On Running Into Old Friends At Shows

Recapping a solo mission to San Francisco to experience a legendary 'Scarlet > Fire,' the beautiful ache of being a Deadhead, and the ghosts we collect along the way.

The Grateful Dead's music always brings the pangs of sadness. It's a familiar feeling, but standing in the polo fields of Golden Gate Park for the 60th-anniversary show, it was an unshakable ache in my bones, like a knee that cracks with the barometric pressure. It’s a sadness mixed with joy, a constant, beautiful ache that feels central to the entire experience of being a Deadhead.

In a way, it’s the original emo.

The history of the band is steeped in it. It’s right there in the name—a hint of the existential weight that underpins the whole psychedelic three-ring circus. The story goes that the band was flipping through a dictionary, looking to replace their original name, The Warlocks. Jerry Garcia’s finger landed on "Grateful Dead," a phrase they believed traced back to the Egyptian Book of the Dead, referring to a soul showing gratitude to someone who arranged for their burial. Jerry wasn't sold, but everyone else knew instantly. A chef at the country club where I worked in high school told me that story; twenty years later, in a moment of pure Deadhead serendipity, I ran into him at a show in Los Angeles.

You can trace this lineage of loss from the very beginning: Pigpen’s early departure to alcoholism just as the band was hitting its stride; Mickey Hart’s father stealing the band’s money and inspiring "He's Gone"; the tragic death of keyboardist Brent Mydland, whose vibrant sound defined so much of the '80s.

And then there’s Jerry. The Jerry who lost his father, a Dixieland clarinetist, in a freak fishing accident when he was just five, raised by his mother in a San Francisco bar. The Jerry who battled demons his whole life, who fell into a coma, forgot how to play guitar, and then miraculously taught himself again. The Jerry who left us far too soon in 1995, a ghost who has haunted and guided the music ever since. Sixty years is a long time for a band to exist, a long time to cross paths with a piece of culture, and a long time to accumulate ghosts. We just lost Phil Lesh this past year—the first member of the Grateful Dead I ever saw play live, with Phil & Friends at Hershey Park Stadium back in high school. And don’t forget Bill Walton, John Perry Barlow, and Robert Hunter.

This public history mirrors our own private ones. That pang of sadness comes up when I think of my childhood babysitter, the one who chain-smoked cigs all day. Her son had a blacklight Stealie poster in his basement, and even as a kid, I saw it as a mysterious, tribal talisman. It glowed like something sacred, but my brain was too focused on Mighty Morphin Power Rangers to really understand it yet. She passed away years ago. I remember my dad delivering the news on one of my trips back home with a quiet, "spare a thought for…" tone.

I think about being nine years old, eating breakfast before summer swimming lessons, and watching the Today Show report on gate-crashers tearing down a fence at Deer Creek. The band released a public letter afterward titled "This Darkness Got To Give," a desperate plea to a fanbase that was losing its way. It was a darkness that would claim Jerry just a month later. I think of my buddy who sold me a Phish ticket for New Year's Eve while he was battling cancer, gone far, far too soon. The music says it best: "A long, long time to be gone, and a short time to be here."

I can’t say that sadness was top of mind when I booked my solo trip to San Francisco. I was mostly just bummed about missing the 50th-anniversary shows in 2015. I vividly remember watching the Soldier Field stream at Subject, a bar in the Lower East Side that was streaming the shows, as Trey Anastasio ripped through “Althea.” The owner of that bar passed away, too. Another ghost. But my wallet and calendar didn’t align back then, and I always regretted not being there. It would have been another core Dead experience, for sure.

This time, I wasn’t going to miss it. After seeing a show at the Sphere last year, I knew I just needed one more to get it out of my system. This was the spiritual and literal home of the Grateful Dead. Hallowed ground. I had to be there.

There I am, on my solo side quest

My fiancée, wonderfully cool with my various side quests, asked if I even knew anyone going. At the time she asked me that, I didn't. But that’s never the point. The Grateful Dead unites people, and that’s the part I like the most about this whole damn pastime, after the music. I flew up, stayed in a cheap motel by SFO in Millbrae, took the BART to the show, and walked past the massive Shakedown Street on the JFK Promenade to the festival grounds. The familiar Day 3 vibe, electric with gossip and excitement from the weekend—people in their finest tie-dye buzzing about Billy Strings playing a mind-melting "Wharf Rat" on Friday, and Sturgill Simpson joining the guys to belt out a "Morning Dew." The stoke was high.

Just as I entered the show, my phone buzzed. A text from my buddy Liam: "Seeing Trey Anastasio for the first time." Of course. Liam, an old LA friend who’d moved to Denver, a hardcore Deadhead. Even though we were still in the same fantasy football league, I hadn’t seen him in a year, since we feasted on a huge platter of wings at a wing joint called “Fire On The Mountain” in Denver. Afterwards, we sought out a Dead cover band.

Of course he was here.

Of course I was here too.

In the pecking order of band allegiances, I’m a Phish guy first, then a Dead guy second. I wasn’t going to miss a moment where these often non-overlapping musical universes blur. I love a good crossover episode. Phish guitarist Trey Anastasio is also really good at them.

