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On Saturday morning at 9:15, the sun over Las Vegas was already high and hot. A heat wave rolled into the celebrated Sin City about mid-week and brought typical desert temperatures - just in time for the Grateful Dead's three-night stand. As if the crowd isn't normally exhausted after several hours of non-stop dancing and twirling, the weather - which in late June 1994 caused close to a thousand related injuries in and around the Sam Boyd Silver Bowl - chose not to cooperate.
Glenn "Raz" Raswyck, director of the San Francisco-based roving clinic Rock Medicine, hoped that moving the shows up to mid-May would alleviate some of the problems with dehydration and severe sunburn. A hot breeze scorched the wide hallways of the stadium like a rotisserie oven as it had the year before, forcing him to concede that "Deadheads take care of themselves, but we might need a little divine intervention to get through this one."
Raz is the perfect storybook illustration of an aging hippie. With his shoulder-length hair and tie-dyed socks, he looks like any other veteran of the roaming subculture. But while other devotees pass the time before shows by seeking "miracle tickets" or discussing Jerry Garcia's archetypal guitar playing, Raz briefs his staff on his concern of possibly running out of cots. Everyone's mood is upbeat, though, as they unload an assortment of supplies, medications and equipment into the cramped, makeshift clinic on the upper level of the stadium, even though they realize that they will be pressed to the wall for the next several hours.
And with what? "Heat and feet. That's what we're dealing with in Vegas." Raz speaks fondly of the patients he prepares for. "The boys and girls shed so much clothing in this sun that they're overexposed and falling on the hot cement. But they're having such a great time, we just want to patch them up and get them back to the music." It's this compassionate and non-judgmental attitude that makes Rock Medicine a welcome addition to many of the Dead's West Coast tour sites.
Officially conceived in the spring of 1973, the Rock Medicine program was the brainchild of the late Bay Area Promoter, Bill Graham. He petitioned the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic's association to provide first-aid at concerts and events hosted by Bill Graham Presents. Under the guiding philosophy that "Health Care is a Right, Not a Privilege," Rock Medicine's operations have blossomed and expanded to provide free physical and psychological support to concert-goers for more than 250 events a year all over the West Coast, including the San Francisco Symphony and other major concerts like some of this year's Page and Plant, Tom Petty and Pearl Jam tour dates. The number is growing as promoters and venues get word on the effectiveness of Rock Medicine's services.
A trained Emergency Medical Technician, Raz assembles teams of local doctors, medical students and long-time friends wherever he goes. Each volunteer is CPR-certified and has been informed about the uniqueness of the Grateful Dead crowd. Of course, when the music starts and a forty-something general practitioner adjusts an I.V. line while singing along to "Picas Moon," It's evident that little will surprise this staff.
Katelynn Remington, A medical student from the nearby University of Nevada School of Medicine, describes herself as a big fan of the Dead and as a "gopher" in Raz's outfit. "I do everything from wrapping sprained ankles to cleaning scrapes to unloading boxes of Band-Aids from the band. The idea is to keep the operation running smoothly and go where you're needed."
This is her second year assisting Rock Medicine in Las Vegas, and she appreciates the simplicity of the operation. "As rudimentary as the program seems, this is the ideal situation for health care. If you need help, simply walk in and ask for it. No red tape, no hassles." And no fee. Regardless of the seriousness of the injury, all services are rendered free of charge.
Remington says she hasn't witnessed any life-threatening situations, although a man at Friday's show had to be restrained by six people for four hours. "It appeared as though he was suffering from too much LSD in his system. It was probably the most severe IPR I've seen so far," Remington declared. "But he ended up walking out of here in good shape with his friends."
