Actor. Musician. Host. Writer. Dinner Guest.
HOW TO SURVIVE A GRATEFUL DEAD SHOW WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR FRIENDS IN THE PARKING LOT * By Zach Selwyn
My old college friend Bernard (Or “Burner – for reasons that don’t need to be explained) called me the day before Father’s Day. He had an extra ticket to the 50th Anniversary Grateful Dead concert in northern California. I informed my wife that I would be traveling to the show the following Saturday night.
“Haha yeah right,” she said.
“No. I’m going.”
“Stop it. Now, what do you want to do for Father’s Day? Should we meet the Bartons for brunch? Or do you want to have people over to bar-be-cue?”
“I hate the Bartons,” I said. “I want to go to the Grateful Dead.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Well, take your son with you, don’t you think he would enjoy it?”
“Uhhhhhhh….”
I didn’t think that was the brightest idea. The smoke and the dancing and twirling was completely mind-blowing to me when I was at my first show at age 18. Back then I was scared shitless. Too many drugs, too many lost souls… too many people having a lot more fun than I was. I told my wife that I’d rather let my son find his own musical path. (Then again, if he’s following 5 Seconds of Summer around the country in 10 years I may have failed somewhere.) Plus, I told my wife that a 9-year-old boy does not need to see his 40-year-old dad clink Absinthe cups with a dude in hiking shorts who made Silicon Valley millions by inventing the Nook.
“Do NOT drink Absinthe,” she demanded.
“I won’t, I promise.”
Eventually, I got the green light – and I called Burner back and committed to his 70-dollar ticket. Which I soon found was WAY too expensive for my shitty seats behind the stage where just a few songs into the set a man would face-plant and nearly die on the concrete right next to me.
Recent online ticket prices for the Santa Clara shows had settled at $20-$40 depending on where you were seated, way down from the rumored $1500 nearly a month earlier. This was due to the “Soldier Field Panic Purchase” that nearly every Dead Head and ticket scalper had fallen for when their final two shows of this “Fare Thee Well” concert were originally announced… Thinking the tickets to Santa Clara might be listed at the same price as the Chicago shows, folks bought up dozens of seats at face value, only to find themselves losing money when trying to unload the tickets in the parking lot the afternoon of the show. (Steal Your Face Value, anyone?) Even Burner was left with a handful of tickets that he ended up trading for “pieces” (pipes or chillums), 50th anniversary bandanas, T-shirts and at one point a foot long joint being sold by a spritely blonde nymph out of a giant cardboard box.
Now, a fair amount has already been written about these shows – if you want to hear about the set lists and the fan reactions to Trey Anastasio and the supposed $50,000 “fake rainbow” – go Google that now. This is my personal adventure about smoking a lump of hash with a crazy looking scallywag who was dragging a dirty pet pit bull named “Iko” around on a hemp dog leash – and becoming so cosmically altered, that I managed to lose my friends for the duration of the show long before the first note of Truckin’ was even played.
It was a surreal experience to say the least. When I last saw the Grateful Dead in 1995, the crowd was pretty much the same… just about 20 years younger. But now, those folks have grown up. Gone are the days of living in the Vanagon and hopping from town-to-town. The “Only Users Lose Drugs” shirts I used to fawn over had been replaced by at least 25 men happily wearing a t-shirt reading “Grateful Dad.” (Thank you, honey for not getting me THAT for Father’s Day.)
A vast majority of the well-off crowd could be found eating sushi and sipping wine in the safe “red” parking lot, while the more traditional “Shakedown Street” blue parking lot catered to the jewelry designers, pushers, providers, dealers and, yes, the guys selling veggie burritos. (At $5.00 a steal – considering it was $11.00 for a nitrate-riddled hot dog in the stadium). Bottom line was, it was a very balanced scene. Which is how I went from talking about music with a doctor who lived in Marin County – to witnessing a hippie trade a T-shirt for a Churro – to eventually asking the aforementioned scraggly looking pit bull owner if I could have a hit of his joint.
“It’s hash bro,” he said.
“Nice,” I said.
“Nice,” he responded.
I took a long drag from the tightly rolled spliff. It was licorice-like in flavor… and reminded me of smoking hash on a Eurorail with a Spanish stranger during a train ride from Switzerland to Germany in 1996. I exhaled.
“Nice.” I said again.
“Real nice,” he said and pulled off the joint again.
I stared up at the clouds.
“Nice,” I laughed.
