Episode 20: What a Lawn Strange Trip It’s Been

We’ve officially been in Ohio a year now, and I’ve already spent more time mowing the lawn than I did in 15 years living in Boise.

That’s not an exaggeration. In Boise, it took 20 minutes to mow our tiny lot’s dusty lawn, and by July and August, lacking rain and a sprinkler system, I could get away with mowing once a month until the grass kinda sorta came back to life in September. Here on nearly an acre of land in Hudson, where we average 144 days of precipitation a year and I wear waterproof work boots to keep from soaking my feet in the boggy yard, mowing is a once-a-week task, and even at a steady angry-man walking clip, it takes two hours to complete. I’m not complaining, mind you; in fact, counter to most chores inherent to modern American suburban life, I’ve always enjoyed mowing the lawn, even when it steals one-twelfth of my day away. Mowing gives me time to think, to process and otherwise swim laps inside my head as I push the mower back and forth across the lawn in 120-minute increments. Two-thirds of the way through, I run out of gas and have to refill the tank, and this forced break provides ample opportunity to rehydrate and, when the mood strikes, chase the water with a cold afternoon beer. The sensible and/or wealthy ones in town own riding mowers or farm out the job to professional landscapers, but my bullish blue-collar roots won’t allow either, and besides, I want the exercise – mentally and physically. Lastly, but most importantly, I’ve found friends to keep me company on the grass in the Grateful Dead.

I like the Grateful Dead quite a bit. I like the janky young Dead of the ’60s, the polished country-rock Dead of the early ’70s, the fluid, funky post-hiatus Dead of the late ’70s. I own a Skull and Roses shirt and a full concert recording on vinyl. Our daughter, Magnolia, was partially named for the Dead song. The band played a pivotal role in the first cross-country road trip I took with my two best friends, and I fondly remember our off-key singalong to American Beauty as we careened down paved switchbacks in the Rockies that were as awe-inspiring to three Midwestern boys as Everest base camp must be to seasoned mountaineers. That all might make me a “Dead guy,” but that doesn’t mean I identify as a card-carrying Deadhead. That’s not a line in the sand, mind you, just a point of fact. I’ve never felt a part of anything, especially when it comes to music scenes. Following a spontaneous trip to Indiana last week for the first night of a three-show run at Deer Creek, I’ve now been to six Phish shows, and as much as I’ve enjoyed myself every time, the neutral observer takes over pretty quickly, and stepping into their world – and I’m talking the band, the Phans, the whole roving micro-society that formed around the music – I feel like I should have a “just visiting” sign hanging from my neck. But I’ve kinda sorta felt that way about everywhere I’ve lived, too, so where does that leave me? I’m not necessarily a loner, but even when I’m deep inside a scene and surrounded by people, even like-minded people, I feel like I’m on the outside looking in. With the Grateful Dead, I was late to the party anyway. In high school, the Dead was just another T-shirt band I ignored – there but not there in the Falls High hallways with the Black Sabbaths and the Panteras – and no one in my life offered a proper introduction. Once I started listening to roots and country music in college, eventually I found my way to the Dead, and specifically, American Beauty and Workingman’s Dead. The live stuff would come later after I met my eventual wife, Erica, who saw the Dead once in 1995 right before Jerry died and was deep into the jam band scene when we were introduced. If you’re a music fan, chances are you have dipped your toes in this world and/or developed a strong opinion, pro or con, on representative acts like the Grateful Dead and Phish, and no matter where you sit, it’s likely you know people who love these bands like family or hate them with a frothing-mouth passion. When it comes to the latter, usually after a little digging you can deduce that the person in question does not so much hate the band as they hate the band’s fans, or perhaps sees something in them they hate about themselves.

