Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

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Astronuts

You want to be as close to the equator as possible if you’re going to launch a rocket into orbit, which is why Cape Canaveral is in South Florida. You can, however, be anywhere on Earth to communicate with said rocket ship, so if the Speaker of the House is from Texas when NASA is being set up, then Mission Control will be in Texas. Houston, specifically, and in the 60’s, Houston was Space City and they weren’t about to let you forget it. Their brand-new baseball team was called the Astros; they played in the Astrodome, the world’s first indoor stadium, and since it was indoors and real grass could not be kept alive, the team played on a newly-invented synthetic surface called Astroturf.

So when Six Flags built an amusement park across the parking lot, they didn’t really have any choice in what to name the sucker.

There were rolly coasters and logs that would flume you about: it was your standard American theme park, and so it also had an outdoor theater called the Southern State. During the week, they would do shows for the kiddies or dance troupes or whatnot; on weekends, they would have bands for the local teens. You could ride the SkyScreamer in the afternoon and then get down to some groovy tunes in the evening, all for the price of one ticket. It’s a good deal.

For the teens, that is; the acts must have closed their eyes and gotten through the evening like professionals. Look at this bullshit:

Do they drop people from that tower? I think they drop people from that tower. You’re onstage singing your little song, and WHHHHAAAAAAAGH behind you every 150 fucking seconds. It’s goddamned demoralizing.

The Dead played the Southern State Theater on 8/30/85, and it seems almost criminal to take ’85 Garcia to Houston in August. The air is so thick with humidity as to behave more like a solid than a gas; also, it being Texas, the air is armed. He (and Bobby) looked like this:

(Holy shit, this show is one week after Boreal Ridge, where they dragged poor Garcia up a mountain. Serious question: were they trying to kill him?)

Now, obviously, this post is in honor of the great scholarship and snappy storytelling in the latest missive from Lost Live Dead detailing the Dead’s relationship with Texas; his site is a must for any Enthusiast, as is the sister site Hooterollin. , which OMIGOD I FORGOT TO TALK ABOUT THE LAST POST OVER THERE which is so very good. (It’s about Skeletons in the Closet. Remember Skeletons? Don’t play all cool like you didn’t listen to Skeletons a million times.) However, Corry Arnold (author of both sites and a valued commentator here) only allots a scanty three paragraphs to the most important show the Dead ever played in Texas, instead choosing to fill space with “evidence” and “facts” and “contextual analysis.”

But you know I don’t roll that way. I made a few calls and was able to get detailed notes of the Dead’s day at the Astroworld:

3:00 pmĀ 

Band arrives at venue. Phil refuses to leave van. Garcia is unable to leave van. Rest of band wanders off.

3:30

Soundcheck. No one is there except Phil; he is asleep behind the amps like a drunken angel with perfect pitch. Road manager Jon McIntire attempts to have the band paged, but Billy has commandeered the PA booth and is broadcasting his skank session. (Billy found skank.) Mickey has been thrown out of the park for punching a hot dog vendor.

4:00

Through a mixture of bribes, threats, and cocaine, the band has been lured to soundcheck. No one has seen Brent. Billy announces that if Brent isn’t there in five minutes, then he would rub his testicles on Brent’s synthesizer.

4:05

Billy rubs his testicles on Brent’s synthesizer.

4:20

4:20, yo.

4:30

A representative from the park asks Jon McIntire a question; while his attention is diverted, the entire band wanders off.

4:35

Mickey, now wearing a fake mustache over his real mustache, is thrown out of the park again, this time for punching the guy who runs the bumper cars.

5:00

Billy, returning to the source of his previous fun, has once again taken over the PA system and is using it to tell jokes of a questionable provenance. Garcia was in the bathroom, which made Jon McIntire both sad and happy: sad because of what Garcia was doing in there, but happy because he wasn’t going anywhere. Bobby has eaten astronaut ice cream, and a giant turkey leg, and had a caricature done of himself, and bought a license pate with his name on it, and he was thinking about taking his shirt off.

5:01

Bobby takes his shirt off.

5:20

4:20 plus 1, yo.

5:30

Billy, lying in wait behind a blind turn, pounces on a family of five from Corpus Christi. When later asked why he did such a thing, Billy would respond–and I quote–“I felt like a puma.”

6:00

Phil wakes up and wanders into the park, where he makes a kid in a Dead shirt buy him a giant churro. Jon McIntire spots him, asks if he’s seen Brent. Phil hits Jon McIntire with the giant churro, then makes the kid buy him another one.

6:10

Mickey, now in blackface, is thrown out of the park once more for punching a balloon salesman. No one has seen Brent.