“Totally nice,” he replied.
We stood and watched the sky for a few minutes. I started to realize that for the past ten minutes, I had managed to keep a totally coherent conversation going by merely uttering the word “nice.”
I shook off my daze and decided to gather myself to find Burner and our other friends and head inside. We were 30 minutes away from the opener and I didn’t want to miss it. I looked back at my hash-providing friend and we shared an ever-knowing look of “I’ll never see you again, but thanks for the time together.” I threw up a peace sign. As I walked away to find my buddies, I heard him utter one final word as a fare thee well to our little session.
“Nice.”
Back on Earth, I was suddenly totally confused. Burner was gone. Swirls of dreadlocks and weathered faces engulfed me. I wasn’t sure if I should head back to the blue lot and skip the show altogether or saunter forth inside all alone. Like a wilderness-trained tracker, I decided I’d take some photos to document the beauty of the signage and the sky and the colorful people and cars all around me. Scrolling through my camera roll a day later, all I can find is a few pictures of the stadium and a wasted girl passed out on a lawn. I definitely could not find my friends. I was high and wandering… but at least I had a ticket to my seat.
Having lost buddies at concerts over the years, I am somewhat used to making friends and surviving. This was certainly not the first time I had been alone at a Grateful Dead show… In fact, at the LA Sports Arena in 1993 I accidentally left the concert mid-song and walked 23 blocks away until I was lost in a Ralph’s parking lot deep in South Central Los Angeles. Luckily, the night cashier slipped me a Fentanyl and called me a taxicab. Once I lost my buddy in Santa Barbara and ended up sleeping in a bush after a Neil Young concert. At the Dead show, however, I wasn’t truly worried, because nowadays we are all lucky enough to have cell phones.
I looked down to text my friends. No service. Of course. No fucking service.
I made my way inside and ogled the crowds flittingly dancing along. Anticipating the first note of the show that would send me into another stratosphere. They started with Truckin’. The place went nuts.
Then the guy next to me almost died. His friends pounded his chest until he sat up and they forced water down his throat. Scared and afraid, I went to get a beer. I met some kind gentlemen in the beer line. We spoke about how awesome the show was that we were missing… by waiting in that beer line. I looked around. A girl next to me made sure to use all 9 pockets of her leather fanny pack. At least three guys purposefully wore cargo shorts to show off the “Jerry Bear” leg tattoos they had done in the 90’s that they were waiting all these years to uncover once again… Finally, a woman carrying a six-month old baby in what seemed like a paper bag attached to her back came dancing through the crowd. The kid’s head bobbled furiously, unstable and terrifying. In Los Angeles, the helicopter moms of Orange County would have screamed, rescued the baby and brought it to the nearest hospital. At the Grateful Dead show, however, grown men laughed and spewed forth dragon breaths of marijuana smoke into the sky as the baby drifted right through the haze. It was absolutely disturbing. I could not imagine my kids in this environment. As much as I would want them to appreciate what the music can do for everybody, the last thing I would want is my kid getting a second hand weed buzz around a group of folks sending wafts of OG Kush into the atmosphere.
A few songs later, I had settled down. It suddenly hit me that I was completely alone and that my conversations with strangers were fun but fleeting. I wasn’t making any new friends… I wasn’t analyzing every note Trey played… The worst part was, I was barely even seeing the show from my seat behind the stage. I watched the majority of it on a big screen. So, I wandered around and decided to talk to the security guard. His name was Reed.
“What’s crazier, a 49ers game, or this?” I asked.
“Well, different crowds, ya know?” He said. “Niners fans drink a few beers and try to look tough. These folks drink 10 beers and dance around like fools!”
“So is this the rowdiest show you’ve ever seen here?” I asked.
“Oh hell no, the worst was the WWE Wrestling event. I broke up about 30 fights, had to throw a guy down some stairs.”
“What’s the weirdest show you’ve ever seen here?”
“Kenny Chesney. Was like a Gay Pride Parade met the deep south.”
He shook my hand and walked off.
A few beers later, I was overwhelmed by hippies praying to the miracle rainbow in the sky yelling out things like “It’s a gift from JERRY GARCIA MAN!” (If you can imagine a bunch of high people reacting to a rainbow at a 50-Year Grateful Dead anniversary show, it’s EXACTLY how you picture it…) The argument that the rainbow has been faked is everywhere online, but in truth, if the Dead had 50K to blow on a holographic rainbow, I would hope they at least should have tried to construct a hologram Jerry Garcia instead. (Shit, I’d have settled for hologram 2Pac.)
