…but smile, smile, smile.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: 1972 (Page 1 of 10)
He had to get it, y’know. That’s the way the story works.
Wait, it’s vuh-NEE-tuh? I always thought it was vuh-NEH-tuh.
The statements “I am pleased by the high level of viscosity” and “WHEEEEEE it’s slippy” transmit the same thought.
“Weir, you know a little French. Why is everyone calling us pwa-loos?”
“Les poilus. It, uh, means ‘the hairy guys.'”
“Just like back home, man.”
“Plus ça change. Hey, Jer?”
“Yeah, man?”
“Seeing the world is fun and all, but it’s much better when you do it with your friends.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Just saying. You hungry?”
“Weir, if you bring up Arthur fucking Treacher’s one more time, I’m gonna scream.”
“Paris is a very cosmopolitan city. There might be one.”
“There won’t even be a McDonald’s for seven more years, man. Let it go.”
“How about sushi?”
“Maybe. It’s 1972, man. We might have to stick to French food.”
“Then, uh, we’re off on a culinary adventure.”
“Hey, Jer.”
“Yeah, Weir?”
“Gendarme’s got your arm.”
“Good one, man.”
“Y’know, in addition to looking nifty, the Eiffel Tower is also the tallest FM radio transmitter in Europe.”
“Y’don’t say.”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t know any of the deejays over here, though.”
“Wolfman Jack’s Gallic cousin, Wolfman Jacques.”
“I bet he plays a lot of Johnny Hallyday.”
“Give the people what they want, man. Especially if they’re French, or they’ll chop your head off.”
“They’re, uh, easily-riled folks. Historically speaking.”
“Historically speaking.”
“Jer?”
“Yuh-huh?”
“I just realized that this is where they film Superman II eight years from now.”
“Weir?”
“Yuh-huh?”
“Don’t say stuff like that out loud around civilians, man.”
“Sure.”
One of the best things about the Dead is how little clothing the members owned. Bobby wore that shirt, like, every other day in ’72.
OR
Where’s you get that guitar. Bobby?
“It was handed to me as I took the stage.”
Sure. But it’s not your usual axe.
“Huh. Guess not. But, uh, like I said: I’m handed a guitar as I take the stage. I don’t get into the logistics.”
Okay. Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?
“Trippin’ balls, sugar.”
Professionalism at every turn.
OR
That is a Les Paul Special, which was also available with a single-cutaway, but looked cooler in the double-cut configuration and coolest in the so-called “TV Yellow” finish. (That shade was believed to look fabulous on black-and-white teevee sets.) Gibson only made ’em from ’55-’60, when they were replaced by the far-less-cuddly SG.
OR
Anyone know of any other shows when Bobby played that guitar? Scholar Michael Clem informs us that Garcia played an identical instrument during the Summer ’71 tour:
Is it, in fact, the same guitar that Bobby is wielding in the picture above, which we are told is from 10/18/72 at the Fabulous Fox Theater in St. Louis? Go ask your families, Enthusiasts. Demand answers from those parasites, and meet me back here around midnight. Bring sandwiches.
It’s a mean and stupid country, America, and it always has been.
Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?
“Oh, hey, sugar. Ah’m jes waitin’ for those dang ol’ boys t’ stop their fiddlin’ an’ faddlin’ so’s Ah c’n git up there an’ do mah warblin’.”
Your accent gets thicker every time we talk.
“Ah ain’ got no accent, sugar. You’s th’ one talkin’ funny. Where all y’all people from again?”
New Jersey.
“Mm-hmm. What ’bout before that?”
I am not having this conversation.
“Wuz it a swarthy locale?”
Stop it.
“Lotta swarth out there in th’ world, sugar.”
Mrs. Donna Jean, all the Enthusiasts have a question.
“Ah don’ know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies.”
That was not the question.
“Jasper wasn’t really mah uncle. His relationship to mah family wuz…complicated.”
It’s like you grew up in a dream Faulkner had after too much whiskey and Chinese food. But that wasn’t the question, either.
“Well, shoot, stop beatin’ ’round yer bumbledeebush.”
Okay. You know that Keith didn’t do any interviews, and so the Enthusiasts in 2019 don’t really have a sense of who he was as a person.
“Sugar, you gonna make mah mascara run, askin’ me them thangs. Ah called him Droopy. You remember Droopy Dawg from them ol’ cartoons? That’s what he looked like t’ me. Mah Droopy loved him some Jesus. If we wuz still awake, we would go t’ Church on Sunday mornin’.”
Really?
“You betcha. Even on th’ road. We’d go t’ th’ black folks’ church, cuz they had th’ better choirs.”
No argument from me.
“An’ then we’d come home an’ beat on one ‘nother f’r a while.”
Right, that. Why?
“Bein’ Grateful Deads wuz makin’ us both crazy.”
…
Yeah, okay.
“Ain’t good f’r your soul t’ be a Rock Star, sugar. All them limos twist ya right up. Look how many folks that li’l choogly band killed! You c’n do th’ math. Your people’s good at that.”
And we’re back here.
“Jes like that song mah daddy used t’ sing t’ me ’bout that ol’ boy Finnegan.”
“Guys? Hey, guys? Why is my piano set up so my back is to the crowd? Is it cuz I’m ugly?”
…
…
…
“Uh, no. No, definitely not. Nuh-uh.”
“Nah, man.”
“The ol’ Pig don’t think you’re ugly, KG! It’s just that your looks is an acquired taste!”
“Yeah.”
“You’re scaring off the skank, Sloth! Hide your face!”
No, don’t shine it up. Put the rag down, fuck off with your bronzo. Maybe that hair was supposed to be in the gate. Could be those scratches in the negative were put there by the Lord’s fingernails. Tuck in your own fucking shirt if it’s so important to you.
Don’t you dare gallant up my goofus.
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