The day one in every 350 Americans went to a Grateful Dead show: “Maybe we’re one of the last adventures”
When reflecting on the 1960s, Hunter S Thompson would write, “Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.”
By and large, whatever it meant seems to have become vastly intangible.
Now, endless polemics still battle to bottle a fleeting wisp of its bygone meaning. But while many argue that it’s spirit died with the close of the ‘60s – at Woodstock perhaps – in actual fact, it may well have culminated a few years later.
Only four years after the iconic Woodstock in ‘69, at the same upstate New York venue, The Grateful Dead joined the Allman Brothers and The Band on a line-up which would bring in well over half a million people and be one of the most impressive performances of all time. While, as many men have continually insisted, size isn’t everything, you can’t deny the profound impact of one in every 350 Americans gathering in the same field.
The seismic Summer Jam, as the Grateful Dead’s headline show was dubbed, saw 600,000 very friendly people experience the freedom that the ‘60s fought for in a last hurrah of unified camaraderie. Yet, strangely, this event seems to have been overshadowed in the aftermath.
Were you there?
It was only $10 a ticket, and that included parking and camping; it was a positive free-for-all and one that attracted a swathe of the rock and roll generation. It was, for a time, the entry in the Guinness Book of World Records as the “largest audience at a pop festival”. But it’s size was purely indicative of its significance rather than the source of it. More so than a ‘pop festival’, the Summer Jam almost functioned like a pop-up civilisation.
On the afternoon of the day before the event, the organisers had achieved their goal and sold 125,000 tickets, confirming it as a sell-out. It meant that financers were happy to leave the gates open and allow the extra half a million people to amble in unimpeded. That alone is vaguely revolutionary. When was the last time capitalism declared it had had its fill?
Often described as the biggest youth movement of the time, in Robert Santinelli’s book Aquarius Rising he more accurately portrays the festival’s vastness: “Many historians claimed that the Watkins Glen event was the largest gathering of people in the history of the United States.” And they were listening to liberated rock ‘n’ roll for free. That’s not nothing. It must have been quite the sight for the small town of 2,700 people playing host.
Santinelli startlingly continues, “Considering that most of those who attended the event hailed from the Northeast and that the average age of those present was approximately seventeen to twenty-four, close to one out of every three young people from Boston to New York was at the festival.”
So, why has it been overshadowed? Well, somehow, despite the huge numbers of people, crime remained minimal. Although there was an abundance of nudity, drugs, and claims of a stolen pig from a nearby farm, the festival went by relatively unscathed. All in all, the event saw four road deaths, 50 arrests and one birth. (Though, rather mysteriously, two teenagers also disappeared on their way to the site).
In short, that’s where the crux of the story lies. This historic gathering was, in effect, a socialist free-for-all that didn’t succumb to chaos, bankruptcy, or the fall of civilisation, as many conservative commentators might have otherwise predicted. On the contrary, it offered 600,000 Americans a glimpse at a near-utopian alternative.
When reflecting on the decading that the Grateful Dead had just overseen in 1969, frontman Jerry Garcia commented, “It wasn’t a gig, it was the Acid Tests, where anything was ok.”
He continued, “Thousands of people, man, all helplessly stoned, all finding themselves in a roomful of other thousands of people, none of whom any of them were afraid of. It was magic, far-out, beautiful magic.” Stoned or otherwise, that’s the general consensus on Summer Jam, too, reflected by the 0.29% of America peacefully present at the sun-baked occasion.
As the openers for the event, The Grateful Dead performed two sets, as well as bringing out some classics like opening with ‘Bertha’ and giving run-outs to ‘Jack Straw’, ‘Box of Rain’ and ‘Wharf Rat’. The mammoth double set also provided covers of Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash. It’s vintage Dead and sees the band nearing the peak of their powers.
But above all, it saw them defining their timeless appeal. While the ‘60s might have died, the Dead were destined to live on and offer a window away from the humdrum, mechanical grind of the norm. As we found out when we spoke to Robert Mooney, a New York homicide detective who worked on over 1,500 murder cases, but also attended around “250 or 300” shows by the Dead along he way.
In stark contrast to his day job, he argued, “The community that exists at the shows, and even when you’re not there, is everybody’s just nice to everybody else. There’s a lot of kindness. There’s a lot of concern for other people.”
“That sort of socialisation allowed me to have a much more open mind about the kind of stuff I would deal with in the police,” Mooney would explain. “You’re much more accepting of people that are a little bit different, their culture is a little bit different, or they’re from different ethnic or racial backgrounds. There’s nothing in the Grateful Dead experience that people ever do to exacerbate problems in those worlds. Everybody wants everybody else to be happy and have fun.”
That spirit brought order to the Summer Jam, and ironically, despite the mammoth implication regarding the importance of peaceful community and togetherness – more vital now than ever – largely kept it out of the headlines. It was a spirit that also kept many of the 600,000 in attendance coming back to the Grateful Dead’s gigs.
Their shows represent friendly freedom, and in the wake of Summer Jam, that has sadly been increasingly amiss in society to the extent that the band even grew puzzled about their continued appeal, but Garcia commenting in an apt conclusion in 1991, “Here we are getting into our 50s, and where are these people who keep coming to our shows coming from?”
He added, “What do they find so fascinating about these middle-aged bastards playing basically the same thing we’ve always played? There must be a dearth of fun out there in America. Or adventure. Maybe we’re one of the last adventures in America. I don’t know.”