As the evening went on, as a way to remember what I was going through, I began dictating voice notes into the “recorder” app on my iphone. These are the translations as best as I could decipher them:
A: I have just spent the last hour hanging with a giraffe
B: (Me singing a song idea for my band to record in the future) – “Sunday Ticket, who’s got my Sunday ticket… man are you with it? I wish I could stop and smell the roses – but the elements of elephants are lost among the doses – I suppose it’s the way of the Dead – I suppose it’s the way of the Dead” (Then yelling): “WAY OF THE DEAD!!! MY NEW SONG WOOOOOOHOOOOOO!!!!”
C: Hot dogs, nachos, chicken fingers… hot dogs nachos chicken fingers…
D: What hole have these people been hiding in since 1995?
The last note made sense. A lot of these fans were folks who looked like they never recovered from Jerry Garcia’s death. They had been in exile, awaiting the return of the Grateful Dead for years, sort of like those Japanese soldiers you read about who were trapped on islands with their loaded weapons unaware that the war had ended months earlier.
The highlight of my night came during the song St. Stephen. I had never heard the tune live – nobody really has – and it lifted my spirits high. For five minutes, the long drive alone had been worth it. So had the hash and the lost friends and the $70 seats. I reached high for the sky and let out primal screams of joy and happiness and thought about my kids, my wife, my career, my goals, my dreams my family. I was genuinely ecstatic. I had found my top of the mountain… It was one of those moments that I remembered having as a kid – worshipping this band for slices of perfection like that – when everybody is smiling and nothing can go wrong. A moment of calm and peace I hoped would never end…
Of course, an hour after the show I found myself cursing technology and feeling depressed about having to wait in a two-hour line for an Uber.
I left the venue alone. Got to the hotel alone. I was in bed by 1:00. I woke up before my friends – who had stumbled in at 3:30 – and shook off the cobwebs before beginning the long drive back to L.A. As I listened to the radio and heard reviews of the show it became clear how awesome the evening had been. I re-played to my voice memos and shuffled Dead songs on my iphone the whole drive, wondering how I could call my work and get out of it Monday so that I could stay and watch the second night show instead. Thankfully, I decided one amazing show was enough and I rode down California 5 with Santa Clara and the Grateful Dead in my rear view mirror. As I watched northern California disappear behind the rolling hills, one word came to mind as I smiled and traveled the golden road home…
NICE…
Buy Zach’s FIRST ALBUM “Ghost Signs” on itunes!
By Zach Selwyn
“Mr. Selwyn – I think you’ve got a chance to make a lot of money in traffic,” the slightly overweight man staring at me from my computer told me. “We loved your audition… Are you ready to become the next LA eye in the sky?”
“Uhmmm… Can I think about this for a couple of days?”
If you are wondering how I found myself in an online interview to become one of those traffic reporter guys with a nickname like “The SKYLORD,” look no further than the current state of the film and television industry in Los Angeles.
About a year ago, as the Screen Actor’s and Writer’s Guild strikes were coming to an end, I found myself pretty deeply in debt. My last job at a startup media company had gone away the same week that I had bought my first ever new car – a Tesla by the way – and my son was getting ready to start college. In two weeks, I had gone from a top creative executive at a media company to an unemployed 48-year old actor and musician… something I hadn’t been in three years. Expenses were high and no TV work was on the horizon. California’s ridiculous non-existent tax benefits on TV and film production had devastated the very industry that this town was originally founded upon. In short, Hollywood moved out of Hollywood.
To give you an example of how unions and tax incentives have fucked up this city, a friend of mine who is an indy film producer, recently told me about his upcoming project about a pack of possessed coyotes attacking hikers high in the Hollywood Hills. I auditioned. I got a great response. I was excited that something was going to be shot in my own backyard. When I asked my friend the producer about the shooting schedule in LA, he was perplexed…
“We’re not shooting in LA… We are shooting in Colombia,” he said.
I didn’t get the part.
So, as usual, I texted everybody I knew in the business and asked for work. Nobody had anything. Some were off trying their hands at real estate. Some were applying at Trader Joe’s. Others said the Apple Store had decent health benefits. It was bleak. So I logged back into my Linked In account and started looking for any job I could find.
