I'm Dr. Rock and Roll: Grateful

            What a long, strange trip it’s been.

            I used to make fun of Deadheads, calling them “dirty hippies.” My earliest experience with rock’s most famous fanbase (sorry, KISS Army) was in the kitchen at J. Arthur’s Bar and Grill in Bloomington, Indiana. The cooks played bootlegged shows while chittering with the wait staff, comparing notes on which shows they would be attending next. This vagabond, drug-fueled existence was a foreign concept to me; when a band came to your town, you’d attend the show and go back to your life. Following the band was unthinkable – only groupies did that. I equated the Grateful Dead with Birkenstocks, tie-dyed shirts, and Subarus. I was a rocker, not a hippie.

            All that changed in April 2023. As most who read my posts already know, my “brother from another mother,” Keith, passed away unexpectedly. (You can read that here). He introduced me to Metallica and the world of thrash metal in general, but people at the funeral kept talking about him “bugging Jerry Garcia” in Heaven. I soon learned that my lifelong friend was a huge Dead fan, and when his funeral service started, the song “I Know You Rider” played, one of the few Dead songs I not only knew but also liked. Losing Keith was like a piece of my soul being ripped out, and the Grateful Dead healed my wounds. At my lowest moments, Keith seemingly summoned them to calm my spirits. “Fire on the Mountain” appeared on my running playlist. Jerry Garcia quotes appeared on my Facebook. Soon, the sounds of Haight Ashbury became my link to my lost friend, and I clung to it like a drowning wharf rat. So, when Dead and Company announced an ongoing residency at The Sphere in Las Vegas, I began to explore potential dates for a road trip. Keith’s favorite band, in Keith’s favorite town, nearly two years to the day from the time I saw him last. It seemed like destiny, and in an ongoing testimony to the greatness of my wife, she cheered my efforts, rather than rolling her eyes.

Eat the ice cream! Keith approves!

            The whole week leading to the show, signs from my late friend were everywhere. When the day came to go to the airport, I got in the car and “I Know You Rider” was playing. I arrived in Sin City at 9pm local time, and by the time I checked into my hotel at 10:30, I had been awake nearly twenty hours. But I wasn’t tired – I was hungry. So I went across the street to the Venetian, a place that connects to the Sphere, and one of Keith’s favorite places. I bellied up to the bar at the Grand Lux Café and ordered. “You go to the show?” asked the bartender, eyeing my Grateful Dead tattoo I got a couple of months ago, to honor my friend. When I said no, he replied, “Well, they’ll be here soon.” He then informed me that the concert venue will spill out near us, and concertgoers frequently came here for a late bite after the show. And before I knew it, I was surrounded by tie-dyes. The joy on their faces is something I’ll remember. When I asked questions, fans would gleefully give me details. Still restless, I had some ice cream (Keith’s girlfriend insisted that I “eat the ice cream”) and wandered by the Animazing art gallery in the Canal Shoppes that sported a life-size Jerry Garcia. I struck up a conversation with the manager, Mike Carbone, and admired his Dead-centered displays, and he invited me back to meet Chloe Weir, photographer and Bob’s daughter, as well as Stanley Mouse, who designed iconic Grateful Dead imagery. By the time my head hit the pillow at 2am local time, I still wasn’t tired, but I knew I had to sleep.

I feel like Jerry is watching me, but not judging!

            I wandered the Strip early Saturday, trying to either dissipate my nervous energy or wallow in the ubiquitous scent of week that permeates the air in Vegas these days. Long gone were the days of drunks staggering the streets at all hours of the day – marijuana is the new king in the desert. That, and celebrity chef restaurants. I had lunch at a Gordon Ramsay burger joint, but not before having breakfast with an old friend from my early years in Logansport, who now works at the Wynn. By mid-afternoon, I went back to Animazing, which was now crawling with Deadheads. Chloe was a kind individual with a million-watt smile, which wasn’t what I expected from the child of an iconic rock star. I found an original, signed Stanley Mouse with the rock and roll name of “Purple Haze,” and what started as a concert trip became an art acquisition. Fellow visitors complimented my purchase, and a concept that began as an abstraction began to become more concrete:

            Community.

Purple Haze!

            I never understood the fandom, thinking that this was somehow about the music. But as it turns out, it’s so much more. And I was beginning to see it. Random strangers in the elevator wanted to talk about the show, were genuinely excited that I was going to my first show and expressed their appreciation that I was here to honor my late friend. Repeated wishes of “have a good show” were sent my way. Soon, it was time to don my Paul Kenney tie-dye, born in San Francisco, and headed for the show.

Toto, I don't think we're in Las Vegas any more!

