Boston nitrous mafia

Despite confiscating about tanks, the security guards at Vibes proved no match for the gas mob. The event is scheduled to run July 29 to August 1. Twenty-four years old, Sean sips a bottle of lager and speaks in a raspy whisper. His dreadlocked hair spills over his Grateful Dead visor and down his back, and a green bandanna hangs loosely from his neck. In a few minutes, he will take the stage as a guitarist for one of the bands playing tonight.

A self-described hippie, he was considered a valuable member of the Mafia because he blended in at festivals. Sean explains that the Boston ring of the Nitrous Mafia is made up of about 16 members split into two units, with the entire operation run by the Rhode Island kingpin, Dmitri—the guy with the New England accent slamming the tank against the wall in Williamsburg.

With the help of false paperwork, gang members fill up tanks of various sizes at a local nitrous shop, which is a kitchen-supply store called New England Fountain, located in Burlington, Massachusetts. During his employment, the two Boston crews would duel each other every night to see who could make more money. Members of each unit split 30 percent of the profits, while the remaining 70 percent was funneled back to their bosses.

The Philadelphia ring is larger and split up into several sub-crews who know each other but operate independently, says Sean. Sean, who admits that he has been in and out of jail for drug charges, was recruited into the Mafia last year during a time when he had no money and no food and was struggling to see his favorite bands.

During All Good, a mob acquaintance offered to pay him to go on balloon runs. He fell in love with the lifestyle because of the instant respect that came with being a balloon seller. Girls would remove their tops in front of him just for a huff. As a full-time Mafia member, Sean was known for his crafty methods of sneaking tanks past security guards. Security would open the back of the U-Haul, see a made bed, close the door, and let us ride right on through.

A colleague of his—a woman with a young child—would often traffic tanks hidden under blankets in her baby stroller. The full-time workers handle the money and oversee the stash houses, while the younger kids serve as lookouts and runners, communicating with one another with verbal signs and cell phone texts.

Nitrous oxide has been around as long as the jam bands themselves. There is one brief scene in The Grateful Dead Movie , a documentary about a series of San Francisco shows in , in which nitrous is consumed with an octopus-like hose.

During the s, the gas was sometimes supplied at recording studios. By the end of the decade, nitrous was standard fare, supplied primarily by out-of-town dentists. At the turn of the century, following the death of Garcia and the expansion of jam-band culture, Shakedown Streets along the East Coast began attracting nitrous dealers in greater numbers, along with people who looked less like Phish fans.

This new class of gas dealers seemed to come almost exclusively from Philadelphia, where nitrous was easy to purchase. By , the gas business had outgrown Shakedown Street and had crept onto street corners.

Outside some concerts, tanks were stationed several feet apart from each other. Eventually, turf wars started breaking out, leading to intimidation and violence. Stronger nitrous dealers would ask lower-level merchants to hand over their tanks—or risk the consequences. One fan says he was beaten up two years ago at Jones Beach because a dealer thought he stole a balloon. At a Phish show last year in Portland, Maine, a fan watched a parking attendant get pummeled. Knives and bats were sneaked into lots.

With other drugs, you can dance. The U. Each state has its own laws against it, and most treat the illicit sale of nitrous as a misdemeanor, with penalties ranging from small fines to a few months in prison.

In what was likely the most significant federal crackdown on the gas, defendants from Philadelphia and New Jersey were charged with unlawful distribution of nitrous to an undercover police officer in the parking lot outside a Dave Matthews Band show at Washington, D. Kennedy Stadium in Some environmentalists complain that nitrous is a greenhouse gas. Some music fans say the hiss of the gas keeps them up at night. Still others kvetch that the tank lines clog up the campgrounds, and that dealers use random tents as hiding places.

One fan says he was jolted from his sleep when a tank was slipped under his tent and slammed into his head. Another said she had her tires slashed after disobeying orders not to move her car. The scene in Williamsburg is only a small preview of what happens in summer, when the outdoor festival season kicks into gear. During these campground events, which last two to four days, the Mafia, which is divided into two rings, based in Boston and Philadelphia, can burn through hundreds of nitrous tanks.

Year after year, security guards at these events attempt to crack down on the illicit business, but, in most cases, they're outmatched by a phalanx of menacing gas dealers who have little regard for unarmed concert personnel.

And for some musicians and their fans, the illicit trade is a bummer. It is there now. Despite confiscating about tanks, the security guards at Vibes proved no match for the gas mob. Despite the scandal, Hays eventually won his months-long battle to bring his festival, born out of Jerry Garcia's death, back to Bridgeport.

The event is scheduled to run July 29 to August 1. He has instituted a zero-tolerance balloon ban this year and is working with the Bridgeport police force and City Council to make the possession of nitrous oxide illegal in Bridgeport's public parks.

He says he hopes legislation will be enacted before the festival, though the parks commissioner isn't sure that it can be enforced.

The guards aren't sure, either. Indeed, two cops interviewed by the Voice referred to the gas as "helium. Twenty-four years old, Sean sips a bottle of lager and speaks in a raspy whisper. His dreadlocked hair spills over his Grateful Dead visor and down his back, and a green bandanna hangs loosely from his neck. In a few minutes, he will take the stage as a guitarist for one of the bands playing tonight.

A self-described hippie, he was considered a valuable member of the Mafia because he blended in at festivals. Sean explains that the Boston ring of the Nitrous Mafia is made up of about 16 members split into two units, with the entire operation run by the Rhode Island kingpin, Dmitri—the guy with the New England accent slamming the tank against the wall in Williamsburg.

