The other boxes contained dozens more tapes, similarly degraded.Įaton told the teacher that it was impossible to evaluate their worth, since they couldn’t know what was on the tapes, or even whether they were playable. Most of them were unmarked, or at least too encrusted to read, but Eaton had an idea what some of them might be, and he felt a surge of excitement. In the first one, Eaton found, in addition to some rotting cookbooks, several dozen reel-to-reel tapes, caked in mold and silt. Each had “Grateful Dead” stencilled on its side. Inside, amid piles of junk, were three road cases, of the kind that rock bands use to cart around their amplifiers. The teacher drove Eaton to a barn he owned, and they ran in through the rain. Still, one could always tender expertise. He’d also heard that the teacher wanted to sell what he had for a million dollars, a sum no studio engineer was likely to supply. Eaton had heard that the teacher had something that he and others like him were eager to get their hands on.
One night in the winter of 1996, Rob Eaton, a recording engineer who’d worked with Duran Duran and Pat Metheny, showed up at the home of a high-school chemistry teacher in Petaluma, California.
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