The (Once Grateful) Dead: An Outsider’s Perspective
by Eric Shapiro - April 2009
The Spectacle
Sometimes, I wish I came of age in the 60s. It’s not that I think the 2000s are dull; in a room full of music fans, I would be first to reject the notion that our culture has somehow deteriorated, although you do have to sift through a lot more junk to reach the good stuff. However, one thing I do find lacking as a teenager in 2009 is a sense of community. I suppose I could find one of if I really wanted to, but I don’t subscribe to religion and the rap culture has never held any appeal for me. I have taken a liking to indie rock music, and it’s always nice to find someone who shares my taste, but the legions of tight-jeaned, Fidel Castro hat-wearing hipsters that comprise the “movement” reek of pretentiousness. Often, conversations with them consist of name-dropping the latest trendy bands and albums that no one will remember in a couple of months. I can’t help but feel cheated. With so much of my generation’s cultural exchange taking place on the far-flung, impersonal corners of the Internet, the 60s and 70s hold a certain mystique.
My first exposure to the world of the Grateful Dead came, of all places, in a study room. My inability to master basic trigonometry had earned me the privilege of spending every Wednesday afternoon with a tutor somewhere in his late 40s or early 50s. He spoke in a barely decipherable monotone and often paused for no apparent reason in the middle of sentences. He did not seem to have a much better grasp of the material than I did. One day, as we attempted a particularly grueling problem, someone clasped him on the shoulder. All thoughts of math forgotten, he greeted the man with an uncharacteristic enthusiasm. After exchanging some outdated pleasantries, the intruder said: “Hey man, I found this great website online that has that show from ’71.” The two men walked over to the computer and a couple of minutes later they were watching, with big, childish smiles on their faces. As I sat there forgotten, they reminisced about the setlist and whether the musicians were “on” or “off” that day (they had obviously seen the band play many times before) with the comradery of old war buddies. When the man left some five minutes later, I asked my tutor if they were friends. It turned out that they had only met a couple of time before, but they were both “Deadheads.” I had never heard the term before, although I was superficially familiar with the Grateful Dead from a greatest hits album that my dad played every so often. It became clear to me that day that the Grateful Dead were more than just a band.
Three years later, I was in the back of a car with several friends, speeding down the highway, a succession of Dead songs blaring out of the speakers. I recognized many of the staples, such as Trucking, Box of Rain and Cumberland Blues, but my companions, far more familiar with the band, had to name the more obscure tunes. We arrived in Albany with about two hours to spare, just as we had planned, and spent one of those hours driving in circles. We always seemed to end up back in the city’s equivalent of the ghetto. Like in my quaint little hometown of Manhattan, finding parking was a nightmare. It was not nearly so difficult to find the stadium. All we had to do was follow the trail of aging hippies and their younger imitators. We arrived shortly at what appeared to be a small street fair, inhabited by freaks of all different ages and varieties and a few respectable looking ladies and gentlemen who had apparently put their freakish ways behind them. People stood on lines to buy pizza and cheeseburgers, smoking joints, blunts and some devices I didn’t even recognize. The food prices were obscene, but this was a special occasion. As we waited, our stomachs growling in anticipation, we heard a blood-curdling shriek behind us. A man with a long beard, clothed in multi-colored rags, was on the run from some invisible predator. For the most part, no one paid him any mind, acting as if they witnessed this kind of thing every day.
Food in hand, we made our way over to the stadium entrance. I can confidently say it was one of the most interesting 10-minute walks of my life. Some highlights of the safari included drugged-out zombies shuffling forward aimlessly, packs of old women in oversized dresses giggling like little girls and a group of men in business suits smoking blunts.
Just like at any sports game, the security forced us to throw out our drinks before entering the venue, making it all too clear that even the Dead were subject to the greedy hand of corporatism. This proved to be only the first of many small but telling instances that shattered the atmosphere of “separateness” that made me feel like I had, at least for a few hours, stepped into a different world free of such petty rules. Furthermore, as I removed my ticket from my wallet, I was reminded of the steep price I had paid to see the Dead. The previous summer, I had shelled out $20 less to attend a music festival with over 20 bands playing for an entire day. Rationally. I knew that I couldn’t blame the Dead for this; after all, they probably had very little input as far as ticket prices were concerned. Nevertheless, my image of them was tainted, as it would have been for any band with a similar anti-materialist message. By taking part in this commercial enterprise, they were tacitly approving of a system that took advantage of their fans’ unwavering devotion. And then there were the t-shirts…
Having been to only one prior concert in such a large venue (partially due to budgetary restrictions and partially my punk rock indoctrination), I was at first put off by my distance from the band, not to mention the weird angle from which I was viewing them. I learned that technically, one needs a special ticket to enter the dancing area, but that didn’t stop fans from vaulting over the woefully inadequate barriers like waves spilling over a levee. Observing the spectacle, I felt like I stepped back half a century. An invisible barrier prevented me from joining in. Instead, I entered a kind of trance, allowing the energy of the crowd to run through me. As the first set wore on, I found my limbs moving involuntarily in a subdued, rather awkward imitation. I stared transfixed by the balloons arching over the crowd like multi-colored sparks of energy.
