One night while having drinks with my friend LuLu we got to talking about our first concert experiences. When I told her mine was The Grateful Dead, the color drained from her face. She said hippie-this-hippie-that and then asked, “How long has it been since your last tie dye?” It’s been a long time.
I really did love seeing the Grateful Dead live. I don’t listen to them now, nor did I take to Phish like some people who were pseudo hippie Grateful Dead followers. For me, it was more about being someplace where shit was happening; even if I weren’t the one doing it.
Around my seventeenth birthday a friend called and asked if I could go to see The Dead that night (which happened to be a school night), she would spot my ticket and call it my birthday present. Her folks were Mormon too, but not quite as restrictive as mine. I almost didn’t ask my parents if I could go because I was certain they would say no.
My parents convened under what I’ve come to know as The United Front. Initially my mom screamed, “NO!” Then she and my dad talked behind closed doors. I always thought it was funny that they had to talk privately to decide how they felt, but it’s still in effect to this day.
Much to my mother’s displeasure, I was permitted to attend. My folks were banking on me being frightened to death by the illicit activities, listening to the Holy Ghost (or some crap) and running home, terrified into their arms. Wrong!
I loved it. Being inside of Shakedown* before and after the concert, was like being transported to a different world. There were so many clashing colors, smells and insane people. It was indistinguishably noisy with a general hum running across the crowd.
At least that’s how it felt to a good little Mormon girl. I would love to see a video of myself during that time. I know that my eyes must have been a mile wide. It was quite some time before I’d decide to participate in any of the “things” that occur in that environment (public urination and indecent exposure; oh the good old days!), but the energy and excitement happening around me was enough to make me feel momentarily content with my Molly Mormon-ness.
Inside the concert I’ll never forget this super yuppie guy who was wearing a business suit and spinning in circles on the lawn, barefoot, while the band played. How often do you see a guy wearing a suit, spinning without around barefooted in grass? Not often enough, not nearly enough!
Thus, my fondness for tie-dyed apparel during my escape from Mormonism was born. If Jerry had live a few years longer I may have gone full blown hippie and followed The Dead. But Jerry didn’t last beyond the handful of concerts I attended and I’ve always known the joy that is deodorant. The furthest I got into hippiedom was going on “strike” against shaving my legs one summer; not that it made much difference because my leg hair is blonde.
*rows of vendors in the parking lot
