Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: 7/5/15

Last Set, Pre-Drums

July 26, 2015 / / 0 Comments
  • Fireworks go off at the end of the set break.
  • We are here:
  • Soldier Field -
  • We realize that the fireworks are meant to be seen from seats, rather than with fake Ionic columns and glassed-in Club Level suites looming overhead.
  • It just seemed rather impossible at the time.
  • You feel me.
  • In person, the columns and the new-fangled nonsense complement each other as poetically as any place named Soldier Field can hope, but in pictures, it’s a mess.
  • “Hey, what was the worst part of the past?”
  • “That it was terrifying?”
  • “And what was the worst part of the Aughts?”
  • “Everything.”
  • “There’s your building!”
  • The two Colonnades, one on each side of the building, are all that’s left from the old place, which was crumbling and spartan.
  • The new part–which is essentially all of it–was built in the early 2000’s and it is obvious.
  • Everything is off-white and sleek and jammed up against exposed structural components.
  • It looks like a dotcom office from 2002.
  • After the fireworks, the (kinda) Dead take advantage of the excitement by moseying into a little jam that takes its sweet time making its way to Truckin’.
  • Showmen to the last.
  • You know my feelings on the “long, strange trip” line, but that’s mostly overuse and lazy writing I’m annoyed with: when the (sort of) Dead sing it at you in a stadium and you sing it back, it is a good line.
  • Tryptophan is so loud in the speaker array that is directly in front of us: we are in section 336 and the speakers are hoisted in the air by a small drivable crane that is parked behind the Deafheads.
  • These are the Deafheads:

  • They are hearing-impaired, or deaf, or Deaf; this was an asset during the Vince years.
  • Like most things in the American Deaf community, Deafheads came out of Galluadet.
  • Deaf people smoke pot, too, it turns out.
  • And while I suppose there weren’t too many Deaf tapers or traders, a weird number of them got into going to shows, and they got an interpreter.
  • The Dead, perhaps tickled by the fact that they had fans who couldn’t even hear them, helped out and made sure there was always a space carved out on the floor, and a platform for the interpreter.
  • English-to-ASL is not a lateral move.
  • They’re different ways of interfacing with reality if you want to get all Sapir-Whorf about it.
  • They have a small corral made of metal barriers, and the interpreter faces away from the stage on a platform with a large monitor showing the close-ups of the band; many of the Deafheads hug large balloons to transfer the sound waves more powerfully into their chests.
  • People kept offering ten bucks for the balloons, which I think was classless.
  • Truckin’ is over and they are playing Cassidy, which makes us happy.
  • During the set break, we meet two of Chris’ friends who, though I do not know them, I know them.
  • Here is a secret about Jews: we only live in five or six places.
  • A couple towns in Jersey/Long Island/Massachusetts; Manhattan; Los Angeles; South Florida (and not all of it, trust me); and Israel.
  • That’s it.
  • Outside of these locations, you might find a Jew, but you won’t find the Jews – we tend to cluster.
  • One of the women and I were from the same New Jersey town full of Jews.
  • (Let’s see if we’ve got any Jewish Geography experts out there. Tell me my hometown: it wasn’t Short Hills, but it was pretty good.)
  • An opposing school once taunted our basketball team by throwing bagels onto the court, which is wrong.
  • Funny, but wrong.
  • Her dog had just died.
  • Up and died, precisely: woke up dead one morning a few days before the shows.
  • Dog was named Cassidy, and she was hoping for a Cassidy, and when we heard it, we texted her and danced and cheered.
  • I did not text her, as I still did not have my phone.
  • No matter how many times I patted my pockets
  • I swear on everything I love and cherish that I was reaching for my phone well into the second set.
  • And I was sober, too: I would have been able to drive a car.
  • On an abandoned airfield, or some other flat and empty space; it would also be advisable to not let anyone else anywhere near me.
  • But, I could drive, yeah.
  • This is what it looks like:
  • 19567294496_0cf37d1f50_o
  • We are on the other side of the stadium, and we are dancing and awaiting out Terrapin, which will be the transcendent moment.
  • One would assume.
  • What could go wrong?
  • Then Trey snaps out the opening chord and slide into Terrapin and 70,000 people raise their hands in thanks and joy and gratitude.
  • Who’s gonna sing?
  • Bruce does it with his band.
  • Trey could–oh, Sweet Baby Corn, what is this?
  • Phil.
  • …
  • Huh.
  • I forgave him instantly, although I was in a forgiving mood.
  • This is Martin:
  • IMG_1874
  • He is an adorable muppet.
  • When I have spoken about Chris and Martin, he has been the Martin; he can’t be the Chris, he’s too short.
  • He had been looking forward to the Terrapin; when we discussed the songs the (mostly) Dead might play, he got excited over the Terrapin.
  • Without any particulars, we had a long conversation this night about how much to do.
  • I’ll just leave it at that wording.
  • The decider was Terrapin: we would get a Terrapin this evening, so therefore – more.
  • We will get a Terrapin, so we should do more: this is good logic.
  • We forgot that Terrapin was a Phil song.
  • Box, Tom Thumb’s, Terrapin.
  • And there was the initial disappointment and confusion, but then that shit got funny.
  • Phil singing Terrapin was like Lucy pulling the football away from 70,000 Charlie Browns at once.
  • And Martin and I started having a great time laughing at the absurdity of it all, and doing our Phil impressions when, as I mentioned previously, the guy in front of us wearing a captain’s hat shushed us.
  • Which was right of him to do, but also funny as fuck.
  • Like: he wasn’t the captain of the section, man.
  • And then Chris–who disappeared fifteen minutes ago, ostensibly to get beer–comes back.
  • His friends are in hysterics, Phil is singing Terrapin, Captain Shushalot has turned the section into a hell-on-earth under his tyrannical rule.
  • “I leave you guys alone for two minutes…”
  • This is Chris:
  • IMG_1865(1)
  • He is the one who is tall, handsome, and not Benjy.
  • There is more to this photo; not much more, but a little.
  • There will, I feel, be time to talk about stuff during the upcoming Unbroken Chain>Days Between pairing, which may in fact still be going on.
  • The video screens come on for Drums.

