By: Ken(neth Louis) Grant
There were days, and there were days,
And there were days between,
Summer flies and August dies,
The world grows dark and mean….
….The singing man is at his song,
The holy on their knees,
The reckless are out wrecking,
The timid plea their pleas
— “The Days Between” Jerry Garcia (and Robert Hunter)
Can’t believe he’s been gone 25 years. But he has. This one goes out to you, Jerry, on the 25th anniversary of your passing.
Say what you will about him, but this much is certain: he traveled his own road. Must’ve been lonely at times, being after all on a path with nobody to guide him if he stood, and knowing that if he fell, he would most certainly fall alone.
He took up the mantle of the great American songbook, and not only extended and improved upon it, but transformed it. Turned folk, country, R&B, etc. idioms in to extended, wondrous instrumental journeys. No one had been there before. Probably, it scared him, summoned out his internal demons, which, in the end, proved to be to many for him (as, ultimately, they are for all of us).
He turned 53 just a week before his death, and in a way it’s remarkable that he made it to that far. He was, after all, a Type 1 Diabetic who perpetually travelled the world, chain-smoked, maintained a horrible diet, and, yes, was a full-on junkie. OD’d many times. Probably died for a while — more than once. Tried, repeatedly, to kick the habit, and was in fact in rehab, when, on August 9, 1995, he gathered for a final time to the dust of the ages.
There are those out there that obsess about him (I am not one of them; my obsessions are fixed upon YOU – and Bob Dylan) – so much so that we are just completing what passes for a religious holiday for Dead Heads – the ~weeklong period between his Aug 1 birth and his Aug 9 death. To the faithful, these are called The Days Between.
Of course, the festival’s nomenclature derives from a Garcia song title – one of the few where (in my opinion) Hunter’s lyrics (purloined above) excel Jerry’s hooks. Give it a listen anyway. After all, it’s Aug 9th: the end of the Days Between.
As I am fond of stating, it’ll do you no harm.
But I wonder what Jerry would’ve thought about all of this (latter) Days Between moonshine. My guess is that he would’ve neither understood nor approved. He was a musician, a minstrel, and yes, he changed the world. But I strongly believe that the ritualizing of those two points on the calendar would have unilaterally creeped him out. I further suspect that he might advise those immersed in this foolishness to expand their horizons. For what it’s worth, I’m with him on this one. I’d even go so far as to state that this sort of thing acts more to diminish than enhance the astonishing contribution he did make.
But, hey, that’s just me.
I also sort of wonder what he’d make of the current scene. About all I can come up with is that he’d think if there was ever a period that could aptly be described as The Days Between, we’re in it. Right. Now.
All of which begs the question: between what and what?
Well, it is August 9th: the 75th anniversary of the dropping of Fat Man on Nagasaki, 72 hours after the blast on Hiroshima. Jerry (who was a fat man himself) died exactly 50 years after this event, which occurred 3 days beyond when Little Boy destroyed Hiroshima. Those indeed were Days Between.
And, at the moment, it sure feels like, we’re between something. But what? A rock and a hard place? Maybe. However, I sort of prefer a reference that I copped from Kurt Vonnegut, as the first chapter title of his best book: “The Sirens of Titan”. Which you should read (oh that’s right, you already have, and at my suggestion). The titular phrase is: “Between Timbuktu and Timid”, a hook that derives from the fact that the only word in Noah Webster’s Arc (dictionary) between these two is Time.
Which is what we’re between. Between Timbuktu and Timid. Between Time. I think.
Summer is flying and August will soon be dying. The world has changed more than we care to notice or discuss. This is true for all of us. It hit me in a unique way this week, when, on a magically nostalgic trip back to what once was New York City, I passed by B.B. King’s music club, at 42nd and 8th, where I witnessed many a great show (including B.B. himself a couple of times). Not only is it shuttered, the frigging building looks like it’s about to collapse. Someday, it may again become something. And if so, it is resting in rat-invested repose, on days between its glory as a premier NYC music venue, and whatever the future holds. I know it will be better than it is, but I doubt it will surpass what it was.
Last Tuesday, on my grandson James’s 5th birthday, a tornado hit in Ridgefield, CT – 5 miles from my house. I checked the records and the last documented event of this kind transpired in 1799. Stated another way, there were more than 80,000 days between twister touchdowns in this quaint corner of Fairfield County. We were without power/connectivity until Friday. When the lights finally came on, my neighbors set off fireworks, proving indisputably that there are many ways to celebrate the days between.
Meanwhile the Grateful 500 lurches upward and is on the threshold of reaching its previous apex of valuation glory. Captain (Trips) Naz continues its climb to the heavens. Government and Corporate Bonds, Precious Metals, EUR, JPY, GBP, heck, even the long-forsaken cryptocurrency complex — are all ascendant, inviting you to join them beside the rising tide.
And this is why what I want to talk about if you come with me there. I see a common thread in the form of a loss of economic power attributable to the U.S. dollar, which, over the days between the big viral outbreak and the point of this correspondence, is incrementally less effective as a unit of exchange against virtually anything for which one might wish to swap it. This sort of thing ebbs and flows routinely, and I don’t think it’s the end of dollar days by any means. Moreover, I will admit this: I have a more difficult time unpacking FX markets than I do even tying my shoes (which I rarely do).
But as a unifying theme for this multifront assault on our heretofore-much-sought-after unit of account, I see two patterns emerge:
- Despite the galactic amount that is already out there, the market is anticipating incremental oversupply of the Dead Prez.
- All of this monetary pumping has re-energized my long-held belief that there is an acute and growing shortage of supply of investible securities.
So, everything that’s not a dollar is getting hoovered up with abandon, even as the former is being shunned and ghosted at levels that no one can fail to notice.
I think this all continues for a spell. From a data flows perspective, we’re about to enter one of the quietest periods of the year. Earnings are substantially in the books. As are introductory Q2 GDP estimates. The July Jobs Report dropped on Friday, and it was, on balance, encouraging. There’s lots of political nitpicking in these realms, and we are light years away from what, in days gone by, passed for a fully functional economy. But 1.8M new gigs and a ~1% drop in the base rate are tidings for which, though not dead, I am nonetheless grateful.
And I suspect that risk assets will retain a fairly robust bid for, say, the rest of dying August. So, come with me or go alone; there’s nothing I see to stop the rising tide.
However, I strongly suspect that the markets will alter themselves dramatically by Labor Day and beyond. I don’t know what form they assume; too many unknowable path dependencies (Public Health Conditions, Domestic Politics, our simmering throw-down with China, etc.) block the view. So, I ain’t gonna make a call one way or the other.
I will, however, freely characterize the current moment as being The Days Between. And I hope we can all make the best of them. Some in my acquaintance will wallow in Jerry-land, and you have my permission to pay whatever homage to him that you see fit.
Just don’t overdo it is all. Maybe try someone else. You could, for instance, dial up a little Adele, and, who knows? She may surprise you. Go to NYC and show it some love. Avoid B.B. King’s; maybe instead have dinner on a rooftop overlooking the riverside with someone you really dig. We’ve got some things to talk about.
But as is my responsibility, I will ask, whether you come with me or go alone, to proceed with caution.
Because there are days, and there are days, and there are days between.
And these, unmistakably, are them.
Let’s use all of them wisely, shall we?
TIMSHEL