A Long Strange Trip
Bobby Weir tears into "Standing On the Moon" with a special poignancy as 20,000-plus concert goers feed into the emotional, waning moments under an early June Strawberry Moon.
At its best, the June 5th show at Star Lake Pavilion in Burgettstown, Pa. straddled the bright side of wonderment and rode it into a space that only truly exists in the present moment, before eventually collapsing into a fuzzy, antiquated version of itself. The pacing was never too frenetic. The deep, introspective stanzas never too drawling. The finest band to experience in this day and age in the thick of its final hurrah making magic out of tiny, powerful instruments reverberating the answer to what it means to be happy in the infinite present.
For as rough as a venue as Burgettstown is (and believe me, the 6 total hours of standstill traffic funneling through a single entrance, lackadaisical safety precautions in the lot, and complete lack of traffic control paints the justifiably irate side of this story) it will always have a unique place in my heart. It's where this particular iteration of my long, strange trip began with the boys in Dead and Company.
It was an unusually hot day in June of 2017 as I wrangled up Tony See and a few of our friends to go catch Dead and Co. at what was then still KeyBank Pavilion. I had been a Grateful Dead fan for a very long time, but much like other Heads I knew and talked to, I had my trepidations about this rendition of the band. I was fully content seeing Joe Russo or Dark Star or Phil Lesh or a nifty, talented lowkey cover band.
The main issue for me was John Mayer. How could he fill the shoes of Jerry Garcia? The answer was that it is not possible, and it never will be. But I allowed myself to give the band a shot after two years of listening from a distance. I would do one show that summer and go from there.
Tony and I discussed the possibility that Mayer might not do it for us. But, much like any good thing, the magic and music and atmosphere combined to provide a reassuring pat on the back: everything would be alright. The hot, thick June air would give way to a massive downpour that was cooling, but not chilling. The lawn was turned into a playful, muddy mess. The rain gave way to a beautiful rendition of Row Jimmy that John Mayer delivered with such poise that I knew everything could never be anything but exactly what it needed to be.
Over the last six years I've been to more shows than I could've dreamed and less than I've wanted, enjoying every step of the journey. Waiting in gridlocked traffic, I knew this would be my penultimate show, and I felt that I would get in and receive the experience I so wanted, so needed. I brought my friend Steve, who ironically, unlike me, is a massive John Mayer fan and had never been to any kind of Dead show. We were prepared for a good time. We knew we would get it.
Much like everything else in life, the good times are sandwiched between mundanity and/or difficulties. With 1.6 miles to go on the GPS, at 3:30 pm, we knew we'd be in for a wait. The traffic on 22 was at a standstill. We didn't fret. How can you in a moment like that? As a wise man once said, in the tough moments there's "nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile."
I'm keeping this particular entry brief, so I will do my best not to steal anymore cliche or overused lines that the Dead have given us, even if they hold the modicum of truth that have always made them resonate so powerfully.
On to the show.
It was a beautiful one. I told Steve that sometimes the first set in the daylight is more dancey, sometimes its the night, and other times, it's a mix that is so perfectly intertwined that we would transition between frenetic movement and slow swaying motions without much thought. Either way, we would dance. We all would dance.
I also told Steve about how we chase songs. With no two shows being identical, you never knew what you were going to get. My excitement brimmed over in the first set when I caught a truly beautiful version of Peggy-O. Bobby's slow, intentional delivery hit the part of my soul that reassured me that this particular trip would be alright; there has never been a show where a song hasn't done this for me. It exponentially increased the joy that accompanied the transition into Bertha>Cassidy>Don't Ease Me In, as I danced my way through the first set.
We caught the Wharf Rats after that at intermission. They're always an interesting bunch. I don't always see them at the shows, but being that we're a couple ourselves, and that Steve had heard tales of them and was excited to see them, I made sure that we'd seek them out. In any event, it never hurts to have a meeting in the middle of the show.
And from there we went to the second set. The night set. We repositioned on the lawn. Steve found some friends from back home. I eased in to the music with Viola Lee Blues. I've always tended to appreciate the night sets more. They're more intimate to me. The whole set was electric. We've touched base on Standing On the Moon already. Trucking was lively. I always love an Oteil song and China Doll was vibrant. China Cat Sunflower>I Know You Rider got me dancing. Drums/Space was exceptionally far out. Althea got me dancing again. After Standing On the Moon, I was pleased with the encore being The Weight. It was another song I had been chasing. And in more ways than one they took the weight off of me, for one more show.
I get the feeling that they did for Steve as well. We didn't get home until nearly 5 in the morning (that damned, awful traffic), but in the moment between the nuisances, he had stepped out of the car and onto the bus. It's always good to have another passenger. I know that the bus will keep going, long after this leg of the journey ends.
As for me, the current end is near, but for now, it's on to Boston at the end of the month for one last Dead and Company show.