            There are many iconic music venues: Red Rocks, Budokan Theater, The Fillmore, The Hollywood Bowl, The Whisky a-Go-Go. The list goes on and on. But with all those venues, the music inevitably takes center stage. The Sphere in Las Vegas demands that you pay it some respect before you hear a single note. It is, quite simply, a marvel of engineering, and it’s like going to a concert on another planet (literally, as I’ll later explain). The whole exterior is a giant billboard, with light shows adorning its exterior 24 hours a day, Vegas style. You could place this arena in the center of Tomorrowland at Disneyland, as you’re surrounded by soft blue and green LED lights. The concourse lacks the blinding lights of the average arena, opting for strategically placed lighting. The seating area is separate from the concourse, and you must travel a small hallway to get to your seat. Once you enter this portal, all sound disappears; I literally only heard the clicking of my footsteps. The ambient noise ahead grows gradually louder until you enter the seating area, where full sound is again restored. I noted all the backstage rigging, and I figured that the screen that projected images was in front of this area and translucent. This is where I learned a second truth: trust nothing you see. The band came out, and the music was wonderful. Where was all the magic? My answer soon came when the sound of grinding metal and gears caused the back wall to crack open and fall away, revealing the Dead’s house on Ashbury Street in San Francisco – life size and stunningly realistic. The band breaks into “Truckin’,” and we’re lifted above the city and out into space, where a psychedelic trip of eye candy treats my senses for the next three hours. Once the band begins “Brokedown Palace,” the venue returns to Earth and back to San Fransisco.

A concert in outer space!

            I know most people respond with, “It’s not really the Grateful Dead,” and I get that. But there are two original members, and I found myself with a newfound respect for John Mayer (who is also in the group). That cat can play. I’ve never been big on the jam band scene, but the amount of musicianship I saw during that brief time rivaled anything I’ve seen in the past forty years. And it was amazing to watch the crowd during the show, who had morphed into an undulating mass of movement, the likes of which I’ve never seen. There was a group on the floor that were having the time of their lives. The guy next to me would smirk at me when one of us recognized the next number. Young and old alike made up the audience, and it was a remarkable display of togetherness. Despite my inexperience, I recognized quite a bit of the set list; I’m glad the guys pandered to the newbies on that particular night.

            I left the venue with a sense of euphoria, and I slowly began to get it. The Dead is about more than music – it’s community, with a soundtrack. Not once did I see a sloppy drunk, ruining the experience for everyone around him. No harsh words were exchanged. The people were there for the music, for an escape from the chaos that typifies our lives. I chatted with folks as I left. Anyone in a concert shirt was a potential conversation. I had a fifteen-minute conversation with a guy in an ECV outside my hotel about tie-dye. Spoke with another gentleman outside my hotel room, telling him of my journey, and that this was my first show. His response was simply, “Welcome to the family!” While walking to catch a Lyft down to Fremont Street to zipline, I saw someone I’d spoken to in the elevator earlier that day, and he asked how my experience was. I told him the truth, that it was mind-blowing. When we were talking about the good vibes, he said to me, “You know, I gotta be back at work on Monday, and at some point, I’m going to ask, ‘Why can’t it be like this (now) every day?’”

            Why, indeed?

I will always find time to rock!

            And that’s when I understood. This isn’t just about an escape from your life for a few hours – it’s about creating a better life for yourself. Like the setlist, life changes from day to day. Feel the music and move with it. Enjoy the experience, since it’s the one thing that you share with everyone in the audience. Preach peace. Follow your passions. No one in the audience needed to be told the world is a scary place right now, and I appreciated that I wasn’t lectured by the band about what I should believe. We need more people that lead by example, to be people worthy of being followed. Why do we allow conflict to complicate things? So many are committed to their hate, and it’s nice to find someone out there that preaches concepts like love and peace, and they speak a language that we all understand – music. We may disagree on the type, but I’ve yet to encounter someone who told me they hate music.

            My Saturday evening ended at about 1:30 am. An elevator full of guys in Dead shirts, wolfing pizza into their faces. Most likely, the munchies, or at least a contact buzz from smelling the Vegas night air. Once again, I told my story, about my show, and about the anniversary of my friend’s death. They asked me his name, and when I told them, they raised their slices of pepperoni in unison and proclaimed, “To Keith!” Never have I been more convinced that he was with me than at that very moment. I fell asleep, content in knowing that I had found a new safe place and, at long last, I get it. I’m desperate to find another show, if there is one. I hope there is. Because for three brief hours, I touched Heaven, and my friend was there to smile upon me one more time.

            Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile. Here’s to one more Saturday night.

A sign that has become a tourist trap!