Dead Forever
This weekend, I got to see Dead & Company play three shows at the Sphere in Las Vegas with my dad. He’s a lifelong Deadhead who spent a (large) chunk of his youth following the Grateful Dead around the country. We've been going to Dead & Company shows together since 2015. It’s hard to believe Bob Weir, Mickey Hart, Bill Kreutzmann, John Mayer, Oteil Burbridge, Jeff Chimenti, and, currently, Jay Lane, formed the Grateful Dead reunion band, Dead & Company, a decade ago. I guess the music really couldn’t be, and can’t be, stopped.
Last year, my dad and I attended the Dead Forever show at the Sphere for the first time. It was overwhelming in the best way. Sphere isn’t just a concert venue. It’s like stepping inside the music itself, like the songs my dad has heard a thousand times, the songs I grew up on, have been cracked open and turned into a new living, breathing world. But it’s sharing that with my dad that feels even bigger than the music.
Each night, as the lights dimmed and the first notes rang out, the Sphere transformed into a kaleidoscope of color and sound. The color is as vibrant as the music is thick. Everything has gravity, comforting like a weighted blanket. The visuals aren’t just backdrops; they’re journeys—swirling galaxies, blooming fractals, abstractions of the familiar, and nostalgic scenes of classic Deadhead iconography that feel like memories made new all dance and twist and fold and delight. The music, familiar yet ever-evolving, wove through these images effortlessly, never in competition, creating a tapestry that enveloped us all. Like the songs we knew so well had taken on new life all over again, resonating in our ears as much as our souls.
Looking around, I saw faces young and old, all idiosyncratically swaying to the same, unifying rhythm, all transfixed by the same spell. But even in those older faces, I saw their youth emerge, stretch, shake off hibernation, and dance. I saw freedom. There was a palpable sense of unity, as there always is, a shared understanding that transcends words. In those moments, the boundaries of time and space seemed to blur. We were all part of something greater, bigger, deeper. A living, breathing embodiment of the music's enduring spirit.
Standing beside my dad, I felt the weight of our shared history. All the unspoken things. Everything I hope he knows, all that he hopes I know. What’s been said, what’s been done, what will be. The concerts we've attended, the songs we've sung, the memories we've created on baseball diamonds and basketball courts, hiking through forests and climbing waterfalls, skiing snowy slopes, pretending to nap under cold sheets on Sunday afternoons while listening to him snore instead, watching movies, playing board games, playing pranks, looking at the stars, listening to advice, ignoring it, all of the hugs, all the tears, the painful and the sublime.
This weekend wasn't just another set of shows; it was a celebration of our bond, forged and strengthened through a mutual love of the enduring, improvisational, psychedelic, swirling, tumultuous, challenging, melody-morphing, explosive, ever-evolving harmony of the music. As the final notes faded and the lights came up, it’s the look on his face watching me see him that will never fade away. The enduring, improvisational, psychedelic, swirling, tumultuous, challenging, melody morphing, explosive, ever-evolving harmony between a father and child. Dad, all my life, your song has played in me. I am better for it.
