A run of lost Las Vegas weekends for Deadheads prompts a longtime fan to wrestle with what the band has left behind. Photographs by Michelle Groskopf for The New Yorker Last week, after a global tech outage crippled various PC systems, a faked image of the Sphere in Las Vegas went viral. It showed the arena overtaken by the dreaded Windows Blue Screen of Death that was appearing on devices around the world. It was a good joke, as the Sphere is not merely a bringer of news—the country’s flashiest billboard—but itself a symbol of our simultaneous mastery of and dependence on technology. It is also, of course, a concert venue. Recently, Nick Paumgarten journeyed there to take in two shows by Dead & Company, the current permutation of the Grateful Dead, who are in the midst of a months-long Sphere residency. During his visit, Paumgarten navigates garish commercialism, fellow-concertgoers who talk through the performances (a.k.a. “chompers”), a heat wave, and mixed feelings about his own place within the wider Deadhead economy. The vibes aren’t always good, but moments of transcendence emerge. “It was like nothing I’d ever seen,” he writes, “a new frontier of live entertainment, and there were moments on both nights where some combination of sound and screen made me want to call everyone I knew, even those with no affection for anything Dead, and say what my editor had said to me: ‘Go!’ ” Support The New Yorker’s award-winning journalism. Subscribe today » |
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