When I woke up on Saturday morning and left my house for the Haight where I help out with a food pantry, I hadn’t planned on spending the next twelve or thirteen hours in that part of the city. In fact, I had started walking home around 11am thinking I’d have some lunch and go for a run. But as I walked along Haight Street and saw all the Deadheads and vendors selling rings and shirts and Grateful Dead memorabilia, I turned around. I went to a taco shop for lunch, hit up cafe for a large coffee and granola cookie, and wandered into Golden Gate Park in search of “Shakedown Street.”
The Dead (more specifically Dead and Company) have been in town this weekend playing a series of concerts marking 60 years since the band formed. I’ve never been a big fan. I know their popular songs, “Touch of Grey,” Truckin’,” “Casey Jones,” Sugar Magnolia,” but assumed the appeal was mostly for pot heads and hippie types. In fact, a friend had texted me earlier in the week asking what plans I had for The Dead weekend, and I said with my typically bad dad-joke humor, “they’re not my jam.” For the uninitiated, The Dead is a jam band. And it’s true, the thing I like least about The Dead is their reputation for playing trippy songs that can be cacophonous and last forever. My friend replied, but you love SF. The Dead=SF. She wasn’t wrong. I do love SF, and The Dead, their history, and the 60s counterculture is a huge part of the city’s identity and history – especially the Haight neighborhood. As I ate my taco, I saw my friend and one of her friends walk by – she had said she’d be heading to Shakedown Street – which is the mini-carnival of vendors, hucksters, pranksters, and drug dealers that pop up outside of Dead shows.
I eventually caught up with them and the three of us walked around Shakedown Street where there was more tie-die memorabilia than you could imagine… blue, fur-lined robe-like garments, vibrant and wild colors everywhere, jackets with patches, jackets with swirls, feather earrings, silver rings, stickers and posters, all manor of trippy attire. And there were plenty of people selling drugs, beer out of coolers, and balloons full of nitrous oxide. Some mumbled, others were more brazen, “Molly, shrooms, weed.” At one point, we saw a bunch of cops in a wooded area. Later (the next day) I learned there was drug bust – some guy from Philly with a van full of nitrous tanks. We walked up and down Shakedown Street, meandered in and out of the stalls. My friend’s friend bought a denim jacket. My friend eyed up some earrings. I people-watched.
Somewhere along the way, or perhaps even when I first turned around on my initial walk home, I began to think I might go to the show. As we headed out of the park, I tried to figure why I was feeling drawn to going. Some of the attraction was bragging rights. I have a few friends who are Deadheads and they would love to see them play in Golden Gate Park. Some of the attraction was curiosity – I had never been to a Dead show, maybe I’ve been missing out. Some of the attraction was that it felt historic – 3 shows celebrating where it all began. Some of the draw was a sense of convenience – I was already there, why not? When the entire city feels like your back yard, it feels silly and borderline criminal not to take advantage of what the city has to offer.
I debated buying a ticket as we walked back through park towards the exit. I wasn’t dressed for the show – no jacket, no hoodie, no tie-die – just a flannel. My phone wasn’t fully charged. I’d be skipping dinner or would have to eat crappy concession stand food. As we walked, more and more people were coming in. We passed a guy who had set up a table with a bottle of tequila and was selling margaritas. We passed a woman dressed in kink/goth clothing who was riding in a rickshaw being pulled by a man dressed in kink clothing wearing some type of headgear with either blinders or triangular ears on it. Some of what was drawing me to the show was the spectacle, novelty, and weirdness of it all. This is part of why I love SF. It’s a place where beautiful and funky and strange things seem to happen all of the time. It’s a city where lots of people do their own thing and and it’s all accepted and mostly embraced. Since the 60s it’s been an epicenter for personal freedom, sexual freedom, civil liberties, and the gay rights movement. It’s an expressive city full of expressive people. It’s a place where the unconventional isn’t seen as being so unconventional.
By this point, it seemed silly not to go. I drained my phone battery a little more and bought a ticket through stubhub. I said bye to my friends who made me promise to buy something tie-died and take a selfie at the show. Eventually, I did both.
I walked back through Shakedown Street – this time with an eye towards getting a shirt. The crowd had grown considerably both in size and in its disheveled appearance. There were more people selling beer and drugs. There were more people wandering around buying stuff. There were more people sitting on the curbs sucking on balloons – and a lot more people filling and selling balloons. For my part, I was having trouble finding a shirt I wanted. I didn’t feel like dropping $40 or $50 on a t-shirt, yet I wanted one that had the location and dates of the shows. At one vendor, I was ready to buy, but they only took cash or Venmo payments. I was low on cash and my phone wouldn’t connect to Venmo… the battery ticked down some more as I tried. I left Shakedown Street empty handed and joined the procession of people headed towards the concert. I bought a flimsy tie-die shirt for $20 off of Jay who was standing alongside the path. I venmo-ed him money, the battery ticked down some more. Thinking the entrance must be just around the corner, I passed by several opportunities to buy a cheap beer along the way. The entrance was never just around the corner. If I had to guess, it was a mile walk from the end of Shakedown Street to the venue entrance – much of it along a thinly wooded path running parallel with Fulton Street. I could have easily finished a beer during the walk.
