I didn’t call for you, Precarious.
“You were gonna.”
Yeah. I was just stunned into silence. Dude, what the fuck?
“Be more specific.”
I cannot. The lack of aesthetics and basic safety requirements is all-pervasive. The stage looks like a Radio Shack, but not a good one; the Radio Shack in the bad mall, where the knife fights break out every so often. The bad mall wasn’t always the bad mall, but the economy and demographics and all that. Used to be a place that sold fancy popcorn. Flavored, seasoned, nice packaging. Now there’s nine stores that sell baseball caps. Time will do her marching, Precarious.
“You got a question?”
I asked it: What the fuck?
“Their choice of apparel and instrument is on them.”
Granted. Do you remember why Garcia was wearing his going-to-court jacket on stage?
“I do not.”
Did the road crew make fun of Bobby’s pink guitar?
Was there any thought whatsoever given towards purchasing a tie-dyed scrim to hide some of the more unattractive geegaws and wedged monitors?
“This way is easiest for us.”
A performance stage shouldn’t be set according to the laziness of the road crew.
“Not lazy. Efficient.”
What about the tower of speakers behind band?
“Yeah, maybe that was a little lazy. We probably should have set up the rigging.”
Wooden palettes and a forklift, right?
“How else would you do that?”
Holy shit, those cabinets at the top aren’t even strapped down, are they?
“I don’t recall anyone dying, so we must have done it right.”
That’s not how that works.