…then so do you
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Category: Uncategorized (Page 160 of 1031)
Can the people who haven’t been able to see the pics see this one? (It is of Fat Vince Neil.)
“Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma! Tu pure, oh Principessa!”
That sounds terrible.
“I’m not warmed up, man.”
And you can’t sing.
“Hey, neither could Lesh, but people still wanted to hear it.”
Don’t sing opera. Did you steal that shirt from Sinbad?
“That guy’s great, man.”
We’re talking about the same guy, right? The comedian?
“Yeah. Big colored fellow.”
Black. We just say black now, Parish.
“Oh, I don’t know about ‘black.’ Sinbad’s kinda of cafe au lait-colored.”
Stop saying colored. Why do you know Sinbad?
“After Garcia died, I stayed out on the road for a while. Sinbad needed a tour manager and the pay was right. Lot less to take care of than the Dead. The whole package is him and a case full of fanciful vests.”
Sinbad started wearing vests in the 90’s and never kicked the habit.
“Man loves his vests.”
The guards let Mickey leave at the end of the day; it wasn’t like that time Billy went to jail. This is 1993, and everything started as most Grateful Dead stories do: with a vanful of monks.
Rifkin was driving the Gyuto Monks–the throat-singing Tibetans in the yellow robes–around California when they passed San Quentin. The monks asked him,
“What is that building?”
“San Quentin,” Rifkin answered. “A prison.”
“We sensed great pain and suffering there.”
And Rifkin was very impressed by this because the monks’ robes were so very yellow, and the monks were so very foreign, that he did not say,
“Oh, you sensed great pain in the concrete building with no windows and razor wire everywhere? You got a bad vibe from the place with your monk magic, didja?”
No, he instead pulled the van over so that the monks could pray at towards the jail for a while. The story got back to Mickey, and he responded in the only way he could: by organizing a gospel concert and releasing a live album.
Here’s a little bit of it:
Mickey had good intentions.
Who cannot see pictures on the site? If you cannot, please tell me your location and which browser you’re using.
Sometimes at night,
I think I understand.Late, late at night;
More feel than understand.
Hunter gets all the accolades, but John Perry Barlow could scribble a real decent line, too.
- Get them doggies rolling!
- Here we go, big time.
- HurrrrrrrrgOHYEAH.
- Raise the bridge!
- This one’s a keeper.
- BEGONE, DOODY!
- Butthole’s in command now, fellows.
Stop it. Stop this right now.
The Enthusiasts need to know.
They don’t need to know, nor want to know. They’re leaving in droves.
Were there ever enough Enthusiasts here in the first place to constitute a “drove?”
Just stop it.
One more.
Only one.
Fine.
- Corn? When did I eat corn?
You’re done.
Okay.
…but every once in a while you get what you want.
You can kill yourself by putting your head in an electric oven, Enthusiasts. You just also need to add your hand, and be holding a gun. You don’t need to know how to tie a proper noose to hang yourself, either. The traditional coiled knot exists to give the rope enough heft so that your neck can snap against it when you drop six feet; that’s why it’s placed to the side rather in back. Any knot will do if you’re just gonna choke.
And when you choose your end, please leave a note–it’s rude not to–outside the room you did it in. Don’t let family walk in on your fresh corpse. Having trouble finding the words? Let TotD help:
Dear Cruel World,
I just don’t have the strength for the 50th Anniversary of Woodstock. It’s going to be unbearable. One intuits such things.
Sincerely,
Lester Bangs
It’s gonna be dire, Enthusiasts. There will be documentaries and articles and lists and thinkpieces–the content, my God, the content–and you’ll get tricked into watching that moribound, stereoscopic slog of a film, and then ingesting content–CONTENT–about the film, and whoever’s still alive from the roster will be touring as hard as their hips can handle. The codgers, my God, the codgers. It’s gonna suuuuuuuck.
And I’ll get to it. I’ll do a big post about the festival and one of them real-time jerkoff posts about the movie. For now, we concern ourselves with the event announced this week, Woodstock50©®™. What’s left of the Grateful Dead (Touring Version) is headlining on Saturday night, preceded by every 50-year-old white guy’s favorite hip-hopper, those ugly guys who write songs for commercials, the fellow with the interesting name, and a Zeppelin cover band.
Also noted within the lineup:
- The Earl Sweatshirt?
- Pussy Riot is Quiet Riot’s cousin.
- Common is the focus-grouped, corporate version of KRS-ONE.
- Alternately, he is the male Alicia Keys.
- In 20 years of knowing of Hot Tuna’s existence, I’ve never once been curious to listen to them.
- Pick a non-disgusting name, Hot Tuna.
- I’m never gonna not think that Vince Staples is a country artist.
- No Ye?
- Where the fuck is Ye?
- Whoopity scoop?
There’s a website, of course, and there’s merch available, of course, and one piece is the Woostock Psychedelic Tube. You heard me.
The misspelling is not reassuring as to the item’s quality, nor is the fact that “tube” is not a recognized sub-category of clothing. No, what these mud-brained ninnies are selling is the makings of clothing.
Look at this bullshit:
Fuck you, Woodstock50©®™. Don’t sell me a piece of fabric and some instructions and try to pass it off as “clothes.” Also: one of the 13 ways to wear the Woostock Psychedelic Tube is as a blindfold. Are there to be executions during Imagine Dragons’ set? Will the undesirables receive a last cigarette in addition to their Woostock Psychedelic Tube?
Oh, hey, remember how I opened this post by telling you to kill yourself?
Seriously: kill yourself. This will be awful.
For those of you without the courage to end it all, here is Ray Charles singing Hank Williams. Neither man will be at Woodstock50©®™.
I do not know how I feel, Enthusiasts, about this latest offering from the great Jesse Jarnow. In it, he reveals that longtime live sound mixer Dan Healy was merch yoinking at a steady pace for his entire tenure with the band, and not just yoinking: storing. Every shirt Mickey ever yoinked went right on his sweaty, often bloody, torso; Healy kept everything in a cool, dry basement that didn’t get any direct sunlight, and so he’s got boxes full of mint-condition merch.
Look at this bullshit:
(Technically, since these are bootleg shirts, Healy could not have yoinked* them. These were most likely traded for. Precision is important when it comes to important matters such as these.)
What is the source of my ambivalence, you ask? Surely not the piece itself: as always, Jesse’s writing is superb, thoughtful, and informative. Nor the topic: while not the rediscovered trove of Betty Boards, a hidden cache of merch resurfacing is a newsworthy one. The pictures are brightly-colored, and all in focus.
No, my hesitance to sign on fully lies in what the article’s placement represents. GQ shouldn’t care about the Dead. I don’t want GQ to know the Dead exists.
This was the next story:
And I’m just gonna leave it at that.
*Merch can only be yoinked from one’s self (for an extended definition of self). Taking a shirt off your merch table is yoinking; taking a shirt off someone else’s merch table is stealing. Or buying. Maybe trading. You can also be gifted an item, in which case the item is no longer classified as merch, but rather as swag.
I know it’s complicated.
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