Suddenly, a lone security guard worked his way into the midst of the wonderful chaos, navigating the flurry of limbs with an ease appropriate for one who made his living taming rowdy crowds. His boldness earned him a few dirty looks, but for the most part everyone ignored him, caught up as they were in their own private trips. Upon reaching the object of his foray onto the dance floor, the security guard tackled him to the ground. I wondered what the man had done to merit such treatment. Had he crossed some kind of invisible line of acceptability? Or was his attacker merely looking for someone to make an example of, to validate his unglamorous career choice? I found myself siding with the victim, which seemed appropriate for a Dead show. For a split second, I entertained the notion that the former represented the stifling grip of conformity and the latter free thought, free love and myriad of other liberal wet dreams. Then I realized that I was overanalyzing, but that such fantasies would provide great material for a pretentious essay.
The Music
All extended musings on atmosphere aside, the songs themselves were quite enjoyable. Casey Jones was a great opener for a Dead novice like myself, a hint of something familiar before the more obscure songs. I was less familiar with Cold Rain and Snow. Jeff Chimenti’s swirling organ added a noticeable psychedelic overtone to a song that I remembered from the Dead’s debut album as uncharacteristically brief and traditional. I had never heard the next song, New Minglewood Blues, before, and I began to space out a few minutes into the song. Fortunately, my attention was yanked back by an amazing cover of Into the Mystic, for my money the best pop song Van Morrison ever wrote. Of course the Dead put their own spin on the familiar tune, stretching it from 3 minutes and 25 seconds to considerably longer. Cumberland Blues, which concluded the first set, was another highlight.
I was not as crazy about the second set. This probably just comes down to personal taste; I have to be in a very specific mood for long jams and it was packed with them. That said, I was blown away by the musicianship across the board. Hart and Kreutzmann got the chance to show off their drumming prowess in a way that is impossible to capture on record or even live recordings. I though Warren Haynes was a good replacement for Jerry, but then again, I never saw Jerry in concert so I have no frame of reference. I did notice that the lead guitar work had a much more bluesy, country rock flavor, which makes sense considering Haynes is a former member of the Allman Brothers.
As the concert came to a close and we began our painfully slow exit from the stadium, it occurred to me that I would probably never see the Dead in concert again. Looking back on the experience a few weeks later, I recall my impressions more than specific songs. It’s difficult to put into words what I took away from the experience, aside from a t-shirt. One thing I can say however is that I feel like a huge gap in my rock music portfolio has been filled. Even if I was not around during the heyday of the counterculture movement, at least I can say I witnessed some of its key players at the top of their game half a century later.
Sometimes, I wish I came of age in the 60s. It’s not that I think the 2000s are dull; in a room full of music fans, I would be first to reject the notion that our culture has somehow deteriorated, although you do have to sift through a lot more junk to reach the good stuff. However, one thing I do find lacking as a teenager in 2009 is a sense of community. I suppose I could find one of if I really wanted to, but I don’t subscribe to religion and the rap culture has never held any appeal for me. I have taken a liking to indie rock music, and it’s always nice to find someone who shares my taste, but the legions of tight-jeaned, Fidel Castro hat-wearing hipsters that comprise the “movement” reek of pretentiousness. Often, conversations with them consist of name-dropping the latest trendy bands and albums that no one will remember in a couple of months. I can’t help but feel cheated. With so much of my generation’s cultural exchange taking place on the far-flung, impersonal corners of the Internet, the 60s and 70s hold a certain mystique.
My first exposure to the world of the Grateful Dead came, of all places, in a study room. My inability to master basic trigonometry had earned me the privilege of spending every Wednesday afternoon with a tutor somewhere in his late 40s or early 50s. He spoke in a barely decipherable monotone and often paused for no apparent reason in the middle of sentences. He did not seem to have a much better grasp of the material than I did. One day, as we attempted a particularly grueling problem, someone clasped him on the shoulder. All thoughts of math forgotten, he greeted the man with an uncharacteristic enthusiasm. After exchanging some outdated pleasantries, the intruder said: “Hey man, I found this great website online that has that show from ’71.” The two men walked over to the computer and a couple of minutes later they were watching, with big, childish smiles on their faces. As I sat there forgotten, they reminisced about the setlist and whether the musicians were “on” or “off” that day (they had obviously seen the band play many times before) with the comradery of old war buddies. When the man left some five minutes later, I asked my tutor if they were friends. It turned out that they had only met a couple of time before, but they were both “Deadheads.” I had never heard the term before, although I was superficially familiar with the Grateful Dead from a greatest hits album that my dad played every so often. It became clear to me that day that the Grateful Dead were more than just a band.
