The Dead have a way of finding me. They first found me in 1985, an impressionable high school sophomore; they found me for the last time in Chicago; and they found me, and I mean really found me, so many times in between. And now, to my surprise, they have found me again.
Though I had no plans to see Dead and Company after bidding the Grateful Dead fare thee well, admittedly a bit perplexed by the John Mayer thing (though not sure why) and the “final show” bait and switch (oh the technicalities), it seems once again that I was bound to be Dead.
A few days ago, I learned that my family’s pre-planned and painstakingly arranged White House visit happened to coincide with Dead and Company’s Washington, D.C. show at the Verizon Center. To make it even more irresistible, it was a few blocks from my hotel and tickets on the Evil Stubhub were going for a mere 25 dollars with fees! Alas, I sold my soul immediately, the Devil being a mélange of Stubhub and the loathsome and allegedly talented John Mayer.
Not quite sure where the Mayer-hate comes from. I know very little of his music, but those few numbers that received a lot of airplay back during his heyday were definitely palatable. “No Such Thing” was a solid song, though you felt a little guilty after listening, sensing there was some obligation to not like him. But let’s face it, he is a creative force and he can play well, and the fact that he’s genuinely into the Dead should forgive him his prettiness and celebrity. I, like Bob Weir and company, agreed to give him a chance.
So after spending an incredibly beautiful day in our nation’s capital, basking in 80 degree temperatures during the first week of November (global warming kids, enjoy it), I bid my family goodnight and headed down to the Verizon Center with an open heart and mind. Heading down F Street, at each corner I started to notice more of my fellow heads converging on ground zero, an aging and weathered bunch we are, but no less complicated. We acknowledged each other with knowing glances and eyes raised in righteousness. We were heading down to the show, and it felt real and right. I was going to see the Dead, though there are many out there who would argue against that assertion.
The Dead died along with Jerry. This sums up the feelings of many. And clearly for them, this is true, which brings us to the central point; the Dead live inside us. Being a Deadhead, and attending a show, is a highly personal experience, albeit one that you share with thousands of other kindred spirits. So if for you, the absence of someone as uniquely magnificent as Jerry Garcia has ended that feeling, well that’s valid. But if you are willing to soldier on, as many fans must have following the 1973 death of Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, well then the fun continues. It’s up to you.
I grabbed a seat directly behind the band, always a fan of the poor man’s backstage, where one is afforded a close view of the players without eschewing dancing space for proximity. I hung out and made fast friends with those seated around me; a potent brew of moms, dads, sons and daughters; some sober and some inebriated, there were normal folk and of course, your obligatory shifty-eyed sketched out trip-devil types. Oh yeah, it’s on!
The show shrugged to life with a lumbering “Truckin'” that went directly into the blues cover “Big Boss Man”. Both songs reached some high points, and you could see the band was feeling out the energy, setting their pace for the marathon ahead. But the Dead have definitely have slowed down with the years. Bobby, affectionately coined Mr. Slow Down by Trey Anastasio in a recent interview with Relix, has only become more enigmatic and profound with the years. In his eyes, you can plainly see his pain. He directs the band with an eerie mastery and tension, his guitar playing as perplexing and beautiful as ever, coaxing the instrument more like a piano than a six string. Yes, he brings the slowness, but on this night it all makes sense.
It takes some time, but for me, they lock firmly into the magic when playing a sweeping and heart rending Loser. This loping ballad, explosive and grand at its choruses, was executed perfectly by this incarnation of the Dead. Bobby, as dramatic and convincing as ever, sings the cathartic opening lines with uncanny flair: “If I had a gun for every ace I have drawn, I could arm a town the size of Abilene.” So fitting, this man, the other one, has indeed beaten the odds, and he is still out there making a dent in the collective conscience. Once the baby of the band, he has assumed the role of patriarch and has taken on the role as only he could. Later on in the second set, he would play a Looks Like Rain that hit extremely deep. It was sublime.
I can’t pick apart every nuance of the show. It’s personal, and I really don’t want to. I could tell you that the “Eyes of the World” during the second set was among the best versions I have ever heard of that song. Bass player Oteil Burbridge not only shined during this song, but anchored the rhythm section firmly throughout the show. Customarily, I got a bit lost, in a good way, during Drums and Space, until I was brought back down to Earth by a great conversation with a 25 years sober step-mom out with the kids. For her too, the Dead are alive.
Dead & Company’s Oteil Burbridge Shares His Grateful Dead, John Mayer Experiences
So much kvetching there has been surrounding these shows. “The Dead are done. Trey’s better. Mayer’s cuter and a better fit!” Wait, did they say that? Though seriously, who’s to judge? I will disclose that as a Phish phan, I have a metaphorical shrine to Trey Anastasio in my soul that I bow down to regularly, but I cannot deny that John Mayer played wonderfully with the Dead when I saw him. His singing was on point as well, evoking for me hints of Stevie Ray Vaughan. He showed himself to have a great ear, and his ambient accents colored the music throughout the night. Did John Mayer bring the sun shining through crystals? For me he did. As far as Trey vs. John, let’s just say that these two gentlemen, both fine and accomplished musicians in their own right, kept the flame alive in their own way, and they both have done so splendidly. I am so grateful to be open enough to love them both.
Will we ever lay the Dead to rest? Will Bobby keep taking the band out on the road well into his seventies and eighties? Or will he hand the reins over to John Mayer one day, eventually morphing into a Dead with no core members left, a Grateful Menudo for the ages. Who knows? The Dead have always been greater than the sum of its parts. So for now, be grateful if you can still enjoy what is Dead to you.
Danny Steinman (@DannySteinman)