Susan Dobra has a Ph.D. in Rhetoric from the University of California, Berkeley and is an Assistant Professor at California State University, Chico, where she also directs the Writing Center. A Deadhead since 1977, Dobra's related works on the Grateful Dead and popular culture include "His Job Is to Shed Light: The Grateful Dead's Place in the Bardic Tradition."

Allusions:

Nepalese: A design, garment, etc., originating in Nepal.

Rastafarian: A member of a spiritual movement centered in Jamaica.

Mt. Tamalpais: A mount, north of San Francisco in Marin County, that looks out over the city the Bay Area.

On a summer evening in Berkeley, California, circa 1984, a tradition is about to recur. Across the usually staid campus of the University of California, ritually costumed celebrants, young and old, are arriving and beginning to gather in and around the stately Greek Theater. Pastels and intricate patterns of flowing garb flutter and fly in a warm breeze that whispers across campus from the Golden Gate, swirling through the gathering throng in quiet greeting. A boyish young man, his face tanned and radiating pristine health, reveals his calm yet clear anticipation; he blesses each passer-by with a quiet, "Welcome home, sister. Welcome back, brother." I return his beatific smile. Around me, the crowd is growing; we have been gathering since mid-day, arriving by foot or in cars, vans, or converted school buses, all bedecked with innumerable and intricate variations of the symbols of our tribe: skeletons and skulls, roses, lightning bolts. And tie-dye--brazenly multicolored tie-dyed everything, everywhere. Tonight, the rites of the Grateful Dead will be celebrated once again, and we, the Deadheads, are beginning the ritual preparations.

I stroll with a deliberate rhythm along the promenade outside the amphitheater, gazing knowingly into the eyes of those I pass. One of these is a woman my own age, older than the youthful women running past us, and calmer, centered in her demeanor. We nod as we pass, my eye enchanted by her elaborately beaded neckpiece as it sparkles in the sun. We have seen each other many times before, yet I do not know her name. I know that when she dances, her soul expands to encircle all those around her, and that her ecstatic beauty then is belied here and now by a face most would see as ordinary, one you probably wouldn't notice in the street on any normal day.

But this is no normal day. And the sidewalk is beginning to look like a multi-ringed circus or a medieval pageant: blankets cover the ground displaying beadwork, Guatemalan shirts, Nepalese vests, bumper stickers, t-shirts, hand-carved artifacts and crafts of many descriptions. Makeshift food concessions have sprung from the sides of gaily colored buses in the parking lots and side-streets nearby. Radiant women and thoughtful-looking men offer organic sandwiches: banana-honey-almond butter (on sprouted wheat) and avocado-cheese-sunflower-sprout (in homemade pita bread). A young girl glides by on a skateboard, her tinseled tiara glistening behind her, and a Rastafarian brother--a "dredhead"--sits on the grass relishing a sweet-smelling spliff. A slightly sad-looking fellow saunters by with index finger upraised, dreamily asking everyone and no one, "Got a miracle? I just need one ticket."

And there is music. Everywhere I walk in the promenade from one end of the

theater's expansive front face to the other, I hear the very tastiest of Grateful Dead tunes--segments of concerts gone by preserved for posterity by industrious and ingenious tapers. Their melodies, harmonies, and dissonances blend each into the other as I pass; the sounds never clash, but yield to one another as if threads in one continuous tapestry of song.

I glance up at the sun to confirm that it is a few hours before the show. Time to begin wandering into the theater for many of us who have friends inside, loyally and lovingly saving blanketed spaces. As I near the gates, a gray-bearded security guard, his dark brown face glowing in welcome, calls out, "Show your ticket now. Everyone hold your own ticket. Jerry says we're going to have a good time tonight."

"Hey, Willie."

"How's it goin', Willie!"

"Don't stay out here too long, now, Willie. Be sure and come on in when the music starts." Loving fans greet him as they pass. Willie has been doing this now for longer than most of us have been coming to shows--before some were even born. I remember seeing him in a movie shot at a Dead show in 1974. The event was being recorded on film for future generations, and there, along with all the hippies, dippies, and trippers, was Willie, outside the front gate, greeting all comers with the gentle reminder to "hold your own ticket." I glitter my best glimmer at him, and pass in through the gates.

