No Expectations 071: Eyes of the World

A new fan goes to Vegas for the opening weekend of Dead & Company’s Sphere residency.

Thursday, May 16. Dead & Company at Sphere (Photo credit: Alive Coverage)

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Headline Song: Grateful Dead, “Eyes of the World” 

This is not a normal edition of No Expectations. It’s much longer than usual so you’ll have to click a link in your email to read the whole thing. I apologize but I hope this will be the most fun thing you’ve read in the newsletter in months. 

Over the past year, the Grateful Dead became my favorite band and I got to see two original members perform with Dead & Company at the Sphere in Las Vegas. It was my first time seeing that band and it was my first time in that city. I attended three shows. Instead of pitching an essay to a publication, I wanted to write something just for this newsletter. It’s about my relatively short history of loving this music, Las Vegas, and the Grateful Dead’s legacy. I hope you dig it. If not, please stick around because it’s back to regular, much shorter programming next week.  

No Expectations is a fully independent,reader-supported publication. If you enjoy what you read, consider upgrading to a paid subscription. If you want to support the Chicago journalism my day job does at WTTW News, you can donate to the WTTW Fund for Independent News. Thanks for being here. I wouldn’t try something this bonkers and potentially ill-advised if I didn’t feel supported by the lovely folks who read this weekly newsletter. It means the world. 

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Gig report: Dead & Company at Sphere (5/16, 5/17, 5/18) 

Wednesday: Althea 

“Where is everyone?” 

It's 30 minutes before my flight to Las Vegas boards and I don’t see any Deadheads. I’m not sure what I was expecting: Wall-to-wall wooks? A guy selling parking lot Burritos and grilled cheese sandwiches in the O’hare Concourse? Twirlers, tie-dyes, and Baja hoodies camping out at Hudson News? So far, the “Most Obviously Going to See Dead & Company Open Their 24-Show, Eight-week Residency At The Sphere” is me. 

A year ago, all of this would have been unthinkable. Throughout my life, the Grateful Dead never clicked for me. Sure, I liked their 1970 studio LPs Workingman’s Dead and American Beauty as straightforward, Americana-tinged folk-rock but I didn’t dig deeper than that. When I listened to Cornell 77 in college, I thought it was cool (especially the “Morning Dew”) but not quite the life-changing masterpiece I was told it would be. I always had friends who loved the band and earnestly tried to convert me, but still, nothing stuck. It felt like too much work. When I started my career writing about music, I figured I should be finding bands actually releasing new material rather than diving into the sprawling and intimidating catalog of a ‘60s relic. Maybe there was a part of me that knew I’d fall headfirst into their repertoire if I put in the effort. 

But here I am, a 32-year-old donning a Stealie baseball cap, a recent convert but a true believer. A few months ago, I’d blown the largest freelance check of my life on tickets and travel plans to see the remnants of the Grateful Dead play a $2.3 billion venue in a city I’ve never been to. I’d go one night with my Dad, who saw the original band play in the mid-‘70s when he attended Santa Clara University. The other two would be with my longtime girlfriend, who, by proxy, has now listened to hundreds of hours of live Grateful Dead recordings. While I never actively avoided the band, I have refused to visit Las Vegas. I thought it was New Orleans without the soul or musical history: a glossy but dusty never-ending bacchanalia invented to rip off slack-jawed tourists and displace the people actually living there. I’m even one of the few straight, 30-something white males who has never read Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas. 

So, what changed? While the Grateful Dead sang on “Scarlet Begonias,” “Once in a while, you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right,” my origin story with the band comes from a truly bizarre platform: TikTok. I downloaded the app last summer in a fit of intense, soul-crushing boredom. One night before bed, I scrolled on a video soundtracked by their 1980 tune “Althea.” The enchanting chord progression hit me so directly that it rewired my brain. There are only a few times I can remember something like this happening: the first notes of Radiohead’s “Everything In Its Right Place,” discovering Bob Dylan’s post-’60s oeuvre, and maybe the first time I put on a Replacements record. That’s it though and not since I was a teenager. 

Now, before you say anything, I immediately found out this is also how John Mayer discovered the band. The same song too. One day in 2011, Mayer, who had hit his professional nadir after controversial interviews with Playboy and Rolling Stone, was out of the spotlight and listening to the Neil Young Pandora station. “Althea” came on. He was so transfixed by this tune that it dramatically changed his life. After Craig Ferguson left The Late Late Show, in 2015, Mayer guest hosted and jammed with guest Bob Weir. Weir was there promoting the Fare The Well shows with the remaining Grateful Dead members and Trey Anastasio. During the taping, they played “Truckin’” and “Althea” together. They continued jamming after the cameras shut off until the studio booted them out. 

After finding this out, my long-running bit is that Craig Ferguson is why all this happened. If CBS didn’t snub him choosing David Letterman’s Late Show successor, there’s no Dead & Company and there’s no Sphere residency.

