My brother recalls exactly where he was when Jerry Garcia died. He claims I called him while he was living in London at the time. I don’t remember that moment, but I vividly recall a coworker looking at me and saying, “You look like you just lost your best friend.” In a way, I sort of had. It was a somber day for me and many fellow second-generation Dead Heads. As teenagers and young adults, we spent our summer earnings on concert tickets, T-shirts, and camping fees, all in a fervent quest to catch the Grateful Dead live.
I still remember my mom dropping off a friend and me at my very first Dead concert when I was around 16 or 17. I was overwhelmed but instantly fell for the vibrant hippie atmosphere. When I returned home, I excitedly told my parents how amazing it was—without mentioning all the substances I had seen floating around.
I began my collection of Dead music with vinyl records, but soon upgraded to cassette tapes. Displaying my collection of bootlegged shows in my stylish wooden tape holder was a badge of honor for me. My wardrobe consisted of my cherished concert t-shirts, cut-off jeans, Birkenstocks, and long, flowing skirts. Oh, and that hair wrap that college boys adored and my parents despised. I even took my Dead posters to college, and I nearly lost it when someone at a party decided to stick tacks in the eyes of the band members.
Part of the joy of attending Dead shows was the thrill of discovering the world on my own. Camping and traveling without parental supervision felt liberating, even if the portable toilets were questionable. The camaraderie of friends, music, dancing, and, let’s be honest, some underage drinking was a taste of the good life.
Fast forward to July 5, when I found myself reliving those memories with my brother and two friends while watching the Dead’s farewell concert at Soldier Field in Chicago. Now in our mid-40s, we reminisced about our touring adventures, friends, and wild escapades before the show started. Laughter filled the air as my brother and friend fondly held onto their old concert shirts, even the sweat-stained ones. They’ve saved ticket stubs, too.
What was different this time? We were seated in a local movie theater instead of the grassy fields we once loved. I may have hurt my back trying to dance in my seat, and we were glued to our phones, checking our friend’s live updates from the actual concert. Instead of flickering lighters, we saw the glow of smartphones illuminating the crowd. It was a Sunday night, and the looming workweek was just around the corner after a long holiday weekend. Our drink of choice? Cokes.
However, some things remained the same. We knew our friend at the show was sporting his 28-year-old Grateful Dead jean vest. We missed Jerry, but the music still brought us as much joy as it ever did. Fellow theatergoers whistled, clapped, and sang along, reigniting that blissful feeling we chased during our youth. We knew all the lyrics and sang along, tinged with nostalgia for the band, our younger selves, and the friends who shared those moments.
As I dragged myself to work the next morning, I played the Dead in my car, grinning and singing to myself. Texts and Facebook messages flew between those of us at the movie theater, those at the live concert, and friends scattered across cities. Some even shared photos of memorable moments from our past—like Buckeye Lake, Ohio, 1988. Yes, we remember the dates and venues. I also devoured coverage of the shows by the New York Times, sharing links with friends.
It’s been a long, strange journey, and I feel fortunate to have experienced it all. Thank you, Grateful Dead.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s memories surrounding Jerry Garcia’s passing, illustrating the nostalgia tied to attending Grateful Dead concerts in youth and how those experiences resonate even years later. It captures the blend of past and present as they revisit those joyful moments with friends, sharing laughter and music, bridging the gap between then and now.