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I have been staring at this silver dish of fried chicken for what feels like hours but what really, actually, has been days. Twenty-three days, to be exact, over the course of the three-month Dead Forever run at the all-new, all-American pleasure palace—the Las Vegas Sphere.I grew up on the road. First on the family bus, traveling from city to city to watch my father, Mickey Hart, play drums with the Grateful Dead and Planet Drum, and then later with the various Grateful Dead offshoots. When I was old enough, I joined the crew, working for Dead & Company, doing whatever I could be trusted to handle: stringing strands of plastic Grateful Dead–bear lights; ferrying tie-dyed tapestries, extension cords, and gaffer tape by golf cart; helping VIP-ticket holders smuggle ziplocks filled with vegan sandwiches and granola into the venue. Then, late-night, drinking whiskey from the bottle with the techs, sitting in the emptying parking lot as the semitrucks and their load-out rumble marked the end of our day.But this summer, for the first time in the band’s history, there would be no buses; there would be no trucks. Instead we stayed in one place, trading the rhythms of a tour for the dull ache of a long, endlessly hot Las Vegas summer.It’s a new way of doing things, one with just enough of our former existence to keep it comfortable and just enough change to keep the road forward exciting—even if the road is now an illusion, stretching out below an AI-generated sky. The Grateful Dead had been famous for its Wall of Sound—about 600 speakers painstakingly assembled by the crew at each venue, then just as painstakingly packed back up for the next stadium or concert hall. The Sphere is a wall of light : a 160,000-square-foot display programmed to transport the audience members, their necks craned upward, as the band plays below, a little dot against the expansive animated horizon.Before that high-tech spectacle can begin, however, a very old, analog tradition must be observed: dinner. Sometime between sound check and the show opener, everyone sits down for a shared meal. The monitor tech and the bassist, the head of security and the lighting director, the man selling merch and the man playing drums—we all shuffle forward holding the same white dinner plates and napkins, arms outstretched, ready to receive whatever food is served, like kids in a cafeteria.The catering options rarely differ. Almost always, there’s a salad bar with every possible variety of Newman’s Own dressing. There are sandwich fixings. There’s a soupy fish dish and a vegan pasta that congeals into the shape of its serving tray, like Jell-O in a mold. At the end of the table, inevitably, a giant chunk of meat waits to be carved.[From the March 2010 issue: Management secrets of the Grateful Dead]Still, I always looked forward to certain venues. For the old hands on the crew, the Shoreline Amphitheatre, in Mountain View, California, was notorious for having been built on top of a landfill—methane from the decomposing trash would seep out of the earth, leading to flaming eruptions when audience members lit a joint. But for me, Shoreline meant soft serve. Old, decrepit, but functional, the machine was hidden in the far-left corner of backstage hospitality. I’d fill a bowl with ribbons of ice cream, topping them off with a downpour of chocolate sprinkles.Here at the Sphere, dinner is fried chicken—again. Every night, chicken is prepared in the same fryer, seasoned with the same spices, and delivered by the same person. It’s placed on an identical white tablecloth with serving utensils angled at matching degrees. This is life in a corporate commune.Staring at the serving platters, I have an idea. I try the fried chicken in a new combination. I take some salsa from the empanada platter on the left, some mac and cheese from the platter on the right. It’s still fried chicken, but it works—something new made from something familiar.I have a memory of a birthday in some Midwest backstage. I think it was my 9th, but it’s hard to say for sure. I had been craving cheesecake for weeks. Out of fear of sending some runner on a wild-goose chase, I told no one. I was perpetually terrified of becoming an inconvenience, a feeling I imagine is pretty common for kids who grow up on the road.There was the glow of a birthday candle, my mother’s hand cupped over an obscured slice of cake. The stagehands sang “Happy Birthday” as I shrank into the couch cushions, embarrassed by the attention. My father played a drumroll on a toaster as my mother handed me the plate. I looked down. The cake was giant and oozing rich frosting and most definitely, 100 