Fifth Set

July 26, 2015 / / 0 Comments
    • It is the hottest day of the weekend, but there is little humidity.
    • Sweat pours from everyone, but it is a good and manly sweat.
    • The Dead (or whatever) comes onto the stage before the set and waves and hugs and bows.
    • It looks like this:
    • ©Jay Blakesberg
    • It should be noted that the men in this photo have not actually done anything except not die and turn up to the stadium reasonably on time and reasonably sober.
    • We cheer them, anyway.
    • It should also be noted that Billy is touching Phil.
    • And, while we can’t see it, we can be pretty confident that Bobby’s doing his goddamn prayer hands of thanks.
    • And then they kinda burble their way into China Cat Sunflower, which is too slow.
    • Let’s from here on out take “too slow” as a given and not discuss it any further.
    • This is what it looks like from our seats.

IMG_1847

  • Except not quite this dark, yet.
  • I’d show you a better picture, but I didn’t take any.
  • Left my phone in the house.
  • 21st century panic attacks start with the phrase “Dudes, where’s my phone?”
  • We were already in Grant Park and the traffic and crowd was gathering and gaining: there was no going back for it.
  • I patted my pockets many, many times.
  • That’s how you verify something’s state of lostitude.
  • Also, turning out of pockets.
  • I prefer to pat three times for every turn-out; that’s a helpful ratio.
  • We called the Uber; it was not there, so I patted down all my pockets again.
  • Still no.
  • …
  • Godammit.
  • I was being forced to pay attention, which thankfully has worn off.
  • Estimated is up, and it is an odd song to play in the daylight.
  • Up until the first notes of the last show, Deadheads had been playing their favorite game, Guess the Opener/Set List/Encore, whatever.
  • Several of us brought up the fact that these weren’t, you know, the third run of a 30-show tour in 1987 and therefore the old rules didn’t apply anymore.
  • And then we would go right back to guessing things and assuming that all the old rules applied.
  • ©Jay Blakesberg
  • Bobby is feeling it; he is growling and lunging and bopping around with no need for any sort of exercise equipment to lean on, and his head does that thing.
  • It’s like a horizontal headbang, sort of: you know what I mean.
  • Although, he now leaves an extra measure in between the lines of the verse of Estimated; it makes the song a little longer, so there’s that.
  • Otherwise, I cannot praise this choice.
  • The long and sinuous jam out of Estimated is slithery and the 70,000 of us sway back and forth.
  • We all bump shoulders and everyone is touching each other.
  • Trey is fucking things up and the sun is going down.
  • Fare thee well... sun - Nate
  • Candace’s lights blip and bleep on and off.
  • The spine of Soldier Field is now sizzling and the Colonnade is shimmying back and forth; if you look carefully, you can see a predatory smile on the face of the video screens and corporate suites.
  • Estimated leads into Built to Last.
  • More precisely, Estimated kinda curdles away to silence, and then Bruce counts everyone into Built to Last.
  • The irony of singing a song called Built to Last at a Farewell Shoe is lost on the crowd, mostly.
  • Troubadour is particularly Garcia-esque on this one, plucking the strings hard to get that chicken-picking sound.
  • TotD will now make a declaration about Jeff Chimenti: Jeff Chimenti is the MSG in the Chinese food of the Farewell Shoes.
  • You couldn’t point to what exactly it is that he’s doing that’s so good, but if he weren’t there, the food would suck.
  • (Monosodium Glutamate is perfectly healthy for you, or at least as healthy as anything other spice. That whole headache thing is bad science mixed with racism.)
