Riddle me this: which of the following should be the indelible memory of these career-closing (theirs maybe, mine definitely) concerts that I ought to store in my special hidden place?

Is it the psychedelically charged end-scene on Saturday night, an Independence Day show at which ticket-acquiring miracles happened to many of those who wished (or paid or hustled) hard enough, a concert that closed with a ragged, sneering version of “U.S. Blues” followed by incredible fireworks display accompanying a full-stadium sound system blast of John Philip Souza’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” the rocket glares and the brass fanfares booming over Soldier Field’s fascist architecture as Chicago’s skyline shone red, white and blue in the background, and Phil Lesh, one of the weekend’s distinguished masters of ceremonies, pointed to the explosions in the sky, a full belly-laugh written on his face. There was a barrel- (or a microdot-) full of grand clichés in this spectacle that famous Deadhead Francis Ford Coppola would easily recognize; but hell or high water if it did not play with a core set of American myths that the Grateful Dead’s music always attempted to engage.

Or should it be the scene on the stand’s final night, when the mischievous Gods of barcode scanners decided to treat me as wanton boys do flies, when, upon initial entry into the stadium, my mail-order ticket kept coming up as “already used,” thus sending me on a wild goose chase to other venue gates, then will-call, only to wind up at the dreaded Gate 2, where an infernal gathering—scammers of the highest order, the wasted, the disabled, the people with ticket issues similar to mine—all accosted members of Monterrey Security, trying specifically to gain the attention of one particularly stressed boss-man, who’d undoubtedly spent the previous 72 hours dealing with more “hippie bullshit” than any straight-person (off-duty cop, as he kept repeating) should engage in a lifetime. Here, in full stark glory, was “Fare Thee Well’s” own Desolation Row, a place where the jesters, the freewheelers and the desperately unlucky came to lodge a complaint, and found the market’s response to be a gendarme’s fists and cuffs—or the threat of their immediate and illogical usage. (I ended up getting in about 20 minutes after the first set’s kick-off, yet the colors of my evening were almost irrevocably dimmed, so read the musical analysis pertaining to it under that shadow.)

In reality, the answer is both. Everyone who ever got “it” about the Grateful Dead will recognize a version of the former; and anybody who stayed on tour long enough, especially through many of the dark vibes of the ‘90s, is at least tangentially familiar with the latter. Transcendence could always lie just around the corner, as could a harsh encounter with a society that doesn’t truly believe in this version of it. Why should the last set of performances by the unique group of men who created the spaces for such an adventurous experience to take place, be any different?

As much as Santa Clara presented itself as a nice, unexpected hors d'oeuvres, Chicago was always going to be “Fare Thee Well’s” steak and potatoes. Not simply because of its historicity as Garcia/Grateful Dead’s last-show location in ‘95, or the holiday weekender aspects of these concerts, or the ticket gold rush (unlike in California, you had to work to find a “miracle” here). But because these weren’t going to simply be the “final” shows, these were going to be taking place on/near the East Coast; and the reality is, the manic blood-thirsty energy that East Coast and Midwestern Deadheads bring with them is markedly different from the laid-back natures of our West Coast brothers and sisters. Only the least critical fans failed to make the distinction. Soldier Field is a hardened ground, its ugly concrete blocks hidden behind a demeanor of Greek columns and corporate-starship luxury boxes; making a successful final stand here would always require a deeper reserve of glory-hunting than “back home.”

Incredible then, that so many moments over the weekend reached truly glorious levels. If the rainbow and oldies-heavy run of Santa Clara’s opening night was trumped by the following show’s understanding of momentary magic and the sense of a “modern band playing Grateful Dead music” approaching focus, then Chicago found everyone involved striving for more. Holy shit, they really were “all in”—even more so once Trey Anastasio and Bruce Hornsby decided to throw off Weir and Lesh’s mental chains (with visible approval from Kreutzmann) and started to show off their chops and love of interpreting this music. (And, also, singing.)

There was an almost complete lack of repetition in the set-lists—though unlike the Dead, all “Fare Thee Well” concerts were scripted as to what would be played, if not how—which meant that every night was going to feature songs the 70k+ gathered wanted to hear and lustily sing. Still, there were plenty of surprises in the choices (“Mason’s Children,” “Liberty,” “Mountains of the Moon,” “Built to Last,” “New Potato Caboose”) and, at times, their placement (the jammed-out wonder of “Bird Song” and the seedy stride-blues interplay between Hornsby and Anastasio on “West LA Fadeway” in Saturday’s second set, and “China > Rider,” which as Sunday’s opener elicited a roar so loud I could hear it in my own personal hell at Gate 2). This mix meant a healthy balance of knowingness and unexpected discovery.

