If I had the power to relive any day of my life, July 12, 1990 would be high on the list. It was a typical "triple H" day in our nation's capital - hazy, hot, and humid - and there was a dry spell to boot. For reasons unbeknownst to 19-year-old me, there was not a stem or seed to be smoked. The Grateful Dead were in town and when I think back to that night, I always mutter a line from The Warriors - "magic, whole lotta magic."
I am not sure it was the best show I ever saw, but it was certainly the most memorable. The heavens opening up just as Edie Brickell left the stage, her "have a nice trip" comment as she exited a foreshadowing of the shenanigans to come. The first set, played in a soupy mess, the second, with things dried out and mellow, the trippy graphics during Victim, the epic Dark Star, Brent's authoritative Mr. Fantasy and The Weight encore. Just exactly perfect and stone cold sober for the entire production. I remember not getting home until well past 2 A.M. having carpooled down with my friends, and just feeling completely exhausted and also completely satisfied in a way that you can only experience when you are still young.
It was a probably the last consistently happy time in my life. Before life dealt its blows, before the crushing responsibilities of adulthood crashed down, before bad decisions were made. I did not appreciate it nearly enough in the moment, but I sure do now.
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