Deadhead for a Day
This was one of the busiest weeks of the last few months, so I almost skipped the concert last night. I nearly chose in favor of a night on the sofa and whatever was on TBS (probably Legally Blonde, it's always Legally Blonde) just to have some time to myself, finally. But at the last minute, I decided to go along with my friends to see the Dark Star Orchestra, a Grateful Dead tribute band that aims to recreate the Dead experience by playing exact setlists from bygone decades.
Now, I'm no Deadhead. I certainly have nothing against them - they tend to be nice people, with a very refreshing lack of fashion sense - but I can't claim to be an expert on the music or philosophies of the Grateful Dead. I like some of their songs, but only the upbeat, melodic stuff. Here's a bit of definite blasphemy: fourteen-minute lyric-free jam sessions bore me to tears.*
Even so, I was pretty excited to see this band, you know, for the experience. We arrived into bizarro 1968, everyone in tie-dye with cell phones. There were fans of all kinds - the stereotypical aging hippie, the stereotypical latter-day hippie, and even a fairly sizable group of corporate types in collared, buttoned shirts. (On a Saturday night? At this show? Yeah, I found that disturbing on a few levels.) We wormed our way into a spot right behind the sound guys, a straight shot to the stage, bonus points for the rail to lean against. For the first half of the show, I kept myself amused watching the happy bobbing heads in front of me. There was a guy next to us who would periodically thrust his arm into the air and wail toward the stage, "Jerry! Jerrrrrryyyyy!" Ah, people and their music. It's a beautiful thing.
By the time the band took a break, I was getting cranky. This had already been a long, long show by my standards (I have the attention span of a flea) and in fact it was long, long break, to be followed by, God help me, a long, long second half. I was tired. My feet hurt. My back ached. There were no chairs anywhere. I considered curling up in a corner; I figured this crowd would let me be. But on a trip to the bathroom, my friend ran into someone she knew, who insisted we all come upstairs to the balcony.
Downstairs, it turned out, had been only a light, refined taste of what the Dead experience was supposed to be. Upstairs was the grainy, whole-wheat version. True Deadheads danced around us, their arms and legs flailing indiscriminately, their eyes mostly closed. An old man with a lazy eye and a peg leg charged around the floor like a bull toward the red cape. A few people wandered over to chat, doubly impaired and unintelligable, but seeming to want to enthuse with us over the general excellence of the night, and of the music. One guy asked me how old I was. Twenty-five, I said. His response, one I'd never gotten before: "When Jerry died, you were eight."**
I usually don't (can't) dance unless I've had a couple drinks - which I didn't do - but the beauty of hippie style is that no one cares much for technique. Caught up in the feeling surrounding us, we had all joined in the Slow Flail by the end of the night. I don't know that this show will turn me into a real follower - I'll probably just continue to put "Uncle John's Band" on repeat when I need to relax - but I'm thrilled to say that I was there. I was there, man. It was like going back in time. Just like that, I bet.
*I'm told that they wouldn't, if only I were high. If only!
**Faulty math - I was actually fourteen when Jerry Garcia died. It was 1995. I remember it. A whole bunch of those bear t-shirts showed up around school that year.
Now, I'm no Deadhead. I certainly have nothing against them - they tend to be nice people, with a very refreshing lack of fashion sense - but I can't claim to be an expert on the music or philosophies of the Grateful Dead. I like some of their songs, but only the upbeat, melodic stuff. Here's a bit of definite blasphemy: fourteen-minute lyric-free jam sessions bore me to tears.*
Even so, I was pretty excited to see this band, you know, for the experience. We arrived into bizarro 1968, everyone in tie-dye with cell phones. There were fans of all kinds - the stereotypical aging hippie, the stereotypical latter-day hippie, and even a fairly sizable group of corporate types in collared, buttoned shirts. (On a Saturday night? At this show? Yeah, I found that disturbing on a few levels.) We wormed our way into a spot right behind the sound guys, a straight shot to the stage, bonus points for the rail to lean against. For the first half of the show, I kept myself amused watching the happy bobbing heads in front of me. There was a guy next to us who would periodically thrust his arm into the air and wail toward the stage, "Jerry! Jerrrrrryyyyy!" Ah, people and their music. It's a beautiful thing.
By the time the band took a break, I was getting cranky. This had already been a long, long show by my standards (I have the attention span of a flea) and in fact it was long, long break, to be followed by, God help me, a long, long second half. I was tired. My feet hurt. My back ached. There were no chairs anywhere. I considered curling up in a corner; I figured this crowd would let me be. But on a trip to the bathroom, my friend ran into someone she knew, who insisted we all come upstairs to the balcony.
Downstairs, it turned out, had been only a light, refined taste of what the Dead experience was supposed to be. Upstairs was the grainy, whole-wheat version. True Deadheads danced around us, their arms and legs flailing indiscriminately, their eyes mostly closed. An old man with a lazy eye and a peg leg charged around the floor like a bull toward the red cape. A few people wandered over to chat, doubly impaired and unintelligable, but seeming to want to enthuse with us over the general excellence of the night, and of the music. One guy asked me how old I was. Twenty-five, I said. His response, one I'd never gotten before: "When Jerry died, you were eight."**
I usually don't (can't) dance unless I've had a couple drinks - which I didn't do - but the beauty of hippie style is that no one cares much for technique. Caught up in the feeling surrounding us, we had all joined in the Slow Flail by the end of the night. I don't know that this show will turn me into a real follower - I'll probably just continue to put "Uncle John's Band" on repeat when I need to relax - but I'm thrilled to say that I was there. I was there, man. It was like going back in time. Just like that, I bet.
*I'm told that they wouldn't, if only I were high. If only!
**Faulty math - I was actually fourteen when Jerry Garcia died. It was 1995. I remember it. A whole bunch of those bear t-shirts showed up around school that year.
posted by Tracy at 5:15 PM
1 Comments:
Sounds like you had fun. Try wearing tennis shoes next time. I rather enjoy cranking up the stereo in my car as I drive around on the interstate. Have a great day!!
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