Let’s be blunt: I never liked the Grateful Dead. I really didn’t want to know the story behind those psychedelic dancing bears, so I avoided finding out anything at all for most of my life. When I finally did hear the Grateful Dead, it was when my very own deadhead housemate named Joe moved in. My room was directly above his, so his speakers were my speakers in that special, thin-walls kind of way. I am pretty sure that Joe fell asleep to the Dead every single night. Sometimes I’d be concerned for his safety. Most of these times he was already asleep. My floorboards leaked lost flower children for six months straight. Looking back, I actually don’t know how I survived, considering what I now know about myself.
This year, on a different street, in a different house, I have a deadhead neighbor named Matt. Matt is a sweet guy, real nice, smart, English major, and he’s got this great beard. (Ladies?) In January, Matt offered me ride to a Splintered Sunlight show at the Blockley in Philly. My new years resolution also happened to be to stop flaking out of plans. When these two forces collided, I found myself staring the very thing I had always feared directly in the face. It was that thing that Matt and Joe had so elusively referred to as “really awesome.” I was at a Grateful Dead tribute show, far from home.
The first thing I learned was that when Splintered Sunlight plays a cover of a Dead song, it’s not a cover. But when Splintered Sunlight plays a cover of a Beatles song or Elton John song or Beyonce song (I wish!!), it is a cover. I learned this from a woman that laughed at me for telling her that Splintered Sunlight was the name of the band playing. What I thought was a public fit of confusion was actually a cute game for Deadheads in the know. She was guessing the song. Personally, my cover was blown, and I stood naked in my lack of Deadness.
There was another guy selling crystals outside the door in an ode to the Shakedown Street tradition. Nice guy. His dreads were divine. I asked to take a picture and he said no. “If you take my picture I’ll sell less.” Did he think my camera would steal his soul? His response sort of haunted me all night as I sat in a booth drinking Bud Light. I ended up putting my camera away altogether because I felt like a voyeur; I realized that I couldn’t participate in the experience fully because I just don’t respond to the Grateful Dead’s sound in any visceral way. It’s happy and cheerful like a soft meadow in a dream and everyone dances wildly, especially the old dudes on acid. I don’t move to that beat.
To me, artful music is sublime in happiness as well as sorrow and anger and passion and whatever. I like new sounds and pretending I’m from the future. Mostly, I tend to be a cynic sick with America and I want my music to respond to that in some way. Listening to the Grateful Dead truly is a trip in itself because it attempts to transport the listener to some imaginary happy place. That’s probably where those dancing bears live. I can’t relate.
Musical taste aside, everyone at the show was really nice. Considering I had been called a faggot outside of a 7/11 (Philly’s mean!) just 50 yards next to the venue, I was surprised by just how pleasant everyone was. This was a real community built on the legacy of a single band, and it was made up of all types of people, old and young, all dressed up in tie-dye. Matt was so taken away by the music that he went for a run when he got home. He really felt that energy of the show within him. I’ve felt that way before and it’s wonderful.
However, it’s safe to say I won’t be going to another Grateful Dead tribute show. Like Anime and Harry Potter, I think the ability to enjoy the Grateful Dead is some sort of biological predisposition. I love pickles. My grandma wears hats. I hate the Grateful Dead. It’s just one of those things. No big deal.
Sally Reisch