(This is the first of a three part series.)
        Road trip, early 90s, my old girlfriend and I visited my aunt and uncle in Columbus before heading south to the show at Buckeye Field, Ohio.  "My grandpa says he'll be grateful when they're dead," my cousin's 9 year old told me.  Oh well.  My Dad probably felt the same for awhile, but it wasn't a passing fad; noticing our consistent interest since my sister and I began participating in Grateful Dead shows in 1982, he gradually developed some respect for the phenomenon.  Dad finally accompanied me to a 1994 concert in Los Angeles; he's told me several times since that he counts it among the supreme experiences of his life.  Once in a while you can get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right.  This is the first of three articles on this unique strand of American culture.
         From CEOs to political activists, we're often overly serious and restrained in modern society.  Why shouldn't we sometimes dress colorfully, like flowers?  Joy and celebration are inherently healing and bind us into the human community.  I discovered my capacity for sheer happiness by dancing with the Dead; at times my heart expanded to embrace the whole world.  Sugar Magnolia, blossoms bloomin', head's all empty and I don't care...  I also learned to better accept the struggles of life.  Well the first days are the hardest days don't you worry anymore; 'cause when life looks like easy street there is danger at your door.  I wish I could've shared it with my wife, but I met her in '96--the year after Jerry Garcia died.  Still, there's nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile, which I do when recalling my experiences in something over 100 shows.
         I sure miss those shows, but don't dwell on it much.  If all you've got to live for is what you left behind, get yourself a powder charge and seal that silver mine.  Still, I'll carry these treasures always.  When my eternally cheerful mother died last year, the music welled up inside to soothe me.  All I know is something like a bird within her sang, all I know she sang a little while and then flew off; tell me all that you know, I'll show you snow and rain; don't cry now, don't you cry, don't you cry anymore; sleep in the stars, don't you cry, dry your eyes on the wind.  A few years before, I had written out the words and played some of the songs for Mom.  Jerry wrote songs with his friend Robert Hunter, whose lyrics are emblazoned in my soul.  Even more skeptical than my Dad had been, Mom was deeply moved when she listened carefully, saying "these words are very meaningful."  Reach out your hand, if your cup is empty, if your cup is full, may it be again; let it be known, there is a fountain, that was not made by the hands of men.
         Concert promoting pioneer Bill Graham said the Dead "aren't the best at what they do--they're the only ones that do what they do."  These were participatory--not spectator--events.  I'd often traverse the entire arena, dancing improvisationally with all the energy I could give.  Often dancing also in the parking lot before and after the show and inside the concert at intermission with Conga drummers playing passionate tribal rhythms, it could be quite a workout. Wouldn't you try just a little bit harder, couldn't you try just a little bit more?  Wouldn't you go just a little bit farther, a little bit further than you gone before?  Wheel is turnin' and you can't slow down, you can't let go and you can't hold on, you can't go back and you can't stand still, if the thunder don't get you then the lightnin' will.
         Often the music never stopped, but slow songs intermingled with fast ones; sometimes you could hear a pin drop, when tones were understated and rhythm became implied and internal.  From there, the band often climbed slowly to a thundering, extended crescendo, evoking truly volcanic emotion. Inspiration, move me brightly; light the song with sense and color, hold away despair; more than this I will not ask, faced with mysteries dark and vast; statements just seem vain at last; some rise, some fall, some climb, to get to Terrapin.
         We never knew what songs the band would play; I think they often didn't know either.  While the format was consistent--two sets of music with the second longer and more improvisational--within that framework no one knew what would happen; such a journey into the unknown could sometimes be scary. If you get confused, listen to the music play.  Whatever songs they played, they always navigated an immense spectrum of human emotion, from intensely poignant sadness to overwhelming joy and ecstasy. Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me, other times I can barely see, lately it occurs to me, what a long strange trip it's been.  The encore closing a show returned us to someplace familiar, someplace often lyrical but sometimes highly energized, depending on the mood of the evening. If I knew the way, I would take you home.  I was often struck by the peaceful quietude of participants meandering out afterwards, as if we'd all been meditating.  Back to someplace familiar...but pregnant with things to ponder in the wake of this adventure, this emotional journey taken in tandem with thousands of others.
         Next time, I'll talk about the community that emerged and took form wherever the Grateful Dead played, and about some of my experiences at these amazing events.
 
 
 

         The Grateful Dead Community:  second article in this series.