Three years later, I was in the back of a car with several friends, speeding down the highway, a succession of Dead songs blaring out of the speakers. I recognized many of the staples, such as Trucking, Box of Rain and Cumberland Blues, but my companions, far more familiar with the band, had to name the more obscure tunes. We arrived in Albany with about two hours to spare, just as we had planned, and spent one of those hours driving in circles. We always seemed to end up back in the city’s equivalent of the ghetto. Like in my quaint little hometown of Manhattan, finding parking was a nightmare. It was not nearly so difficult to find the stadium. All we had to do was follow the trail of aging hippies and their younger imitators. We arrived shortly at what appeared to be a small street fair, inhabited by freaks of all different ages and varieties and a few respectable looking ladies and gentlemen who had apparently put their freakish ways behind them. People stood on lines to buy pizza and cheeseburgers, smoking joints, blunts and some devices I didn’t even recognize. The food prices were obscene, but this was a special occasion. As we waited, our stomachs growling in anticipation, we heard a blood-curdling shriek behind us. A man with a long beard, clothed in multi-colored rags, was on the run from some invisible predator. For the most part, no one paid him any mind, acting as if they witnessed this kind of thing every day.
Food in hand, we made our way over to the stadium entrance. I can confidently say it was one of the most interesting 10-minute walks of my life. Some highlights of the safari included drugged-out zombies shuffling forward aimlessly, packs of old women in oversized dresses giggling like little girls and a group of men in business suits smoking blunts.
Just like at any sports game, the security forced us to throw out our drinks before entering the venue, making it all too clear that even the Dead were subject to the greedy hand of corporatism. This proved to be only the first of many small but telling instances that shattered the atmosphere of “separateness” that made me feel like I had, at least for a few hours, stepped into a different world free of such petty rules. Furthermore, as I removed my ticket from my wallet, I was reminded of the steep price I had paid to see the Dead. The previous summer, I had shelled out $20 less to attend a music festival with over 20 bands playing for an entire day. Rationally. I knew that I couldn’t blame the Dead for this; after all, they probably had very little input as far as ticket prices were concerned. Nevertheless, my image of them was tainted, as it would have been for any band with a similar anti-materialist message. By taking part in this commercial enterprise, they were tacitly approving of a system that took advantage of their fans’ unwavering devotion. And then there were the t-shirts…
Having been to only one prior concert in such a large venue (partially due to budgetary restrictions and partially my punk rock indoctrination), I was at first put off by my distance from the band, not to mention the weird angle from which I was viewing them. I learned that technically, one needs a special ticket to enter the dancing area, but that didn’t stop fans from vaulting over the woefully inadequate barriers like waves spilling over a levee. Observing the spectacle, I felt like I stepped back half a century. An invisible barrier prevented me from joining in. Instead, I entered a kind of trance, allowing the energy of the crowd to run through me. As the first set wore on, I found my limbs moving involuntarily in a subdued, rather awkward imitation. I stared transfixed by the balloons arching over the crowd like multi-colored sparks of energy.
Suddenly, a lone security guard worked his way into the midst of the wonderful chaos, navigating the flurry of limbs with an ease appropriate for one who made his living taming rowdy crowds. His boldness earned him a few dirty looks, but for the most part everyone ignored him, caught up as they were in their own private trips. Upon reaching the object of his foray onto the dance floor, the security guard tackled him to the ground. I wondered what the man had done to merit such treatment. Had he crossed some kind of invisible line of acceptability? Or was his attacker merely looking for someone to make an example of, to validate his unglamorous career choice? I found myself siding with the victim, which seemed appropriate for a Dead show. For a split second, I entertained the notion that the former represented the stifling grip of conformity and the latter free thought, free love and myriad of other liberal wet dreams. Then I realized that I was overanalyzing, but that such fantasies would provide great material for a pretentious essay.
The Music
All extended musings on atmosphere aside, the songs themselves were quite enjoyable. Casey Jones was a great opener for a Dead novice like myself, a hint of something familiar before the more obscure songs. I was less familiar with Cold Rain and Snow. Jeff Chimenti’s swirling organ added a noticeable psychedelic overtone to a song that I remembered from the Dead’s debut album as uncharacteristically brief and traditional. I had never heard the next song, New Minglewood Blues, before, and I began to space out a few minutes into the song. Fortunately, my attention was yanked back by an amazing cover of Into the Mystic, for my money the best pop song Van Morrison ever wrote. Of course the Dead put their own spin on the familiar tune, stretching it from 3 minutes and 25 seconds to considerably longer. Cumberland Blues, which concluded the first set, was another highlight.
I was not as crazy about the second set. This probably just comes down to personal taste; I have to be in a very specific mood for long jams and it was packed with them. That said, I was blown away by the musicianship across the board. Hart and Kreutzmann got the chance to show off their drumming prowess in a way that is impossible to capture on record or even live recordings. I though Warren Haynes was a good replacement for Jerry, but then again, I never saw Jerry in concert so I have no frame of reference. I did notice that the lead guitar work had a much more bluesy, country rock flavor, which makes sense considering Haynes is a former member of the Allman Brothers.
As the concert came to a close and we began our painfully slow exit from the stadium, it occurred to me that I would probably never see the Dead in concert again. Looking back on the experience a few weeks later, I recall my impressions more than specific songs. It’s difficult to put into words what I took away from the experience, aside from a t-shirt. One thing I can say however is that I feel like a huge gap in my rock music portfolio has been filled. Even if I was not around during the heyday of the counterculture movement, at least I can say I witnessed some of its key players at the top of their game half a century later.