My friends are dead heads, into bluegrass, and smoke a bowl or two, every now and then. And Las Vegas, despite it all, manages to get a few concerts in, in venues like The House of Blues, where the hippies and patchouli drenched folk creep out of the woodwork and concrete of Sin City (it aint all clubbin and strip joints, you know) and come to watch things like String Cheese Incident and Bob Weir with RatDog. I don't claim to be a big fan of the Dead, I like a few songs, some good live ones, and great instrumental passages. But unlike their devoted following who will follow them to the end, I keep my distance.
Until last Wednesday, when friends pulled me into the midst of swaying tie-dyed shirts, scruffy hair, and sandals, Bob Weir and RatDog played amazing sets that were crystal clear and nothing akin to downloaded bootleg concerts. Crisp, seasoned instrument playing; it was smooth jamming throughout. Some Dead tunes, a great, great rendition of Black Bird and the fans were falling through the floors and alone in their personal reveries as they mouthed the words to each song, with eyes closed, head shaking, with intensity. On the other side of the room, people were falling all over the floor as the entire venue smelled like a giant mixed breed joint, add to that ridiculously priced alcoholic beverages.
But the music. Smooth. In some instances, there was no single instrument heard, it was a crescendo of all the musicians coming together and playing a great song that will most likely live on beyond Bob Weir and all of RatDog put together as long as fans stay in their trances mouthing all the words to the songs.
8:56 AM | |
