Grateful Dead in 1988 means … Tour. It’s been a long drive but closer you get to the venue, the more microbuses, tripped-out schoolbuses, dreads and Stealie stickers you see. Roll into the parking lot to the burbling sounds of audience tapes from the last show coming at you in waves from all sides, that particular pungent blend of veggie burritos, incense and patchouli telling you exactly where you are and reassuring you that you’d really rather be nowhere else. Miracle seekers, beer hawkers, discreet mumbles letting you know there are other sorts of things to be had if that’s your game. Soak it in for a couple of hours, run into some old friends and make a few new ones, wander around and get comfortable … then head into the show. Check out the seats you just bought with your finger in the air, take in the venue vibe, wait for the lights to go down and hear that unmistakable sound: a couple of drum hits, a few guitar strums, a little quicksilver run - the band is tuning up and you’re trying to glean a hint of the opener from the notes. Aw man. It’s good to be here.
This post dedicated to fuckyesgratefuldead's 1988th follower.