“Where do hippies live?” “Intense, man, intense!”
A simple joke that I heard from a housemate first year of college – probably over ramen and cheap beer in the common area of our dorm floor [not probably, it was, clear memory of the moment!].
It was also during that first year that I was properly introduced to the Grateful Dead, man.
I say properly as prior to college the Dead were that hippie band with that cool skeleton video for “Touch of Grey” and heavy rotation on classic rock with “Truckin'”. I knew folks followed them around, sleeping in tents (!) and VW buses, but did not know the music, history, or the passionate following they had amongst fans.
Growing up in southeastern Wisconsin close to Alpine Valley, there was the annual summer 3- or 4-day concert stand that I would hear about and would notice a different sort of customer at the local Piggly Wiggly and Quick Stop gas station. But neither I nor my friends ever considered tickets to shows or even just a pilgrimage to the pre-show parking lot for the fun.
Throughout college, I developed a liking for The Dead’s music but was more curious about all that surrounded the band: the devotion, the culture, the entrepreneurship to fund and fuel one’s following, the sharing of “bootleg” tapes, and the recitation of show playlists.
It was fun, I enjoyed the deep dive into their music catalog and there was always a building excitement around their tour stops. I even traveled a bit to catch shows across the Midwest and planned visits to friends to coincide with tour stops.
Then it all changed.
“Man, you missed a St. Sebastian show last night!”
“Space was good but not as good as last week’s closer in Indy.”
“It was cool until they went into ‘Touch of Gray’ out of ‘Dark Star’.”
I was there for the music and connecting to the carnival, but I started to sour on the scene when it seemed like some were there to one-up each other on their fandom and hipness.
Vegas clinched it. The Grateful Dead and Carlos Santana in a stadium outside of Las Vegas. Sounded perfect. Show in the desert sunshine by day, casino craziness in the neon-lit night.
Day One delivered: Santana opened with a vibrant, transcendent set leading into a Dead show that started with the sound of slot machines over the sound system. Then watching wide-eyed mesmerized Deadheads watch the real casino slot machines spin and spit out coins, smiling and cheering even when there was no payout.
Heading out from the hotel late morning with my friends for Day Two, we saw a tie-dyed hitchhiker on the highway leading to the show.
He hopped into the backseat next to me and we exchanged the typical pleasantries and small talk about “going to the show”. I am certain the offer of a beer or drag was made.
Settled in, he noticed that I was wearing an unbuttoned, pinstriped J-Crew button-down over jeans and a t-shirt. My friends in the front seat had on something similar. We seemed to be making coherent conversation.
He paused for a moment, looked us over, and asked “You guys aren’t cops are you?”
No, we left our uniforms at home.