Then there were the moments you waited for and hoped would be good—and were. If I had to pick just one, it would be during Friday’s “Scarlet Begonias,” the return from the mid-song jam that at Trey’s insistence took a third lap around the instrumental theme and reached one final peak before the singing of the last verse (“The wind in the willows played ‘Tea For Two’…”). Everyone eyed Anastasio, who was handling Garcia’s vocals on the song; and as the guitarist approached the mic while still soloing in perfect step with the band, a goofball smile lit up his face, before a stadium chorus of Deadheads (undoubtedly echoed in many simulcasting rooms) gave all their energy to coax him along, lovingly, with complete approval: “…the sky was yellow and the sun was blue/strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hands/everybody’s playing in the Heart of Gold Band.” I am not actually sure that Trey voiced all the words, so loud was the sing-along. Still, I can’t for the life of me remember ever experiencing a joyous, synchronous moment between musician and audience on such a large scale.

Afterwards, I kept thinking of what that moment must have been like for Anastasio. Here was a very successful guitar player partially born of the musical scene whose closing credits he was handpicked to soundtrack, helping push the musicians he once idolized to one last height, singing a beloved anthem with gusto and heart and soul, having won over a deeply skeptical crowd (for those mistakenly conflating the Dead and Phish audiences, no one attracted more doubters than Trey ahead of these shows—including Peter Shapiro), and finding a new layer expression within himself. If there was one person who deserved to take a well-earned bow, it was he.

Did he have his off moments? Yes. Everyone onstage did. Often, on Garcia songs they agreed to share, Weir, Lesh, Trey and Bruce, couldn’t figure out who’d take the next verse, leading to a few missed couplets. Weir’s recently developed penchant for taking extra jammy bars on some songs produced an effect of flab where tautness was the requirement if not the norm. (My friend Keith rightfully called it the inability to thread a needle—even one they’d been sewing with for four decades.) There were specific mishaps too: Soon after the incredible “Scarlet,” the entire band walked all over Trey’s guitar, still in full flight, on “Fire on the Mountain.” Later in Friday’s set, he forgot the words on “Help on the Way” (hilariously apologizing mid-song); then again, so did the long-gone leader of the band. In the middle of Saturday’s volcanic “Sailor > Saint” combo, Trey lost the plot at a critical juncture—though, as my friend Cori put it and my wife (experiencing shows #1 and 2) concurred, “who writes songs like that?” The answer of course is Bob Weir, who glowered Anastasio before giving him room to recover and push the energy upwards again.

(A word also to describe Soldier Field’s human traffic strategies for a crowd this big: "atrocious,” to put it lightly. If one can sort of forgive the under-prepared staff, a complete lack of information and signage as to easiest places of entry, and all the closed stadium gates for security purposes—even though the security at open ones was only mildly interested in anything besides scanning your ticket—it is nevertheless incredible that events announced for this venue six months earlier still felt like they were being run by rank amateurs. Most unforgivable was the crush and the almost-single file exit on opening night, much of it taking place in nearly complete darkness. Only a personal strategy of waiting out the post-show mob in the stadium, and somebody’s bright idea of letting the audience walk through Grant Park on the Lake Michigan side, alleviated the impending disaster.)

Still, did any of these missteps throw a real wrench into the festivities? Nah, too late: The high levels of music, as well as the sense and sentiment of the moment made that a non-starter. Hell, even if my guest appearance in the Hieronymus Bosch painting on Sunday night made it hard to enjoy the music for a long while, it did not shake the notion that this experience was something special for those who needed (willed?) it to be. And, yes, I was one of them. By the final encores on Sunday, there were few dry eyes around me. But the folks on-stage knew well enough to try to break up the sentimental end-of-journey with one last inside-joke; so kudos to whoever put a “Let Trey Sing” t-shirt on Bob Weir before he went out to deliver “Touch of Gray” and “Attics of My Life,” a pair of songs this community will forever associate with important moments in their time, moments of transition and closure. With the first day of the rest of our lives.



(Image by Stanley Mouse, who created a bunch of great Fare Thee Well stuff that can be purchased here)

LISTEN: Fare Thee Well, Soldier Field, July 3rd 2015 // Fare Thee Well, Soldier Field, July 4th 2015 // Fare Thee Well, Soldier Field, July 5th 2015

MORE: Review: Fare Thee Well @ Levi’s Stadium, Santa Clara, CA, June 27th & 28th, 2015