With the help of false paperwork, gang members fill up tanks of various sizes at a local nitrous shop, which is a kitchen-supply store called New England Fountain, located in Burlington, Massachusetts. The store's owner, Paul Abramo, says he's aware that some of his customers might be illegal dealers, but it's impossible to regulate: "We try to make sure they're a business, but beyond that, it's really out of our control.

During his employment, the two Boston crews would duel each other every night to see who could make more money. Members of each unit split 30 percent of the profits, while the remaining 70 percent was funneled back to their bosses. The Philadelphia ring is larger and split up into several sub-crews who know each other but operate independently, says Sean. They were the first kids I saw bringing guns to the lots and putting fuckin' shit to people's heads.

Sean, who admits that he has been in and out of jail for drug charges, was recruited into the Mafia last year during a time when he had no money and no food and was struggling to see his favorite bands. During All Good, a mob acquaintance offered to pay him to go on balloon runs. He fell in love with the lifestyle because of the instant respect that came with being a balloon seller.

Girls would remove their tops in front of him just for a huff. As a full-time Mafia member, Sean was known for his crafty methods of sneaking tanks past security guards. Then we'd lay it back down, put a mattress and blanket on it and make the bed.

Security would open the back of the U-Haul, see a made bed, close the door, and let us ride right on through. A colleague of his—a woman with a young child—would often traffic tanks hidden under blankets in her baby stroller.

During festival season, the Boston and Philadelphia crews band together, operating in higher numbers, assisted by a recruited class of lower-level minions who aren't card-carrying members of the Nitrous Mafia but are eager to make a summer buck. They're often ex-cons—"crack dealers and dirtbag kids straight outta jail," says Sean—who like the idea of selling balloons to rich kids while inhaling all the nitrous balloons they want for free.

The full-time workers handle the money and oversee the stash houses, while the younger kids serve as lookouts and runners, communicating with one another with verbal signs and cell phone texts. Nitrous oxide has been around as long as the jam bands themselves. There is one brief scene in The Grateful Dead Movie, a documentary about a series of San Francisco shows in , in which nitrous is consumed with an octopus-like hose.

During the s, the gas was sometimes supplied at recording studios. By the mid-'80s, the tanks began appearing on "Shakedown Street," the name for the public marketplace that Dead Heads ginned up at concert venues to finance their continuous touring. By the end of the decade, nitrous was standard fare, supplied primarily by out-of-town dentists. But many Dead Heads were turned off by the tanks from the onset and began referring to the dealers as "tour rats" who made money off the mother ship.

They were profiteers, or what Dead Heads called 'corporate vendors. One fan cuts right to the point: "These guys don't even know who Jerry Garcia is, and they never will. By , the gas business had outgrown Shakedown Street and had crept onto street corners. Outside some concerts, tanks were stationed several feet apart from each other. Eventually, turf wars started breaking out, leading to intimidation and violence. Stronger nitrous dealers would ask lower-level merchants to hand over their tanks—or risk the consequences.

And that's where the Mafia aspect really came around. Last year at Vibes where a portion of the park has been dubbed "Nitrous Alley" , a fan says he saw a dealer smash his tank on a man's head. At a Phish show last year in Portland, Maine, a fan watched a parking attendant get pummeled. Knives and bats were sneaked into lots. Clark, of Tea Leaf Green, doesn't get why his fans are drawn to the stuff: "There are certain drugs that enhance the concert experience—a little doobie here, or some mushrooms there," he says.

With other drugs, you can dance. With nitrous, you slump onto a car and disappear until it's time for the next balloon. They don't call it 'hippie crack' for nothing. Drug Enforcement Agency doesn't consider nitrous a controlled substance and doesn't regulate it.

Instead, it's monitored by the Food and Drug Administration as a food-grade propellant, medical-grade gas, and prescription drug. It's legal to own it, but, like other inhalants, it's prohibited by the FDA to purchase and sell for the purposes of getting high. Each state has its own laws against it, and most treat the illicit sale of nitrous as a misdemeanor, with penalties ranging from small fines to a few months in prison.

In what was likely the most significant federal crackdown on the gas, defendants from Philadelphia and New Jersey were charged with unlawful distribution of nitrous to an undercover police officer in the parking lot outside a Dave Matthews Band show at Washington, D. Kennedy Stadium in At an appeal hearing, a District Court judge ruled that the dealers' attempt to sell nitrous without a prescription was, in essence, a misbranding crime, in violation of the Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act, and the defendants' cases were sent back down to lower courts.

Some environmentalists complain that nitrous is a greenhouse gas. Some music fans say the hiss of the gas keeps them up at night. Still others kvetch that the tank lines clog up the campgrounds, and that dealers use random tents as hiding places. One fan says he was jolted from his sleep when a tank was slipped under his tent and slammed into his head. Another said she had her tires slashed after disobeying orders not to move her car. And they get it whatever the cost.

He's standing outside the Electric Factory, in the club-cluttered Northern Liberties section of the city, near the end of a Wilco show on a Saturday night. Beef is with five of his gang mates; together, they have three watermelon-size tanks stored in Nike gym bags, with reserves stowed inside the trunks of their cars.

One of the dealers, an older man who looks to be in his fifties, sits in an illegally parked SUV—a hiding place for tanks in case cops come.

A meter-reader approaches—a black woman, who notices the tanks. Immediately, a tall dealer named Jimmy, who wears a baggy gray sweatsuit and looks like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, diverts her attention. She smiles, charmed, and leans against the wall next to him. Later, Jimmy notices an Electric Factory security director pulling into the parking lot.