A far out weekend at the Vegas Sphere

We were somewhere around the Palazzo when the drugs began to take hold. Unlike Hunter S. Thompson, though, we were surrounded not by imaginary bats but an amiable crowd of agèd hippies. Our destination was the Las Vegas Sphere, to hear Dead & Company. The venue itself eschews the definite article, but it’s futile. No one says they’re going to Sphere. It’s too much of a destination. It needs the definite article.

Security was rather lax, though the price of tickets plus the age of the average attendee greatly lessened the chances of anyone showing up with mayhem on his mind. After going through a metal detector, where we are instructed not to empty our pockets, we headed up the stairs to find our seats. Once we did, it became apparent that the reason people were encouraged to keep the contents of their pockets obscured was because the Sphere’s rules about smoking, whatever you might want to smoke, were not something anyone took seriously, including the smattering of security guards.

Dead & Company, the latest and likely last iteration of the legendary jam band the Grateful Dead, is a business. The two original members who perform with it, Bob Weir and Mickey Hart, are not young men, with Weir clocking in at seventy-seven and Hart at eighty-one. Shows start at 7:30. If they’re running late, you’ll wait until 7:35 or even 7:40. They end at roughly 11:15. While there are young people in attendance, they are well short of the median age. The average fans, even when partying in the city that never sleeps, are at a point in their lives at which bedtime has become a concern.

This was not my first time seeing Dead & Company, nor my first time watching the clock at Dead & Company, as I am also old. In 2022, my own Dr. Gonzo and I ventured to Wrigley Field. In 2023, we hit St. Louis, which was part of their final tour, though it quickly became evident that the only thing final about it was the tour part. Bob Weir has been performing since 1965. When Dead & Company runs end, he heads out with his solo venture Bob Weir & Wolf Brothers. He’s not built for retirement. Thus, the residency, which is not a tour, at the Sphere.

Maybe aging hippies aren’t your thing. I can respect that. Dead shows, though, whether Grateful or & Company, still bring a bunch of disparate people together. Hippies, bankers, writers, accountants and even basketball players coalesce into oneness. There are the old heads like Jeff, who I ended up sitting next to for the second half of the night and who recounted stories of seeing Wall of Sound shows in 1974. Jeff wanted to hear “Scarlet Begonias” and “Fire on the Mountain” in the second set. I wanted “Terrapin Station.” When “Scarlet” started, I slapped him on the back. When “Terrapin” started, he slapped me on mine.

You also meet new heads, who twirl and spin and offer you a hit off their joint when you’re trying to find the concession stand with the shortest line. Who don’t need canes or back surgery. Who encapsulate the legacy of community in a younger form.

I get why that might not appeal to you, especially if phrases like Wall of Sound and Terrapin Station mean nothing to you. Regardless, you need to find a reason to go to the Sphere. There is absolutely nothing like it. Imagery and graphics dance around you, fully immersing you not just in a concert, but an experience. You are transported from your seat into the cosmos, becoming one with the energy and scenery enveloping you. It’s an experience, one that changes you.

After the show, Dr. Gonzo, Mrs. Gonzo, my wife and I headed for late-night sushi. Then it was back to our rooms to wind down and get ready for some pool time the following day. We needed to recharge, especially the good doctor and I, for on Saturday, we were heading back to the Sphere while the wives went to Cirque du Soleil.

For the second night, without the wives to complain about standing for hours and hours, we had floor tickets. I pulled exceptional numbers on the lottery for first entry, eighteen and nineteen, so we jumped very close to the front of the line. I was not super enthused about this at the time. While I am on the low end of the median age for the band’s fanbase, I am still an aging man, one who has developed some problems with my back and right hip. Walking long distances and standing for long periods of time aren’t great, Bob.

I soldiered up, remembering my Thompson: when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. This was a full circle moment for me, heading back to my college days. Back in 1995, Dr. Gonzo called me in my dorm room and told me to get my ass to Sound Warehouse to get in line for Grateful Dead tickets. I was first there. I camped out for roughly twenty-two hours. I got us second-row tickets to the Friday show on April 1 in Memphis. For Saturday, I got tenth row. Second in line was in the stands.

Though the Company’s residency may continue next year, I’m not sure I’ll go back. Vegas is too relentless a city, one that never stops assaulting your senses. It’s not my scene, man. Second row to ten feet from the stage closes the loop, though. It would have been a dereliction of duty for me not to take my place in the crowd and get on the bus, likely for the last time, in Vegas. I did refrain from stealing the cane of a guy not too far from me; I could’ve leaned on it to relieve the pressure on my bum leg.

The floor is not the ideal location from which to experience the Sphere. From that vantage, you get more of a traditional concert because most of the visual action is above your head and behind you. But was it a show. A great show. I got more songs that I’d never heard live. It was rocking, particularly by Dead & Company standards. (When the frontman and the percussionist are downright elderly, rocking generally occurs at a slower pace.)

What it lacked in visual thunder and youth, though, it made up for with what really draws the Deadheads in — the aforementioned community. At intermission, I fought my way through the crowd and into the bathroom, unsure if I would make it back to the rather prime location we’d posted up at. Dr. Gonzo, who was supposed to be holding the line, had abandoned his spot to visit the facilities himself. As I tried to work my way through the crowd, with people assuming I was pushing my way to a different location than I’d started, one of my temporary people for the night, positioned immediately to my right, appeared behind me. She knew me. We banded together and pushed forward, with more and more people in the crowd recognizing us. The Red Sea didn’t part, but we got to our destination.

At the end of the show, there were hugs and fist bumps and general bonhomie, which, unlike Vegas, is very much my scene, man. That’s what draws people in, even men with canes and women with knee braces and men with undiagnosed back issues. The Sphere, especially with Dead & Company, is a reminder that gatherings of humans, ones who’ve taken a break from being totally plugged in, can easily form a community, even if for a bit.

With the show over and the temporary community dissolved, Dr. Gonzo and I ambled back out into the desert heat and, failing to find a cab in the throngs of people on the strip, walked the thirty minutes back to our resort and the wives who had turned in early in a ridiculous act of responsibility. We were wild-eyed and bushy-tailed, hearts full of joy, just well enough to be totally confident, at least in our ability to follow their lead.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s November 2024 World edition.