Mayer is now in his ninth year as the singer and guitarist for Dead & Company, the latest iteration of the post-Jerry Garcia Grateful Dead. Sometimes you hear one song and eventually find yourself in the band. Other times, you’ll be on a flight to Vegas. 

Since 2015, Mayer’s been the Jerry stand-in alongside original Dead members guitarist and singer Bob Weir and drummer Mickey Hart. The rest of the group is rounded out by drummer Jay Lane (who filled in full-time for original Dead drummer Bill Kruetzmann in 2023), bassist Oteil Burbridge, and keyboardist Jeff Chimenti. Every summer, they’d tour baseball stadiums and large outdoor amphitheaters. Even when they played Wrigley Field, which until 2023 was just a mile down Addison Street from where I lived, I never attended. When I first heard “Althea” last summer, they’d already made their stop there in “The Final Tour.” 

I deleted TikTok but still went down the Grateful Dead rabbit hole. It was the right time, despite missing my chance to see Dead & Company live. My dear friend in Chicago Brian Anderson, a lifelong head, was writing a book on The Wall of Sound—–the Dead’s massive, short-lived, costly, and influential 1974 sound system. I wanted to know what he was talking about when he’d say things like “Big Steve,” “The Betty Boards,” and “Ramrod.” So, I dove in headfirst. I started with Long Strange Trip, the four-hour 2017 Prime Video documentary, and moved on to the live album Go To Nassau which featured two shows from 1980 because I read it had a stellar “Althea.” They were right: That’s an alltimer. 

From there, it got way more serious. I decided to listen to all 36 Dick’s Picks—live albums curated by the Grateful Dead’s late archivist Dick Latvala and later the band’s current archivist David Lemuiex. Some installments were full shows, while others were compilations from a specific tour. I heard scorching sets from ‘68, pristine guitar rock from ‘77 multiple times, and particularly awful covers of “Baba O'Riley" and "Tomorrow Never Knows“ from 1992. After I’d finish the full LP, I’d check out an episode of the podcast 36 From The Vault hosted by writers and Friends of the Substack Steven Hyden and Rob Mitchum. There, they’d talk about the show(s) featured on the Dick’s Picks release. It was a career-spanning crash course in an expansive catalog; complete with companion commentary from two experts I trust.  

This sounds insane writing it down, I know. The average Dick’s Picks release is three hours long and I was also listening to a two-hour podcast about each three-hour installment. I’m only kind of embarrassed to admit I was doing that almost daily. By the fifth entry in the Dick’s series, I was hooked. Their catalog was familiar and alien: blowing my mind but feeling like I’d always known these songs. When I’d check out new artists for this newsletter or my freelance work, I became a more intent, patient, and curious listener. I’d always eventually return to the Dead though. They made music for when I wanted to escape from music. Unlike most everything, I never got sick of it. So much of my taste wheelhouse was represented with palpable groove and electricity: country, greasy garage rock, swirling psychedelia, delectable pop, funk, disco, blues, folk, and more. 

After Dick’s Picks came the studio discography, Road Trips, the Download series, Without a Net, and the much-harder-to-find online Dave’s Picks series—now at 50 releases. I read books—This Is All a Dream We Dreamed: An Oral History of the Grateful Dead, So Many Roads, and Long Strange Trip—and my friends in Nashville let me join their Dead-oriented group chat. I was cramming years of fandom into a few months. I promised myself early on that if they ever played a show again as Dead & Company, I’d buy a ticket no questions asked. They could’ve played anywhere but it had to be the Sphere. Few artists could make me get over a lifelong aversion to Vegas. 

As boarding starts at our airport gate, I begin to see: The guy in front of us with a dancing bear calf tattoo. The man with a Rolex in polo with a Stealie logo affixed to his front pocket. When we find our seats on the plane, we’re surrounded by fans going to the Sphere. Next to me, a younger man and his wife, coming from the airport bar, joking about how they wished they could smoke on the flight. Next to my girlfriend, an older couple from the East Coast—country club types—who first saw the band in 1971 at Princeton (4/17/71) and haven’t stopped since. It takes all kinds and I was just happy to be a part of it. 

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Thursday: Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodeloo

Las Vegas is a constant assault on your senses. It’s all stimuli, screens, and provocation. We’re staying at the Conrad——a new hotel part of a massive complex called Resorts World on the northern part of the Strip. There are three different hotels in the building, a casino, a shopping mall, high-end restaurants, an Epcot-like food court, tiki bars, and sports bars meant to mimic the bro-iest parts of Nashville’s Lower Broadway, a theater, a massive nightclub, and most importantly no windows. It’s designed so you don’t have to leave but everything is at least $20 and every beer is at least 19.2 ounces. 

