After three long nights of Dead & Company the LSD was wearing down and the Guinness had taken hold. Stage lights still flashed behind my retinas in strobes of red and blue. Bobby’s cracked and aged baritone echoed in my ears. It was the 60^th anniversary celebration of the Grateful Dead, featuring Dead & Company with John Mayer at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. All weekend, I’d been interviewing fans, old and new, about the Grateful Dead community and what has allowed it to thrive for so long. Well weathered, with no goal left but a hot slice of pizza before catching my flight back to Flagstaff, I thought I was done with interviews. Then I met Torrance.

Enter Halal Modena Pizza, corner of 6^th street in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. Homeless, disabled, drunk, doped and nodding junkies littered the block. At the counter, I shifted on my aching feet, stomach growling for two hot slices of Pepperoni, the kind that drips with cheese and has more grease than sauce. As the balding Arabian man slid them into the oven, I noticed an old black man slumped at the corner table. His knees jutted out beneath the round table, too tall for the small seats. His white Steal Your Face T-shirt winked at me from beneath his black chore jacket. “Hey man, cool shirt.”

He thanked me with a stony nod as I pulled up a stool. I took in the sight of him, from his drooping oval face and the even gap between his long and horse-like top and bottom front teeth, to his dilated pupils magnified behind his thick black square frames. I realized he wasn’t just old; he was ancient. The oldest Deadhead I’d met all weekend, possibly one of the oldest Deadheads still alive today. And somehow, I just knew—you always know—he was still tripping, too. “Did you enjoy the show tonight?”

“It was quite a trip.”

“Have you seen a lot of shows then?”

“Tonight was my 259th.”

Forget the pizza. Quickly, I pitched my story about what has made this community thrive for so long. So long that 30 years after its leader’s death, across three nights upwards of 180,000 dedicated fans came out to celebrate this band we know and love, even when only two of six members of the current iteration, Dead & Company, are original members. Even when maybe only half of those 180,000 fans actually got to see the original frontman, Jerry Garcia live. Not many bands have ever celebrated a 60^th anniversary concert. So, what is it that continuously draws new fans to see a band and join a community they never experienced in its prime? What calls the old fans back? What values have preserved this community? And what will happen after Bobby, Mickey, and Billy K all eventually die? But most of all, I had to know, after 259 shows what does it mean to him to be a Deadhead?

“Follow your own path.” Torrance tapped his foot, clasped his hands. “Not the one that’s laid before you.” After 259 shows across 52 years Torrance was still doing his favorite thing, walking his own path. Just like me, he’d traveled solo to see his favorite band even at the expense of having to journey home, still high on LSD. It wouldn’t be until later I understood the significance of our meeting but already I was eager to hear more.

**

Born to two Deadhead parents in ‘94, just too late and right on time; I never got to see Jerry Garcia play. I was raised on songs like Dire Wolf, Monkey and the Engineer, Uncle John’s Band, Eyes of the World and Estimated Prophet, and through years of listening to live Dead tapes in the car I slowly fell in love with the music. I’ve always been curious about the Grateful Dead culture and community. When I was eighteen, I often spent my weekends listening to live Dead recordings, high on acid, imagining what it must have been like to be there. Then, in 2015 the 50^th anniversary Fare Thee Well shows were announced for Soldier Field in Chicago, the last venue Jerry Garcia ever played. I’d never imagined I’d be able to experience the real thing, or as close as I might ever get. I’d taken my dad to festivals to see bands like Twiddle and Pigeons Playing Ping Pong. We’d taken mushrooms together multiple times and he fully supported my newfound interest in the Dead with stories of hitchhiking to Dead shows through the backcountry of West Virgina, Maryland and Pennsylvania. But when I told my mom I was headed to Chicago to see the Dead, she came home and snapped at me, drunk after a date with her new boyfriend. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing going to see the Grateful Dead? You’re not a Deadhead.” She waved a stubby finger in my face. “I saw Jerry in the 70’s. How dare you. You don’t even know what it means to be a real Deadhead.”

“What does it mean to be a real Deadhead, mom?” I stood my ground, palms wide at my sides. “I love the music, too. Just because you got to see Jerry, just because you were born before me doesn’t matter.”

Index finger still raised, emphasizing and hanging on her I’s, “I just don’t think it’s right.” She slurred as she spoke. “I should be going. Not. You.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s very Deadhead of you to say, mom.” I cut through her with the same cold hazel-brown eyes she’d given me. “I’ll let you know how it is.”

The next day, instead of getting mad at her I hit up my friend Paul Bee (RIP) and bought her, my older brother, and my younger sister all Lucky Glass, Grateful Dead Steal Your Face pendants. Mom’s was a special edition flat faced, peach and cream colored with a raised swirl in the forehead, of a variety Lucky rarely blew. I don’t remember what else was said between us on the topic, nothing, I think. But I left it on her nightstand with a note: what does it mean to be a real deadhead? I’ve been asking myself that question ever since.

**

As the number five bus lurched through the morning fog packed shoulder to shoulder with tie dye and anticipation, I worked up the courage to talk to the obvious heads closest to me. It might seem easy to make friends at a Dead show, but I’ve always been a shy person. I’d set out to write this story not just because I’m deeply interested in Dead culture but because on some level I’ve been itching to find my place in this community, to prove to myself I belong. This whole weekend there was always a fifty-fifty chance I might chicken out and not talk to a single new person. In every interaction my career was sink or swim. The problem was I wasn’t sure where to start. I had a friend who was here this weekend, and I’d imagined I might score some easy interviews off his many friends, but something in my gut told me I was utterly alone. I had to find a balance between pushy, overly formal reporter and lonely try-hard. This was my first time ever attempting a journalistic report and I was nervous I’d seem intrusive. There’s something that just doesn’t feel right about a formal interview at something as loose and free as a Dead show. So instead of interviews, I set out to have conversations. My only criteria were they had to feel natural and that any person I spoke with would be the right person.

