Wanna feel young?

This is officially my summer of concerts. After years avoiding the crowds and venues, I’m diving into the live music scene. The latest chapter was a doozy.

The Travelin’ Trio (me, Iris and Marla) headed up to Los Angeles on Sunday night for a Dead Head concert. Marla is a Grateful Dead fan and her connection to a band newsletter led her to buy some tickets to see Gov’t Mule and RatDog (Bob Weir’s band) at The Greek.

After some Indian food on Vermont Avenue, we trekked over to the venue at Griffith Park. The crowd was friendly and mellow (of course); the parking was bizarre (on the grass, on a hill: $15). We heard excited whispers as people pointed out Bill Walton in the crowd. He disappeared into a custom coach, but we would see him again soon.

The Pit

When we got to the gate, the ticket-taker ordered us to another entrance. We were “in the pit,” she said, and that had a separate gate. Say what? Thinking back a few weeks, nobody really paid attention when Marla excitedly told us that her tickets were “right up front.” We were about to find out what that meant.

At the next gate, our tickets were swapped for wristbands and we wandered, clueless, into the venue.

The Pit, of course, is the section slam up against the stage, separted from (the losers in) the front row by a metal fence. There are no seats in The Pit. It’s just the people and the band. There might be 24 inches reserved for photographers, but they didn’t stick around. We had the whole stage to ourselves, or at least it felt that way. Iris, Marla and I spent six hours bellied up to the metal fence between us and the stage.

Good vibrations

I don’t think it would have mattered what bands played last night. I’m not a Dead Head or Grateful Dead fan, but I was so close to the talent I could count their wrinkles and note their wedding bands. They are amazing musicians, no doubt. I was enthralled by the incredible guitar players; there was no keeping up with them. I made eye contact with band members and that was cool. Who gets to do that anymore? This is why I gave up big venues. Why pay close to $100 for an impersonal experience in a stadium full of echoing music? No thanks.

We stood in The Pit all night, dancing our way through Gov’t Mule songs I didn’t know but enjoyed anyway. RatDog went from cover songs to jam sessions and belted out a few Grateful Dead songs that kept the crowd singing and on their feet. Behind us, Bill Walton towered over us. He was hard to miss in his tie-dye shirt. Even a die-hard Tar Heel fan like me can appreciate the basketball star that he was. I enjoyed hearing him accept thank-you’s from passers-by. He was friendly and didn’t turn away from his fans.

Dancing Fool

So, a final footnote on the night and why I felt so damn young. The bulk of attendants, it seemed, were middle-aged white guys with tie-dye shirts and baggy cargo shorts. Most shockingly of all, these baby-boomers couldn’t dance worth a damn. Iris and I had a few snickers over that one.

One guy in particular had us in stitches all night. His style, if you will, was herky-jerky and full of elbows flying. He had a move that seemed half prayer, half suggestion: arms reaching forward, palms up while his torso jerked awkwardly from his lower body. It was impressive. I figured he lost a few pounds in all that gesticulation. We all longed for a camera to document the moment.

I danced myself, but hey, I’ve got the moves!