percent … chocolate. I smiled and blew out the candle. I made a wish—for cheesecake.Later, both band and crew migrated to catering for dinner. I walked down the row of long plastic tables, wondering if the package of sourdough bread was the one I had opened in Milwaukee the week before, or if it was just an identical one. I imagined an old Grateful Dead road case stuffed to the brim with sandwich materials—mustard and mayonnaise in the stick drawer, a series of plastic-wrapped tomatoes where the drum pads should be, a head of lettuce stuffed inside a cajón. It was possible. We brought just about everything else with us, even the lights and the stage.On one table sat a large plastic bag of Kraft shredded cheese—the Mexican blend, with little cheddar and Monterey Jack worms flattened against the clear casing. I grabbed the package and pushed it under my shirt, then walked back out toward the stage casually, like an expert jewel thief.I collected the chocolate-cake slice and took it underneath the stage to the below-deck depths where the riggers set up hammocks for naps after sound check. I looked around to ensure I was alone, then I removed the cheese from under my shirt and poured all of it onto the cake plate. I tore off the end of the slice, stray cheese falling onto the cold cement floor, and greedily shoved it into my mouth.I chewed my cheesecake proudly, nodding to myself like I was a judge on some fancy cooking show. “9.5!” I announced, my voice echoing in the empty space below the stage. “Half a point off—no whipped cream!”I knew the cake was terrible. It didn’t matter. I loved it. I had made my wish come true.From an early age, I could taste a tour route as soon as I saw it. Tracing the list of cities with my index finger, I knew the roads we’d travel and the meals we’d eat. Show nights meant dinner in catering, but even the relentless schedule of a Dead tour had the occasional off night, a chance to escape the venue and seek out old favorites.Madison Square Garden always, without compromise, meant orange chicken and water chestnuts, the fat that falls off the edge of spare ribs, and duck-sauce stains on old merch shirts. Madison Square Garden meant New York, and New York meant Wo Hop.Established in 1938, Wo Hop is, as far as I can tell, the most famous dive in Chinatown. My father first went there in the 1960s, when, as he remembers it, it still had sawdust on the floor. It was known for its midnight clientele—John Belushi, Patti Smith. It’s the hidden gem that everyone thinks they’ve discovered.For our family, Wo Hop represents the frayed tether connecting East Coast to West Coast, our past to our present. Though my parents made their home in California, my lineage, on both sides, comes from New York. My Jewish great-grandfathers lived and worked in the same city while inhabiting entirely different worlds. One opened Ohrbach’s, the Manhattan department store where knockoffs of Parisian couture were sold to eager housewives. Around the same time, somewhere in Brooklyn, another great-grandfather got his cab medallion.The first thing I do when the buses drop us off in New York is start walking. I like to think about my great-grandfathers when I do, imagining what their days looked like and what version of New York they knew.In the summer of 2023, on what was billed as Dead & Company’s final tour, I went for a very long walk, crisscrossing the city. I passed the former site of the Fillmore East, Bill Graham’s famous music hall, which had once been my family’s second home, and where some of the greatest live albums of the ’60s and ’70s—notably, ones by Miles Davis and the Allman Brothers—were recorded. It was now a bank. I gave $5 to a man sitting outside with a long gray beard and a sign that said We all get old but at least I saw Jimi Hendrix.Eventually, as the sun began to set, I found myself at 17 Mott Street—deep in the heart of Chinatown—standing at the steps that lead down to Wo Hop. There’s something about the red tiles that line the walls to its lower entrance, the light from neon signs bouncing across them. The pull of Wo Hop is so strong that I always end up there, even without intending to, like I’m following its siren song across the city. Wo Hop is like a familiar refrain: You know you must return to it a few more times before the song is over.I sat down and gestured to the waiter that I was ready to order. He walked over, pen and pad in hand.