6:30

Billy has ridden the Texas Cyclone 17 times in a row; he punched the ride operator in the dick and turned the switch to FULL so the train’s been circling without stopping. Security is on its way.

6:35

Security arrives and throws Billy out, along with Mickey, now in blackface with a fake mustache, who had snuck back in and punched the same balloon salesman again.

6:45

Bobby arrives backstage. He is wearing a tee-shirt with his own face on it and carrying one of those leashes for imaginary dogs.

6:55

Phil shows up and yells at Jon McIntire because the wine selection at the theme park is not up to snuff.

7:10

Billy and Mickey wander in and begin making fun of Weir’s shirt while secretly wanting one.

7:20

Someone in an armadillo costume comes backstage. Everyone says,

“Hi, Brent,” and he removes the costume’s head and says,

“Hey, guys,” and no one asks him any questions at all.

7:30

Garcia emerges from the bathroom and tells Bobby and Brent to change. Bobby protests; Brent does not.

7:40

Showtime.

Look At These Clowns

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Defeating It.”

That’s not the clown from It. That’s Wavy Gravy. You’ve known him your entire adult life.

“Listen, just between you and me? All clowns look alike.”

Wow.

“That’s why I asked for the confidence.”

Kinda racist.

“Can’t help it.”

This is a character defect, Bobby.

“I’ll consult my higher power about it.”

God?

“Irving Azoff.”

Sure. How’s Wavy doing?

“Better than he looks.”

Good.

Lost In The Heart Of Texas

Quickly: what’s better than a new post at Lost Live Dead? Very few things, but one of them might be a new post at Lost Live Dead about Texas. The Dead didn’t play Texas as much as you might think, and certainly not at a ratio commensurate to Texas’ size: only 29 times. (In comparison, they played 55 shows in New Jersey.) To make a long story short, Texas is too fucking big. But trust me on this one: you want to hear the long story. Go read.

All right, Enthusiasts: Trivia Time! Name the five states the Grateful Dead never played. No cheating.

JEOPARDY THEME SONG NOISE

Time’s up! The answer is: Wyoming, Arkansas, Dakota 1, Dakota 2, and…Delaware.

The Dead never played Delaware?

I was as shocked as you.

There’s a big college there.

The Fighting Blue Hens of the University of Delaware, yeah. But, no.

Learn something every day.

Not something useful

No, not useful at all.

Still Feel Like Your Keyboardist

What are you doing?

“Oh, hey. This is the video for my new single Still Feel Like–”

Not you.

“What?”

I’m not talking to you.

“Who are you talking to, then?’

Brent!

“Hey, buddy.”

I am NOT kidding any more. I’m taking that damn Time Sheath away from all of you.

“No one knows it’s me!”

Not the point. I’m not judging you for being a Furry, man, but do it in the 80’s. Stop wandering around the 21st century in mascot costumes.

“There are no Furries in the 80’s except for the Phillie Phanatic and the San Diego Chicken, and neither of them are talking to me.”

Why not?

“I fuck too hard.”

Oh, God, that was the worst sentence I’ve ever heard.

“Well, I didn’t want to lie. Hey, man. You think John likes me?”

I think he shouldn’t know you.

“It’s just that the other panda has been here a while, and I don’t know if I’m fitting in.”

You need to work on this self-esteem thing, buddy. You’re a great panda.

“Thanks, man. You wanna hear a song?”

No. But that doesn’t mean you’re not a great panda.

“So, John likes what I’m doing?”

Have you talked to him?

“Yeah. I said ‘Hi,’ and then he told me how he flies in his lettuce from Romania. For, like, a half-hour.”

He does that.

 

(With thanks to Cascadia’s champion, Mr. Completely, for recognizing Brent.)

A Terrible Acrostic About Terrorism

T is for Trucks
Which are driven through crowds
E is for Egypt
Today was quite loud
R is for Radical
Zealotry found
R’s for Revenge
It goes round and round
O is Obama
We’re told he’s to blame
R is for Righteous
We’re told that’s our claim
I is for Islam
It must be genetic
S is Security
It should be splenetic
M is for Murder,
Massacre, meat, and
M is for Mothers
Who wail in the street, and
M is for Madness
Of screaming sad sirens, and
M is for Media
Streaming vague chyrons, and
M’s for the Market
Oh, will it bounce back?
And M is for Men
It’s always fucking men, isn’t it?

Shake The Hand That Wore The Hat

“Jenkins!”

“Sir?”

“What the hell kind of hat is this?”

“It’s an Uncle Sam hat, sir.”

“I don’t see it.”