A burly father-son pair in final tour tie dyes gripped the yellow handrails just a few passengers ahead. I introduced myself and asked which stop was ours.

“JFK Drive, I think.” The veins bulged on Ted’s meaty bicep as he gripped the rail. He was tall and bulky with that hometown dad-bod that’s not muscular but not fat. Something about him said high school gym coach. He’d come with his wife and his son, both of whom he’d managed to turn into heads. As we got to know each other through the usual questions, how far did you travel? Where are you from? Chance would have it that his parents also live in Maryland, just down the street, exactly a one-minute walk from my mom’s house. “Fuckin’ Smalltimore,” I said, and we both laughed. “So, you got to see Jerry?”

“Quite a few times.” Ted’s smile painted his face from ear to ear, the way every Deadhead’s does when they get to talk about the band.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s changed since then? Is the experience any different for you?”

Ted glowed as he told me he’d started seeing The Grateful Dead in 1985. What continues to draw him in is not only the fact that he genuinely enjoys the music, and that it’s an experience he can now share with his son, but also the community, the love. “The people are all so inviting, and welcoming.” He adjusted the tilt of his Red Sox cap which I suspected he might be balding beneath. “It’s as if you already know everyone. Even if you don’t, you know you already share the same favorite band so making friends is easy.” He shifted with the sway of the bus and tightened his grip on the yellow handrail as we careened over a series of potholes. “It’s like we’re family.” He told me It’s been hard without Jerry, but the energy and the love are still there in the people and the openness of the community. “There’s less people playing hacky-sack.” The bus revved and whirred as we hurled down Market Street. “But otherwise, it’s mostly the same.”

I thanked Ted and at the expense of seeming like a nosy outsider I explained the essay I was working on. “Do you mind if I quote you?”

“Please do.” The Market Street traffic reflected in the glare of Ted’s aviators. “My brother’s a reporter. As soon as you asked that question, I said to myself, this guy’s in media.”

“That obvious?” I chuckled, rocked back on my heels and caught the bar to balance myself on the bouncing bus.

“You look the part.” Ted splayed his arm wide. “Blazer and all.”

I shrugged, shrunk a little. Maybe the blazer was a touch too much, but it had become my staple in recent years. A tan corduroy blazer with a trippy Melt your Face patch sewn onto the back. I’d picked it up at a show in Phoenix on the summer ‘23 final tour and I’d been wearing it ever since. If I was going to report on the Dead, I had to look the part. A stylistic link between my lot life and the literary world, I donned it most days when I taught fiction during my MFA to show my students I mean business, but I like to party.

**

Inside the show, the crowd spanned decades—tattooed millennials in bootleg band tees chatted up gray-haired women in flowing skirts, while college kids with colorfast tie-dyes passed pre-rolls next to families with shoulder-sitting toddlers. I surveyed the crowd looking for my friend, the one person I already knew in this whole venue. He’s the elusive type, the kind of hippy who doesn’t often check his phone, regularly loses his shoes, and might not see my call until hours later. I scanned face after face to no avail. Something told me he was either already barefoot, dancing right in front of the stage or else he’d gotten sidetracked and hadn’t made it into the show. Either way, I pressed on. Not a familiar face in sight, yet something told me I was home.

After the band closed out the first set with Althea I wandered past abandoned blankets and crushed Coors cans to the middle section of the crowd, determined to find a fan to interview.

Before long, I met Sheila, squat and curvy, with grey shoulder length curls and dot patterned red, white and blue bolt glasses, which I doubted she could see much through. She told me the last time she’d seen Jerry was at RFK stadium in ‘94. She recalled once being stopped by a state trooper because of a bumper sticker that read free your mind smoke the kind. Which apparently gave him probable cause. The trooper shredded the van, seats and all and eventually he found their little vial of liquid LSD which they convinced him was eye drops.

I could have listened to her stories all night, but finally, I asked her some of the questions I’d been dying to find answers to. “Do you feel like the love is still there? What is it that keeps you coming back?”

“Oh yeah, the love is still there for sure. You’re always meeting someone new, and they have such great stories. I’ve seen the Dead with Jerry, I’ve seen Further, Phil and Friends, all of them. It’s always a little different but it’s the music we love that brings us all together.”

“So, what—if you could pin it to something—what do you think it is that’s allowed this community to bridge generations and thrive for 60 years?”

“That feeling that we’re all a part of it. Back in the day you had the tapers so even if you missed a show, you still heard it. There weren’t many other bands that did that. Even in the parking lot scene, fans were allowed to use band art to sell their own merchandise. That’s what built the community. The fans weren’t just consumers of the music. They made it all possible and Jerry knew that.”

“And what about miracles? I think maybe it’s harder to expect these days with how much ticket prices have risen but it still happens, right?”

“Getting a miracle is the best feeling.” Sheila’s face lit up with the effervescence of someone who’d just heard her favorite song live for the first time. A miracle is a free ticket. Its fan tradition, if you can afford to, to give away your extra ticket. Some fans live solely off miracles and have never once purchased a ticket. “But you’re right. Unfortunately, it’s all much more expensive now. Back in the day unsold tickets were often passed around outside the box office. Someone would come out with ten free tickets. And Jerry supported it. If they weren’t going to be sold why not let people in?”

I admitted I’d never tried for a miracle myself. I’ve never been willing to risk missing a show if I’m going to drive, fly, or bus all the way out for it. I’d rather pay full price than get stuck on the lot empty handed. That happened to me only once in Camden New Jersey, 2016 and I was miserable. “But I did get to give a miracle once. In Phoenix, ‘23.”