There’s a window in our room, of course, but the entire side of the building it faces is also a ceaseless LED billboard. At all hours, it flashes advertisements for Bodyarmor sports beverages and upcoming appearances by comedian Theo Von. It also beams virtual fliers for shows from country stars Chris Young and Brett Young, who aren’t related even though they look alike. This weekend, Resorts World is hosting a few Deadheads and scores of Electric Daisy Carnival attendees. EDC is the three-day, all-night electronic music festival also happening this weekend. It’s obvious who’s here for the Sphere and who’s here for that. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. 

With the time difference, I’m awake at the hotel by 7 am so I go down to the first floor to grab coffees. (The place we’re staying in has two Starbucks onsite but the cheapest drink is $7). In the elevator, I come across a 20-something in five-inch inseam shorts, a backward flat-brim cap, and what appear to be the sunglasses Lady Gaga wore on the cover of The Fame. He’s ripping a strawberry-scented vape in the elevator and says, “Hey bro, you going to EDC tomorrow?” 

I say no and explain that I’m here for Dead & Company at the Sphere. He responds, “I’m fucking with you, man. I mean, look at you.” 

He has a point. I’m a long-haired, bearded blonde dude wearing a Stealie cap and a bootlegged tie-dye. I thought about protesting and saying something like, “Hey man, I looked like this before I liked the Grateful Dead” but I thought better of it. He clocked me. Honestly, it was pretty funny. I changed clothes for the day and saved the Dead apparel for the gig.

On the surface, Vegas seems like a weird place for the remaining members of the Dead to stake their residency. The city was never a formative part of the original band’s history: they never played there during the ‘70s (they did one show in Reno in ‘74) and only started performing semi-regularly in the area during the ‘80s and ‘90s. Before the Sphere residency, Dead & Company only did Vegas’ MGM Grand three times but they didn’t return after 2017 (Wrigley Field alone got 10 shows). This is where I’d quote the popular line from Hunter S. Thompson, “No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted,” but I never read that book. 

But the longer I think about it, the more it makes sense. Both the Grateful Dead and Las Vegas are products of unlikely beginnings and unlikelier reinventions. What was once Paiute land was colonized by Mormon missionaries in the early 20th century. After they high-tailed it back to Utah because they couldn’t figure out how to raise crops, it became a gambling oasis for Hoover Dam laborers by the 1930s. Now, it’s a mecca for illicit behavior, big business, smut, and leisure. What was once Mother McCree's Uptown Jug Champions, a band of bluegrass and folk fanatics that played 1920s jug music became the Warlocks and later the most iconic American rock band, an avatar of the LSD-fueled ‘60s, and a decades-spanning touring juggernaut too big to fail even when multiple frontmen died. (Ron “Pigpen” McKernan in 1973 and Jerry Garcia in 1995). Las Vegas is a party city while the Grateful Dead are the platonic ideal of a party band. 

Also sharing an improbable backstory is the Sphere, the new, state-of-the-art entertainment venue in Vegas. It’s orb-like, 20,000 capacity, and it’s where my dad and I are tonight to see Dead & Company start their 24-show residency. The 366-foot-tall, 516-foot-wide geodesic dome cost $2.3 billion. It boasts the world’s highest-resolution screen (580,000 square feet of LED lights outside and 160,000 square feet of them inside). It’s also got the “world's most advanced concert-grade audio system,” complete with "1,600 speaker arrays installed behind the LED panels, along with 300 mobile modules with 167,000 speaker drivers." Unsurprisingly, it is the world’s largest spherical structure. 

This all came to be because an eccentric billionaire read a 13-page book. James Dolan, the CEO of Madison Square Garden Entertainment, known as the long-suffering owner of the New York Knicks and for putting his own band as the opener for classic rock bands playing his venues, was inspired by a Ray Bradbury short story called “The Veldt.” In the sci-fi tale, a family lives in an automated, futuristic home complete with a fully immersive virtual reality room with floor-to-ceiling screens. As the parents nervously watch their children mainline the VR oasis and take in scenes of African animals devouring their prey, they worry technology is making them obsolete. Eventually, the VR system horrifyingly proves to be actual reality. The kids sic ravenous lions on their parents, killing them. I’m not kidding. 

That’s not the only dystopian part of this whole thing: the Sphere is supposed to be stylized as simply “Sphere” but I have no interest in making these sentences wonkier to appease MSG Entertainment. Anyway, the Sphere is connected to the Venetian on the Strip and to get there, you walk through the shopping mall connected to the hotel and past the Dead Forever Experience. That’s a multimedia pop-up museum devoted to the Dead where you can buy merch, peruse multiple exhibits, and take photos. From there, you walk through corridors of conference rooms to a pedestrian bridge that eventually takes you to the venue. The vibe changes from “hotel convention” to “Death Star” quickly. 