After the bag and security check, I got a wristband to show I was 21, and paid $18 for a beer that I could have had for $5 during the walk. I passed seemingly unending rows of porta potties and a few concessions stands and walked up a slight hill and through some trees to a spot that opened up to the Polo Field – a massive field where the concert was being held. At the far end of the field was the stage. Closer by stood a Grateful Dead windmill. Lining both sides of the oval field were dozens of beer and food stands. After a bit of maneuvering through a small sea of blankets and chairs and groups of people, I found a spot where I could stand – a small space big enough for one person – though others would crowd in. It was a little before 4. The show started at 4:30. I settled in, drank my overpriced beer, took my selfie, and sent it to my friend. The phone battery (in power-saver mode) ticked a little lower to 34% or 37%. I’d have to be mindful of this. The apps and/or bus ticket on my phone would be the only way I could avoid the 5-mile walk home. I had already been on my feet since 8am. I wanted to avoid the 5-mile walk home.
The show was better than I had expected. Even though it was crowded, the people around me were friendly and nice. The woman next to me offered me a hit of her joint (a few times) and offered me some gummy mushrooms. The guy on the other side of me offered me a joint as well. Everyone danced and swayed. The first act, Sturgill Simpson, played a mix of country and rock leaning heavily on rock. At one point he made the political statement that if you’re alive and paying attention, you have to be pissed off, and then the band went into slight cover of a Rage Against the Machine song. At the end of his set, I wandered over and bought another over-priced beer. I was amazed I found my way back through all of the people and equally amazed that my spot was still my spot (the only thing saving my spot was my flannel on the ground). One of the sucky things about going to a show solo is that you don’t have anyone to save your spot, and groups tend to crowd in on you because you literally take up less physical space.
Dead and Company’s first set had a great cover of “Dear Mr. Fantasy” that morphed into “Hey Jude.” During one of the early songs they played a video shot from the perspective of a car driving through a tunnel, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, and making its way to the park – grounding everyone in a sense of place. Moreover, the songs all made sense. Blues- and rock-based jams, no trippy or psychedelic shit. Maybe I’ve been misjudging them. During the intermission, they played video clips from interviews with the band, including the late Jerry Garcia and the late Phil Lesh. One of the things that stood out was an interview with Lesh. He was talking about Dead shows as a place where people can push their limits in a safe space, people can live a little more dangerously in a sense of community. In the spirit of Lesh’s message, I thought, if the woman next to me offers me gummies again, I should take her up on the offer. She didn’t.
The second set of the show probably could have benefited from psychedelics. The songs grew longer and more discordant. At times, I felt like I was listening to experimental jazz, except it wasn’t jazz. This is what I would have called the noodly part of the show. The keyboard player noodling around on his keyboard while John Mayer noodles around on his guitar and none of it seems to gel. As a listener, I wanted to find a rhythm where there was no rhythm. I was no longer swaying to the music and in the absence of a beat, I spent more time looking around at the people and the trees and the lights against the foggy dark sky. Fortunately, there were a few recognizable tunes mixed into the second set, otherwise, I’d have been lost.
The second set is also when I became less present in the moment. I began to think about the logistics of leaving. I was trying to figure which exit I should take, and wondering if they’d put on some house lights so we wouldn’t be tripping over blankets and empty cans. 60,000 people exiting a show is a lot. I began to think about leaving a little early. I didn’t.
After the last song (no encore) I bobbed and weaved towards the exit. The crowd grew thick and as we shuffled through a tunnel that felt more like a cattle chute, we our gait changed to taking baby steps because there wasn’t enough room to take regular steps. We emerged back onto the wooded path and spilled out on to Fulton Street – most of us heading east towards the city. A mobile street sign indicated that Uber and Lyft were a few blocks away up a slight hill. My plan was to get away from the crowd and then figure out my way home.
I walked about 15 blocks before ordering a ride back to my local bar where my shirt would announce where I had been. There I talked with a guy who was in town for the shows. He had left early and wanted to know what the closing songs were. I told him it was my first show and I don’t know their songs well enough to name them. Another guy wanted to know what my favorite song was – I said “Dear Mr. Fantasy,” but was at a loss to offer up more. That’s one of the things I’ve learned about the Deadhead community, they’re all about the set lists and which songs were played. It’s a type of language between them – a language I don’t speak.
And maybe that was the real reason I went. Sure, there was the convenience of geography and the bragging rights. And yes, there’s was a sense of belonging in being able to say I was there… but more than anything, it was another opportunity to get out of my comfort zone, to test my assumptions, to experience something I might not normally do, to learn a little bit of a language and sub-culture that I had always been aware of and had intentionally avoided. It’s still not quite my jam and I’m far from being 100% converted, but I kinda get it now. I see the appeal. I enjoyed a lot of the music, I felt the sense of community, and I felt even more connected to this city and its unkempt musical roots.