“It’s such a good feeling, isn’t it?”

I agreed. But the question remained. As ticket prices have skyrocketed from $10-$20 bucks mid 70’s to now somewhere over $150-$250 a night, $630 for a face value three-day pass to this weekend’s run at Golden Gate Park, at what point is it too much to hope for a miracle? Sheila told me how ticketing companies put a stop to most of the free giveaways, which she speculated may have contributed to the gate-crashing incident in ‘95. Following the Deer Creek gate crashing incident the Grateful Dead sent a letter through their fan mail service, asking fans to please not come if they didn’t have a ticket. This Darkness Got to Give. As crucial as the parking lot scene was, and still is, it had begun to draw the wrong crowd. People who weren’t fans but just came for the drugs and the party crowded the lot. If you don’t have a ticket, don’t come. This is real, the letter read.

I braced the rail and leaned on my side. “I noticed the Sphere seemed to cut down on a lot of that riff raff. You know the type, dirty kids selling fake doses. It seemed like most who were there were able to pay their way.” Tickets to the Las Vegas Sphere shows were the most expensive yet. Before resale a base of at least $275-$350 for average seats, and much, much more for seats with a better view or even floor tickets. Until I paid $175 for a Sphere ticket on resale I’d never paid more than $150 for a ticket, which I paid for one of the last three shows at Oracle Park during the final tour in ‘23. Before that I’d never paid more than maybe $100. Usually, I’d been able to find one somewhere in the $60-$80 range. 

Sheila neither agreed nor disagreed. “Well, if that’s the case, maybe I just didn’t notice. It did seem like the lot was more compressed both for time and space. But I think that’s more a symptom of the lot being at the Casino.”

I wondered about that, too. A casino seems an odd place to celebrate a band founded on free love and open exchange. Yet it was oddly fitting to the ethos of the music given fan favorite gambling ballads like Deal, and Loser. Many fans discounted the Sphere as a big money grab. Strategically released after the band had generated mass FOMO with the final tour in ‘23—many thought that meant the last shows ever, though it was only ever booked as the final tour. Not the final shows. However, ticket prices likely reflected the sheer magnitude and immersiveness of the Sphere as a venue, more than Dead & Company as a band. “Do you think it’s just a climate of the times as a result of capitalist society or are the Dead selling out in some way?”

Shiela crossed and uncrossed her arms. “Capitalism, mostly. It exists here just like anywhere else. I don’t know if you can blame any one factor. Things are more expensive than they used to be and that’s not changing anytime soon.”

That was a fact. Prices had risen all around. What’s more is the Sphere even attracted celebrities, some who were never even Deadheads began to attend—celebrities such as Seth Rogan, who were wowed by the experience and mesmerized by the Dead, who took acid, possibly for the first time. In recent years, many celebrities, who otherwise probably never would have given a second listen, from Kelly Clarkson and Chief Keef to Jonah Hill and Pete Davidson have all been spotted sporting Dead Tees. A trend that perhaps began in 2015 when Bobby Wier and John Mayer first played Althea together, live on the Today show. Often referred to as the Justin Bieber of rock, John Mayer may be solely responsible for the Dead catching the mainstream Hollywood eye. Young, attractive, talented and popular with an ear for the blues; there’s no doubt Bobby made a wise business move forming the band with Mayer as his front man.

I wonder, has this once counterculture icon become a capitalist commodity? Dead isn’t just in style. It’s in vogue. More and more name brands, from American Eagle and Lucky Brand to more designer houses like James Perse, Del Toro and Meghan Fabulous are selling their own Dead shirts, shoes, and designer clothing lines. The question, whether this is a good or bad thing may be as difficult to answer as it is pretentious to ask. The Dead have always been pervasively inclusive. Fans caught selling bootleg merch were traditionally given licensing rather than lawsuits. The fact the music is reaching more ears is a beautiful thing indeed, but the attraction of a wealthier listening class brings with it a trend of increased ticket prices and fancy high-end merch along with a branching fan base that can afford to pay these new prices. I understand the disenfranchisement with a counterculture once home primarily to outcasts and drifters now transcended into mainstream bandwagon. But this issue is nothing new. The term “touch head” has been thrown around for years, referring to Touch of Grey, The Grateful Dead’s 1987 single and only ever Billboard top 40 hit, which drew in tons of new fans. A huge success for the band. A detriment to many longtime heads, who viewed this mainstream success as a lure for the straight-laced world they sought to escape. Yet, the question remains, who is a real Deadhead? Who gets to decide who is or isn’t a true fan? Shouldn’t a true head invite these new fans in and show them the light? Feed them a dose and watch their freak flag fly. Can you pass the acid test?

The crowd corralled behind us returning to their blankets and the second set was about to begin. I had just one more question for Sheila. “So, it’s still worth it?”

“100% if I can afford it, I’m happy to keep coming.” Sheila palmed the rail and eyed the stage, anticipating the band’s return. “I don’t think the magic reaching new fans is a bad thing.” I could see Sheila’s answer clearly reflected throughout the crowd. It was worth it to everyone here. Worth every dollar. Worth every mile. Every spanged tank of gas. Every missed miracle. Worth every sacrificed day of work. No judgment. No shunning. Just open arms and mutual joy. We’re all home. Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile.

 As the band sauntered on stage for the second set, Grahame Lesh joined them, wearing his late dad, Phil Lesh’s big brown bass and the crowd cried out in joy. The air stilled. The mist lingered. Silence. Suddenly, the crowd went wild, erupted, whooping in unison as Grahame Lesh sang Box of Rain, a song written and sung by Phil Lesh, who just left us not even a year ago, on October 25^th 2024. I couldn’t help but feel like this was symbolic of this cross generational embrace I’d been analyzing all day. Were Bobby and Mickey inviting Grahame into the fold? Passing the torch, as it were, and honoring the next generation who will continue to sing these songs we know and love?