In the lobby, it’s so quiet it’s disorienting. We can faintly hear Drugdealer’s track with Weyes Blood “Suddenly” on the pre-show house mix but the whole place feels like a void. Surrounded by cool tones of blue and violet, you’re forced to contend with the jaw-dropping scope of the Sphere. Everything is at least $20 and every beer is at least 19.2 ounces. Inside the venue, my dad and I can take in the full structure. Behind the screen and the stage appears to be vast scaffolding. Our seats are haptic, infused with speakers and technology that will make them vibrate and shake during the show. But apparently, that technology also makes the seat violently smash upright if you get up too fast, potentially knocking over the drink in the cupholder behind you. 

Tonight, all of our seatmates are also attending every show this weekend. Directly in front of me is a sweet couple from Buffalo—he used to be in the army and she is a disarmingly natural conversationalist. To my right, a dad and his teenage son from San Francisco. He’s successfully passing on his fandom to his Gen Z/Gen Alpha-cusp kid. On my left, are a couple of charming women, lifelong friends who are also from Chicago. They first saw the Dead together over 35 years ago but now, with kids, work, and responsibilities, they don’t hang out as they would like. These shows brought them back together. We bond over our shared home. 

One of the women tells me she also worked at WTTW, where I just started a full-time gig, in the late nineties. It’s a coincidence that throws me for a loop more than any space-age amenity at the Sphere. In just a few minutes, they already feel like my people. Hearing what this music meant to these strangers washed away my cynicism about this residency being a cynical, nostalgia-act cash grab. The Grateful Dead’s repertoire has always been about coming together and having a good time. Sure, it’s escapism but it’s bigger and longer lasting than that. 

The lights dim. Nothing happens with the scaffolding on the screen as the band launches into opener “Feel Like a Stranger.” I get a pit in my stomach. The Grateful Dead catapulted to the upper echelon of my favorite artists because of how many great songs they have. Over their three decades of touring, the Dead played over 500 different songs—–covers and originals—–live. I like 95 percent of everything I’ve heard from the silky ‘90s sets to the turbocharged Pigpen-era ‘60s, from the self-titled 1967 to 1989’s Built To Last. “Feel Like a Stranger” is in that five percent. I panic. We traveled all this way, spent all this money, and now the band opens with one I can’t stand. Did I make a huge mistake? So many tracks would’ve made more sense to my neophyte brain: A “China Cat Sunflower > I Know You Rider,” a “Bertha,” or hell, even a “Dark Star” given the venue would be fitting.

My anxiety dissipates as soon as they move on to “Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodeloo.” Already a personal alltimer Dead track, it soundtracked the most stunning visual of the night: the scaffolding tears open to reveal the house at 710 Ashbury where the band lived in the mid-to-late ‘60s. The screen progressively lifts off, zooming out to the San Francisco skyline and eventually to Earth’s atmosphere and the cosmos. It’s breathtaking. Overwhelmed, my father sits down. Just as mind-melting as the screen is the sound: I’ve never been to a show so crisp. It’s not loud but it’s not too quiet. It’s present and almost tangible. It’s concert-going on a massive scale but intimately and immersively presented. While Vegas is full of oppressive screens flashing solicitations in perpetuity, the Sphere, the biggest screen in town, is refreshingly pleasant. 

Night one’s setlist is an exercise in euphoria: a rainforest paradise backdrops a gorgeous rendition of “Bird Song,” an impressive floor-to-ceiling collage of backstage passes and ticket stubs covers the screen for “Cold Rain and Snow,” and cute, imaginative Western film credits pair with the countryfied “Me and My Uncle.” I notice the dad from San Francisco hug his teenage son during “Jack Straw” and memories of going to shows with my father flash by Tom Petty, Billy Joel, Jackson Browne, and dozens more. I’m lucky I got to do that with him then and I’m just as blessed we’re sharing this now. I know the kid next to me, who seems shy and sweet, won’t forget this either. To not get too emotional, I scan the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous tall Deadhead and former NBA champion Bill Walton. No dice, but I do clock the guy from Bizarre Foods. 

Before this trip, I didn’t dive into Dead & Company beyond recordings of recent Wrigley Field shows. I wanted to leave room for surprise. Still, it feels unsettlingly natural to hear John Mayer play these songs. Over my past 12 years as a music writer, I’ve roasted the guy relentlessly but I warmed up to him with his most recent LP Sob Rock. Here, he’s excellent. Though no one can fully capture Jerry Garcia’s intiuitiveness, tone, and feel, Mayer is a more than capable frontman for this catalog. He puts his spin on the songs without leaning too much on blues or pop. I thought it’d be distracting, but in the moment, it isn’t. The real star however is keyboardist Jeff Chimenti. He first played with various Bob Weir solo bands and Dead spinoffs and has been in the general orbit since 1997. He’s an exemplary amalgamation of every great Dead keyboardist: Brett Mydland from the ‘80s, Keith Godchaux from the ‘70s, and Bruce Hornsby in the ‘90s. His supremely tasteful playing always knows when to overload the mix and more importantly, when to pull back. 

