November 14th, 2024 – The world outside is chaos. You’ve heard the clamor, felt the weight of it in the pit of your stomach, and yet, here I am, inside the cavernous belly of The Met in Philadelphia, getting lost in the swirling fractals of sound emanating from Joe Russo’s Almost Dead. If there ever was a moment when time ceased to exist, when the pressures of the daily grind could be shaken off like so much loose dust, this was it.
Photos + Article by @a.j.kinney
From the moment the lights flickered and the unmistakable rhythm of “Scarlet Begonias” started pulsing through the air, I knew we were heading somewhere—somewhere far beyond any sense of rationality, somewhere blissfully unreachable by the hands of time. The crowd, a beautiful melange of tie-dye-clad dreamers, bohemians, and those with the faraway look of perpetual wanderers, collectively exhaled as one. I wasn’t sure who was smiling more—the band or the audience, but it didn’t matter. We were all on this cosmic cruise together.
Joe Russo, a man who looks like he could just as easily have been born in a drum circle as behind a drum kit, began laying down rhythms that were as much about feel as they were about precision. His hands—a blur of percussion energy—danced on the drums, propelling the band through a space-time continuum that felt less like a concert and more like a spiritual journey. The drum solos were hypnotic, like the beating heart of a far-off planet that could only be understood by those who let themselves get completely absorbed in the vibrations.
Tom Hamilton was the maestro of the strings, slinging his guitar like a wizard casting spells. His riffs weren’t just notes—they were invitations to the deeper mystery of the universe. With each bend of the string, he created something unique, as if the music itself was being pulled directly from the ether and into the crowd. You could feel it—the sound curled around you like smoke, weaving between conversations, and feeding every dreamer in the room.
On bass, Dave Dreiwitz anchored us all, his lines a steady pulse that served as the foundation for this cosmic experiment. His deep grooves connected us all to the earth, grounding us in a way that only a truly talented bassist can do, while guitarist Scott Metzger painted the air with high-flying improvisation, swooping in and out of melodies that felt like a psychedelic daydream come to life. And keyboardist Marco Benevento? He was the spark—his keys flitting and gliding through the air like fireflies, illuminating the dark corners of our collective consciousness.
But it wasn’t just the technical mastery—it was the vibe, man. The setlist was a swirling kaleidoscope, a mix of Grateful Dead classics, some deep cuts, and a few unexpected treasures tossed in for good measure. But every note felt like it was plucked straight from the ether, like the band wasn’t just playing songs but tapping into something older, something universal. “Uncle John’s Band” stretched into something even more cosmic than usual, and “Cumberland Blues” was so alive, so electric, you could swear it was breathing alongside us.
And then, somewhere in the middle of it all, there was that moment—the moment when the energy in the room shifted. It was subtle at first, like the first wave of a trip starting to roll in. The lights went low, the music swirled and bent in on itself, and for a second, we weren’t in Philadelphia anymore. We were in a space where everything was fluid, where past, present, and future were one. The band became a singular entity, no longer five individuals, but one organism playing in perfect harmony with the crowd’s collective heartbeat.
The encore was a raucous celebration. A funky, groovy, soul-satisfying rendition of “Big Railroad Blues” rang through the air like the sound of life’s defiant, joyful persistence. You could feel the unity in the room—the kind of community you only find when the music is alive, when it’s the only thing that matters, when everyone there is willing to lose themselves to the collective joy of just being.
And when the final notes faded away and the band took their bows, I was left standing there, floating. The crowd trickled out like a stream, still humming, still grinning like they’d just been through something sacred. The echoes of those rhythms, that joy, the magic, all lingered in the air. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the spirit of the crowd, but that night, at The Met in Philly, we were all a little bit closer to understanding the true beauty of the universe.
And maybe—just maybe—we all left with a little piece of it in our hearts.
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