Way back in 1969 my grandfather lived across the street from Atlanta’s famed Piedmont Park. Occasionally, I’d be dropped off to “grandpa-sit” on weekends. I was always warned and told to stay away from the park because there were dangerous hippies there who wanted nothing more than to get me hooked on dope or something.

So I always did what kids of my age did when you tell them not to do something, which is to do it anyway.

Spying on the hippies became a favorite pastime. On one occasion there was a rock band playing there. No need to tell the entire story now (I’ve told it before), but I learned that the name of this band was the Allman Brothers.

I became an instant fan. This was the first music that I had discovered on my own. My older brother (at this point serving his country overseas) hadn’t even heard of them. Through the years, the Allman Brother’s Band and their music would be a major factor in my life in most every sense.

So when Gregg Allman died last week, I felt a true and sincere sense of loss. I decided to attend his services – even if just as a spectator. This was something that I felt a sincere need to do.

We got into Macon at about 11:30 on the day of the service– pretty much about the time I ‘d thought we’d arrive. There was time to grab a quick bite at a local bistro before the scheduled time of the service, which was for family and close friends of Gregg.

Lunch took about 45 minutes or so, then we headed over to 1st Street to secure a place along the procession route. We sat there for about 30 minutes or so before Donna asked me to fetch a bottle of water to relieve her from the beating sun. There would be time to do this. Or so it seemed.

As I was walking back towards the car I met a young woman in a wheelchair. She asked if I’d help her locate the nearby bookstore. Only a real low-life could refuse this request, and despite my many shortcomings and failures I do work hard to not be a low-life.

It took about 15 minutes to reach the bookstore, which is located one city block away from the beginning of the procession route.

As I was helping her enter the bookstore I heard the yelp of a police siren, which I knew signaled the beginning of the procession. My flip phone rang – Donna telling me, “you’re missing it!”

I told the young lady that I’d be back to check on her in a moment, but as I darted out of the store I was met by the retreating crowd. The parade, as they say, had passed me by.

We walked back into the bookstore and helped the young woman load up her purchases.. We bade her goodbye and drove over to our hotel to check in.

I let Donna out at the front door and then parked our car. As I was walking across the parking lot I heard the familiar yelp of the siren. I stopped in my tracks to avoid being run over by a motorcade of police motorcycles and limousines. It seems that the hotel we had chosen was the also headquarters for all of the funeral VIPs.

I entered the hotel to find Donna standing at the check-in desk because our room wasn’t ready yet. I’ve stayed at a lot of hotels in my time. Typically you can get your room at any time after noon. On this day they were holding fast to their 4:00 PM check in time.

As we sat there in the lobby with our suitcase and adorned in Eat a Peach t-shirts, it began to fill with every “A-list” celebrity who had come to pay their respects. We found ourselves surrounded by musicians, movie stars and professionals who support these types. Several made occasional eye contact with us. I’m guessing that they were wondering who we were and why we were there. I began to feel like some sort of creepy stalker or rock and roll tourist.

One of the musicians and his wife sat down next to us. As fate would turn out, we had a mutual friend and a connecting story.

A couple of years ago I spotted an artifact in an antique store – a drum case with the name of a band that this musician had played in early in his career stenciled on it. I had sent that case to our mutual friend who eventually delivered it to this musician. He told me that he still had the case and that he treasured it. We had a nice chat until his room was ready.

A few more minutes passed and our room was ready. We checked in and went on up for some rest.

We rested for a couple of hours before deciding to go get some dinner. Things were about to get even weirder.

I retired (relatively young) from my professional career about 5 years ago. This was partly by choice and partly by having achieved about all that my company and industry was willing to let me achieve. To paraphrase Bob Dylan, I’d driven that car about as far as I could.

Being retired I can dress pretty much any way that I want and even forego haircuts. My uniform of choice is typically short pants and t-shirts. My hair has grown beyond shoulder length. I’d like to point out that I do not now – nor have I ever in my life dressed or groomed myself to look like anybody. But it seems that at least to some people, I bear some resemblance to someone famous.

As we walked into the restaurant, another hippy-ish looking guy said something unintelligible towards me. It was loud and I couldn’t hear him, so I just waved and said, “wussup?”. After I’d been sitting for a few minutes he stuck his face into our booth – muttered something else and then asked if I wouldn’t mind having a picture taken with his young daughter.

I was beyond startled. I asked him why on earth would his daughter want a picture with me. He motioned for the young girl to come over and directed her to sit next to me in the booth while a friend got his camera phone ready. The young girl let out a shrill “OH MY GAWD!” Still trying to figure out what was going on, I told them that I wasn’t anybody. They both disagreed and insisted on the photograph. I told them in as uncertain of terms as I could muster that whoever they thought I was – I was most certainly not. Their insistence persisted.

People were starting to stare. I was still in shock. I figured the easiest solution was just to comply and hope that they’d leave afterward. They got their picture and the girl began to go around the bar showing it to people. I wanted to lay the cash sum for the food that hadn’t been delivered onto the table and walk out. I was feeling somewhere between embarrassed and angry. As we left, the man and daughter were outside the restaurant. I was hoping that they noticed that Donna and I got into our own car – a 9 year-old Honda – and drove ourselves away.

We drove up to the area of the Big House Museum. A street party had been organized for fans outside the museum – which was closed off for a private party for family and friends of Gregg’s including the folks from our hotel lobby.

The atmosphere was that of a large outdoor beer fest or tailgate party. We could hear music being played behind the gates, but with no line-of-sight, we were never really sure who was playing.

Discussion among the crowd – and on social media seemed to center on WHO was present at the private event. It seemed to me that the reason for this event and the solemn-ness of the gathering was being watered down in favor of tabloid interest. The question I was asked most: “did you see Cher?”

I did manage to spot several of my true friends in the crowd. Members of the famABBly. I spoke at length to each of these folks. At last I found some people with whom I could commiserate my loss with.

We shared brief conversations of memories of dozens of concerts that we’d seen together. We talked about how the music of Gregg Allman and his band had shaped our directions in our own lives.
I understand the afternoon following the funeral turning into a celebration life. I do get that. It just seemed to me that the entire event had grown into the spectacle that I wanted to be no part of.

We left a couple of hours before the street party was over with. Back in the hotel room, my wife suggested that it might be fun to go and hang out in the hotel bar to “people watch”. It seemed like even she had become star-struck. I convinced her that we should let these folks have their privacy. She concurred.

Driving back home this morning I just had an empty feeling. I feel like my attempt at paying sincere respects to a lost musical and cultural hero had fallen short. I felt like I had become a part of the spectacle.