It’s a beautiful night. During the second set, the on-screen recreation of The Wall of Sound morphs into a “Rainbow Road” Mario Kart 64-style visual during my favorite Dead jam “Help Is on the Way > Slipknot > Franklin’s Tower.” It’s staggering. I send a video to my friend Brian, the writer finishing a book on the sound system. The latter tune might be my top Dead song, especially the version from 5/9/77 in Buffalo—the day after they played their famous Cornell show. In the moment, Mayer’s playing during that track reminds me so much of Jerry’s solos during that revered version. It rules. Other highlights include “Hell In a Bucket” having an inspired and playful visual sequence of a skeleton riding a motorcycle through a cartoon fantasy. During the emotional montage of bandmates past and present, dead and never forgotten, during “Not Fade Away” to close the show, I start to feel tears.

My dad looks at me and says that all future concerts are ruined for him now because of this show. He says going to see Dead & Company, at almost 70, was more fun than being a carefree twentysomething catching the original band during its peak in the Bay Area. I’m not sure I believe him, since he would’ve seen them anytime from ‘75-’78, but I couldn’t be more thrilled. Liking the Grateful Dead’s catalog feels like being let in on a great and galvanizing secret. Seeing it played tonight made me so glad I took the leap. 

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Friday: Deal 

Two more to go. Last night’s elation still hasn’t worn off in the morning. I’m up early again—my girlfriend has a spa appointment and I want to clear the room for the housekeeping staff—so I start walking. Besides a few dead-eyed, sweaty stragglers smoking and drinking at the casino, it’s pretty quiet. I check my phone and read a text from Cadien, one of my dearest friends who tried and failed to get me into the Dead seven years ago. When he was a toddler, his parents took him to one of Jerry Garcia’s final performances with the Grateful Dead at Soldier Field before he died in 1995. He asks what I thought about my first show and I say, “Two more nights might not be enough. When I get back, I’ll probably look at tickets for July.”

He responds: “That’s how they’ve gotten 'em for 50+ years.” 

Last night, my phone died leaving the Sphere. Walking back to the hotel was the most psychedelic part of the trip so far. I saw Deadheads getting lost in the maze of the Venetian, drunk guys on the Strip leaning so severely their bodies were almost at a physics-defying 30-degree angle, and couples breaking up in the hotel-casino (or at least having gnarly fights they might forget about in the morning). I have a few hours to kill and decide to hit the slots. I take out a $20 bill, break it into $5s, and survey the available options. Most of them have bright electronic screens, and multiple buttons with names like “Rich Little Piggies” and “Lucky Hog.” There are a few vaguely racist ones too. 

None are appealing. Like my music listening habits, I usually prefer analog over digital. So, I wander until I find an old-school one-armed bandit, complete with a lever and a simple presentation. I lose $5 in three pulls and move on to another. I put in $5 and immediately win big. My $1 bet turns into $50. The machine loudly rings for what seems like minutes. Now, I’m not an idiot. I cash out $45 richer. With time to kill, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to give it another go. I lose that $5 at a machine titled Prost!, which I maybe thought would be in my favor since I enjoy drinking beer. Disturbed by this string of bad luck, I try once more. I lose again. Now, only up $35, I reluctantly call it quits. 

“That’s how they’ve gotten 'em for $50+ years.” 

The Grateful Dead’s catalog is uniformly populated with characters in transit—outlaws, nomads, and searchers. People on a journey. Gamblers make up a good chunk of the lyrics too. There’s the cathartic “sitting flush with a royal flush, aces back to back“ yelp on “Ramble On Rose,” “Ace of Spades behind his ear and him not thinkin' twice” on “Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodeloo,” “I can tell the Queen of Diamonds by the way she shines” on “Loser,” and my favorite opening line on any Dead song from “Deal:” “Since it costs a lot to win and even more to lose / You and me bound to spend some time wonderin' what to choose.” While I’ve listed a bunch of Jerry Garcia-sung songs, Bob Weir’s nickname is Ace, which is also the name of his debut 1972 solo album. I should’ve played poker instead. 

Though I went to the Dead Forever Experience with my girlfriend yesterday, I want my dad to see it too. At the pop-up, we’re both floored by the gallery showcasing Mickey Hart’s paintings. I get emotional revisiting the photo exhibit documenting the band throughout the decades. Nearly 60 years of history distilled into a walking tour. In front of its tiny replica, I explain what the Wall of Sound meant for the Grateful Dead, the manhours it took to build night-in-and-night-out, and how it almost bankrupted the band. Build it, take it down, and follow the band to the next gig. 

