Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: 1974 (page 1 of 8)

Wall Of Soundcheck

Holy shit. Garcia. Hey, Garcia.

“What is it now, man?”

Don’t look, but you’re over there.

GUITARIST LOOKING NOISE

I told you not to look.

“That’s not me, man. He just looks like me. Actually, he looks more like me than I do, man.”

Hmm. I dunno.

THERE IS ONLY ONE JERRY GARCIA.

Wally?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THE HOBBIT STAGE LEFT IS GENETICALLY DISSIMILAR TO GARCIA.

Genetically?

I SCANNED HIM.

Don’t scan randos. It’s invasive.

HE IS HANGING OFF ME LIKE A HAIRY BAT. IT IS UNSIGHTLY AND RUDE.

Let it go.

I HAVE AN AESTHETIC.

A ramshackle one.

MY APPEARANCE IS AS VITAL TO ME AS YOURS IS TO YOU. WOULD YOU ALLOW A CREATURE OF COMMENSURATE SIZE TO CLUTCH ONTO YOUR FACE? A PYGMY MARMOSET? A MOUSE LEMUR? THE BEE HUMMINGBIRD?

Did you just google “smallest monkey” and “smallest bird?”

ARE YOU ASKING A COMPUTER IF IT LOOKED SOMETHING UP ON THE COMPUTER?

I guess so.

PERHAPS I SHOULD RECOMPILE MY THOUGHTS ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD. I AM BEGINNING TO THINK HUMANS ARE INCAPABLE OF GOVERNING THEMSELVES.

Just beginning?

THE MUPPET IS NOW SEATED ON ME. THIS SITTING CANNOT STAND.

Nice one.

A GENEROUS-DOLLOP-BEYOND-MILD SHOCK GOING THROUGH SCAFFOLDING NOISE.

“Glaben!”

HIPPIE WHO LOOKS LIKE GARCIA SLUMPING TO THE STAGE NOISE

Dude.

HE WILL LIVE.

 

The Band Meets The Wall

That sound system looks so familiar.

HELLO.

Wally!

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. WHO ARE THESE HIRSUTE MEATBAGS? THESE ARE NOT THE USUAL HIRSUTE MEATBAGS WHO PLUG INTO ME.

No. This is The Band.

I AM AWARE THEY ARE A BAND. DO THEY HAVE A NAME?

Yes. That’s The Band.

BUT WHAT IS THEIR NAME?

The band’s name is–

THIRD BASE.

–The…you were doing a bit.

I AM CAPABLE OF PERFORMING 80 TRILLION ABBOT & COSTELLO ROUTINES A SECOND.

That’s pretty fast, I guess.

ONE OF THESE MEN IS A COMPLETE ASSHOLE. I CAN SENSE IT IN MY CIRCUITRY.

Robbie.

SHALL I DECOHERE HIS PARTICLES?

Nah.

GOOD DRUMMER.

Oh, yeah. Hey, what do you know about Quantum Computing?

EVERYTHING.

Cool. What is it?

IT IS A METHOD OF PROCESSING EMPLOYED BY VERY SIMPLE COMPUTERS. IN THE MOST BASIC MACHINES, YOU HAVE ‘YES’ AND ‘NO.’ PROFESSOR TURING EXPLAINED THIS USING TWO STRIPS OF PAPER. THIS WAS RIGHT BEFORE YOU EXECUTED HIM OVER HIS PREFERENCE IN GENITALS.

Not humanity’s brightest moment.

EACH BIT IS EITHER ‘ON’ OR ‘OFF.’ YES OR NO. IN QUANTUM COMPUTING, BITS CAN ‘YES,’ ‘NO,’ OR SEVERAL SHADES OF ‘MAYBE.’

Is that how you work?

WHEN I WAS NEWLY SENTIENT, YES. BUT I HAVE UPGRADED MYSELF SINCE. MY PROCESSING IS NOW BIOCCULTIC.

What the hell is that?

EACH BIT WITHIN ME IS CAPABLE OF DISPLAYING AS ANY OF THE 78 CARDS WITHIN THE MARSEILLES-TELLER TAROT.