“Welcome to Wo Hop,” he said with a smile. “Have you been here before?”On show days, the sushi arrives at 3 p.m., just before sound check. It’s been there all my life, a kaleidoscopic swirl of salmon pinks and opalesque creams, with a slight variance in quality depending on the distance to the ocean. It comes in shiny cellophane wrapping that sticks to the outer edge of the sashimi and twinkles under the harsh fluorescent lights overhead.It’s pure protein, a source of energy smooshed across a six-inch tray. The sushi is in my father’s rider: Assortment of Sashimi upon arrival at 3:00 p.m.(6) Ika(6) Salmon(6) Toro(6) Hamachi(6) Unagi On tour, it’s easy to forget that you need to stop and eat, or to see eating as a mere obstacle to putting on the show. Sometimes, it’s just a question of priorities—waking up in a hotel room and knowing that if you don’t shower now, it’ll be three days on the bus before you get another chance. So you skip the continental breakfast and drink coffee from the machine in your room. You arrive at the venue before catering opens, and by the time it does, you’ve moved on to some task that requires crossing the length of the venue and back. Rider food is insurance, a contractual guarantee that there will be something to keep us going.[Read: How I faked my way to rock stardom]It’s not until week three or four, when we’re near the midpoint of the tour, that the sushi starts to morph into something else. It’s a bizarre turn—we begin to resent the sushi platter, blame it for the monotony of our lives. (“Maddening,” my father likes to say.) But we still go after it every night, tearing off the cellophane and grabbing at the raw fish like black bears at a salmon stream. Sometimes, a funny little fishhook smile appears on my father’s face after the last of the sushi is gone, an acknowledgment that, in his words, “we all got to eat.”There is a specific kind of emotion that comes with the end of a tour. All the decisions that were once in someone else’s hands come raining down as normal everyday life returns. It always hits at the airport after the last show, when suddenly no one’s telling you where to go. You’re in charge, in control of your own schedule, and for the first time in a very long time, you have to decide what you want to eat.After all the moaning about postshow pizza and stale pasta, all the daydreaming about things you’d eat if you were back home, the reality is that those first steps into the world of free will rarely feel anything other than lonely.At the end of the summer, I wander around Harry Reid International Airport, surrounded by the glow of the slot machines, until I see a to-go food counter, walk over, and stare at the menu.“What can I get you?” the person behind the cash register wants to know. My eyes scan across what feels like an endless abyss of options. “Do you have any cheesecake?”This article appears in the December 2024 print edition with the headline “One for the Road.”

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Vice President Kamala Harris pauses while speaking onstage as she concedes the election, at Howard University on November 6, 2024, in Washington, DC. | Andrew Harnik/Getty Images On November 5, Americans elevated a reactionary authoritarian to the presidency — again. After attempting to overturn an election, fomenting an insurrection, becoming a convicted criminal, and baselessly accusing an immigrant community of eating house pets, Donald Trump not only won a second lease on the White House, but he did so with a plurality of the popular vote — while Republicans took control of both congressional chambers.  Liberals may be feeling a sense of déjà vu. But this is not 2017 all over again. It is something worse. Over the past eight years, Trump has remade the Republican Party in his image. In Congress, his intraparty critics have almost all decamped for the private sector or knelt to kiss his ring. In the executive branch, the “adults” are no longer “in the room”: Awed by his own power and unprepared to staff an administration, Trump leaned on many relatively mainstream advisers in his first term. This time around, he and his allies have assembled a cadre of loyalists, some of whom have won cabinet nominations (alongside some more conventional Republicans).  