**

Saturday’s crowd swayed beneath a thick and hazy fog indiscernible from the weed. The dance floor was flush with beautiful people twisting in offbeat grooves, fluttering their fingers and noodling their arms. My friend was somewhere up front, riding the rails stage left but I doubted I’d be able to find him. I’d been trying all weekend to no avail, mostly from a failure to communicate on his part. He’s what you’d call a spunion, a certain brand of wook who’s achieved a sort of perma-trip nirvana through repeated overexposure to psychedelic infinities so abstract he’s become psychedelia itself. His very aura is the mystical experience. Alluring and whimsical as he is, this often comes at the expense of all rational organization and structured planning. We had plans for him to scoop me from my hotel and ride to the show together, but he disappeared into the ethers, his phone died, or maybe there was some other reason he was unable to call me back. I had begun to suspect maybe he was avoiding me, though time has told me it’s often much more innocent. It may sound like I’m making excuses for him and perhaps I am. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to call me back or commit to one solid place to meet but I’ve known him long enough to accept his nature is overcommitting to multiple often competing arrangements to later prioritize whichever most immediate side quest demands his attention. No doubt, he was a living metaphor for half the fans in this crowd. When we finally got in touch he’d apologized and said they’d lost track of time and driven straight to the show. He told me where in the crowd they’d posted up, now it fell on me to wade through 60,000 swaying bodies.

I wiggled through the swaying sea of tie dye as close as I could to the stage, wedged myself into the back left corner near the emergency exit where a pocket of spinners created an opening. I dropped a microdose, shook my joints loose and found my groove. Now, I faced a choice: Press on to find my friend or make some new ones.

During the set break, groups of shirtless shaggy haired guys and short girls in 3XL tie dyes sat in oblong circles to share joints and vocalize their amazement with the first set and the songs they hoped to hear during the second. I sat crisscrossed on the metal platform and massaged my knees, next to three guys who appeared to me just the freshman heads I wanted input from. Dawson, Daniel, and Jason. Three white skater, stoner looking types from SoCal, no older than 22. Their cheeks were still soft with baby fat and innocence. I could tell from the hemp backpack Dawson was the group’s dedicated roller. He offered me the joint, but I politely declined. “So how long have you been heads?”

“A couple years.” As Jason bobbed his head, his golden blonde hair shimmered with sweat, parted down the middle straight out of Boy Meets World.

This was their fourth show. They attended last night and would come tomorrow, too. In addition, they’d seen two shows at the Sphere, all three of them together. I continued to prod. I’m a journalist, I told them, and I was dying to know, assuming they’re younger than me and had also never seen Jerry, what was it that got them into the Dead?

Jason chimed in first. He’d heard a few songs, but nothing clicked until he listened to a full album. “Pink Floyd was my favorite band before the Dead, but I never felt inclined to seek out a Pink Floyd cover band the way I did with the Dead.”

This distinction interested me. Maybe Pink Floyd simply didn’t entice the same curiosity of the live experience the Dead do. “So, what keeps you coming back?”

“The love,” Daniel said. He held the sleeves of his Celtics sweatshirt wrapped around his shoulders and his windswept slicked back curls swayed at shoulder length as he rocked side to side. “It’s all about the love.”

“The community, too.” Dawson flicked ash from the cone shaped joint. “Everyone’s just so welcoming and it’s easy to be comfortable.”

“And the dancing. There’s no more fun music to dance to,” Daniel said.

“I’ve never felt so comfortable dancing with a group of strangers.” Jason took the joint from Dawson and pressed it to his lips. “It’s like everyone knows each other.” Exhaling a smoke cloud that muffled his voice, “We’re already friends.” 

“And do you feel like the older heads treat you well?”

“So well. They have all these crazy and amazing stories. I can tell they’re glad we’re here.” Jason turned the joint over in his hand, ensuring an even burn before he passed it to Daniel.

“I can agree with that. At 30, as someone between the old and new heads—guys who are 22 such as yourselves—I feel like that’s my job. To hold the door open. To show you the light.”

“What about you, man?” Daniel asked. “Did you get into the Dead and then decide you wanted to write about it or what?”

I told them how I was raised on the Dead by two working class Deadhead parents, that I’m working on an addiction recovery memoir titled “I Need a Miracle” centered around an epiphany I had at the Phoenix Dead & Company show in ‘23 and the Dead inspired short stories I write based off of Grateful Dead song lyrics. “This is my 28th or 29th show. It just felt right to write about it. To find a common story in other people’s experience.” What I didn’t tell them, I’d hoped this story could help me break big, establish my readership and elevate me from passing fan to true insider. Not a lot hustling shakedown vendor or part-time paper-pusher of the psychedelic revolution, but a Minglewood-must-read, Hell-in-a-bucket-herald, sole scribe of the Terrapin-times. When I saw Dead & Company at the Sphere, I passed out short stories I’d written inspired by Dead songs such as Me and my Uncle and Looks Like Rain. If I could find a story here it might springboard my success and help me generate a buzz, and maybe I was just as scared as everyone here: Could this be my last chance?

 “So, do you feel like you missed out at all?” I asked. “Not just for not seeing Jerry but because of how much came before you showed up on the scene?”

“Well, it’s hard to say. I would have loved to have seen Jerry. But John is so talented, and the music is great.” Jason’s eyes were bloodshot and glossy in a way that reminded me of myself at his age. Light tan freckles dotted his sun burnt cheeks and his mouth drooped between words. “I can’t really know because I wasn’t there to experience it. But I used to wonder a lot what it would have been like to have been there. Like Woodstock.”

I cheesed wide and told him I used to do the same thing.