Later today, the longtime Dead roadie “Big Steve” Parish would criticize the recreation of the sound system at a live taping for the Sirius XMU Grateful Dead channel at the Dead Forever Experience, saying, “It was 35 feet tall and we risked our lives building it day in and day out.” He compared the miniature to a toy train set. It was a reminder that this weekend at the Sphere is not all roses and good vibes for the people who actually lived it. There are reasons founding members bassist Phil Lesh and drummer Bill Kreutzmann aren’t there. The same goes for the ‘70s singer Donna Godchaux. After over a century of the music never stopping, there are inevitable hurt feelings, bad blood, and unsettled scores especially when money is involved. 

What first resonated with me about the Grateful Dead was how seamlessly they synthesized American musical traditions like the blues, Appalachian folk, country, and the burgeoning acid-rock scene into a cohesive whole. More than that, you could relate to every member of the band and their stories. You have death, rebirth, euphoria, addiction, comedowns, crushing failure, massive highs, relentless adventurousness, and constant reinvention. These are people who truly lived and died for this music. It’s a distinctly American story. It’s especially enticing and undeniably human. Every peak and valley imaginable is in this one career.  

There was Jerry Garcia, the reluctant leader who eventually succumbed to not just drug abuse but the pressure of keeping everything afloat and constant. With Bob Weir, you had the young kid who left home and struggled to keep up with his more talented bandmates. He was kicked out from the band in 1968 for not being as proficient a player but forced his way back. Pigpen, the R&B aficionado, was the charismatic frontman during the ‘60s who lost his spark from booze and when his bandmates moved on from vamping blues to cerebral jams. Phil Lesh, the classically trained composer who learned bass to join the band, was the know-it-all who wasn’t afraid to joke and talk trash. Kruetzmann was the clean-cut jazz guy. Hart was an established marching band drummer who for a brief time in the early ‘70s left the band in shame because his father stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from them as a manager. Each disparate personality and tribulation made the Grateful Dead what it became. It was bigger than any one part.

After a dinner with my dad and my girlfriend where a gregarious bartender talked breathlessly about his love for Chicago, Malört, the Lawrence Arms, and Björk, we eventually made it to the Sphere for the second time. My dad had a 6 am flight so my girlfriend is here for night two. Her absolute favorite Dead songs weren’t played last night so we hope they’ll appear either tonight or tomorrow. I can’t explain the feeling that comes with sort of knowing what to expect and guiding someone you love through the Sphere. Sure, you’re a sherpa through a techno-futurist concertgoing utopia, but you can also see an otherworldly experience through someone else’s eyes. It’s a high. We convene with our seatmates: the women from Chicago say they subscribed to this Substack, the couple from Buffalo roast how the venue made them throw away the caps on the $7 reusable water bottles, and the dad from San Francisco gives me updates on the night’s NBA games

Show two starts with the same visual script as the opening night: “Samson and Delilah” for the scaffolding fake out, “Shakedown Street” for the San Francisco to Earth’s atmosphere lift off, and “Bertha” for the lava lamp screens. Online, fans maligned the fact that the Dead repeated visuals but I was just happy my girlfriend also got to see that sequence. I didn’t care. For one, knowing what was coming on the screen, I could focus on the music more. Two, if Twitter and Reddit existed during May 1977, too-logged-on Grateful Dead fans would’ve spent their time complaining that there wasn’t enough setlist variety. Finally, the Sphere’s 16K-capable resolution and 4 acres of inside screens mean that the files for these visuals are astronomically massive. When U2’s creative director uploaded an animation for the band’s 2023 residency, it was so large that it took two weeks to render just 60 seconds of footage in a two-hour show. (I think, or at least hope, they figured out how to make it upload faster). 

Following the first set, which featured a surprise “Crazy Fingers” and a crowdpleasing closer in “Deal,” helpful onscreen graphics appeared counting down the 30-minute intermission. We leave our section and run into Friend of the Substack Jeff Weiss, another writer who years ago at Pitchfork Festival told me that I’d probably like the Grateful Dead if I gave them another shot (he’s written truly stellar things about the band too). When Dead & Company returns, they rip into the alltimer pairing “China Cat Sunflower” and “I Know You Rider.” With the latter, new visuals documenting the defunct San Francisco venue Winterland, Cornell’s Barton Hall, and Red Rocks in Colorado are magnificent. We even get to hear an “Althea,” a “Morning Dew,” and a surprise show closer in the Pigpen-era “Turn on Your Lovelight.” I didn’t want it to end but if the Grateful Dead have taught me one thing, some things never really do. 

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Saturday: Ship of Fools 

My girlfriend and I are eating NY-style at a counter-service pizza spot tucked away at the Cosmopolitan Hotel before night three at the Sphere. A guy in line asks us what slices we ordered and starts chatting us up. 