And I’ll admit I’ve been that person. Shortly after high school, having listened, from start to finish, to a cassette of Junta we found in my friend Andrew’s cousin’s car he was borrowing, I decided that I hated Phish. But really, it was more about the douchebags I already hated who started showing up at school wearing Phish shirts and blathering incessantly about the live shows. Or maybe it was more about something I felt was missing from my life. Years later, it took bluegrass, Zappa and a wife with trusted taste in music for me to finally come around, and I’m, uh, grateful I gave Phish a second chance. And while defending the Dead is not a hill I’ll die on, I will say that if the gospel of cosmic American music means anything to you, at the very least American Beauty and Workingman’s Dead deserve your attention and recognition; otherwise, you’re probably trying too hard to dismiss what you hear or hate on someone for owning patchwork pants. The Dead made durable, occasionally flawed, deeply human music that cross-pollinated sounds and styles at a time when most artists were hopelessly stuck in their lanes, and they did it with the skill of prodigious musicians whose fearless sense of adventure meant they weren’t afraid of public missteps and certifiable fuck-ups. Nowhere is this more evident than the Dead’s vast archive of live recordings, and specifically the legendary Dick’s Picks series. Shortly after moving into our house in Hudson, I was searching for some live Dead to listen to while raking leaves and I stumbled upon a Spotify playlist compiling all 36 Dick’s Picks – not in numerical order by release but in chronological order as the concerts took place, from Lake Tahoe in February 1968 through Oakland in December 1992. On Wednesday, Nov. 4, 2020, the day after Election Day, I pushed Play on the first song of the Tahoe show, a 19-minute version of “Viola Lee Blues,” with the goal over the next year of listening straight through to ’92 and “Tomorrow Never Knows,” the final song of the Oakland show, but only while I mowed the lawn, raked leaves and otherwise tended to the grounds. I’ve barely made a dent in the playlist – I’m on Baltimore ’72 as we speak – but I’m bound and determined to see it through to the end of this lawn strange trip, even if it takes me years. And at this point, that’s where the journey is headed.

The experience of a Dead show, its purpose and intent, could not be further away, cosmically speaking, from the rote domestic chore of mowing. The American lawn is proof positive that we are dumb and have too much time on our hands. I believe in extraterrestrial life, and I’m convinced that at least one and possibly multiple alien civilizations have observed the amount of time, money and resources we put into land that yields nothing to eat and serves no practical purpose, and determined that we’re not worth the trouble. The irony is, even as I acknowledge how ludicrous the activity is, I really like mowing the lawn, and the night before I returned home from my second trip to Boise this summer, I was looking forward to mowing so much that I dreamt about it. That said, given the choice between mowing the lawn or standing on the lawn at an amphitheater, I’m always going to choose the latter. Music is a portal, an escape hatch that can free you momentarily from the worries and responsibilities of your reality, a place to lose yourself in a summer evening, however fleeting, before another Monday hits. Whenever those moments are out of reach, whether due to a pandemic or the churn of adult life, I’ve found that turning to live recordings from the likes of the Dead can help fill the empty spaces and help me lock into a groove with whatever I’m doing, whether it’s driving, writing or mowing. Most of the 36 volumes in the Dick’s Picks series are longer than my mowing sessions – some are longer than two sessions – and this deep dive I’m taking has given me an even deeper appreciation for the Dead. Diehard Deadheads use the phrase “warts and all” to lovingly describe the band’s live recordings, and indeed, there are warts aplenty. But the warts are endearing, often entertaining and part of the narrative even in the band’s finest moments: Halfway through the famed Cornell show from ’77, Bob Weir comes in early for his vocal on “Dancing in the Street,” and later during the jam the band nearly falls off the cliff before miraculously pulling it together, because they had no choice but to pull it together. When you’re that deep into it, simply stopping isn’t an option, and as a listener, even when I know what’s coming, I find myself rooting for the Dead in the same way I root for the protagonist in a film I’ve seen a dozen times to get out of a jam.

This is a rabbit hole for sure, one you have to willingly descend. Our friend, Courtney, once remarked that liking Phish is a conscious choice, and that may seem like a weird way to approach music, and a lot of work, but I understood what she meant. Fandom, especially one as potentially exhausting as the Dead or Phish, or for that matter a King Gizzard or Guided By Voices, requires an acceptance of all that you like and dislike, and in that way it’s not unlike any other relationship, especially a lifelong one. You may prefer the Pigpen era of the Dead over the Godchaux era much like you preferred the child-rearing years of your marriage over the empty nest years, but when you’re committed, you take it all and you take it as it comes. Choosing Penny Lane over the Golden Road, you’re obligated to a point, unless of course you decide to throw it all away, abandon your family and follow a band around the country. Or you can stay put and savor the simple joys of domestic life, and look at the grass under your feet and pretend it’s not a giant lawn you’re mowing but a massive festival field from your fading youth. Sometimes, in the right moments with the right music, when you breathe in the air beneath the blue suburban skies, it’s magically all one and the same.

Enjoy this week’s episode? Support independent writing and consider contributing to The Suburban Abyss tip jar, sponsoring an upcoming episode or telling a friend. Thank you for being here.