“I just really hope they play more,” Dawson said.

“They will.” I nodded. “So, what happens next do you think? Say, after Bobby?”

Jason tilted his head. “I don’t really know. But I’ll be there. There’s always someone playing Dead.”

Dawson, the quiet one, nodded his head as he took a fat drag from the joint.

“The music never stops,” Daniel said.

**

By the end of the show, my feet ached from dancing, and my grumbling stomach led me to Haight Ashbury and The Mad Dog in the Fog for some hot chicken strips and cold Guinness. My friend and his crew, who I’d never found during the show, were headed to the Great American Music Hall to dance the night away with Melvin Seals and the Jerry Garcia Band, but I was tapped. Something told me this was the place to be tonight.

 The Mad Dog is a cozy Irish pub with sticky dark wood floors and a mahogany bar top strung with hanging lights above the taps. All the bartenders wore generic pink, yellow and blue tie dye and live Dead played through the speakers, just audible over the rumbling chatter. About the time I’d started munching on my chicken strips and celery I made friends with this stout blonde Canadian head wearing a cream-colored cardigan over a faded dye who’d traveled all the way from British Columbia to see the shows. His O’s gave him away with that unmistakable peaked inflection of the Canadian accent. As fate would have it, he was on acid, too.

“So how long have you been a head?”

He thought for a moment. “Oh, now that’s a question I can’t answer.” 

“That long huh?” 

“No, it’s just a question I can’t answer because of the acid.” 

“Funny how we always find each other.” I went back to my chicken while he recovered his train of thought. Once we’d started chatting again, I asked, “What brought you down here?”

“The band. The music.” He shrugged his shoulders, perhaps a little shy at revealing a slightly more outsider status. But there are no outsiders here. Not truly. Headier-than-thou insiders just have something to prove. Those who feel they’re outsiders may still appear as insiders to others who are even more of outsiders, who may yet appear as insiders to others even further removed. A new fan is no less a fan than an old fan. If you weren’t one of Ken Kesey’s merry pranksters or don’t know the band personally, can you even truly call yourself an insider? 

“Well, my friend, I think the universe wanted us to meet tonight.” I told him about the story I was working on about what it means to be a Deadhead, how things changed post Jerry, and if they might one day change post Bobby. “As a Canadian here to see what I might argue is the most American band there is, I’ve got to know, what got you into the Dead?”

“Well, it was this fucking groove, man.” Maybe it was the LSD, but he reminded me of a Hobbit. Stout and stocky, wavy blonde shoulder-length locks, a bit downhome. The cardigan didn’t help his case. He spaced off for a bit, then eyed the bartender pouring his Guinness. “I’d never heard anything like it. It was Dancing in the Streets.” He continued to tell me the story, how his boss played Dancing in the Streets, Cornell 5/8/77 to be exact, a recording widely acclaimed as one of if not the best single evening of live Dead ever recorded. His boss told him story after story of following the Grateful Dead and Johnny was hooked. His boss had an extra ticket to the very last show at the Sphere. Johnny just had to go.

“So, what keeps you coming back?”

“The people man. The environment.” Johnny’s eyes wandered again, his train of thought somewhere far beyond the bar as he glanced around the room. The bald bartender dropped off his Guinness and he pressed the rim to his lips. “I mean, when I hear Morning Dew, it does something to me. I’m not sure it matters who’s singing it.”

I agreed with that statement. The lyrics are so universal, Sturgill’s version is just as poignant as Bobby’s as was Jerry’s. “So, do you feel like you missed out on anything in terms of seeing Jerry?”

“Well yes and no. It would have been amazing, but I just try to focus on what’s in front of me here. It would almost be a waste of time to wonder because then I’d be missing oot ‘n what we have now.”

At that moment a new friend joined us at the corner of the bar near the door, one of the few strategic openings to order a drink. Shannon was easy to love, her face as bright as Christmas under her knit beanie. Her dainty frame and slender shoulders found plenty of space between Johnny and me. Shannon ordered an herbal tea, and Johnny added it to his tab. She told us about her first show, at the Spectrum in Philadelphia ‘94 when she was sixteen. A straight A student, her mom only allowed her to go because her principal, who unbeknownst to Shannon at the time was an undercover head himself, gave his approval.

When I asked Shannon what drew her to the Dead initially, she said she’d been seeking something different, other than the homogenized white mainstream communities she grew up in. “Of course, the Dead wound up being homogenized white, too, albeit in a much different and non-mainstream kind of way.” Something about it felt like home to her. She expressed many of the same sentiments I’d heard all day. The community, the love, the way everyone deeply appreciates, accepts and welcomes each other. That’s what makes this community so strong.

“Does it capture the same magic?”

“Yes, but in a different way.” She sipped her tea, eyes to the ceiling as she gathered her thoughts. “The last time I was at Golden Gate Park was right after Jerry died. They had this vigil, and everyone was crying. Now to be here again…I can feel love all around, in everyone I talk to. I mean, we just lost Phil and if you had told me now, he’d died I would have said oh, well, he lived a long and happy life and he got so much more time after his battle with cancer and his liver transplant, but I bawled like a little baby.” Shannon replaced her mug on the little round plate. “I cried just as hard for Phil as when we lost Jerry. He was an important part of the community; someone we’ll never get back but he’s still here with us. Jerry too.”

I nodded my head. I’d only seen Phil play twice. Once at the Dear Jerry concert at Merriweather Post Pavillion, and again at Fare Thee Well at Soldier Field. “I’m just glad I got to see Bobby.” I took a bite of hot buffalo chicken then washed it down with Guinness. “He’s giving us everything he has left.”

“That’s what everyone’s wondering but no one wants to talk about.” Johnny sipped his beer then set it on the bar top. “What happens after Bobby?”

