This summer, I worked as a culture writer for the Cincinnati Enquirer. In one of my first weeks on the job, the rock band Grateful Dead came to town and my editor sent me to cover the festivities. I did not know what I was getting myself into.
I’d listened to the Grateful Dead’s music and I’d heard about their devoted fanbase, DeadHeads — old white people with dreadlocks and tie-dye shirts, following the group from city to city in camper vans, druggedly tailgating the concerts, spreading peace and love since the ’60s. But what I found outside the venue hours before the Grateful Dead’s performance still came as quite a shock.
The first surprise was the scale. Parked in semi-organized rows, the DeadHeads’ decked-out vans created a temporary town full of retail streets, lined with every Grateful Dead-related product one could ask for. Van drivers sold everything from the Dead’s signature matted rasta blankets to Jerry Garcia inspired burritos and “whippet” balloons the size of small children.
The second surprise was the age of the DeadHead crowd.
In front of one van selling magic mushrooms for a suspiciously slim price, I found a horde of college kids, lying on top of each other in a familiar pile of dreadlocks and tie-dye sweaters, drowned in song.
On the outskirts of the make-shift, van village, I found a group of 10 or so teenagers, smoking and lounging about on the grass. One of them approached me and asked for a lighter, and we ended up talking for a while. He was 15, from the suburbs of Chicago, and had been in attendance at a Wrigley Field performance the week before.
He told me that the vibes were so good that he had to keep going.
He had found a spot in a van and was planning on riding with the group all the way to the San Francisco show at the end of the summer.
He implored me to join, but before I could respond, he was nudged by an older boy sitting in the middle of the group, donning a red and black poncho. The older boy gestured toward a whippet canister hidden under the poncho. I told my new friend that I would see him later as he leaned in for a pull.
As the night edged on, I couldn’t help but wonder what those 15-year-olds were doing. I got the sense these teenage DeadHeads were not ducking their parents’ homes, traveling across the country because they were moved by Bob Weir’s rhythm guitar and John Mayer’s crooning voice.
As I thought about it more and researched the history of the Dead and their fans, I started to get the sense that DeadHead culture has never really been about the music. The music seems more like an excuse for everything else.
Long-time music critic and devoted Grateful Dead fan Dennis McNally said that there is not a whole lot that unites DeadHeads except for “some overwhelming sense of ‘here I belong.’”
And I can’t help but think that McNally might be right.
There are not a lot of artists that can unite senile 70-year-old grandpas, disgruntled middle-aged moms and their angsty runaway teens. But when they are all wearing tie-dye, jamming to the same tunes and sipping the same balloon, the generations just seem to fade away.
The final tour might be over, but DeadHeads aren’t going anywhere.
Daily Arts Writer Joshua Medintz can be reached at jmedintz@umich.edu.