My Kind of Music

By James Seidler ’02

My parents were Deadheads. Sure, they had jobs and a house and drove a Ford Windstar in lieu of a psychedelic bus, but when I was growing up everything was suffused with endless, searching guitar solos and the pot-drenched drone of “Drums in Space.” Summer touring season entailed a weekend spent with my grandparents while my mom, dad, aunts and uncles camped, grooved and lived on grilled cheese sandwiches. The first concert I ever went to was a Grateful Dead show at Chicago’s New World Music Theater—my parents got me the tickets for my 10th birthday—and when Jerry Garcia died, we held a wake at our house, with a T-shirt featuring his face flown up on the flagpole and looping live sets giving us space to mourn.…

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