I rubbed my chin and cocked my head. “In twenty years, we’ll all be at different Dead cover bands and kids will say wow, you got to see Bobby?”

Shannon nodded.

“I sure hope so,” Johnny said.

**

By the third day my synapses were shot but I was still lightly tripping. During the set break I befriended a guy named Andrew, who introduced me to Dr. Steve, a 69 year old head who’d been seeing the Grateful Dead since 1973. He turned sixteen at his first show, Summer Jam at Watkins Glenn Park. He’d lied to his parents and told them he was staying over at a friend’s house. He shook my hand with such vigor I wouldn’t have believed he was almost 70 had he not looked old to me in the way my grandparents seemed old when I was a kid. He wore a forward baseball cap, and a navy-blue Hawaiian shirt dotted with little palm tree islands. The kind of guy you’d never guess was a head if you met him out in the world. “The only bad vibe I ever felt at a Dead show a Hell’s Angel pulled a knife on me. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. But other than that, it’s all been so much love and joy.”

Dr. Steve represents what’s so amazing to me about the Deadhead community. How it cleaves classes, not how it divides but how it unites. It’s perhaps the one place doctors and professors party with homeless tour rats and lot lizards, all one and the same, all united by peace, love, joy, acceptance, and the love of our favorite music.

“So does Dead & Company still capture the same magic for you?”

“It’s just as magical,” Dr. Steve said. “Even more so.” In no uncertain terms he expressed the same sentiments I’d been hearing all weekend. It was overwhelmingly unanimous. Each and every person I spoke with in this crowd expressed the same gratitude and positive endearment to both the band and the community, young and old, veteran or new. The love. The community. The people. Maybe it really is so simple. A Deadhead is a Deadhead, and time has shown us we’re stronger together. Communal values are a reciprocal exchange of shared experience which compound with time, strengthen through loss, don’t crumble or easily fade away in the face of change. Instead, they embrace and grow with it, like a tie dye spiral ever repeating. Each color compliments the others. The ripple spreads outward toward infinity.

**

After Sunday’s show, leaning on the bar top waiting for a Guinness at The Mad Dog in the Fog, I sent my friend a text to let him know where I was if he wanted to drop by. There was no need to tag along for his after-party plans. I was confident I was right where I needed to be. Moments later, I met John. Only 22, skinny in a way that made his sweatshirt seem to swallow him up. Tonight was his first show. John also grew up on the Dead because both his parents were heads. For the last few years, he’d been wanting to make it to a show, but it just hadn’t worked out yet, because of Covid, then college, other family functions etc. “I don’t know if this was Bobby’s last show,” John said. “But after the way he looked tonight, I don’t know if I have high hopes.” He rested his hand on the counter, trying to make eye contact with the bartender. “I just hope John keeps it going ya know?”

“That was not Bobby’s last show.”

“I don’t know he looked pretty rough.” He and his dad had watched the first two shows from home, and both agreed Bobby looks like he’s at the end of his rope. They found tickets and flew up from Boston just for tonight. “We thought it might be our last chance.”

Little did we know just how right John was. Bobby would pass peacefully less than six months later. Deadheads worldwide would weep. We would miss and mourn him dearly, with tears, but also smiles, grateful for the time we shared—grateful for the love, the friends, the family and the home we found through the music. Deadheads would take to Haight Street and local venues across the country to hold each other close and celebrate his life. But the question in our hearts would remain the same. What happens after Bobby? How will the scene carry on?

“Listen man, I’ve been to a lot of last shows this is what they do. They draw in the energy with a limited run and play off the fear this might be it. But there’s always more. Bobby is fit. He does yoga and Thai chi. He said himself last night, he has nothing better to do.” The bar filled up behind us with regulars and other heads herding in like Gazelle to the local watering hole. Most of them older, or in between like me. Too old for a real after party, not yet ready to faceplant into their hotel duvets. “Bobby’s hoping for ten more years. He’s said multiple times; he’s going to play until he drops.”

“I don’t know. I just hope John keeps it going, I don’t want it to stop.”

“I don’t think it would be the same for me then.”

“We can’t let it die though, man.”

“It’s not that.” I paused for a moment to gather my words, realizing how I might sound like the same curmudgeons who bash any iteration of Dead post Jerry. “I don’t want it to stop. It just wouldn’t be the same for me without Bobby. As much as I love John—he’s such a talented musician and he has a beautiful voice—Bobby is what makes it Dead to me. I’d still support it, and I’d see them if they came to my town, but I don’t think I’d make as big a deal, drive across the country or spend as much money if it was just John. Bobby is my Jerry.”

“But it depends who he brings with him. John and Billy.” John flared his hands so fervently he might just manifest it. “Now that would be amazing.”

“I can agree with that. That would be one hell of a show. Especially if Oteil and Jeff were there. Jeff on keys is a huge part of what makes the band work so well.” The bald bartender in his generic three tone tie dye dropped off my drink. I thanked him and marveled at the dirty blonde foam as it rose through the black beer and settled off-white at the rim my Guinness. “But Bobby’s not done. Bob Dylan just turned 87. Bobby’s only 77. We might easily have another ten years.”

I sipped my beer and thought to myself about our conversation, the creamy foam perfectly cold as it soaked the hair on my upper lip. Billy Strings, who opened the concert Friday night, began his musical career playing frequent Dead covers. In many ways, he’s already been carrying the proverbial torch. But he eventually stopped playing Dead covers because he wanted people to enjoy more of his own music. Though, what John was getting at has been on all our minds this whole weekend. What happens next? After Bobby dies, too. John is 100% correct in his assertion that the spirit of the Dead will continue to live on through Grahame Lesh, Billy Strings and John Mayer, as it already does through Trey Anastasio and Phish, and everyone who has ever played with and been inspired by the Dead. Plus, as long as Billy Kreutzman and Micky Hart keep drumming, there will always be more Dead to dance to. Dark Star Orchestra and Joe Russo’s Almost Dead will continue to draw crowds. There’s even been speculation of Grahame Lesh forming a legacy band. Even still, John’s words echo something ominous yet inspiring. Auspicious. “We can’t let it die.” Yet everything that dies precedes the cycle to sprout new life. Something new will bloom.

