Must Have Been the Roses

It must have been the roses. 

Yesterday I tuned up my old fixie in preparation for what I was hoping would be a nice peaceful cruise around the venue. She got new tubes, a chain adjustment, buffing on the shiny side and lube on the greasy side. She, Trixie, was dressed to the nines and ready to rock. I even went so far as to customize a chain attachment to the trucks bike mount so that any well-intentioned but wheel-less Deadheads would not be tempted, something I heartily laughed at walking to the ticket like. You leave the keys in the truck but you chain and lock your bike? Right. 

I had built an additional hour into the schedule to accommodate the bike tour, which immediately backfired when traffic slowed to a screaming halt at Lake Kachess on Washington’s infamous I-90. Deciding that I would not lose a video op, we pulled over at the Vantage crossing of the Columbia and I filmed the remainder of the commute, right up to a nifty job of parking, backing around a small drum circle, a lemonade vendor and a frisbee toss. I was late, there would be no ride, but damn I like the initial vibe of this place they call The Gorge. 

I change clothes, adding the last minute tie-dye Dead T  bought in ’93 for a Chicago show, and shorts. I wrap my Husky hoodie around my waist, pop an ice cold Pacifico, lather up a been and rice burrito with fire sauce and break off a casual piece of chocolate chip dosage. I decide not to try to smuggle in a GoPro, take a photo of the parking area designation (17) and set sail for the concert lawn in a half-step too-dal-loo. I feel good, the four hour drive behind. I am already scanning the crowd because as you know I love hippie chicks. And I have come to the right place. 

We spend way too long in security line, I could have easily hid a GoPro, probably even the Canon and with some creativity, a couple of beers as well. Once inside I set out to do some recon work, starting way left, the area once known as the Phil Zone. The sun is slowly sinking behind the stage, it is a windy 78, and I feel the lightness surrounding the legendary combination of music and natural beauty coming on.

Stylishly late the boys take the stage, noodle a tune-up and John Mayer counts off the opener with a series of jumps. He is the energizer of the troupe, Bobby playing second fiddle. The wind creates a vacuum and I am not pleased with the vocal mix or the drums at my current location. After Bertha I being a migration more to center. Now to find some open space without barging right in front of someone already with a stake. I find it. 

Bobby is game but his voice carries the edge of ten thousand shows, melody second to key lyrical accentuation and dramatic shouting punches, see Sampson & Deliliah as example. He is missing lyrics and the spatial separation between us creates a sight/sound delay that I have always disliked. But the band is tight, Billy and Mickey are hammering their usual big drum backbeat and Oteil Burnbridge, the first time I have seen him, is impressive, masterfully commanding the six string bass that allows John Mayer and keyboardist Jeff Chimenti to exchange flaming arpeggio laser blasts. They are also doing something different with the song structure, not simply slowing way down, think Minglewood Blues, or speeding way up ala Truckin', but adding measures of well defined emphasis, mostly holding the four an extra measure before either taking it to the climatic five or back to the calm coda of the one and starting anew. I am liking their dedication to the structure, providing a healthy interplay between the known and the improvisational unknown. As soon as I find a video of New Speedway Boogie and Black Peter, you will be in that know. Because you need to know. 

They submit a masterful opening set, the dancing crowd hollering in approval. I am impressed by Mayer’s eloquent solos and his Garcia-like attention to harmonic drama. He has already tickled my spine with a few exact replicas, so good that if one was to close their eyes and just listen…..

I am ambushed at intermission and forced to pay $17 for a beer. Oh well, I am not going to let being gouged at the Gorge interrupt my bliss. Not tonight. 

The sun has set and the band is back for round two - the magical opening D notes of Playin’ in the Band. I have made my way closer to the speaker station and the wind has calmed enough for me to hear the distinction in harmonies, the bond between the drumming brothers, the waining but still powerful presence of Bobby Ace and the virtuosity tossed like a garden salad between Oteil, Mayer and Chimenti, these guys are en fuego. 

It dawns on me that it has been 47 years since I first stood in a Dead audience. A lot has happened over that time, deals have gone down and it has indeed been a long strange trip for everyone even remotely connected with this magical cast of characters. I am happy now as I sway to the vibe. It seems that every time I look at someone they are mouthing the lyrics. Everybody knows all the words. I laugh out out unabashed in the mirthiness of the moment. It is good to be alive. I recall other moments like this when in the trance, zoning, peaceful, full of hope for the future and connected to the band by cosmic eternity. 

The band is back for an encore, US Blues, John and Bobby sharing lyrical jabs in 4/4 time. And then just as quickly as she fired it up, it is over and I am slowly walking over the grass and dirt that moments before tickled the bare feet and open hearts of 20,000 heads. I am so glad that I made this sojourn, saw Bobby, Billy and Mickey one more time and the next generation, Oteil, John and Jeff for the first time. It has been a magnificent evening and I follow a dancing group all the way back to my truck where Trixie is still there patiently waiting her turn. 

It must have been the roses, but it might have been the band. It might have been the river or the color of the sand. I sing in gratitude of the ships upon the sea, it might have been the moonlight.

Or it might have been just me. 

Thank you gentlemen.