IPR, or Intense Psychedelic Reaction, is Rock Medicine's term for conditions brought on by ingesting too much hallucinogenic substance. "L.S.D. severely dehydrated the body, And with these conditions, the effects are going to be double," Raz explained. "In Friday's episode, we had to make sure that the patient wasn't going to interfere with our efforts to help, so we had to steady him." But there are no medieval chairs with raw leather straps; they use people power to restrain the patients who require such attention. "This works best for two reasons: First, by physically holding the patient, we can feel where pressure needs to be exerted. Leather straps can't judge when the pressure needs to be a little lighter or a little heavier. Second, human touch is soothing for an individual. It helps him to feel us beside him." The rest of the treatment, in this case, consisted of continuous fluids and calm, reassuring talk.
Throughout the weekend, a parade of colorfully dressed fans needing care for minor sprains and cuts or bright red shoulders burned from too much sun found their way to Rock Medicine. Most of them were quickly looked after and returned to the show before the end of the next song. "If you know this crowd," Raz laughs, "it's hard to get them to stop dancing long enough to pull splinters out of their feet." There were moments when it appeared as though the staff of a couple dozen was overwhelmed. The afternoon temperature peaked at a blistering 96 degrees and several fans passed out, or nearly did. As they have in previous years, the security personnel from the Silver Bowl hosed down the crowds, but the streams of water couldn't reach everyone and there were several cases of heatstroke.
Apart from the physical injuries, Raz defines three different types of psychological cases that they attend to. The first is a mild reaction where the person is overwhelmed by the lights, sounds and continuous movement of the crowd, and they panic and hyperventilate. This is known as "crowd syndrome." Typically, something cold to drink and a short time-out calms them down.
The second type is a more ardent condition that requires "hands on" care. Psychologists and psychology students are on site to deal with these problems. "These are usually the castaways and the runaways who have fallen prey to the parasites and are a bit lost in the world," Raz explains. Many times, soothing talk and a reassuring dialogue will clear their heads. "We just let them know that they're in a safe place with good people. TLC always helps people."
IPR is the most extreme state - when a patient poses a risk to himself or others around them. The adverse effects of taking too much of a mind-altering substance may require more serious care, sometimes more than Rock Medicine is equipped for. If at all possible, the staff does its best to remedy the problem without involving outside authorities because once the patient has been transported to a hospital, legal consequences will surely follow.
Although it may sound like a M.A.S.H. unit on the front lines, both Raz and Remington concur that drug abuse is not nearly as widespread as it is probably perceived. They complain of always being judged by the exception, rather than the norm. The Deadheads are a healthy crowd - they have to be to exert so much energy at the shows night after night. Of the 127,488 people who attended the concerts on this weekend, only 695 people (less than 1 percent) required treatment by Rock Medicine or Mercy Medical, the local ambulatory service in Las Vegas.
Brian Rogers, director of Mercy's Specialty Cares Services, says that he looks forward to working with Raz because Rock Medicine engenders more trust in services like his. He credits Raz as a "unique individual who seems to live his life under one guiding principle - helping people." He further states that "Raz doesn't want anything out of the situation other than to get the patients back to their friends quickly and in a safe condition."
Understandably, Raz is passionate about his position. For nearly 15 years he has returned thousands of people to the shows in better condition than when they arrived. he does regret, however, that sometimes they can't do enough for a person. "We're not a hospital, and we're not equipped to handle full-scale emergencies. But if you were suffering from a heart attack, you'd be in much better hands here - inside a Grateful Dead show - than in some mall." There has never been a death of a patient while in Rock Medicine's care.
As is all of Haight Ashbury's clinics, Rock Medicine is supported in part by donations from private businesses and individuals, and relies on the kindness of strangers. There was even a "tip" jar next to the ten-gallon thermos of water set outside the clinic. As spare change fell into it, Raz declared quite proudly, "Deadheads are a very generous crowd. They don't abuse the free services we provide, nor do they greedily pilfer the free suntan lotion or water or food that we might have on hand." Indeed, it seems that the recipients of Rock Medicine's generous services adhere to the only request made by the caregiver: Take what you need, but need what you take.
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