From: cyberoid@milton.u.washington.edu (Robert Jacobson)
Subject: Virtually Dead: The Grateful Dead VR Show, Part 5 (End)
Date: Fri, 13 Sep 1991 16:57:15 GMT
Organization: Human Interface Technology Lab, Univ. of Wash., Seattle



THE GRATEFUL DEAD VR SHOW, Part 5 (End)


Topic  78:  Virtual shows.
# 41: Alex Whitney (bltz)      Sun, Aug 11, '91  (00:10)     131 lines


        "Well, I guess he's virtually become Clifton Hanger, huh?"
        For some reason, that got Dave dirty looks. A paranomasiac, that
 was his problem.
        Then they heard the first notes.  The boys were getting ready to
 start.  If if had been a daytime show, the lights would have gone down a
 few minutes ago.
        "Stage," they each said, almost coincidentally.  They giggled.
        The beach did a fairly fast *melt* to the section of the beach
 where the band was standing, on the rugs, looking for all the world like
 a little reggae band in Jamaica. Someone had erected a small thatched
 roof over their heads, so they were playing in the shade.  There were
 perhaps 20 friends scattered about, all within 30' of the hut, all waving
 to each other.  Farther out, there were many others... Some didn't care
 to stand close, given the irrelevance of proximity with sound quality.
 They gallivanted about the island, climbing the volcano and swimming in
 the lake, or perhaps making love in the waterfall. There was no lack of
 entertaining things to do.
        Bessy balanced everything out: If you saw someone, they saw you.
 Some people faded in and out, but never if you were looking at them.  If
 you were close and walked toward them, then they could see you do it.  At
 the same time, Bessy managed to keep more than thirty thousand people
 within 40' of the bungalow, although the band never saw more than a few
 hundred at a time.  You could walk on the carpet (why not?) and do pretty
 much anything you want.  As long as you stayed on the edge of the rug,
 there was a chance that the band could see you.  As soon as you stepped
 onto the carpet, however, you became invisible to them and to the
 others... all the others.  If you wanted to walk right up and stare at
 Jerry's fingering, no sweat.  If you wanted to see what Bob's new
 Amplifier to abuse of the day was, or if in a frenzy of dancing you
 wanted to dive right through Phil, you went right  ahead, you just had to
 look out for things that might get in your way in your actual (as opposed
 to your virtual) environment, like the subwoofer.  The musicians didn't
 see you if you went on the carpet, so it wasn't distracting. People who
 were invisible generally didn't do too many silly things, Dave thought.
 Why bother?  Bessy was the only one that knew what went down on the rug.
 Many young musicians could be found there learning a great deal. Not a
 few young girls could also be detected drifting up to the edge of the
 rugs, and what they did after disappearing was their own mystery.
        It was an acoustic set!  Jerry had a beautiful boxy acoustic
 guitar.  Phil was using his six-string, but everyone else had a telltale
 instrument: Vince had a standup piano, the drummers a pair of tall drums
 that they played with their hands, that Dave didn't know the name of.
 Bob had that wry expression that he always seemed to get at the thrilling
 prospect of an acoustic set.
        Jerry slowly began playing a few notes.  In back of Dave, Some one
 shouted softly, "Sitting Here in Limbo, eh Jerry?" Garcia's eyes
 twinkled, probably having heard the person.  Audience feedback, shouting
 and whatnot, was fed back to the band.  A few folks put it in their
 preference files to filter out everything except for the music.  Virtual
 reality had left a new freedom to hear what you wanted; Dave thought that
 people occasionally shouting and hooting and even more often clapping was
 as much a part of the music as Phil's Bass, so Dave didn't filter a
 thing.  His friend Bob liked the clapping, but had always been a bit
 taken aback by shouters, and so chose not to filter out clapping, but did
 eliminate vocal feedback to his personal headset and virtual reality.  He
 could hear the band members talk and sing, but not the audience. And that
 offensive woman with the flute left him alone. He could hear comments
 that were directed at him. "Sitting Here in Limbo" was special: Dave
 looked up during a particularly sweet guitar solo to see the blue sky,
 the sun slowly falling toward the clouds on the horizon, a contrail
 inching its orange way across the vast blueness.  There was an incredible
 clarity of detail. Shit, he thought, I forgot this wasn't real again.
