It was an accident, really.
It’s hard to say when I heard my first Grateful Dead song, or which song it was. It was probably the artwork that drew me in. The grinning happy skulls, tuxedoed skeletons, bright, thick clusters of red roses, colorful dancing bears, the Do Dah man, his long stride carrying him majestically across the endless stretch between now and then. They had the best art. And I can tell you with some certainty it was sometime in the early seventies. And I’ve been listening to them since.
My son’s girlfriend invited us to a charity poker run. It was our first poker run, we jumped at the chance. Donations were for a young lady with a lingering, painful disease. The poker run was hectic, with a small dash of chaos, and a generous helping of noise, and live music. In other words, it was our kind of scene.
There were three or four people selling tickets from big rolls. The tickets were used in a drawing, bags were setting in front of items scattered around tables that lined the perimeter of the outdoor bar. Power tools, barbecue sets, a fire pit with a Harley Davidson logo, gift cards to stores and tattoo shops, a little something for everyone. One half of each ticket was deposited in the little bags and whoever held the other half of the extracted ticket would win that prize.
There was a band, three pieces, electric guitar, bass, and a drum. I really enjoyed the music, it was lively, up-tempo, even though I didn’t know most of the songs. Life, and music, move at their own pace, and I’ve never managed to keep up with either. I’m old and listen to old music.
When the auction started, the very first thing on the block were two tickets to The Dead and Company at Riverbend Music Center in Cincinnati and a night at a motel. I was so shocked, it was pure serendipity, and it came so fast and furious that I hesitated, just a moment, and someone met the opening bid of $200.00, but my hand shot up with such exuberance at $210.00 I almost separated my shoulder, an electric shock ran down my spine and up my arm into my fingers. A small, strangled, barely audible squeak escaped my throat. It was a lonely little sound lost in the noise and chaos.
$210.00 was enough.
I had tickets, we had tickets, we didn’t know the date, it might have been while we were on vacation, and we wouldn’t have been able to use them. It was a risk, but it paid off. The show was 4 days before we left.
If there was a mantra for The Dead and Company, not official, an underground current of bitter, chafing resentment, it had to be “It isn’t the same without Jerry Garcia.” We heard it before the show, trying to dampen our enthusiasm. We heard it at the show, waiting for a beer, or standing in line to enter. We heard it after the show, it wormed its way into the fabric of our lives like a foul odor. Everybody who had been to a Grateful Dead show, or bought an album, or owned a tie-dyed t-shirt could tell you what a poor imitation this ensemble was. We thanked them all and ignored everything they said.
Despite having attended some shows I’ve never been a Deadhead. I didn’t have the stamina, or the commitment, and my selfish need to be an outsider prevented me from joining anything so inclusive and welcoming. But I’ve always been a fan.
It always struck me as an unusually fortunate occurrence that the often cruel, twisted machinations of fate brought such talented and open minded, improvisational musicians and the brilliant lyrical abilities of Robert Hunter and mixed them together in a group that lasted thirty years, until the death of Jerry Garcia. Even now, the echoes of the Dead are heard across the country and around the world.
I’ve gone back and listened to old shows, “Siri, play Iko Iko by the Grateful Dead.” Siri knows. She would find an old show available for download on Apple Music and I would lose myself in the performance. You could hear, even with the limited audio range of air pods, the magic of Jerry Garcia. You can feel the fusion, man and his guitar and the song until the music was alive. It had a language and meaning and everybody who heard and was open to it became part of the music. A single entity. Flowing through time together. Attached to a moment. Deadheads were a part of every song. “The Music Never Stopped.”
It would be a tough act to follow.
It wasn’t the same, I can agree, but it was still wonderful. It moved and flowed song to song, with a rhythm that was beautiful. And in true Dead Fashion every song had a point where the music would take over, and the band would take off, 6 musicians accelerating through time and sound, until you weren’t sure they would ever be able to make it back. Bob Weir would raise his hand and they would all meet at the end. And the next song had its own life. Somehow, I think Jerry would have approved.
—
This Post is republished on Medium.
—
Photo credit: Flickr