“There’s a message in the music,” I tell him. “There’s a reason they played Touch of Grey last. We will survive.”

John nodded his head and put his buzzing phone to his ear and assured his dad he’d return soon with the beer. My mind drifted off on another tangent spurred by our conversation. The community and the culture will continue to thrive, sure. But will it ever be the same? Nothing ever is. It’s ever changing. Ever evolving. Just as each new Grateful Dead concert was its own unique experience each new iteration of the band has been as well, and yet it is essentially the same in the way it captures our hearts and inspires our being. In the way it grants us a sense of belonging. Though, at what point do we call it something else entirely? Even when they play some of the same music? Billy Strings has his own career. So does John Mayer. These musicians will forever love and honor the Dead and for certain will cover a tune from time to time. The very tradition of the Dead is the art of the cover. Boasting performances of roughly 378 covers and only 189 originals, some might argue The Grateful Dead were the biggest cover band that has ever existed. But I think most Billy Strings fans would rather hear him play Dust in a Baggie.

The music will certainly survive, and I’ll be the first to eat my hat if I’m wrong, but I don’t think Dead & Company would keep playing post Bobby, no matter who might be willing to take his spot. No one will ever play rhythm guitar like Bobby Wier. Bobby studied the jazz pianists and dedicated his craft to playing chords in as many unique and interesting voicings as possible. He lays the foundation that allowed Jerry Garcia, and now John Mayer to take the music to such creative spaces. I palmed John’s shoulder as I sipped my Guinness, the off-white foam mixing milky brown in the dark beer. “Don’t feel like you missed out on anything though man. You’re here now. I promise you there’s more to come. What a hell of a first show you got.”

“I guess,” he said.

“I didn’t see Jerry either. But we can’t know what we missed out on because we weren’t there. We can only be glad we’re here.”

“You’re right,” he said. “But I wish so bad that I could have seen Jerry play.” With his and his dad’s beers in hand John traipsed into the back of the bar and I drank down my own fears.

I keep asking myself if it’s wrong to ride the coattails of the Dead to elevate my own success or if I can even springboard my career before the loose ends of this coattail are tied and this community fades into obscurity. The popularity of the Dead has recently bubbled up into a pop culture phenomenon. But all that bubbles eventually bursts. Even if I did succeed, would I be accepted? Or would I be ridiculed for trying to latch onto a culture I never experienced in its prime? Would I be cashing in by riding this wave or simply expressing my truth while honoring something I know and love? It’s not something I like to think about, whether one of the most important and inspirational parts of my life is simply the uproar of the end of an era, a remembrance of a nearly bygone time or a culmination, the new beginning of a magical and continuous journey. I sure as hell hope this wasn’t Bobby’s last show. I sipped my Guinness and thought to myself, you’re on the bus now kid. You’re on the bus now.

**

The night had wound down, the long weekend was sadly over, and I had to be at the SFO Airport by 4 AM. But sitting across from Torrance, I was reminded there’s always time. Always so much time. Torrance rocked lightly back and forth with glowing eyes and a painted smile. “Tonight was a show like I haven’t seen in a long time.” Tonight’s show reminded him of Watkins Glenn Park in ‘73. It was a similar vibe, in a big open field with almost as many people. His older sister went to Woodstock, and he was too young then, but he turned eighteen just in time for Watkins Glenn. He’d grown up on the blues since he was five or six years old. Ottis Redding and James brown. But the Dead turned him onto blues he’d never heard before, musicians like Elmore James.

“Back then you could go to a Dead show, or you could see Bob Marley and quickly we learned at Dead shows they didn’t crack down on us for being stoned.” Torrance sure looked stoned, but even at 70 years old he still looked young. His skin was only slightly ashy, hardly wrinkled and barely any grey peeked out beneath his black beanie. I frantically jotted my notes as he continued on. “In 60 years, I have never once had a racial issue or any form of discrimination at a Dead show. Anywhere else we went we got thrown out. Whether because we were stoned or because we were black, but at a Dead show we blended in. We could get high as hell, trip on acid or mushrooms and everyone treated us just the same.”

I was fascinated, for obvious reasons. 259 shows is no small number, but on top of that he was black. I don’t mean that in any discriminatory way or any manner of otherizing. Bluntly put, black Deadheads are rare. They exist, sure, I even know a few back home from Baltimore. But there’s no denying black folk are in a minority at a Dead show. Everyone I’d spoken with until now had been white. It was enlightening to me to hear how accepted Torrance has felt. A musical movement strong enough to erode social barriers is profoundly progressive. No wonder it endures. We’re all human. We all belong. Maybe the only ones who don’t get it are those who feel the need to criticize the legitimacy of others’ Deadhead status. If color doesn’t matter, why should how long you’ve been a fan or if you ever saw Jerry? Black Deadhead, Canadian Deadhead, Touch head, Mayer head, a Deadhead is a Deadhead. We can all share the love.

Torrance was a bit disappointed because he’d thought the show would last a lot longer than 10 PM. According to him the Dead used to play until one, sometimes three, in the morning. It gave more time for the acid to wear off and he’d really hoped they would have played Ripple.

“I thought they would have played Ripple, too but they played Broke Down Palace. And tonight, we got Touch of Grey. I wonder if there’s a message there. We will survive.”

