Grateful Dead Tribute Concert

The backs of both my hands get sharpied with as my parents and I head into Burlington, Vermont’s Higher Ground venue. We are here to see Dead Sessions pay tribute to Bob Weir, the staple guitarist, vocalist and songwriter of the Grateful Dead, who passed on to his next phase on Jan. 10, 2026. 

Higher Ground is full of gray hair and tie-dye, with my parents in the former and me in the latter. I could not be more stoked. My parents played dead had been played all throughout my childhood, and I have begun to find them again within the past few years. When Bobby died, I was incredibly disappointed because I would never get to see them live. While that is technically true, the music never stops. 

As dead sessions began their set with a classic “Truckin,” the scope of musical immorality that the dead had achieved hit me. Heads and bodies of all ages sway and bounce, letting the music drive their motions; my parents and I included. “Truckin’” fades into a heartfelt “He’s Gone,” and by the time the six men onstage start the outro – a repeated “nothing’s gonna bring him back”- I feel something wash over me. Perhaps it’s just my edible kicking in, but I attribute a lot of this feeling to the music itself as well as the broader Dead community. This is music that invites you to let it simply be—and through that, you can simply be. There are no expectations or inhibitions here. Dance hard or keep your feet planted, sing along or close your eyes; just let the music move you. 

My dad and I—both heavy Phish phans—dance hard. In between us during this show is my mom, who also dances hard in a way I have not seen in over a decade, since the last time we went to a Phish show as a family. Tonight, she is my “Deadhead mom” a women whom I have only heard stories about, but now get to experience firsthand. On the other side of me is an older woman who is also groovin’ hard, her long white hair flicking back and forth as she moves and spins. I hope that I, too, am as mobile and stoked to jam as these women next to me are when I am their age. 

This in itself is a tribute to the Dead: multiple generations are here tonight and moving in their own ways. I am in my own world; the tunes and my motions have taken over, and I’m just along for the ride. I apologize to the man behind me that I bump with my elbow every now and then, and he tells me not to worry and to keep dancin’. That right there is an important lesson the Dead teaches: let yourself feel and welcome the embodiment of the music. That is why we’re here tonight, and that’s why the band keeps playing. 

During the unhurried “Looks Like Rain,” my dad turns to me. We are both accustomed to Phish’s faster-paced sets, and he quips that “maybe throwing in a few slower songs works better for this audience’s knees.” It’s true: the cement floor is unforgiving, and even my Birkenstock-clad feet are feeling it—geriatric limbs must certainly be working overtime. Despite this, when the band starts “Bertha,” we all get down. The whole audience, it seems, joins in singing, and I could not stop moving if I tried. That’s a good thing—I don’t ever want to stop dancing to the Dead. 

Mom called at the beginning of the show that Sessions would play “Cassidy,” a beloved Bob Weir song. Sure enough, that’s what they close out set one with, and at the opening, my mom and I are boogie-ing hard. She pulls me in for a hug as the band sings “fare thee well now, let your life proceed by its own design / nothing to tell now, let the words be yours, I’m done with mine,” and I assume many people in the crowd feel that refrain in their soul too. As solidified as the Dead’s music is in pop culture and music history, the ephemeral nature of these lyrics is amplified by the collective loss everyone within this community is experiencing. 

This show is not just a tribute to Bobby; it’s a celebration of what the Grateful Dead has created. It will live on through those who are open to it, of all ages. The crowd here tonight is not solely Gen-X. Plenty of 20-somethings holding fruity IPAs and a good number of under-21s, easily recognizable by their marked hands, are scattered amongst the crows-footed eyes and orthopedic shoes. People of all ages rock clothes adorned with flowers and dancing bears. There’s comfort in knowing future generations will also have this experience. Wholeheartedly, I believe in the Grateful Dead’s ability to connect with the young-at-heart and to continue this movement. This community is a place to exist as you are without doubt or reserve, to dance and spin and make friends with the people jamming in your area, to take a break from the stress and constant onslaught of materialistic life, and to find yourself a place within which to shake your bones. 

Fare thee well, Bobby. Settle down easy.