We lost a great one. Bob Weir passed away at the age of 78 on January 10th, 2026. I never got the chance to see Bob perform, but I’ve heard his voice over the course of my life quite a bit. My Dad would play music off his iPad growing up on Saturday mornings. Bright and early before the day would be filled with soccer games, grocery shopping, church, or whatever else was on the agenda. It was a moment of solitude hearing what was playing when I walked downstairs. I was an early riser, starting the day often times at 6:00am or sooner. But on those days when my dad would beat me to it, I’d always look forward to what was being played as I processed down the stairs. We had our staples, James Taylor with “Steamroller” and “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You),” John Prine’s “Paradise” and “Dear Abby,” and John Denver’s hits as well. Often times, these songs would be enjoyed but not until later would I grow a true appreciation for them.
The Grateful Dead were yet to consistently reach my ears until 2024. It was winter. The sky was dull and covered with clouds, the enjoyments of an elusive sun as far away as ever. Underneath a vitamin D lamp in my room, I held my phone and a notebook side by side trying to type in the exact dates and songs that I had been recommended. A friend made me a list titled “Ithica ‘75,” which I followed precisely. That name was picked after a back and forth of trying to figure out which versions of which songs I should start with. With a gliding swoop of a blue sharpie, it had been placed on that page. It was made very clear to me that the studio recordings were good, but there was so much more than that. I found it almost humorous the sheer number of shows available, not to count the innumerable bootlegs of gigs Deadheads had on vinyl and cassette. I’m a huge live album guy, they’re some of my staples. I think about The Rolling Stones’ “Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out!” or The Band’s “The Last Waltz.” These records have given me the closest experience possible to being at these shows decades prior to my first breath. The dozens upon dozens of live albums were daunting. Yet this back catalogue, while intimidating, has become a playground for me.
Finding The Dead in the cold months was interesting. Deadheads have spoken of their music being the soundtrack to summers of a countercultural Americana that has become hidden away, a lack of seatbelts, cigarette ads in magazines, 8 tracks and cassettes in the glovebox not collecting dust. It holds a butterscotch paste in the sky hearing Jerry and Bob noodle, never constrained by traditional music theory rules. They don’t play in keys but rather chase the notes in the chords being played. That’s freedom. Listening to the serenades of the Bay Area and the release of the western expanse double down on this feeling. But here I was in the Midwest during the winter, bumping shoulders with strangers on the brown line. As tight and compact as I was, the music in my ears transported me to that space I’d yet to see with my own eyes.
My Dad received the news of Bob’s passing ahead of the Bears wild card game against the Packers. A historic and exhilarating match that had the Bears on the verge of breaking a 16 year drought without a playoff victory. During this cardiac episode inducer of a game, Jim Melia was texting back and forth with some old buddies from grade school. The messages rarely mentioned the game. One of his longtime friends, Bill, became a Deadhead at the hands of my father. He still remembered the moment he first heard the Dead. It was sophomore year of high school on a snowy Saturday night, finding it in the gloom of winter like myself. Underneath the Melia’s roof in Park Ridge, Illinois, Bill caught a sickness. Like any plague, it floats through the air. It sticks with you. Implants in your nervous system. Flows in your bloodstream. This is exactly what the Dead were. An infection of the best kind. Bill got sick, and he refused every cure possible.
Throughout a disappointing first half, their group chat traded stories back and forth, speaking of landmark gigs and songs that followed them around. People were often trailed by certain tunes throughout their Grateful Dead shows. Songs have always meant more than the words on the page or chords being played, but the Dead more so. There’s a feeling that barricades itself in to you. The Dead thrived on the feeling. The feeling of Jerry’s non key conforming solos or Phil Lesh’s avalanche of a bass line, the kind of feeling you soak in. If the Dead’s music was like driving on the road, there were no guard rails. The lines were faintly painted, if at all. There was a map in the car, but only with a destination circled. How they got there was going to be figured out at some point, but they were in no rush. The major blues scale that Jerry held so dearly in his leads, intwining with the minor tear drops to make his music talk. It sounded so good because it was layered over the chiseling rhythm guitar of Bob Weir. Giving the words sung syncopation and flow, it became that contaminating sound.
I wish I had the chance to see any of it, even Dead and Co. I was who it was meant for, people who weren’t able to experience “the real thing”. I never made my way to a gig. A screenshot of the prices for their 2023 gigs at Wrigley Field haunt me in my camera roll. $55 is what it would have cost me for nosebleeds and a crisp $188 for the coveted field admission. I don’t remember where I was on June 9th and 10th, 2023, but I know where I should have been. Luckily, both shows were released on streaming and I’ve listened to them many times. The covers of the records, when put together, make a beautiful picture. Two skeletons towering over the front marquee of Wrigley, one with a bat and one with a glove, ready to play two. These skeletons are giants. Daunting. Statuesque. Present. Every Deadhead I’ve spoken to has said the Dead and Co. gigs aren’t even close to the magic of the original band, but retained some of the moutainous life it once breathed. I still wish I would’ve caught them. Missing out has added to the mystery of it all. Here is this group, and its iterations, shadowing over the world live shows, and all I can do is watch its shadow. Never seeing the real thing but tracing its movements. Watching it dance and sway on the green. It’s beautiful in a way, knowing that I’ll never know. It lets me dream a little bit more about it, creating these images from the stories I’ve been told and the music. Maybe it would have never been as good as my dreams, or maybe somehow it would have been better. I just don’t know.
I don’t know what’s next. Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann are still alive and well but seem doubtful they’d do anything. Maybe John Mayer will tour playing Grateful Dead tunes. He is the living Dead to many right now. A band so timeless that it was always bound to outlive Weir, and now Mayer, myself, and generations to come. I’ll go catch one of the hundreds of Grateful Dead tribute bands, feel the grass on my feet, and if I close my eyes while listening for that sound, I just might find myself the closest I’ll get to seeing The Dead. It feels like the goal posts keep moving farther away from “the real thing”. But whatever I see, and whatever I feel, is much closer to The Grateful Dead than it is to feeling alone.
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