(282): Magic Nights with the Grateful Dead Long, Long Ago
Atmospherics recalled from dead or dying brain cells

Back in the 1991–93 era, I went through a phase, a rather fun one at that, of attending Grateful Dead shows, mostly in Atlanta. It was always in the Spring, and I invariably developed and nursed a 3-month case of bronchitis after one of these shows. I was a poor graduate student, so I only ever sprang for the cheap seats, what Deadheads like to call the “Phil Zone,” so named because the seats were so far away that we couldn’t see much except for maybe a glimpse of Phil Lesh. But we could hear…
Of course, the Dead were a band that didn’t really require one to be center stage front to enjoy them; it was an encompassing, communal experience. Sometimes one might open up to a total stranger who was passing a joint down the row; the folks there were kind, if not sober. It was a perfectly balanced group camaraderie that couldn’t last. But while it did, it was like stepping into another world.
The show itself was only half the fun. The parking lot was like an old-time medieval fair, more so even than the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism), of which I was also a member at the time. Of course, how would I know what a real medieval fair was like, eh? Good question. But I found that the atmosphere of the Dead parking lot experience was how I imagined one of Chaucer’s pilgrimages, an impromptu mass gathering where unidentifiable meat on a stick was sold and lost but determined souls filtered through calling out what they needed or could provide (mainly tickets for future Dead shows and rides).
The hygiene level at Dead shows was rather lower than at a typical SCA event; some folks had been following the band for months on end, and I suspect others might have been at it for years. Every now and then, there was excitement — cops chasing one or more guys in their inevitable tie-dyes, an insane-looking man sitting against walls, laughing and picking pieces off his rotting foot and throwing it at passersby (yes, this happened), couples in flagrante delicto, whose kids probably have a hell of an origin story to tell.
The height of the experience was always the bridge in the middle of the show, a mystical tribal drum extravaganza — Drums in Space (I think others call it Drums → Space). The number of little orange pinprick lights multiplied exponentially at this point in the show, and I suspect infinite new philosophies were born during these segments. I miss them; it was a way to completely escape one’s conscious mind and personality, moments that will never come again.
The magic began to wear off a year or two later; fraternity types began to invade the shows, and the smell became less green and more yellow — there was more drinking and thus more violence and unpleasantness. People weren’t as open. And then Jerry Garcia died in 1995. It was the end of an era. Entropy increases, and time only goes one way. But magic still resides in a few sparks between my last two brain cells. ✴

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