I've been to a lot of concerts since my first in 1975. I've seen good shows. I've seen bad shows. I've seen forgettable opening acts. I've seen memorable opening acts, including some that I had not previously heard and ended up buying their albums and becoming a fan (New Zealand new wavers Split Enz comes to mind). Conversely, I saw some awful performances by headlining bands. I have also had some unusual concert experiences that had very little to do with the actual music.
I met the future Mrs. Pincus in February 1982. In April of that same year, I was taken (dragged? abducted? forced?) to my first of many Grateful Dead concerts. The future Mrs. P was a long-time, devoted Dead Head and the veteran of many, many shows by the time our paths crossed. I, on the other hand, was not a fan of the San Francisco hippie holdovers. My musical tastes leaned more towards.... well, I could never quite pigeonhole my melodic preferences. I liked showy, flamboyant performers —those who (I felt) — gave a concert-goer a show. Like a real show! I wanted to be entertained. I saw original shock-rocker Alice Cooper dance with six-foot tall spiders. I saw Elton John execute acrobatics on his piano stool while decked out in sequins and feathers. I saw Ian Anderson, Jethro Tull's charismatic front man, balance on one leg while spinning his trademark flute deftly between his fingers. And I saw the incomparable Freddie Mercury... well... you know how Freddie Mercury held his audience spellbound in the palm of his hand. More recently, I saw Nick Cave stalk and prowl the stage while giving the crowd evening full of his trademarked brand of malevolent spectacle.
But the Grateful Dead? They just stood on the stage and played music, The actual "showy entertainment" was right in the audience. While the band noodled their way through one similar-sounding song after another, the audience twirled and swayed and danced and writhed... either to the music the band was producing or to the music that was constantly playing in their collective heads. The jury is out. I sat in my seat with my girlfriend (in her "pre-Mrs P" persona) and my future brothers-in-law — one a tie-dyed-in-the-wool road-weary follower of the Dead and the other, a budding "Dead Head-in-training." And me? I listened and marveled at the scenes playing out all around me. Not being especially familiar with the Grateful Dead's musical catalogue, several times I asked Mrs. P-to-be the name of the song the band was playing. She happily informed me, smiling, in hopes I was — perhaps — expressing an interest in her favorite band. Twenty minutes later, I asked the name of this song, to which she frowned and replied: "Same song." It looked like joining the fold of Dead Head-dom was not in my future.
A few months later, I found myself accompanying soon-to-be Mrs. Pincus, her older brother and her friend Randi (remember Randi?) to Philadelphia's Tower Theater to see not one, but two shows by Grateful Dead sage Jerry Garcia and bassist John Kahn. We had tickets to both shows, much to my chagrin. Admittedly, I was the odd one out, as my three colleagues were Grateful Dead fans prior to my arrival on the scene. For the early show, Mrs. P's brother and Randi took the "better" seats — down in the orchestra pit, just a few rows from the stage. We hiked up to the balcony and took our place just below the proverbial "nosebleed" seats. The interior lights dimmed and the two musicians shuffled out to the stage in the darkness. With no introduction, they launched into their first selection. As the show progressed, the temperature in the vast theater rose. Not due to a feverish performance (these guys were anything but feverish), but because of an air circulation system that was failing under the oppressive June heat we had escaped outside. The stale air and stifling humidity hung throughout the performance. When the final song — a decidedly non-rousing rendition of the Dead's "Dire Wolf" — concluded, our clothes were drenched in uncomfortable perspiration and we couldn't wait to get out of these close quarters. Outside, we found a McDonald's packed with Dead Heads and got ourselves some liquid refreshments. Here we waited it out until we were granted admission to the late show. The four of us discussed seating arrangements and confirmed an earlier decision to switch seats for the second performance of the night. Mrs. P's brother was not happy and attempted to renegotiate our agreement. He was unsuccessful and the future Mrs. P and I found our seats downstairs at center stage.
There was something obviously wrong with the air conditioning in the theater. The place was like a sauna. Folks milled around the seating area, using handbills for upcoming concerts as makeshift fans. Let me tell you, a building with no air conditioning in June packed with people is not pleasant. When you take into consideration the average Dead Head's reputation for not maintaining proper personal hygiene, well.... that doesn't help the situation. The lack of air conditioning was apparently affecting the start time of the second show. It was taking much longer than usual for the lights to go out, signaling the beginning of the late performance. In the meantime, a din of conversation filled the room. I noticed the guy with long, unkempt hair in our row sitting next to an unoccupied seat. Another guy — a near twin, hirsutly speaking — soon joined him in the empty seat. By their verbal exchange, it was apparent that Guy 1 was here for the first show and Guy 2 was not.
Guy 2 was bursting with questions. He wanted a complete play-by-play, you-are-there rundown of the early show from Guy 1. However, from the way Guy 1 was unsteady in his stance and from the redness of his teary, heavy lidded eyes, he was not capable of delivering the required description of the night's first performance. In other words, Guy 1 was — as Pittsburgh Pirates hurler Dock Ellis so eloquently phrased it after throwing a no-hitter while under the influence of LSD — "as high as a Georgia Pine." He was painfully tongue-tied and his scrambled thoughts came out in head-scratching incoherence. Guy 2 changed his approach. Instead of an account of the show itself, he pressed for a list of song's that Jerry played, at the very least. Guy 1 obligingly rattled off a dozen or so titles of Grateful Dead and Jerry Garcia solo songs. With each mention of a title, Guy 2's eyes widened and he responded with a disappointed "Oh man!" or a joyously upbeat "Oh man!"
I was fascinated by this conversation, until Mrs. P tapped my shoulder and rolled her eyes. I looked away from the hippie pair and focused on my future spouse. She leaned into my ear and, in a low voice, she stated, "He didn't do any of those songs. I don't know what show this guy thought he saw."
Although I am still not a Dead Head, there's no denying their entertainment value — both on stage and off.
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