One morning I stumbled across a company that was looking for “Voiceover Talent For a Radio Gig.” After filling out an online application, a recruiter named Steve Bunch reached out to me and asked me to record a simple vocal demo. He sent me a voice sample… and it did not take me long to find out that this was not some amazing cartoon voice job on a show like Family Guy… This audition was to become a traffic reporter in Los Angeles. A TRAFFIC REPORTER? Sure, it sounded like an odd job, but in a way it was totally in my wheelhouse. I’ve announced and done voices for hundreds of projects… and let’s just say I was intrigued. Especially when I found out that the gig promised, “AFTRA union pay, 100K, health insurance and a 401 K.”
A 401 K? I thought to myself… Shit, in my 28 years in Hollywood, I had managed to save about $3,200 for my future. If I could guarantee some wealth in my later years? I would talk about car accidents and freeway closures on the radio all day! Who cares if I didn’t know what a ‘Sig Alert’ was?
But first, let’s face it. Linked In absolutely sucks. In the five or six years I have been on the site – I’ve applied for hundreds of jobs ranging from writing to hosting to creative positions and production jobs… During that time I have maybe been given an interview TWICE. There is nothing more disheartening than seeing that 798 other candidates have already applied for the same gig and that they are more qualified than you are. I did get one paid gig from their website… and it involved selling my facial expressions to an AI company that was digitizing actors for $300. Hey, times are tough. I don’t have many other skills beyond the entertainment industry. Plus, I’m not about to start an “Only Dads” account where I do dirty things for old rich men who are into middle-aged Jewish guys. (Although my wife is contemplating a cooking-with-her-feet Only Fans channel called “Bon Appe-FEET.”)
We’ve already trademarked the name.
So, I wrote Steve Bunch back. I was asked to write something about traffic and record it as if I was announcing it on the radio. I researched some phrases and dropped a killer take on some made up freeway bullshit that sounded legitimate. Here is what i said:
We have a SIG Alert off the 405 just before the 101 freeway that’s been backing up traffic for ten minutes – we are GRIDLOCKED and LOADED – also if you’re heading into Glendale look out for that disabled vehicle on the 170 near Burbank- that should be clearing up in just a few minutes- and be careful of some sort of large dead animal if you’re anywhere near the westside around Bundy – there’s your afternoon traffic report- I’m Zach keeping you on track- and as always – getting you safely back… HOME.
Boom. I fucking nailed it. I threw a little reverb on my voice and sent it out to Steve Bunch awaiting an offer to start recording my voice from home for $100,000 a year.
Steve reached out the following day. He said I was a natural. He loved my audition and even remarked that I had potential to be “One of L.A’s top traffic talents…” if I stuck with it. He mentioned the LA legends of the past… like Bill Keene and modern day freeway phenoms like Stu Mundel and Ginger Chan.
“I’m not familiar with them,” I said, meekly.
“You will be.”
Through Steve, I quickly learned that being a traffic reporter involves a hell of a lot more than speaking traffic jam jargon into a microphone. In fact, this job was NOTHING like I had imagined.
“So, here’s how it works, Zach – firstly do you have a car?” Steve Bunch asked.
“Yes, of course!”
“Great… Well, this job requires you to be in-person at the office around 5:15 a.m. every day to get to the morning rush – but the good news is you’re DONE by 10:30… You can go home for a lunch break but need to get back by 1:00 for the after lunch commute. After that you’re pretty much prepping for the drive home around four and then you’re sending out reports until nine p.m.
“So… it’s like a 15-hour day?” I asked.
“Give or take, but you have breaks in between,” Steve Bunch said.
“Uhm… And where is the office, exactly?”
“We’re over in Long Beach by the 405. Where do you live?”
“Uhm, I’m like in Hollywood,” I said.
“Oh, well… you’d probably have to move.”
“Well, I drive my daughter to school and run carpools and like, all that stuff.”
Steve went silent. I heard him take a deep breath as if he had just been wasting his time in talking to me.
“You know, most of our applicants are empty nesters or they have a non-working spouse,” he said. “But if it helps, it IS an AFTRA job… so you would earn union wages. Like I said, there is a LOT of money in traffic.”
“Well, I mean – I can’t just uproot my family to Long Beach,” I said.
“Well, there’s a six-week training period you’d have to attend, most people move and rent places during that time”
“Really?” I giggled. “Six weeks? This whole thing seems pretty simple to me.”
For some reason, that pissed Steve Bunch off. As if I had broken the cardinal sin in traffic talk. He got serious and became slightly aggressive.
