
   Two street guys stumbled by, drinking forties out of brown paper bags, and one of them recognized Jerry.
    “Jehhreee Gahceeeuh! Shit! How ya‘ doin‘, Jehhree? Haven’t seen you in looong time.”
    “Hey, man, yeah,” Jerry replied, like they were old friends. “I’ve been good. Playin‘ here at the Warfield tonight.” They slapped hands.
    “You take care now, Jehhree, and be careful. It’s crazy out here tonight!” The two men walked on, although the man’s friend looked confused.
    “Who was that?” he said.
    “That was Jehhree Gahceeuh! You don’t know?”
    “Never heard of the man.”
    “He used to play da park a looong time ago.” The two drunks stumbled on toward the chaos on Market Street.
    Jerry’s guitar tech, Steve Parish, opened the back door of the theater to let him know that they were ready for him. They disappeared back into the venue.
    A few minutes later, swarms of San Francisco’s Finest, all riot-geared up, marched by like Storm Troopers in a Star Wars movie. Two blocks away, my friend Celeste was loading her wares into her van and witnessed someone being shot in the head at point blank range—apparently a random act of street justice. She didn’t know why it happened; it just seemed part of the melee swirling everywhere. The helicopters continued to buzz overhead. Trails of tear gas flowed in from around corners. There were homeless people scattered about, wearing brand new shirts and shiny Reebok tennis shoes. The place was a war zone.
   After the show, I met back up with J.B. and Kilgore and we compared stories as we walked back to the car. All the parked cars had been smashed in, some set on fire, a few were still smoldering. Yet, there sat Calvin, barely touched, while the cars on either side were hardly recognizable. We drove our lucky red chariot back over the Bay Bridge into Oakland. We could see large fires all over the cities; it was an unbelievable time, like we were in a movie. There was a sobering feeling that life would never be the same again, that we had entered into an age of urban warfare. It was truly frightening.

© Copyright 2014 Dewey Paul Moffitt