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Day of the Dead
I'm listening to Dick's Picks 5, the Grateful Dead on 12/26/79. And I'm really missing them. Not just for the music, which was breathtaking at times, but for the community of Deadheads. We were one great, tie-dyed, strange family. When the Dead went out on tour, they had these modern gypsies in their wake. In each town you'd meet friends you'd never seen before, and might never see again, but for that one night, you became part of this gestalt.
Dead shows were the only place I ever felt comfortable dancing. My awkwardness and lack of talent meant nothing. If I wanted to just groove in place without ever lifting my feet, that was cool. If I wanted to go out and twirl with the dancers in the halls, they'd accept me. If I just did my own thing, blocking out everything but the music, everyone would respect that. It was a safe place.. in fact, the only big crowd situation that I've ever really liked.
Each show was a new adventure.. what are they going to play? Is Jerry mad at us? Will Bobby try to learn slide guitar on stage again? Some nights, it didn't work, and you left shaking your head thinking "well, that sucked", but knowing that there will be another show soon. Other nights... other nights the band channeled some muse of music, and took out energy and amplified it. They'd go from having us dancing our butts off to Cumberland Blues to attentive silence as Jerry caressed his guitar through Stella Blue. Then without warning, they'd blow the doors off with One More Saturday Night.
The CD is over now. If I were at a show, you'd start to feel the cold air as doors were opened. We'd all be looking at each other and smiling, knowing that we'd been blessed again. The tapers would start tearing down their gear, and people would finish up their set lists ("was that Sugaree into Throwing Stones? Or was there a break?") I'd leave the concert site and see the gypsies at play. I'd show off the tattoo some more, maybe share in a little wine, and get back into The Yellow Peril, my trusty 1973 Datsun wagon.
Those days are gone. Jerry died right after I found out I had cancer. Easily the worst day of my life. So all I have are the memories, and the shows that have made the jump to CD. Right now, I'm remembering a show at the Henry J. Kaiser where the band closed with the old classic Not Fade Away. As we picked up the chant, the band slipped off stage one by one, leaving us shouting our devotion.
Love is real and NOT FADE AWAY
Love is real and NOT FADE AWAY
Love is real and NOT FADE AWAY</
Dead shows were the only place I ever felt comfortable dancing. My awkwardness and lack of talent meant nothing. If I wanted to just groove in place without ever lifting my feet, that was cool. If I wanted to go out and twirl with the dancers in the halls, they'd accept me. If I just did my own thing, blocking out everything but the music, everyone would respect that. It was a safe place.. in fact, the only big crowd situation that I've ever really liked.
Each show was a new adventure.. what are they going to play? Is Jerry mad at us? Will Bobby try to learn slide guitar on stage again? Some nights, it didn't work, and you left shaking your head thinking "well, that sucked", but knowing that there will be another show soon. Other nights... other nights the band channeled some muse of music, and took out energy and amplified it. They'd go from having us dancing our butts off to Cumberland Blues to attentive silence as Jerry caressed his guitar through Stella Blue. Then without warning, they'd blow the doors off with One More Saturday Night.
The CD is over now. If I were at a show, you'd start to feel the cold air as doors were opened. We'd all be looking at each other and smiling, knowing that we'd been blessed again. The tapers would start tearing down their gear, and people would finish up their set lists ("was that Sugaree into Throwing Stones? Or was there a break?") I'd leave the concert site and see the gypsies at play. I'd show off the tattoo some more, maybe share in a little wine, and get back into The Yellow Peril, my trusty 1973 Datsun wagon.
Those days are gone. Jerry died right after I found out I had cancer. Easily the worst day of my life. So all I have are the memories, and the shows that have made the jump to CD. Right now, I'm remembering a show at the Henry J. Kaiser where the band closed with the old classic Not Fade Away. As we picked up the chant, the band slipped off stage one by one, leaving us shouting our devotion.
Love is real and NOT FADE AWAY
Love is real and NOT FADE AWAY
Love is real and NOT FADE AWAY</
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Have I mentioned lately...