“You think this job is easy?” Steve responded. “You try listening to responders and police scanners all day and then writing traffic copy without the proper training. Lemme ask you a question. Do you even know what a Sig Alert is?”
Oh boy. Steve was mad. Here it was, my first job offer in nearly a year and a half and I was mocking the guy trying to recruit me directly to his face. I explained to Steve that I had no idea what the hell a ‘Sig Alert’ was – I just thought it meant that there was like, a SIGNAL that ALERTED you to bad traffic.
“Wrong,” Steve said, almost sounding appalled. “It’s when an incident causes a delay that lasts over 30 minutes or more. In your audition, you said you had a Sig Alert that was only a ten minute delay. That is HARDLY a Sig Alert, my friend. That’s called slight congestion!”
“Oh,” I said, humbled. “I guess there are some things I wasn’t aware of.”
Steve went on and on about obscure traffic factoids that could not have been more boring. I learned that the LAPD invented the Sig Alert in 1955 from a guy named Lloyd Sigmon who they named it after. I learned that a 1124 code meant there was an overturned vehicle. I even learned that CFJDE stood for “Caucasian Female Juvenile Driving Erratically”
“These are the types of things you need to be familiar with,” Steve said. “This is the traffic capital of the world and you have a chance to help these commuters get to their destinations… we’re sleek, organized and we take this job VERY seriously. Starting salary is 55 thousand but it will go up as you work overtime. So, what do you say? Would you be able to start training in the next two weeks?”
Look. I hate turning down jobs. Especially in today’s economy and with my debt where it is. BUT, to logically start every day of my week in Long beach at 5:15 would mean I leave my house at 4:30 a.m. I would never see my wife or my kids again. I would spend my entire life either IN traffic and talking about it. All I could think of was how I once dreamt of hosting the news on Saturday Night Live and now I was going to be telling radio listeners that there was an overturned turnip truck blocking three lanes on the 405 freeway. I politely had to tell Steve that I wasn’t able to take the job due to the long hours and the daily commute.
“Yeah, I understand,” Steve said, sounding defeated. “Seems like less people care about the traffic reports these days… Everybody’s got Waze and Google maps and A.I. and all that stuff… so weird. But who knows… if you change your mind, we may have a spot for you.”
“Sure, Mr. Bunch,” I said. “And thank you for the interview.”
Over the past year, I’ve told this story to a lot of people, many of whom are struggling to make ends meet in today’s Hollywood. Most folks agree that, although it may not have been the best job in the world, it sure would beat digging ditches. I just didn’t know how I would be able to pull it off with my family responsibilities. However, any time I am driving home and I happen to have a radio station playing and the traffic guy comes on and tells me about some lane closure or a deadly crash, I salute him for taking the leap into the world of traffic reporting. I wasn’t able to make it work, but you never know what the future holds. I just wanna be able to spend as much time with my family as possible before I’m an empty nester.
And tonight, it looks like I’m gonna be late for dinner… Seems like there’s a Sig Alert on the 101 South…
Listen to Zach’s Newest album “Rodeo Zach’s Last Ride“
ZACH SELWYN is a humor writer, actor and musician based in Los Angeles.
Z
ZACH joins RUDE JUDE and ROSS from BINARY STAR to talk hand jobs, proper towels for that time of the month and some secret slang!
more here: http://foreallyshow.com/
Singer-Songwriter Zachariah Selwyn will release his 5th official LP next week, a country-hip hop concept album entitled “Firing Squad.” The record is based on an unreleased scripted western project that Selwyn has been developing for more than a year.
“I guess I wanted to get the music out before the project was done,” Selwyn says. “I know that projects like this sometimes get sidetracked.”
The “Firing Squad” soundtrack features female vocalist Gia Ciambotti (Bruce Springsteen/Joe Walsh) in a starring role, marking the first time the band has used utilized a second lead singer on record.
“Gia is an absolute mesmerizing presence on a microphone,” Selwyn explains. “I keep hoping she joins our band permanently, but the road isn’t that appealing for most of us anymore so for now we’ll keep it in the studio.”
“Firing Squad” also features longstanding band members Dan Wistrom, Bobby Joyner and producer/multi-instrumentalist Jesse Siebenberg. (Lukas Nelson).
Zach breaks down the crowd, the Seattle Mariners and Lenny Kravitz’ penis.
Live from August 4, 2015…
Zach Selwyn 