 That thought faded with the song, and Dave slowly immersed himself in VR
 as Weir began playing "Monkey and the Engineer".  Jerry came back with
 "Deep Ellem Blues", and Weir riposted with "The Race is On". Garcia,
 unexpectedly in the middle of the set, played "It Ain't No Lie" and
 worked the end into a little jam, which segueyed (sp) into "Ripple",
 Phils clear, crisp bass notes defining the low end.
        After that there was a rather longish pause, with the musicians
 making pleasant little noises with their insturments now and then as they
 discussed and rejected a few songs, waiting for something to be right.
 Dave, as many deadheads often do, knew what it was going to be before the
 musicians: "Masterpiece".  Vince then took a turn, playing one of his
 songs, called "Just So Right", exercising his considerable vocal talents
 in a new acoustic adaptation of a song well suited to it. This was
 recieved by the deadheads with a tremendous amount of enthisiasm. Jerry
 then played "Blue Yodel No. 9", and there was another longish pause.
 Garcia stooped and put down his guitar, and picked up his banjo. They
 went into an acoustic Dark Star, to a general mummur of amazement.  The
 opening riff was amazing. It was long, and it wound quietly down to end
 the set.
        After about an hour of excellent music, to much clapping and
 cheering, the Dead filed backstage, to grab a moment of privacy, discuss
 the second set, have a few beers, and abuse each other in that gentle,
 understanding way that people who have known each other for a long time
 sometimes do. Nancy checked out rippled bellies of the folks Bessy threw
 in their way, her hand softly touching Dave's, occasionally commenting on
 something she saw to Dave, who listened and answered thoughtfully.  They
 were sitting on a comfortable couch.  Bob was sitting "beside" them,
 smiling, sipping from the umbrella-d drink, and sporting a large, straw
 hat that he had produced from his Amazing Stash Of Show Paraphernalia.
 The sun cast a speckled pattern across the bridge of his nose and
 grinning mouth. It seemed to fit comfortably over his kit, making his
 goggles look like sunglasses. He and Dave were engaging in their favorite
 half time activity, rating belly buttons.  Many friends came by to sit
 and chat about the first set, and to speculate on the impossibility of
 topping it. A few technicians could be seen wandering about the stage,
 taking out the old equipment and setting up the stuff for the second set,
 using their headsets to peer furtively at the audience, enjoying the
 sights. He saw other groups sitting in large and small circles, noting
 with pleasure that absence of crowding that was one of the most welcome
 losses from the Stadium days.
        Dave took his headset off for a few minutes, dealing with the
 shock of environment change, suddenly four thousand miles from Hawaii and
 the Dead show, and went to relieve himself and grab a beer and some cut
 up veggies for he and Nancy.  When he got back, Al was sitting at the
 foot of the couch, ogling girls and going over on location satellite
 shows that were occurring in the next few weeks.  Hot Tuna was
 broadcasting a show from the Greek Theater, and Bob & Rob were going to
 play from Carnegie Hall next week.  It was going to be a coordinated
 effort, both shows on the same channel, one after another. Taper Bob
 called this a "cool plug." While they talked, the sun slowly set in a
 rare show of splendor, setting the sea and sky on fire with orange and
 purple streaks.  A tiny technical part of Dave wondered if the sunset had
 been pasted in from Colorado, but the rest of him concentrated on
 observing and listening quietly.  Nancy and Al shared a few very funny
 jokes.  Al vanished for a bit, then came back on line, sporting a six-
 pack.
        After an unusually long break, the boys came back and equipped
 themselves.  They seemed in a good humor.
        Jerry and Bob were telling some quiet joke amongst themselves.
 Mickey was in on it, leaning over the drums and laughing. Bob leaned over
 and let Phil in on it; the topic of the joke soon became apparent as they
 opened: Stir It Up.  Bob had learned the words, and he did an admirable
 job.  Their version of the song had grown much tighter in ten years.
 What next? Thought Dave.  He was answered by Garcia, who seemed to be
 looking at him (or one of the other two or three hundred people sitting
 right in that spot,) playing Harder They Come! Dave was exhilarated, and
 got up to dance with Nancy.  What a surprise, he thought!  Definitely
 Reggae day!

THE END (for now...)
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