So now I had a mission: find one dude in a field of 60,000. As I started pushing through the crowd, Trey's band grooving on stage, I felt a tap on the shoulder.

"Go Birds," a guy said.

I was wearing a hoodie with a Stealie and the Philadelphia Eagles logo. I ordered it after the Eagles won the Super Bowl this past year, and this was the first time I was wearing it. It looked crisp.

Ah, a classic "strangers stopping strangers" moment between Pennsylvania-bred Eagles fans.

Except the stranger was Bryan, a buddy I graduated high school with. When I returned the "Go Birds," we looked up, recognized each other, and burst out laughing. Then we went in for the hug. The last time we'd seen each other was a similar ships-in-the-night encounter at a Phish show at Merriweather Post Pavilion. He lives in San Mateo now, and after a hug and a quick catch-up, it was just pure joy. See, this is what happens, man.

It’s moments like that that make you feel the pull of the tribe. I’d been steeped in Dead lore since I bought my first head-shop tie-dye in middle school, but the music made more sense after I moved to California. Seeing Dead & Company at the Hollywood Bowl for the first time after I moved from the East Coast, it all came together. They played "Estimated Prophet," and the whole place rattled with that uniquely Californian energy. I imagine it’s the same pride of place die-hard East Coasters feel when Billy Joel sings "New York State of Mind" at Madison Square Garden—the collective feeling of getting this place. This was the promised land the songs were always about: that laid-back, sun-drenched, slightly off-kilter vibe of a place perched at the end of the world, with its back to the continent and its face to the vast, indifferent Pacific. It’s an attitude that’s just a little different from everywhere else, shaped by cool ocean breezes and the low-grade anxiety of knowing the ground could start shaking at any moment. Platetechonics, man.

I finally found Liam and his crew of UCLA grad friends posted up by speaker tower two. Sierra Nevada tallboys and high-fives were had as we settled in for Trey’s set. During a pause, Trey looked out at the sea of tie-dye. "I saw my first Dead show in 1981," he began, "but I want to right at this moment do a particular heartfelt shout out to Mr. Jerry Garcia... Wherever you are, standing up on your moon or whatever, Jerry, thank you for all you gave us."

He then delivered a soul-stirring, debut cover of Garcia's "Mission in the Rain,” a heart-achingly beautiful San Francisco song that belongs in the great pantheon of San Francisco songs, right up there with Journey's "Lights" and Otis Redding’s “Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay”. I pulled out my phone to capture it, and Liam caught me uploading a clip to social media. He just smirked. "That's gonna do numbers," he said, fully aware of the always-online bullshit that helps me afford to go to these things in the first place.

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Dead & Co. hit the stage and those pangs returned. Not the sad ones. The good ones. The ‘I can’t believe I’m really here’ pinch-me pangs. The pangs of thinking about how you never imagined life’s journey would take you to a place like this.

It was a pristine Sunday after two days of signature San Francisco fog. Golden hour was on the horizon, and the photons of light were hanging in those towering eucalyptus and Monterey Cypress that define the skyline of Golden Gate Park. The air smelled of weed and eucalyptus—a signature San Francisco scent, as essential to the city’s character as sourdough and sea lions.

“God, this park. It really is one of the best civic spaces in the United States,” I thought.

I had that same thought last fall, on a work trip, eating a burrito on a park bench right over there, over that hill with a buddy from college. Same park, different day, same feeling. Just… here.

There were other pangs too. Bob Weir’s voice, at 77, sounded fragile, more so than I’d ever heard it. I thought about what his last two years have looked like, keeping the Dead and Company machine humming with shows at The Sphere. His distinct, jazzy guitar rhythm that played like Bill Evans felt buried in the mix in that field in Golden Gate Park. I could barely hear it. It was weird, and maybe even a little unsettling. I’ve seen this band a lot over the past 10 years. Yet I found myself thinking, is this the last time?

And then, the joy came roaring back to battle the sadness. It always does.

At the start of the second set, Trey Anastasio was welcomed to the stage. The opening notes of "Scarlet Begonias" rippled through the crowd, and the field erupted in smiles. Everyone knew it was coming. What followed was a complete tour de force, one of the most memorable "Scarlet > Fire"s I have ever heard, with Trey adding a texture that gave it an extra twinkle. With three guitars weaving in and out, John Mayer holding down the low end, it was a face-melting, mind-bending moment of pure nirvana. This was why I came. This was the overwhelming high, the payoff for every "Let Trey Sing" meme from a decade ago. It was a reminder that sometimes you have to put in the effort—shell out the cash, book the flight, go on the solo mission—because the reward is a moment of musical transcendence you’ll carry with you forever.

You’ll also have bragging rights with these memories. It’s cultural capital that pays dividends every time another Deadhead spots you wearing a bear or a Stealie in the wild.

The conversation will go something like this:

“Whoa, sick hoodie. You go to Dead 60?”

“Yeah, man. Just one. Sunday. The one where Trey played.”

