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Archives
Looking back |
I think I may finally be seeing light at the end of the tunnel. You see, I'm a Deadhead, and the two years since the bus stopped have been pretty rough. I haven't been charting my passage through the seven phases of death or grief or whatever, but I'd imagine that my reactions map pretty well to a typical experience of a death of a loved one. For the legions of you that never appreciated the Dead, that statement must seem ridiculous, and I a fool. You may have viewed the Dead as a bunch of dinosaurs long past any dubious prime they may have claimed, self-indulgent noodlers that often as not produced rambling, aimless jams that lacked any discernible structure or satisfying climax, or a bunch of guys that couldn't sing very well. Your tastes may not lean toward expansive exploration without a guaranteed payoff. I understand completely. For all the Deadheads in evidence, a love of the Dead is hard to explain to those that don't share the feeling. It's a feeling I very nearly lost. It's difficult to explain how and why a person would invest themselves emotionally in the fortunes of a rock and roll band, and subject themselves to the pain of the inevitable end as I did. I think that it's an unintended consequence of just how much effort was involved in chasing the increasingly infrequent sublime moments of Grateful Dead music. Once I experienced the pure exhilaration of the Dead hitting on all cylinders, that musical space where six musicians with only the most basic structure to work from spontaneously improvise a miraculous thing of beauty, I was hooked. It's the most complete merging of creativity and cooperation I've ever witnessed. The trouble was that you were never assured of witnessing this miracle. As often as not, you wouldn't. When the Dead were great, they were phenomenal, but when they were bad, they could be embarrassing. The urge to be there when they were great was so compelling that I, like most Deadheads spent not only much time and expense to be present when they played, but had learned to be patient, forgiving, and studiously attentive to the music while waiting for the magic. We survived many train wrecks en route to Terrapin. As I once wrote of my other love, pop music, "It doesn't ask you to cultivate an appreciation for it. It's a whore, it expects nothing from you." Deadheads have to meet the music halfway. I had done that, and when in an instant it ended with the Death of Jerry Garcia, part of what I felt was a sense of betrayal. I felt let down. Something I held as precious had been taken from me. I had long viewed Dead shows as a spiritual happening. Countless moments of instant communion with complete strangers, and the feeling that I could be my true, unguarded self there, had made these shows a time out of time, and a place without place for me. I felt revitalized and refocused after attending Dead shows, and I began to depend on them for that. When I'd been too long in my day-to-day world without a show, I'd begin to need one. Now I'd have to do without. I was angry about it, but in denial. On the WELL, a online conferencing system I'd joined to find other Deadheads following the death of Dead keyboardist Brent Mydland in 1990, a topic was opened entitled "I Am Still a Deadhead" where people could publicly affirm our continued adherence following the demise of the group. I wasn't prepared to let it go, if letting go was required. I proclaimed my steadfastness. Earlier this year, Steve Silberman, senior culture writer for Wired News, and co-author of Skeleton Key: A Dictionary for Deadheads wrote on the WELL, "Sometimes I can't even listen to the tapes anymore - the mixed emotions the music brings up are too difficult, too muddling of what's most precious with what must be left behind, death and loveliness entwined too closely for any kind of comfort to reach where I, increasingly, find myself: in the shadow of the shadow of the moon. For the promise of the music was always: More Life. In the midst of the wastelands where one can find oneself trapped the music brought a promise; and that promise is now broken as Time's promise is kept." These eloquent words struck too close to home. I'd begun to feel this way but didn't want to face it. Without a thought I soon stopped listening to Grateful Dead music. It seemed a thin reminder of the fullness of my Deadhead experience. Of course I haven't forgotten that the touring experience had become fraught with frustration, and by the summer tour of '95, it finally collapsed under it's own weight. People were getting hurt, too many folks were failing to be respect the scene, a show got canceled after clueless idiots went on a rampage. The joy in the music was no longer a sufficient counterbalance to the increasing misery of the scene. It wasn't working anymore. It had gotten beyond the point of being reparable, and perhaps it was inevitable, and perhaps in a way desirable that something bring the madness to a halt. It's a goddam shame that it was such a terminal solution. Very recently I've begun to play my tapes again. Perhaps I've formed a scab over the wound, or I just miss the music badly enough to suffer a little hurt for the joy it contains. I now find the mixed emotions manageable. Yes, it's bittersweet. The most glorious moments are the saddest, and it's all too clear that the recorded artifacts will forever remain a sorrowful reminder of what the broader experience was like. I'll attend the Furthur Festival again this year and try to find the old feeling. Once again I find myself trolling the 'net for set lists and anticipating a Deadhead experience. Maybe for a moment I'll find one. Being a Deadhead means something different for me now. Now I believe that the emotional consequences of being a Deadhead contribute to what that means in a way I hadn't anticipated. Being a Deadhead has transcended the consumption of art. Underscored is the realization that being a Deadhead isn't just an appreciation craft or of vicarious experience through narrative nor is it simply about the visceral effects of great rock and roll. It's a part of my real life, my personal, emotional history, and so it will always be. It's not without pain, but I'd no more distance myself from the Dead's music than the memories of a departed loved one. Grateful Dead drummer Mickey Hart once opined that the Dead was in the transportation business. The music still moves me, and as long as it does I will remain. I am still a Deadhead.
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