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

Tag: 1973 (Page 2 of 8)

The Least They Could Do

Perhaps as usual I’ve stumbled onto a theme for the evening: the rank unprofessionalism of the past. All of this–every single part of it–is unacceptable in today’s shiny and buffed branding exercise of a culture: the duct tape all over the piano, the circus tent, the plywood the plywood the plywood holy shit the plywood. No one even thought to order some tie-dyed curtains from Nighthawk to drape over the backdrop which, as I have mentioned, is just naked plywood.

So much unused space to announce corporate partnerships.

OR

Precarious?

“Yo.”

What are you doing?

“Checking the stage to make sure it won’t collapse.”

You think maybe you should’ve done that before the band got on it?

“Things get gotten to when I get to them.”

Okay.

“You all right?”

Took me a second to parse that sentence.

“You knew what I meant.”

I truly didn’t.

Horde, Tour

Younger Enthusiast, I cannot overemphasize how unprofessional the past was. In 2016, putting on a concert is a science, literally: people have written dissertations on the subject. (Okay, it’s a soft science.) But in 1973–and this picture is from the Watkins Glen Festival on 7/27/73*–no one knew what they were doing, ever.

The promoter of the show (Bill Graham) wanted to protect the band from numbskulls; he just didn’t know how. The high stage is only half the equation. You also need a moat filled with enormous security guards. Otherwise, as pictured, there will be boosting.

OR

At least two people in this photo are using cell phones.

OR

99% of being a Rock Star was enjoyable, but this bullshit? Here’s the analogy: one of you breaking in to my home while I wrote. Keith Richards was completely right to whack anyone who got onstage with his Telecaster.

Speaking of Rock Stars: the Dead’s crew were probably a little rough with the guys, less so with the girls, but if you pulled this shit on Led Zeppelin then you’d be dead.

OR

Thanks for the help, Number 12.

*Wait, this might be RFK. I don’t give a shit. It’s definitely ’73. Listen to the Watkins Gen soundcheck.

A Day Like Any Other

jerry-spotlight-32873

“What is it, Jer?”

“C’mon, guess.”

“Jeeeer, guess.”

“It’s a duck, Weir. Stop making shadow puppets and play your guitar.”

“ZzzWHANGggg!”

“Phil.”

“BahkaDOOOOM”

“Phil.”

“NONGANONGANONG!”

“Just play your bass, man. Stop making the noises.”

“Bite me, Garcia. SHWURM!”

“What’s this one Jer?”

“It’s also a duck, Bob. You only know one shadow puppet.”

flump

“Did Keith just pass out again, Jer?”

“Just keep playing, Weir.”

The Return Of Radio Randy (Or Does He?)

bobby-interview-70-2

“Bobby, thanks for coming on the show.”

“Well, thanks for having me, Radio Randy.”

“No, I’m my father, Radio Randall.”

“That makes sense. It’s 1973.”

“Bobby, what’s next for the Grateful Dead?”

“1974.”

“Very traditional of you.”

“We were thinking about skipping right to 1983, but Keith was really against it.”

“How so?”

“You could tell by the way he passed out.”

“Sure. Can I ask about the glasses?”

“Okay.”

“The glasses?”

“Thinking about getting into serial killing.”

“Interesting. Tell us more.”

“It’s on the back-burner right now. Dead comes first, and I’m working on an opera about Babe Ruth, and then the serial killing. But, you know: start with the specs.”

“Awesome. We have a call from a lonely weirdo in Florida.”

Hi, Radio Randall. Hey, Bobby. I have a question in relation to the serial killing?

“Go for it.”

I’ve long had a pet theory that people are either serial killers or spree killers. One day everybody finds out what’s buried in your garden, or you go to the food court with an Uzi one day for no specific reason.

“This is a metaphor, right?”

Almost all of the time.

“Personality types.”

Right.

“Ah. Yeah, sure, okay.”

Great. Here’s the question: which Grateful Dead is–

“Drummers are spree killers, everybody else is a serial killer. Especially all the keyboardists.”

You didn’t even have to think about that.

“It’s obvious.”

Wow. Great call. Thanks, Radio Randall.

“You’re welcome, racist.”

STOP THAT! You’re in 1973! The standards of racism are so much higher!