  • It is a Sunday night, and therefore the men take off their hats and the women leave them on for Samson.
  • At some point, one must be truthful, even if only for one sentence and then never again: this Samson doesn’t quite compare to, say, the Cow Palace ’76 version.
  • But there are 70,000 of us and we are sweating because the sunset has not affected the temperature, and the heat in the stadium is alive and moving around.
  • Heat is supposed to rise, but it does not: perhaps the blimp scared it, I don’t know.
  • I’m not a meteorologist, man.
  • Jeff Chimenti is doing this now:
  • ©Jay Blakesberg
  • And the place roars for him and stands behind him and kneels before him; we yell for another chorus, and when he does not take one, we yell anyway.
  • Then, they fuck up the ending, which statistically is the correct way to play it.
  • If you just look at raw numbers, they completely whiffed the ending of Samson 70 or 80% of the time.
  • Which kinda makes it the right way to do it.
  • What’s better than Phil singing?
  • Phil singing a slow song with lots of verses.
  • What’s better than that?
  • If it’s a song that the Dead stopped playing the virtual instant they had any other material.
  • Dire Wolf with Bobby singing?
  • Thank God: cross Mountains of the Moon off the set list.
  • They are also playing Mountains of the Moon when the sun is up, much like the broad daylight performance of Standing on the Moon the previous show.
  • If they did it on purpose, then it’s funny.
  • There’s a lot of jam to this, and it’s bordering on Jazz Night at the Marriott, but Trustfund is soaring over everything and it’s a mellow hang, brahj.
  • There wasn’t much to this song in the first place: a couple nice chord changes, a rather hippy-dippy lyric with some nice phrases, and a melody Garcia couldn’t quite sing.
  • Phil doesn’t worry about the melody; Phil thinks the melody should fend for itself.
  • Truedetective and Jeff Chimenti are going at one another like Mormon teens at horseback riding camp, but they are hampered by their distance from one another.
  • At around ten minutes in, a very nice little funk shape starts taking place and Billy falls in and it sounds great.
  • And then it is time for another of the fifteen verses.
  • At this point, Tom Banjo can fuck himself.
  • “Y’know what song should be 13 minutes long?”
  • “Any of them except Mountains of the Moon?”
  • “Um…”
  • The transition into Throwin’ Stones is one of the Kinda Dead’s favorites: everyone basically stop playing except one guy, then follow that guy back into the song.
  • Bobby starts making up lines about buying governments or somesuch, and we cheer because we love Bobby, but in the stadium at the time, no one could make out what he was on about.
  • The band is quiet behind him now and Bobby’s neck is twice the size of a man’s and he is baying that we are on our own, and we sing with him and belie those words: we are not alone, not for one more night, one more set, one more song.
  • We will be alone, but not right now – we will be together tonight.
  • TREY’S DOING THE THING WITH THE FAST NOTES.
  • THE THING THAT GARCIA USED TO DO THAT WE LIKED SO MUCH.
  • OMIGOD, THAT SHIT IS THE BEST SHIT NO MATTER WHO DOES IT.
  • The kids: they dance, and shake their bones.
  • (I love that line and just realized why: it’s just fucking iambic quadrameter. Of course it’s a good line: it’s been a good line for hundreds of years.)
  • Bobby can still sing, straight-up.
  • Most old rock stars can’t, but Bobby lived right.
  • Also, he never really sang at the top of his range, which might help.
  • It seemed like a short set, but it was an hour and ten.

The Stacks

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