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I Remember Where I Was When Jerry Garcia Passed Away
My brother, Mark, has a vivid memory of the moment he learned about Jerry Garcia’s death. He tells me I called him while he was in London. I don’t recall that call, but I do remember a coworker looking at me and saying, “You look like you just lost your best friend.” In a way, I had. It was a somber day for me and many fellow second-generation Dead Heads. As teens, we spent our summer earnings on concert tickets, funky T-shirts, and camping fees, often finding excuses to skip work, family events, and school just to catch the Grateful Dead live.
I still remember the day my mom dropped my friend and me off at my first Dead concert when I was around 16 or 17. I was taken aback at first, but I quickly fell in love with the vibrant atmosphere. I went home and gushed to my parents about how amazing it was, conveniently leaving out the part about all the wild stuff I saw.
I started my music collection with vinyl records, but soon I upgraded to cassette tapes. I took pride in collecting bootlegged shows and displaying them in my fancy wooden tape holder. My wardrobe was a mix of cherished concert shirts, cut-off shorts, Birkenstocks, flowing skirts, and that hair wrap that college guys loved but my parents despised. I even brought my Dead posters to college, and I was furious when someone at a party thought it was funny to stick tacks in the band members’ eyes.
Part of the charm of Dead shows was getting out in the world and experiencing life for the first time. Camping and traveling without parental supervision felt exhilarating. Sure, the portable toilets were less than ideal, but the freedom to connect with friends, enjoy music, dance, and even indulge in some underage drinking was a taste of the good life.
Recently, I found myself reminiscing about those days with Mark and a couple of friends as we watched the Dead’s final concert at Soldier Field in Chicago. Now in our mid-40s, we couldn’t help but laugh as we shared stories from our touring days. Mark and my friend still have their old shirts, even the sweat-stained ones. We’ve kept ticket stubs as mementos.
Here’s where things changed: we were at a local movie theater instead of the actual concert. I think I might have strained my back trying to dance in my seat. We kept up with a friend’s Facebook updates from the live show on our phones. Instead of lighters, we saw crowds illuminated by the glow of phones and iPads. It was a Sunday night, and work was waiting for us after a long holiday weekend. We sipped on Cokes instead of beers.
Yet, some things remained the same: we knew our friend in the audience was rocking his 28-year-old Grateful Dead denim vest. We missed Jerry, but the music still filled us with joy. The other movie-goers were just as enthusiastic, whistling, clapping, and singing along. The thrill we used to chase at live shows was still palpable. We knew all the lyrics and belted them out, this time with a bittersweet nostalgia for the band, our youthful days, and our friends.
As I drove to work this morning, I listened to the Dead, grinning and singing along. My phone buzzed with texts and Facebook messages from those at the theater, the live concert, and friends in other cities. Some shared photos from memorable times—like Buckeye Lake, Ohio, back in ’88. Yes, we remember those dates and venues. I read all the coverage of the shows in the New York Times and sent links to my friends.
It’s been a long, strange journey, and I feel grateful to have experienced it. Thank you, Grateful Dead.
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Summary
The article reflects on personal memories associated with Jerry Garcia’s death and the Grateful Dead concerts, intertwining nostalgia with the joy of shared experiences. It highlights the evolution of attending shows from live concerts to movie theaters, while maintaining the same love for the music and camaraderie.