“Are you guys going to EDC?” 

Fight-or-flight kicks in. I have flashbacks to the vaping bro in our hotel’s elevator. We’re decked out in bootleg merch we bought early today from Shakedown Street, the unofficial market set up by fans and various wares-slingers outside the Tuscany Hotel. I’m not falling for that again. 

“No, man. You’re funny,”  I say back, bracing to be called a hippy or a wook.  

Turns out, the dude is genuinely curious. He says he’s going to the dance music festival alone and wants to make friends. He’s earnest and has great energy. Part of me wishes I could take in tonight’s Four Tet show with the guy. 

This trip is a lesson in letting my guard down and excavating hardened cynicism. I could view the Sphere as simply a billionaire’s vanity project, Las Vegas as a gaudy capitalist hell, and this iteration of my favorite band as a phoned-in excuse to monetize a long-gone heyday. Instead, why not take it all in with an open mind? 

Before diving into their catalog, I mistakenly thought the Grateful Dead wrote songs to be vessels for self-indulgent, unlistenable jams. I assumed the writing, the hooks, and the emotion were all secondary to noodling guitar theatrics and 20-minute drum circles. The reality couldn’t be further from that misconception. Sure, the band improvised setlists—–only picking out set openers and set closers over thousands of shows—–but everything onstage was in service of the song. Even when things didn’t quite work, the bones of these tunes stayed sturdy. 

When it clicked, I couldn’t get enough: a different song revealed itself as a classic every time I checked out a show. A splendid “He’s Gone” from 12/9/81, a smooth-as-butter “Eyes of the World” from 10/29/77, or what a “Dark Star” sounds like with saxophonist Branford Marsalis in 3/29/90. It’s the same band, yet poles apart each time. Try the rollicking “Friend of the Devil” from 9/27/72 and compare it to the lovely and patient version from 9/3/77. If you grew up listening to Ty Segall or Osees, check out 2/23-24/68. If you’re into stripped-down folk, try Reckoning or the famed Binghamton show from 5/2/70. It’s a fully alive and malleable body of work.

In an interview, John Mayer encapsulated how listening to the Grateful Dead feels like not just checking out a different genre of music, but a different medium. “I listen to this music every day,” he said to Relix in 2017. “I listen to it in the car wherever I go. It’s playing like nature sounds, the way you would hear a babbling brook. Grateful Dead music has a whole extra dimension for me than listening to music. There’s books, movies, theater, music, art, comedy, Grateful Dead. It’s a completely different lobe of my brain than music.” Sure, that makes this whole thing sound like a cult but if you get it, what he’s saying makes all the sense in the world. 

The songs are why we decided to do three shows instead of one for our inaugural Dead experience. Dead & Company rarely repeat tunes night after night. With a three-show weekend, we figured we’d get a decent slice of our favorites. The three that I knew I’d likely hear if I went each night: “Althea,” “Frankin’s Tower,” and “Eyes of the World.” I’m two-for-three there. My longshots: “Candyman,” “Here Comes Sunshine,” and “Turn On Your Lovelight.” Only one-for-three. Walking to the Sphere on our final night, we had already heard 38 different tunes (I’m including the improvised and hallucinatory  “Drums / Space” sequences here). Even that felt like a small sliver of what was possible. 

When we get to our seats for the last time, we start guessing. I bet we’ll hear “Scarlet Begonias / Fire on the Mountain” and “Eyes of the World” in the second set. My girlfriend expects a “Truckin’” and I say it’d be sick to hear a “Surgaree,” a “Casey Jones,” and a “Tennessee Jed” in the first set. The woman from Chicago chimes in and says she hopes for a “Man Smart, Woman Smarter.” Even though that’s usually one of the very few tracks I’d prefer them to skip, I genuinely hope she gets her wish tonight. Sure enough, when the band starts, predictions come true. “Truckin’” is played second, during the still-jaw-dropping San Francisco visual. In set one, “Casey,” “Sugaree,” and Jed” all appear. I feel like a Deadhead Babe Ruth calling his shot. It’s bliss. But the songs I guessed aren’t even the clear highlight: It’s “Ship of Fools,” which boasts a new underwater visual. The whole sequence is beautiful. 

At the break with 28 minutes to spare, I meet up with Mike, a Nashville musician I have never met in person but I talk to every day because he’s in the same Dead-themed group chat I am. He’s up in the 300 section and says his knees were weak during the lift-off visual. Climbing the escalator, the scope of the place becomes even more dramatic. Up top, folks bottleneck into narrow hallways and it’s perilously high up. We hug and introduce ourselves—and share stories about our mutual friends and our favorite haunts in our respective cities. On the way back down, I pause to think about how lucky I am to meet so many great people just because I found a new favorite band. 

