A man of charismatic light, Jerome John Garcia (1942–1995), born on this day in San Francisco, was named after Broadway composer Jerome Kern. His name was musical from the start, a whisper of the creative life he was destined to lead.

When he was four, he lost his middle finger in a wood-chopping accident. That could have ended most guitar dreams—but for Jerry, it became part of his magic. He adapted, shaped his style, and never let the limitation dim his spark. He went on to learn the guitar and form the Grateful Dead—a band of former folkies transformed by ’60s flower power and psychedelics.

Garcia once said of the band’s mission, “You do not merely want to be considered just the best of the best. You want to be considered the only ones who do what you do.”

Their concerts became celebrations of improvisational rock. For three decades, a legion of fans—Deadheads—followed them across the country to hear what Garcia called “gold, pure magic.”

They played four-hour shows, three nights in a row, and fans would never hear the same song twice.

“Our audience is like people who like licorice. Not everybody likes licorice, but the people who like licorice really like licorice,” Garcia explained. His humor was part of his magnetism—offbeat, genuine, and always reaching the right crowd.

“There’s no way to measure his greatness or magnitude as a person or as a player,” eulogized Bob Dylan. “He really had no equal. His playing was moody, awesome, sophisticated, hypnotic, and subtle. There’s no way to convey the loss.” For those who listened with open hearts, Jerry was the rhythm between the notes, the space where wonder lives.