“That is most definitely an Uncle Sam hat.”

“Just doesn’t say ‘America’ to me.”

“The stripes? The colors?”

“Nope. Nope.”

“What if I stuck a little flag on it?”

“Perfect! Then you’ll say ‘That’s an American hat.’ Wait. You were talking about an American flag, right?”

“What other kind is there, sir?”

“Hot damn, I like that answer, Jenkins.”

“I knew you would, sir.”

TotD’s Rules For Nature Documentaries

Birds of Paradise Being Freaky I don’t care if program’s about Alaska: there must be at least one scene of male Birds of Paradise acting fabulous for completely unimpressed females.

British Accent And not any British accent. It can’t be Jason Statham. “Oi, thass a cheetah, innit? Right speedy bugger.” I’m talking Received Pronunciation/Oxbridge. The gold standard, obviously, is David Attenborough but anyone who sounds like an officer in the Galactic Empire is okay.

No More Scenes Featuring A Spider With No Prior Warning Stop that shit, nature documentaries. Tell me when you’re going to show spiders. In fact, warn me before any insect scene because sometimes I am having dinner while watching you and BOOM carnivorous caterpillar eating the head off a fruit fly. Not cool, nature documentaries.

Cool It With The Polar Bears And Penguins They’re boring at this point. And the penguins marching back and forth in Antarctica. I never need to see those idiot penguins again. You don’t need to have your babies in Antarctica to be safe, penguins. You need to arm yourselves. The Second Amendment is for everyone.

Pick Up The Turtle And Walk It To The Ocean Put down the camera, asshole. Stop filming the adorable baby turtles flapping themselves towards the highway because they’re confused by the lights. The ones that wobble towards the ocean? Well, some of them are going to get eaten. That’s the way nature works. But the one drawn to the neon Budweiser sign? Help that little fucker.

“Never-Before Filmed” Nothing gets me more erect than hearing that the Golden Scrotum Finch or whatever has never been filmed before, or that this is “new behavior” that scientists have never seen before. Honestly? I don’t care if you lie. You can just tell me that the animal’s newly-discovered. I’ll believe you.

Turtle Penis All nature documentaries should feature turtle penis.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRJhHoUuaoY

Fire, Fire In The Venue

Where you going?

“There’s a fire.”

And who set that fire?

“You seem to be a real finger-pointing type of cat. I’ve noticed this about you, man.”

And if you were anyone else, you would be an arsonist.

“Arson implies intent.”

At a certain point, negligence becomes intent.

“Uh-huh. Where’d you read that?”

Made it up.

“Right, yeah. You got any other dopey ideas or can I escape the fire now?”

How big is it?

“Show’s probably gonna be canceled.”

Wow. You should blame this on Keith.

“I was planning on it.”

Smart.

I Have No Thoughts On A Book

I was going to, Enthusiasts, I was going to. I tried, and hopefully I will, but not now. I’ll have to write about Cornell in a month–it’s the 40th and the spiffy new Box Set is coming out–and if I write about Cornell ’77: The Music, The Myth, and The Magnificence of the Grateful Dead’s Concert at Barton Hall now, then I might just blow my Cornell wad and then I’ll be dry next month, and dust will shoot out of my word-cock.

What now?

My word-cock. That’s what writing is. Emptying your brain-ballsĀ  all over the page via your meaty word-cock, staining it with your essence. This is the first step towards literary immortality.

Would the second step be actually publishing something?

DON’T YOU PUBLISH-SHAME ME, MOTHERFUCKER.

All your friends have published books. Even some of the dumb ones.

I hate you.

It’s mutual. Go back to talking about the thing you’re not talking about.

Right: I have nothing to say about this book. Not that it’s a work-for-hire rush job to capitalize on the 40th that the author admits in the acknowledgements was not his idea. Not that it spends 30 or so pages delving into the backstories of the student committee that brought the Dead to the school that night. Not that one of the two glossy-paged picture sections is just photos of the Cornell campus. Not that a full ten percent of the 200 pages (I did the math) are a “Further Listening” chapter that lists several studio albums you should hear, because someone who just read 180 pages about Cornell probably needs to be told about Blues for Allah.

I’m certainly not going to mention the padding.: the ten pages on the history of audience taping in a book about a show that got famous from the SBD; the chapter on Bear and the Wall of Sound; the extended anecdote about the author’s recent trip to Bobby’s TRI Studios.

Wonder if I could just flip open at random and find padding? Let’s see.

Yup: two pages on the guy who runs Rhino Records

Thank God I’m not writing about this book; there’s nothing to write about. Go to your local library, Enthusiasts, or shoplift this book.

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