I was in London with some colleagues for a business meeting. They’re going for the return train to Manchester. I know the Dead are in town, they don’t know the Dead from Bananarama but they’ve been remarking about the proliferation of weirdly dressed, strange people who seem to be all over the place (in both senses). We see Frankenstein’s monster, Elvira (in the dark), skeletons, big bears, Uncle Sams and werewolves galore. “See you next week” I say as I head for Wembley. I have no ticket but if I know deadheads…

Some London scalpers outside the venue but they’re asking silly money for a ticket. I spot a young lady waving one around saying “I have a spare” in a US accent. “That’s exactly what I need”, I say and we get acquainted. She’s Pat, from San Francisco (of course), and she only wants what what she paid for it, which turns out to be less than a London box-office ticket. I stick with Pat who needs a little extra care, as she has a leg in plaster from when she got off the plane. A broken ankle has put paid to her plans to visit “Stonehenge, Shakespeare’s house
and Edinboro”. We tour the parking lot instead, which I’d heard about but never experienced before. It’s like a cross between a medieval fair, a Morrocan souq and a town in Conan the Barbarian’s Cimmeria. It’s busy as hell, there’s fire-eating, guitars playing, juggling, crystals, clothes, food, pipes, drum circles, action painting and some quite inexplicable stuff. And Conan the Barbarian. But everyone is American and most of them are in fancy dress (it’s halloween).

We go inside. The only other Brits I meet during the entire show are ushers. I’m fascinated to see how the deadheads charm the Wembley ushers and security people before the show starts: they smile, chat, shake hands, offer gifts and drinks. It’s all very friendly and good natured, not what I usually see at gigs (not that they’re usually particularly unfriendly). They’re actually relaxing the bouncers and making them their friends. Only at Grateful Dead shows.

When the band appears on stage, the entire audience is immediately up and dancing – it’s an all-seated venue and at first the slightly alarmed ushers try to persuade people to sit down. No chance. But these people are relaxed, smiling broadly and they don’t make trouble, they just want to dance the entire night away. And smoke those wacky little cigarettes and climb from the upper circle down to the stalls and back again. No harm done, really. Besides, the same thing happened last night. The ushers shrug and give up.

Jerry’s a bit croaky but his guitar ‘s not. Bruce and Vince are new to me, but Pat fills me in on what’s been happening in the Dead world (this is before the internet can tell us all more than we ever want to know). Like how they’d stopped playing Werewolves years ago because they’d fallen out with Zevon (is that true?), but maybe they will tonight. She’s dancing on one leg, swivelling on her plastered foot while I hold her crutch (no, not like Donald would do). There’s a slightly surreal moment when, in the middle of a song (I forget which), a goofy telephone conversation breaks into the PA and we’re treated to a young, typical Essex girl talking to her friend about her night out somewhere completely different (another world). The Dead just take it in their stride and jam on it as if it’s part of the regular show. It’s a good show, and I wished I could have caught the night before, but not as great as my first, 16 years earlier.

The band leaves the stage at the end and the entire audience as one starts howling “OW-WOO, OW-WOO”, until they return and launch into Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” (hey, we’re in London and it’s halloween).

Jerry’s hair was perfect.

Later, I learned that they added a third date but too late for me to know in time. When I eventually got back to Manchester, I was two days late for work. Pat promised to send me some live shows but I never heard from her again. No worries, I had a reel deck and plenty of show tapes already. And the internet was soon going to add plenty more in the coming years.