Inside, we are quickly and apologetically searched by young blue-coated staff people amid humorous exchanges about the contents of various packs and bags. They must know the multifarious and magical contents of many of these bags, but they trust us to use them wisely and responsibly, a reputation we've gained and upheld through the many years of cooperation with promoter-king Bill Graham and his people. It helps that Bill himself is a Deadhead. I pass through untouched.

And then we are inside the circular amphitheater. Here, the atmosphere is that of a family reunion. Brothers and sisters greet one another like they haven't seen each other in years--though it's probably only been since the last show--with loving embraces or happy screams. What was a warm profusion of color outside is an explosion of rainbows in here, dappling the floor in front of the stage and splashed throughout the rising circles of seats surrounding it. As more and more of the celebrants arrive, I watch as the theater begins to fill, gradually to the brim.

Along comes Calico, gray hair in characteristic braids, ethnic skirts fluttering as she walks purposefully through the crowd, happily returning smiles. Calico has spent most of the last two decades living in the Hog Farm commune with a group of Deadheads and other friends dedicated to service and good fun. A combination wise old crone and high priestess, she is proof positive to many of us that dancing to the Dead is the potion to eternal youth. We nod and pass.

I find my way slowly along cement walls, smiling at passing faces, familiar or not, united with all of them by a rising anticipation of sheer joy. A lion-eyed, curly-headed man a good ten years younger than me hands me a perfect long-stemmed red rose and tells me I look beautiful. We hug, connect hearts, and move on. Couples stroll and boppers bounce on by. Balloons drift and frisbees fly. In the air, a palpable web of connection begins to form. I feel it subtly with my fingers, playing with it as if it were a spiral-shaped harp of myriad invisible strings.

Finding my dearest and closest friends and family awaiting me on theupper grass, I am enfolded by extended embraces and welcomed like a long-lost traveler returning at last. We come together with a familiar readiness, settling in and making space for each other. I breathe in deeply and open my arms wide, embracing the entire congregation, the campus, the bay, the Golden Gate and Mount Tamalpais across the water, all of which I see from this lofty vantage. I prepare myself for the celebration, stretching into a salutation of the sun. I am drenched in the warmth of pure love.

Showtime draws closer. The crowd solidifies, undulating like a single, gracefully moving organism, taking on a personality all its own. We become a mass of movement, thousands of bodies all in motion yet all one entity. The sound is rising--from a murmur, to a buzz, now verging on a roar. And when at last the musicians take the stage, the place explodes. We greet them with unabashed adoration, screaming, hooting, whistling, beaming, and laughing like children. Even before the music starts we begin to sway expectantly, listening for the notes of the guitars' tune-up to begin, hoping for a hint of the first song, a glittering glimpse of what ecstasies the night ahead will hold.

I inhale deeply and look tenderly around me, feeling completely, perfectly home. And the music begins.

Vocabulary:

demeanor, spliff, tapestry, glimmer, palpable, myriad. Once you have located the definitions of each vocabulary word, attempt to determine their origins. Consider the connotative qualities projected by each word to arrive at your conclusions.

Content:

1. Susan Dobra describes arriving for a concert like a person who has gone on a pilgrimage and finally arrived at her destination. Pilgrimages were made by Christians in the middle ages and are still made by Moslems today to Mecca. What is the purpose of a pilgrimage and how does it fit with Dobra's description?

2. What is it about music that contributes to a sense of community? A music historian, Joachim Berendt, once described a choir as an image for the ideal human community. What do you think he meant by that? What is Dobra's vision of the community of Deadheads? Is she part of an audience or a tribal gathering?

3. Do you expect that all those who attended Grateful Dead concerts were as comfortable as Dobra? Have you ever attended a concert and not felt you were "in with the in crowd"? If so, explain the circumstances. Also, how do you think you would have felt at a Grateful Dead concert?

Style and Structure:

1. How does Dobra use description to communicate feeling in this essay? What words or phrases strike you as particularly vivid?

2. How are details used in this essay in order to create a particular effect?

3. In what way does Dobra prepare us for the ending of her narrative?

Collaborative Explorations:

With two or three other people make a list of some of the concerts you have attended. Place them in some categories that you make up yourself. What sort of a spectrum of experiences do these concerts represent? Make a list of the various reasons people go to concerts.

Writing Assignments:

1. Write a personal narrative essay about a concert you attended, but rather than describe the music you heard, describe the people you encountered or observed.

2. The Grateful Dead were rooted in the counterculture of the 1960's. How do the music groups today reflect other decades? What are musical performances like today? What cultural values do they reflect? Explain in an essay.