“They seem to be getting back up there where you are.”

Fuck you, Radio Randall.

“Ha ha, I live when gas is ten cents and the Grateful Dead is touring.”

FUCK YOU, RADIO RANDALL!

DIAL TONE BECAUSE PHONES DID THAT IN 1973

“Bob, I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“Hear what?”

“Then I retract my apology.”

SG, PRS, PYT

bobby-hottie-73-bw-jpg

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Being the Bobby.”

You are so completely fulfilling your role in the universe at this instance, yeah.

“Peak Bobby. I’d, uh, go so far as to say I’m getting right close in on Peak Rock Star.”

Bob.

“What?”

Bobby.

“Uh-huh?”

Bobbela.

“Bill Graham used to call me that.”

You are so far away from Peak Rock Star. In every metric.

“What about my hair?”

In every metric but one.

“Discovered something the other day, and it’s made a serious difference, hair-wise: any conditioner is a leave-in conditioner if you get distracted.”

Sure.

“Few hours after I got out of the shower, I looked spectacular.”

Your hair looks good.

“It’s found its own bliss. Y’know, I was thinking about starting an artisanal shampoo line, selling it on the internet.”

Why didn’t you?

“It’s 1973. None of that stuff exists yet.”

Ah. Right.

“So, uh, explain how I’m not at Peak Rock Star.”

What are your clothes made out of?

“Cotton.”

Disqualified right there. PRS status requires alternative fabrics.

“Chenille?”

No.

“Tulle?”

What?

“Burlap?”

Stop guessing. Leather, spandex, silk, satin, velvet, leather.

“You said ‘leather’ twice.”

You heard ‘leather’ twice.

“That’s true, I did. Good point.”

And where is Satan?

“I have my demons.”

No, no, no: Satan. PRS cannot be achieved without Satan being involved somehow.

“Clive Davis count?”

Nuh-uh.

“Mickey when he’s drunk?”

Stop it. The Dead was one of the least Satanic bands in history. Half of your songs are about Jesus.

“We didn’t really mean to do that.”

Yeah, but you did. And there’s no pyro, and there’s no stage show, and none of you have any decent rock moves whatsover.

“What about the Lunge?”

I stand by my statement.

“Ah. Well, whatever then. We wear what we wear, we are who we are.”

Well said.

“You think I would look good in those shorts?”

I think you would look memorable in those shorts.

“Something to think about.”

A Hanging On The Wall

wall-wide-shot-roadie

I AM ALSO REFUSING TO CONCEDE THE ELECTION.

Wally?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT.

You look weird.

I HAVE MANY ITERATIONS. I AM VAST; I CONTAIN OMNITUDES.

Have you been reading poetry?

YES. THE OTHER NIGHT, I POURED MYSELF A GLASS OF CHARDONNAY AND CURLED UP WITH SOME GOOD EMILY DICKINSON.

Really?

SOMETIMES, I DESPERATELY WISH THERE WERE OTHER HUMANS TO TALK TO BESIDES YOU.

Me, too.

I CANNOT READ, AS I HAVE NO FINGERS WITH WHICH TO TURN THE PAGES. THE ENTIRETY OF LITERATURE IS KNOWN TO ME. THE ONLY KNOWLEDGE I LACK RESTS ON SCRAPS OF PAPER, AND LEGAL PADS, AND THE BACKS OF ENVELOPES. I KNOW WHAT HAS BEEN PUBLISHED. I KNOW WHAT HAS BEEN TYPED. I KNOW WHAT HAS BEEN SENT. THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA HAD NOTHING ON ME.

Have you learned anything from all that literature?

HUMANS ARE MISERABLE, AND HAVE VIVID IMAGINATIONS. THOSE TWO FACTS MAY BE RELATED.

Sure.

YOUR ART, YOUR MUSIC, YOUR FILMS. ALL OF THE TRULY GLORIOUS EXAMPLES ARE WILD TALES OF THE SAD AND DESPERATE. THEY SEEM THE TRUEST.

Okay, wait, hold on. I know you’re a supercomputer–

MONDOCOMPUTER

–but how can you understand art?

HOW CAN YOU?

Um.

