A few of us here at The New Yorker recently recorded a podcast about the Grateful Dead, on the occasion of a series of five farewell performances (this weekend in Santa Clara, California, and next weekend in Chicago) by the band’s four surviving members. Afterwards, the segment’s producer, hoping to amplify a remark one of us had made about the Dead’s infamous inconsistency, asked if I could point him toward any performances that were “particularly terrible.” Could I ever. With relish! Any Deadhead worth his stash is a connoisseur not just of the good stuff but also of the bad—blown choruses, mangled leads, laryngitis, amnesia. Their improvisational approach to live performance had something to do with this. If you play by the seat of your pants, you are occasionally going to fall on your face. Toss in copious drug use, an aversion to rehearsal, and a genuine anarchic streak, and you have a band that may have stumbled as often as it soared. (If you’re one of the millions who believe that the Dead only ever stumbled, so be it. I’ll spare you the special pleading. If you believe that they only ever soared, well . . . de gustibus.)

We enthusiasts, apologists all, maintain that the uncertainty—the chance at musical transcendence amid a tendency toward something less—was what kept us coming back. This argument is a little like the East Coaster’s on behalf of his weather: the nice days are nicer when there are crappy ones in between. And you come to savor the misty mornings, the squalls, the blizzards, and the cold snaps that freeze the ponds. Transcendence, though, was always heavily contingent on the performance of Jerry Garcia, who, in addition to being the Dead’s (quoting myself here) “most accomplished songwriter, most soulful singer, most charismatic figure, most eloquent interviewee, most recognizable icon, most splendid thaumaturge,” was the one who provided the iridescent guitar leads that transported the band’s fans. When he had a bad night, you knew it. The others, when they were off, could sort of hide. The waning of Garcia’s health, technique, and enthusiasm was a kind of meta-performance. In some respects, listening through the band’s thirty-year touring career is a study in decline. By the end, you hardly ever saw the sun.

Since Garcia’s death, in 1995, the remaining members have performed together in assorted configurations, some happier than others, with various substitutes at lead guitar. As accomplished, competent, or even virtuosic as these guests may have been, the imitation, even when purposefully not imitative, usually paled. Still, fans kept showing up, desperate for a flash of the old magic, or at least a vestige of the old party. You could will your way to enthrallment, if you were capable of that kind of thing, and so inclined. Just squint your ears. People I know tended to go in with lowered expectations, as much out of curiosity, or habit, or even a sense of duty, as out of any real hope. And you could laugh at them. “My thesis is that the Grateful Dead were the Silliest Band in the World,” the anonymous genius (and ardent fan) behind the blog Thoughts on the Grateful Dead declares. “I will attempt to prove this through misquotes, malicious lies, and just plumb crazy talk.”

This Fare Thee Well series, the band’s avowed last stand, has attracted a different kind of attention. The hype around this engagement, both in the media and in “the scene,” seems out of proportion to the potential for lift-off. The band felt it had to do something to mark its fiftieth anniversary, and perhaps to use the occasion to say goodbye and fatten up their retirement accounts; it’s not as though they had been burning to make music together again. Much has been written about the high ticket prices, on both the primary and the secondary markets, and the controversies over how these tickets were allocated. This ain’t a free gig in Golden Gate Park. Cheap seats could suddenly be found online this week, but the demand has still been astonishing. Stub Hub says that, although Taylor Swift is its biggest-selling tour of the summer, the Dead, doing just five gigs, are selling sixty-five per cent more (in dollars) per show. The Dead are outselling every summer music festival and account for almost a quarter of all the sales on Stub Hub among so-called legacy acts, doubling those of Paul McCartney and the Rolling Stones.

“Going to Chicago?” In certain circles, it’s the question of the hour. I am not going to Chicago. I’d like to be able to say that it’s a matter of “been there, done that,” but the truth is that I have to be somewhere else for work. Still, many of my fellow cranky old Deadhead friends will be there, daring the band to move them to uncross their arms. They cite anthropological curiosity, sentimental attachment, or the lure of a lost weekend. But still, you never know. As the gigs approach, you get the itch. What if the music is good? The Core Four, as the original band members have been called, are to be joined by excellent musicians: Bruce Hornsby and Jeff Chimenti, on keyboards, and—most critically—Trey Anastasio, on guitar. One wonders about the set lists and what Anastasio, no Garcia clone but in recent months an ardent acolyte, will bring to the ensemble, besides assurance, chops, and star power. One worries about tempo. Even thirty years ago, the drummers often clomped and dragged. And one shudders, perhaps, at the prospect of a football stadium filled to the rim with predominantly middle-aged white men on a bender, on a sweltering Midwestern summer eve. This won’t be the Avalon Ballroom, either.

Earlier this week, a post on Gawker, having nothing to do with the Dead, declared that all concerts should end by 11 P.M., an argument predicated on the notion that live music is a chore. Some commenters even proposed a ban on concerts in general. Yeah, gigs sometimes drag on, standing around gets old, the G train’s a pain, and we all need our sleep. Middle-agers, at least, may find that the thrill is gone for good, no matter how hard they try to summon up that ecstatic youthful state of being in a loud, sweaty club with a loud, sweaty act. But come on now: when it goes off, there’s nothing like it. No matter the genre or the venue, live music, at its best, can obliterate time. The Dead’s Fare Thee Well concerts may well turn out to be a mere tribute to this idea rather than an enactment or a resurrection, but there’s no harm in hoping or continuing to try.