My wife, Lisa, is a devout Deadhead, having attended 30 Grateful Dead concerts during a ten-year period. My contact with the Dead, however, was primarily based on the songs that album-oriented radio stations played. While I found these songs sort of interesting, the whiny, nasal, slightly out-of-tune vocals that almost never blended well was a definite turn-off.

About three months ago, Lisa heard about the Dead’s final three concerts in Chicago. She felt a calling to go; I did not.

In late June, Lisa noticed that ticket prices on StubHub were decreasing rapidly, and two days before the first concert, she finagled two free nights lodging at the Chicago Hilton, .7 of a mile from Soldier Field.

“I need a miracle every day,” Lisa chortled, quoting the title of one of the Dead’s more famous songs.

I grumbled incoherently.

So we headed to Chicago, our trunk loaded with everything we would need to enjoy the weekend on a limited budget and with Grateful Dead music playing on our SiriusXM car radio. During the eight-hour trip, I continued grousing about the band’s inability to sing in tune.

“It all depended on what extracurricular activities the band took part in prior to performing,” Lisa suggested.

“At best,” I continued, “they’re a diluted version of the Allman Brothers, and, at worst, they sound like that dreadful Lynyrd Skynyrd Band’s song `FreeBird`”

But there were unpredictable times when Dead vocals sounded good, and even rarer moments when their voices sounded good together. I also began to appreciate the quality of their songs, which often told stories and featured quirky rhythms. They incorporated aspects of bluegrass, country, southern gospel, blues, reggae, disco, and jazz into their music. Their improvisations, especially those connected with their “drums and space” concert segments, reminded me of my improvisations on pipe organs in high school and in contemporary ensembles in graduate school.

“But they still can’t sing,” I grumbled while stuck in a traffic jam two blocks from the Hilton Hotel.

As Lisa and I entered the elevator, I thought I smelled something out of place.

“Is that scent what I think it is?” I said.

“What. Pot?” she asked, laughing.

“That’s what I thought.”

“These are Deadheads, dear,” she reminded me.

Over the weekend, I became acquainted with aspects of Deadhead culture. They loved ingesting interesting plants, and were supportive of those experiencing the unwelcomed side effects. Almost all conversations featured some version of “yeah, man” or “thanks, man.” They were enthusiastically inept at giving good directions; Lisa and I spent an hour wandering aimlessly on a warm, windy afternoon looking for a Starbucks based on Deadhead directions even though three were located within four blocks of the hotel. (It didn’t help that I am totally blind while she is legally blind, and that we were both hung over).

And the Deadheads were totally in sync with the band. They roared when familiar riffs sounded forth. They joyously sang along to songs familiar to them but not to me, remembering the complex lyrics and being unfazed by the quirky rhythms. They raved about the quality of the improvisations.

The improvisations were indeed awe-inspiring, often more interesting than the songs themselves. The instrumental transitions between songs were especially fascinating, keeping Deadheads guessing as to what they would play next. The “drums and space” segments were terrific, incorporating live and prerecorded music. In short, the Dead had morphed into a fusion jazz ensemble with electrifying results. And the vocals? Better than usual.

“Wow!” I kept saying, smiling from ear to ear. “Totally awesome!”

“I told you so,” Lisa said, with a smile in her voice.

After the last concert’s two encores, one of the Grateful Dead members approached the microphone to thunderous applause.

“Be kind,” he said, and walked off to renewed applause.

And the Deadheads were indeed kind to each other and to strangers. Several hotel staff commented that they were the nicest customers they had served.

As for the band itself, I still find much of their music uneven, and their vocals cringe-inducing. At their best, though, they shine a great light. They have built a community consisting of all ages and ethnic backgrounds and taken them on a wild, wonderful, kind, and joyful journey through a wide range of musical styles. I’m blessed to be part of the last three shows of that journey.