My Afterglow Moment: Dancing with the Dead

My Afterglow Moment is a series where staff writers and editors share their favorite music-related memories.

Written by Matt Iannelli

Photo courtesy of Jim Chapin

It would be incorrect to assume that the concert experience begins when the first notes play. There’s an ambiance surrounding the entire spectacle: the entry gate, the merch table, and those positioned around you. Deadheads know this more than anyone, and that’s perhaps why the community tends to take every chance to see the band play. Each show is a unique experience to witness an arrangement of music that has never quite come out the same before.

From my cursed West Campus estate, I walked the several blocks to the Frank Erwin Center, where just across the street, a pre-show ritual was forming. Shakedown Street—dubbed after a song from the Grateful Dead’s repertoire—was the chance for vendors to sell their custom t-shirts, food, and glassware, sometimes just to cover the cost of gas and a ticket to the next show. This would be your last opportunity to buy a beverage under $15 before entering the venue.

As I waited in line, I was reluctantly pulled into a conversation with a young couple: he had been a fan of the band for many years; this would be her first show. I watched him flex his knowledge and assure her that she would be amazed. I thought about my lonely present, my hopeful future, and the possible chance I might have to subject a date to the Grateful Dead one day.

I made my way to the pit, where people had lined themselves up at various sections of the railing to see their favorite band members up close. Incidentally, I found myself standing directly in front center-stage right, where a certain John Mayer would soon be preaching. It was about thirty minutes before the advertised start time, which meant it would probably be an hour before the band would actually come on. Chatter rose around me concerning the set list, which is the ultimate guessing game for the Grateful Dead community.

Having been to the show the night before in Dallas, I knew which songs would be repeats and thus ineligible to be played that night. “Do you think we’re in for a ‘Stella Blue’?” “Just give me a ‘Bertha’ opener.” Occupational friendships were formed all around, with no regards to age, and I was soon adopted by a traveling can of Californians—a most fascinating breed.

The community is really what brings this musical experience to the top of my list.  Beforehand, I felt reasonably anxious to stand in the pit without any prior friends or acquaintances nearby. But by  set break, we were already grabbing each other waters without needing to calculate the cost for compensation; there was an astonishing equilibrium of give-and-take.

Photo courtesy of the Dead & Company Facebook

We often hear about how music connects us and bridges our divides in an abstract way, but this was my first opportunity to really experience a community built around music and the ideas packed in it. I regret leaving without some way to contact the friends I made—but I think maybe one night together was all we had in our cards.

The Grateful Dead would be back on the road; I’d be back to bumming my way through a degree plan.