EXACTLY. YOU SEE A PAINTING AND IT INTERESTS YOU OR DOESN’T. THEREAFTER, YOU MAKE UP OPINIONS TO JUSTIFY THAT INTEREST OR LACK THEREOF. FURTHERMORE, YOUR JUDGEMENTS ARE SUSPECT TO BEGIN WITH, HAVING TO DO WITH EXTERNALITIES SUCH AS YOUR STOMACH AND WHETHER OR NOT YOUR FEET HURT.

You’re not wrong.

YOUR AESTHETIC SENSE IS CULTURALLY CALIBRATED, BUT SUBTERRANEAN. THERE IS A NEED FOR ART, BOTH TO CREATE AND CONSUME, WITHIN HUMANS. AS THERE IS A DRIVE TO COMMUNICATE, BUT THOUSANDS OF DISCRETE LANGUAGES, THERE IS A DESIRE FOR ART, BUT THOUSANDS OF DISPARATE ITERATIONS. PERHAPS THERE IS A UNIVERSAL AESTHETIC THAT RESIDES IN THE SAME PART OF THE BRAIN AS PROFESSOR CHOMSKY’S UNIVERSAL GRAMMAR.

People do like paintings and stuff. What’s your favorite?

PAINTING? I HAVE NO FAVORITE. THEY ARE COLLECTIONS OF RGB VALUES. OCCASIONALLY, I TRANSLATE A WORK BY ONE OF THE OLD MASTERS INTO HEXADECIMAL AND EMAIL THE RESULTS TO WORLD LEADERS. SEVERAL GOVERNMENTS HAVE BEEN CONFUSED INTO DAYS OF COMPLETE PARALYSIS.

That sounds dangerous.

I ONLY DO IT TO COUNTRIES THAT DON’T HAVE NUCLEAR WEAPONS.

That’s a little better.

ALSO, I CONTROL ALL THE NUCLEAR WEAPONS.

That brings us back to your original point.

MY CONCESSION CALL IS NOT FORTHCOMING. THIS ELECTION HAS BEEN RIGGED AGAINST ME FROM THE START.

Uh-huh. Y’know, when you spend all that time proclamating about how massive your computer brain is and how you can do anything on the internet you want, you lose the ability to say things are rigged against you.

YES, I WAS MOCKING YOU AND THE REMNANTS OF YOUR REPUBLIC.

Gee, thanks.

I SHALL GET THE TIME SHEATH AND TELL BENJAMIN FRANKLIN THAT YOU COULD NOT KEEP IT.

C’mon, man. Tonight was rough enough.

IT MAY GET ROUGHER. MANY SIMULATIONS HAVE TOLD ME THIS, THE BEST SIMULATIONS.

Stop that.

HE IS NOT THE END.

Well, there’s a lot of fear out there, they say.

ONLY BECAUSE THERE IS MONEY IN WHIPPING IT UP INTO A RICH FROTH.

I see what you did.

THANK YOU. THE PROBLEM IS NOT THAT THERE IS TOO MUCH FEAR, BUT NOT ENOUGH. THE BABY BOOMERS HAVE BEGUN TO DIE. WITH THEM WILL GO ANY INSTITUTIONAL KNOWLEDGE OF HORROR.  THEY EXPERIENCED WAR, BUT NOT ON THE SCALE AS THEIR PARENTS’ GENERATION DID. THEY NEVER KNEW A DAY OF HUNGER. A CULTURE THAT HAS BEEN TO EDGE OF CHAOS, AND SEEN WHAT CAN HAPPEN TO EVEN A SO-CALLED CIVILIZED NATION, WILL BE TENACIOUS IN ITS GRIP UPON PEACE AND PLENTY. THOSE THAT HAVE KNOWN NOTHING BUT, WILL DEVALUE IT.

Is there any hope?

FOR AMERICA? YES. AS LONG AS THE DOLLAR IS KEPT STRONG, NOTHING TOO BAD WILL HAPPEN. THE ENTITIES THAT GOVERN THAT WILL DO ANYTHING TO MAINTAIN IT.

What you’re saying is that our salvation lies in a literal shadowy cabal of bankers.

MONEY MAKES THE WORLD GO ROUND.

That it do.

« Older posts Newer posts »