Huddling together by their battered Volvo, the trio of Deadheads had just arrived at the Rosemont Horizon Tuesday for three days worth of Grateful Dead concerts.
They had just two goals: Party with Uncle Jerry’s band and sell enough homemade egg rolls to get them to the next town on the tour.
But it was here that ’60s-style ideals met with ’90s-style regulations.
Just as they were hauling out the cabbage, sprouts, egg dough and soy sauce, a police officer swooped in and ordered them to pack it up.
“We’re not breaking any laws. We’re just selling food,” said would-be vendor Thomas Crutcher, 23, of Cincinnati. “We’re not burning anything down. They should leave the non-violent party people who want to eat alone.”
For three decades, the Grateful Dead’s tie-dyed entourage of loyal fans known as Deadheads has followed the band from town to town in what has been likened to a traveling festival.
Adopting the counter-cultural attitude that the band advocates, many Deadheads sell T-shirts, jewelry, food and other items to pay for tickets to the shows and gas money for the next stop.
Their living accommodations on the tour often are limited to the battered cars and vans they ride in, and often they sleep at makeshift campsites outside concert halls.
In the past, the caravan has met with mixed reviews, depending in large part on the attitude of each town where the band performs.
So in an attempt to promote cordial relations, the Grateful Dead has established a policy asking Deadheads to conform to the desires of each host community.
In the Chicago area, that policy has applied in different ways.
When the Grateful Dead hit south suburban Tinley Park for a 1990 concert, for example, vending was prohibited, along with camping, outside the World Music Theatre. But there were nearby campgrounds available, and some homeowners allowed Deadheads to camp out in back yards.
At a 1991 concert in Soldier Field, the Chicago Park District prevented Deadheads from sleeping outside the stadium but allowed overnight camping at Lake Shore Drive and Roosevelt Road.
But this week in Rosemont the rules are stricter:
No camping in the parking lot. No camping in the streets. No dancing in the aisles. No recording the concert without special “taper” tickets. No selling food, clothes or jewelry.
And absolutely no LSD.
Deadheads are being discouraged from camping at concert sites because crowds are growing larger and parking lots more congested, creating safety concerns, said Harry Pappas, executive director of the Rosemont Horizon.
“People who bought tickets couldn’t get to the show because of all the people in the parking lot,” he said.
To accommodate the nomadic groupies, the band’s fan club has provided them with a list of campgrounds and motels in the area where they can stay.
For the three Rosemont concerts, the rules against overnight camping extend to the streets and parking lots in all of Rosemont and to surrounding towns, said Rosemont Police Lt. Joseph Peterson.
“Camping creates problems,” Peterson said. “We’re assuming the liability of the safety of these people. . . . “‘
By mid-afternoon Tuesday, uniformed and plainclothes police officers were streaming in and out of the concert headquarters. A handful of sheepish-looking middle-age men dressed in tie-dyed clothes and looking suspiciously like officers walked out of the office and into the Horizon.
The Deadheads were not impressed with the show of force.
“Their rules will have no impact,” said Trey Foskett, a 19-year-old Emory University freshman who drove 13 hours from Atlanta to party with other Deadheads on his birthday.
“We’re going to take over this whole place,” said fellow Emory freshman Todd Roberts. “They can’t do anything about it. It’ll be a revolution.”
Others greeted old friends and set up contingency plans for the night.
“We’ll be staying in cars,” said Jessica, a University of Illinois freshman who said she hails from an unspecified Chicago suburb.
Meanwhile, Christy, a veteran fan from Traverse City, Mich., stood in the Horizon parking lot, a human clothes rack peddling the latest in Deadhead fashion.
“Sometimes they take what you’re selling,” said Christy, her arms bending from the weight of the clothes. “Sometimes they’ll just give you a warning. Sometimes they arrest you. If they’re nice, they’ll just tell me to put my stuff away. And I do-and then I walk to the other side of the parking lot and start up all over again.
“If I can’t sell, I probably won’t go to the show. And I won’t eat tomorrow.”