Their eyes will widen. A knowing, almost reverent nod. “Dude. My dentist went. Said that Scarlet > Fire melted his face clean off. I’m so jealous. I was stuck at my kid's soccer tournament.”

You’ll give a humble shrug, as if you’ve seen a thousand Scarlet > Fires just as good (you haven’t), and on you both will go, bonded by the shared experience, even if one of you only experienced it through their dentist.

A couple of days later, a story went viral in the Deadhead community. A man from Michigan with his wife and two kids had a heart attack while dancing at the Sunday show. According to people nearby, it happened during “They Love Each Other” in the first set. Medical services rushed in, but he couldn't be revived. He was 54 In the midst of our collective joy, a family’s world was shattered. A heartbreaking, sobering reminder of how fragile it all is.

It makes you hold these moments with profound gratitude. Music is a powerful unifier in a world that seems designed to pull us apart. My dad, not a Deadhead, but a music teacher, told me that once when I was in high school when I was being bitchy about something, and it always stuck with me. The shared love of art, performance, and collective experience is one of our most enduring human traits. It’s why we have church, if you strip out all the dogmatic us vs. them bullshit. We’re social creatures, at our best when we seek connection with people over things. There will always be experiences that provide human connections that AI and the passive scroll of technology can never replicate. They’re out there for the taking; you just have to get off your ass and seek them out. Technology can’t give you the memory. And without the memory, you can't ever talk to that guy, because you have nothing to say. You weren't there.

So, I guess my ultimate reminder to myself is to just go do things. Ignore the little voice that judges how you spend your time or your money. Yes, it’s good to have a governor of restraint, but it’s silly not to heed a higher calling. If you have that sixth sense that there’s a place you need to be, a tribe you need to connect with, go. Do it vigorously. Trust your gut, and everything will fall into place.

I got to see Trey, John Mayer, and Bob Weir play one of the most incredible versions of "Scarlet > Fire" I’ve ever witnessed. It was another entry on my personal bucket list of live Dead experiences, a list that is, in itself, a map of my life.

And for that, I am endlessly, gratefully, joyful.

My All-Time Live Dead Experiences (A Chronological Ranking)

1. Phil & Friends, Hershey Park Stadium (c. 2001): My first time seeing a member of the Grateful Dead live. Warren Haynes on guitar for The Dead in the Jerry role. Jimmy Herring as well. Mind-blowing. Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodeloo opener.

2. The Dead, Bryce Jordan Center (2008): A legendary collision of worlds. The Core Four, back together for an Obama 'Get Out the Vote' rally in the heart of Pennsylvania, with The Allman Brothers Band opening. You had Warren Haynes and Jimmy Herring sharing a stage with Bob Weir, Phil, and Billy. Especially noted for the time in my life: I was 22, in my last semester at Penn State, lived two miles away, and somehow managed to score a press pass for a little alt-monthly. I stood there, notepad in hand, watching these giants and filing an 800-word piece on the whole spectacle. In that moment, I knew: this was it. This was the only orbit for me. Here’s a link to an archived version of that piece I wrote back in 2008 after this show.

3. Phil Lesh & The Terrapin Family Band, Sullivan Hall (2013): A tiny club in the West Village. Seeing Phil play just blocks from his apartment on Prince Street was surreal, just a few blocks away from our BroBible office too.

4. Dead & Company, Madison Square Garden (2015): Seeing the first Dead & Co. shows with John Mayer and thinking, "Man, this sound is freakin' cool." Experiencing that new era for the first time collectively, and being especially impressed by how cool and respectful Mayer's style was. Not Jerry, but very Dead-esque.

5. Dead & Company, Citi Field (June 2016): Being completely blown away by that big Dead stadium experience. A great day with my NYC friends, taking the 7 train out to Queens, and just soaking it all in.

6. Joe Russo's Almost Dead ft. John Mayer, Brooklyn Bowl (2016): Mayer jumped on stage for the second set, and they tore through one of the best "Greatest Story Ever Told"s ever. That same month, after Bob Weir sat in with Phish in Nashville, I wrote a piece for BroBible cataloging all the times the two worlds had officially collided. It was another moment where my passions and my profession were one and the same.

7. Dead & Company, Dodger Stadium (2018): All my LA shows were special, but seeing them outdoors in the summer at the stadium with close friends felt like tapping into that huge, '80s Dead experience, even though my penjamin was confiscated by Dodgers Stadium security.

8. The Dead & Company show in Los Angeles, where I ate mushrooms too late in the second set, and they didn’t kick in until after the show ended: Uh, it was an adventure.

9. Bob Weir and Wolf Bros ft. John Mayer, The Greek Theatre (2023): A haunting, autumnal, spooky, and beautiful night.

10. Dead & Company at The Sphere: The ultimate irony. The band that soundtracked the 1960s Acid Tests, now playing inside a $2 billion sci-fi orb in the middle of the desert. It was complete sensory overload—five decades of iconography blasted across a screen the size of a football field. A psychedelic time machine. It fucking rocked.

11. Dead & Company 60, Golden Gate Park (2025): All those pangs in the Dead’s spiritual homeland, and that "Scarlet > Fire.” Ok, I’ll shut up about it now.