The second set is a dream that I never want to end——not just because it’s the last dose of live music I’ll hear all weekend. They open with “Scarlet Begonias” with a mesmerizing, deep crimson backdrop of falling flowers. Naturally, that segues into “Fire on the Mountain,” which features surprise vocals from drummer Mickey Hart (As much I researched and listened to the Grateful Dead, I had no clue about “The Mickey Rap”). It’s weird and doesn’t quite work but I’m having too great a time to complain. Next is my absolute favorite Dead song “Eyes of the World,” which is presented with psychedelic visuals and played euphorically. I called it. After that, another favorite: “Terrapin Station.” I’m stunned throughout. It’s hit after hit. “Throwing Stones” closes the main set, which I dig because it’s got the same chord progression as Althea, and then it’s the silly but energetic “One More Saturday Night.” Of course, they play it on Saturdays. 

Not counting the “Drums / Space” jams this time, I saw 51 different tunes performed in three days. It’s a testament to the band that there are so many massive and beloved songs from their repertoire they didn’t play. Here’s a sample of what we didn’t hear but I would’ve loved to witness: “Sugar Magnolia,” “Dark Star,” “Friend of the Devil,” “Ripple,” “Playin’ In the Band,” “Box of Rain,” “Brokedown Palace,” “Weather Report Suite,” “Wharf Rat,” “Dire Wolf,” “Greatest Story Ever Told,” “The Music Never Stopped,” “Loser,” “Here Comes Sunshine,” “They Love Each Other,” “Ramble On Rose,” “It Must’ve Been The Roses,” “Touch of Grey,” “Peggy-O,” or “Black-Throated Wind.” I could list 20 more. 

The Sphere is incredible: a spectacle in every sense and the best-sounding room I’ve ever been in. Though I still believe that the future of music is a $20 ticket three-band-bill at a local independent small-to-midsize venue, not costly vacation destination orbs, the thing is truly a marvel. It’s a fundamentally novel way to experience live music. If you have the means and an artist you love is playing, you should go, even if Vegas isn’t your bag. 

Though he’s always been a favorite artist, I waited until 2023 to finally see Bob Dylan perform. It was one of the best shows I’ve been to. He was a towering, mystical presence onstage even at 82. (He also toured with the Grateful Dead in the ‘80s and even asked to join the band——they declined). Seeing him clarified something that should’ve been inherent: you only live once and you won’t regret the experience. When I dove into the Dead, I promised myself I wouldn’t make the same mistake again with Bob Weir and Mickey Hart. Seeing Weir, once the baby of the band, at 76 as the elder statesman, the Jerry-like living avatar of the Grateful Dead, made it all worth it. I know I’ll never forget it. 

It hasn’t been a year so it’s still the honeymoon period of my fandom. I could still become disillusioned with the music, irrevocable skeptical of the culture, and grow tired of it all. But right now, back in Chicago, I see signs everywhere. I spot people in tie-dyes walking down California Avenue on my drive home from work, a coworker inadvertently quoting a song title, an auto-repair shop called Garcia’s that I never noticed before in my year living in the neighborhood. I revisited two shows today: Red Rocks 7/8/78 and 11/1/73 Northwestern University. I noticed new things in both: a freewheeling solo during the latter’s “Morning Dew,” and ecstatic backing vocals from Donna Godchaux during the former. It’s an endless well of vitality, playfulness, and all-encompassing highs and lows of life. It’s a feeling I’ll chase for as long as it lasts. 

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What I listened to: 

No Expectations 071 Playlist: Spotify // Apple Music 

All songs performed by the Grateful Dead 

1. “China Cat Sunflower” (6/16/74) 
2. “I Know You Rider” (6/16/74) 
3. “Sugaree” (5/28/77) 
4. “Greatest Story Ever Told” (8/27/72) 
5. “Brown-Eyed Women” (5/28/77) 
6. “Black-Throated Wind” (3/23/74) 
7. “Althea” (5/16/80) 
8. “Jack Straw” (5/21/77) 
9. “Deal” (5/6/81) 
10. “Bird Song” (9/27/72) 
11. “They Love Each Other” (6/10/73) 
12. “Playin’ In The Band” (8/4/74) 
13. “Bertha” (5/21/77) 
14. “Saint of Circumstance” (5/16/80) 
15. “Scarlet Begonias” (10/9/76) 
16. “Friend of the Devil” (9/28/76) 
17.  “Estimated Prophet” (9/3/77) 
18. “Eyes of the World” (9/3/77) 
19. “The Other One” (5/2/70) 
20. “Help Is on the Way” > “Slipknot” > “Franklin’s Tower” (3/30/90) 
21. “Morning Dew” (5/8/77) 
22. “Sugar Magnolia” (4/24/72) 
23. “Not Fade Away” (2/14/70) 
24. “Ripple” (10/4/80) 
25. “Turn On Your Lovelight” (2/11/69)