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Page 16 · column 3 of 7 · from the scan, no model involved
Lieaa time was last approaching. Hordes of reserved seaters pushed onto the field, and our supply pile became more vertical than horizontal as the territory we had claimed shrank. Down by the sound board our popularity grew as those around us noticed we still had precious water and even more precious ice. The sun was going down but the temperature on the field hung steady, the mercury buoyed by the heat from 60,000 sweaty bodies.
Showtime again and this time, the roar shook the stadium, evidence that the crowd was more Dead than Dylan. Grace gave up the spot on the big thermos so that the JMU senior could better see his heroes.
They didn’t look like rock ‘n’ roll stars. Singer and rhythm guitarist Bobby “Ace” Weir wore cut-offs, tennis shoes and short hair. Venerable Jerry Garcia wore a hundred extra pounds. There was no glitter, no glitz, no spangles, no high tech special effects.
But they owned the crowd. Thousands of feet started jumping as thousands of voices shouted the lyrics along with the band. Dylan joined the Dead for a couple of numbers but he was overshadowed by Jerry Garcia’s dazzling guitar. They boogied for an hour, alternating fast numbers with gentle love songs that sent sweaty sweethearts into clinches.
Then came the part I remembered from the bootleg tapes — Space, the never ending drum solo.
“If all the reserved seaters are down on the field, we ought to be able to get great seats in the stands,” reasoned my husband, another non-fan of the long and boring song. With him as blocker, we squeezed our way through the fanat
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