“You know I think so. I’ve seen a lot of Grateful Dead cover bands. The last one I saw, they were really talented. Grateful Shred, I think that was their name. You have to be a really talented musician to be in a Dead cover band. I taught classical piano for years and I know music. You can’t not be a great musician and play Dead. Because that’s part of the art. The Dead were always so raw. That’s your one job as a musician. Not to perform. To give raw music. It’s not about flashy costumes or good production.” Torrance trailed off a moment, then brandished his spindly index finger. “That’s why Michael Jackson always sounded fake to me. He was a man who didn’t even know what he was singing about. But the Dead were so real. Jerry studied classical music and Phil started on Coltrane with the Saxophone. Not many other musicians have that foundation. The music was real. That’s why it survives.”

I noticed the even gap between both Torrance’s top and bottom front teeth as he continued to tell me how things changed in the rock scene around the mid 70’s with Black Sabbath. RIP Ozzy Osbourne. “Around ‘75 when bands like Black Sabbath became popular everyone started doing Opiates.” Torrance shook his head in clear disapproval. “You know Jerry beat opiates. Eventually diabetes and other health issues got to him. But opiates changed the overall scene. All these new folk rolled up with harder drugs. These days I just do a little bit of acid. The same people I’ve been getting from for over fifty years, who I trust. Old hippies only.” Torrance curled his lip as he glanced out the pizza shop window.

“Speaking of opiates.” I displayed my palms, presenting exhibit A, doubled over where they stood, doped and nodded.
            “What is this place, man?” Torrance heaved a deep chuckle. “I told the bus driver I wanted some food, and he dropped me off here. I didn’t think this seemed like a very nice area.”

“They call this the Tenderloin,” I said. “They can’t arrest them anymore, so all the junkies hang out here.” Here on the same streets Jerry Garcia one knew, the dope epidemic is worse than it’s ever been. I told him how familiar this scene was, having grown up around Baltimore. “I have ten years clean, myself.” I pointed out the window. “Lucky I didn’t wind up like this. Just a little acid and a beer or two—that’s all I do these days.”

Torrance congratulated me and concurred; I really was lucky. “And I’ll tell you…” Torrance tapped the table with his long leathery index finger. “That’s the only downside. Having to go home when it’s over. The bus ride home to LA still tripping.” Torrance and I both laughed, and I asked if he’d had gone all three nights, but he’d only gone the one.

“Never miss a Sunday show,” I said, and Torrance nodded. Naturally, I had to ask Torrance, of all my interviewees, if the same spirit was still here in the Dead community.

Torrance told me how things slowly changed from the 70’s until now. Ticket prices rose. Greedy ticket companies cracked down on free box office tickets. But the people are just as kind. “The one place the spirit of the Dead survives the most is the rainbow gathering. Have you ever been?”

I hadn’t. Though it’s long been on my list.

“Everyone brings what they have to contribute. Except money. If you offer anyone money, you’ll insult them. They set up a community kitchen and play acoustic Dead tunes around the campfire. Everything is bartered for, traded, or shared. Just no money.” Torrance rapped the table with his knuckles. “It’s the one place money doesn’t exist, and the spirit of the Dead is very much alive there. You have to go.”

It was almost time to leave. My flight back to flagstaff would be leaving soon and I still had to pack. Torrance was due at the Greyhound station within an hour, and we both knew we had to tie things up. “Just one more quick question, if you have the time.” 

“Of course, man of course.”

“What does it mean to you to be a Deadhead?”

He crinkled his brow, thought for a moment. “Follow your own path.” Torrance tapped his foot, clasped his hands. “Not the one that’s laid before you.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Treat people how they should be treated. Give people a message they can pass onto others. That’s what’s made the Dead’s music last so long. Not just because it’s so good. Because the message is so universal it easily passes to other generations.”

My mom never answered this question when I’d left her the stealie pendant before the 50^th anniversary in Chicago, but ten years later Torrance answered it better than anyone could. “Part of what I’m hearing you say is the spirit of the Dead and Deadheads is authenticity, from the Dead giving raw music to the way we treat people.”

Torrance nodded his head and the thin gap between his long white teeth revealed itself as he smiled wide. “Exactly.” We both shook our stiff legs as we rose to our feet and shuffled toward the front door. “That’s what it means to me to be a Deadhead,” Torrance said. “Follow your own path and light the way for others.”

Even as the Grateful Dead eventually fade off the scene the love will not fade away and they will forever be honored, remembered and loved by every band that carries on their legacy.
I think of the old joke: how many Deadheads does it take to change a lightbulb? The answer: None. They never change it. They follow it around until it burns out. There’s something of merit there. A lightbulb shines brightest before it burns out. It’s called going supernova. A star does the same thing. Maybe a band even more so. If we change that bulb, will it shine just the same?

I find comfort in knowing that whatever comes next, whatever happens after Bobby, Billy Kreutzman, and Micky all leave this broke down palace to knock on Heaven’s door, we will survive. As long as there are heads to pass the music on to younger ears, as long as cover bands still play Dead the music will never stop. The love, the kindness and the mystical wonder will continue to uplift and enchant all who seek it. The music, as it always has, will continue to find those who need it. As long as the kids still dance and shake their bones, grateful to be alive, it will still be Dead to me. So, whatever comes next, what I want to know is, how does the song go?

We exchanged information then clasped hands in the bright entry way of Halal Modena Pizza and Torrance commenced the conversation with one final thought. “The Grateful Dead have given me 52 years of Joy, man.” He rocked his head side to side with the wide smile of someone staring at their grandma’s famous apple pie, a timeless recipe, a family tradition passed down from generation to generation and there, reflected in his dilated pupils, I envisioned myself one day doing the very same. “52 years of joy,” Torrance said. “52 years of Joy.”