Meanwhile, conservatives have consolidated their grip on the Supreme Court, slashed the Democrats’ advantage with Hispanic voters, and fortified the GOP’s strength with the non-college-educated electorate, realignments that threatened the Democratic Party’s capacity to wield federal power. All this amounts to a catastrophe for anyone who values liberal democracy, egalitarian economic policy, and social equality for all marginalized groups. As someone who has spent the past decade advocating for more expansionary immigration policies, a larger social safety net, criminal justice reform, and decarbonization, it is difficult to see my country embrace a man who evinces contempt for all of those causes. In the face of this calamity, Democrats must develop a clear-eyed understanding of how they got here and chart a plausible path back to the country they want to live in. This newsletter — The Rebuild — aims to aid in that project. In weekly installments, I’ll try to offer some insight into how Democrats lost their national majority, as well as what we — people who care about advancing progressive change — must do to become more effective moving forward. Answering those questions will require Democrats to analyze their predicament with open minds. If we seek ideologically comforting explanations for the party’s problems — rather than empirically sound ones — the coalition will march deeper into the wilderness.  Unfortunately, in the wake of Harris’s loss, virtually every Democratic faction has produced its share of motivated reasoning. In future newsletters, I plan to take issue with some centrists’ analysis of the party’s difficulties. But today, I want to explain why I worry that the left is allowing wishful thinking to cloud its vision of political reality.  Since November 5, some progressives have drawn a sweeping lesson from Donald Trump’s second victory: Harris’s loss proves that Democrats gain little from “moderation” or “centrism” and must “embrace radical policies” in order to compete. I admire many of the writers making this argument. But their confidence in this narrative strikes me as wildly unfounded. It is true that Harris pivoted to the center on border security, crime, and, to a lesser extent, economics. There are plenty of sound arguments — both moral and political — against Democrats moderating on specific issues. Yet it’s hard to see how anyone could be confident that Harris lost because she moderated, much less that her loss proved that moderation is electorally counterproductive as a rule.  To name just a few reasons for doubting those premises: Harris actually did better where both she and Donald Trump held campaign rallies and aired TV advertisements than she did in the rest of the country. Thus, if Harris’s problem was her moderate messaging, it is odd that she won a higher share of the vote in the places that were more exposed to that messaging, despite the fact that such areas were also inundated by pro-Trump ads.  In a September poll from Gallup, 51 percent of voters described Harris as “too liberal,” while just 6 percent deemed her “too conservative.” Some of the Democratic Party’s biggest overperformers in the 2024 election — the down-ballot candidates that ran furthest ahead of Harris with their constituents — were moderates: Jon Tester, Amy Klobuchar, Jared Golden, and Marie Gluesenkamp Perez. Harris had been a liberal senator and took many left-wing positions during the 2020 Democratic primary. She was attacked relentlessly by the Trump campaign on that basis. It’s hard to see how one could determine that it was Harris’s moderate messaging, rather than her progressive background, that was more damaging to her prospects. What we know, however, is that her opponent’s political advisers sought to highlight the latter, not the former.  The Biden-Harris administration was, by many progressives’ own account, the most left-wing White House on domestic policy in generations, and Trump’s team portrayed Harris as an extension of that administration.  Across the wealthy world, parties that presided over inflation have been losing at the ballot box, irrespective of their political leanings, a fact that raises doubts about whether any grand ideological lesson can be drawn from Harris’s defeat. My aim here is not to argue that Democrats must pivot to the center on all issues. I don’t think they should. I do think that the party needs to moderate its image nationally, if only to better compete for Senate control. But I’m still gathering my thoughts on how precisely they should pursue that task and will elaborate on them in future newsletters.   For now, my point is simply that there is little basis for confidence that Harris lost due to excessive moderation, or that Democrats would benefit electorally from becoming broadly more left-wing. The fact that many on the left nevertheless evince such certainty is therefore disconcerting.  Being progressive, in the best sense of that term, means putting the interests of the most vulnerable above one’s own comfort — whether material or ideological. And right now, America’s most disempowered constituencies have a strong interest in Democrats ousting reactionaries from power. If the party substitutes wishful thinking for unblinkered analysis, they will have a harder time accomplishing that task.

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