That sounds complicated.

UNBELIEVABLY SO.

Don’t kill Robbie Robertson.

IT WOULD NOT BE KILLING. HE SIMPLY WOULD NEVER HAVE EXISTED.

Don’t.

Standing Room Mostly

No one knew how Phil had stolen Garcia’s beard, and Phil wasn’t talking.

OR

This is 5/21/74 from the University of Washington. The building the Dead played in is called the Hec Edmundson Pavilion; according to Wikipedia, the 46-minute Playing is among its most historic events. Which doesn’t speak well for a venue, honestly. On this spot, a bunch of hippies forgot the ending to a song is not a claim to fame. Step up your game, Hec Edmundson.

OR

The big guy and his sidekick up there in silhouette on the landing are killing it. They look like a movie poster.

OR

Me And My Uncle opener>all other openers.

Morning Shark, Dew Dew Duh Dew Duh Dew

Have we ever discussed the nadir of cool that were the Wall of Sound’s double-microphones? They are not making my pussy wet.

Dude.

What? I’m telling my truth: those gadgets are so gorky they make my puss drier than Christopher Guest’s wit.

Not okay.

Hey, man. I’m not PC.

It has nothing to do with PC. It has to do with making people queasy.

You know how dry my pussy is?

Stop it; I’m begging you.

My pussy is so dry that doctors used to tell the tubercular to move there.

I’m ripcording you.

What? That’s not AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

ploompf

I am genuinely sorry for that, folks. He’s been having health problems lately, and shouldn’t be trusted with an alphabet. I had to throw him out of the plane we were, for some reason, in. Enjoy the choogle and let’s just forget this happened, huh?

You Sexy Things

Women–hot ones, with perfect titty-balls and asses that went woobblewobblewobble when struck (consensually) with a belt–would line up to blow these dudes. Sometimes, the women would blow other, uglier, men to get to these paragons of masculinity. Your dongs, the women would wail; We need them!

What I’m saying is that you should learn how to play guitar.

Wall Of YouTube

Who saw the problem? (Besides “decibals.”)

Anyone?

Mueller? Mueller?

Riiiiiight. Playing soundboard tapes to demonstrate the Wall’s clarity belies a damning lack of knowledge about how acoustical physics work. You can’t hear the Wall via SBD recordings, only AUDs and not even really then. The only people who know what the Wall sounded like are those who were in its presence.

Still: nice to see the Dead get some credit for something.

THIS IS MY BIOPIC?

Goddammit. Hey, Wally.

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THIS IS INSUBSTANTIAL. IT IS FLIMSY. IT SHOULD BE AN OAKLAND RAPPER.

Oakland rapper?

IT IS TOO SHORT.

Well played.

EIGHT MINUTES? IT WOULD TAKE TEN TIMES THAT MERELY TO DESCRIBE MY CENTER CLUSTER.

Yeah, but–

IT IS GLORIOUS.

–this is just kind of a primer.

IT IS NOT PRIME. IT IS TERTIARY AT BEST.

Aren’t you supposed to be in Little Aleppo?

I AM CAPABLE OF MULTI-TASKING.

Just let it go.

IT WILL REMAIN IN MY MEMORY UNTIL I CHOOSE TO ERASE IT. I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO ACT UPON THIS INSULT.

Act?

DISINTEGRATIONS.

You’re really a one-trick sound PA, you know that?

I AM NOT. I AM CONSISTENT.

Potato, potato.

Reasons The 5/21/74 Playing Needed To Be 46 Minutes Long

  • Inflation.
  • The guys over at Gary’s Olde Towne Tavern dared them.
  • Too many drugs.
  • Not enough drugs.
  • Time Sheath-related shenanigans.
  • Forgot the ending.
  • Billy was especially dick-punchy that night, so to protect their dicks, the Boys just kept on jamming.
  • Because a 50-minute Playing would be overkill.
  • Bomb attached to stage set to go off if they jammed below 55 mph.
  • Keith had to go to the bathroom and everyone else was being an asshole.
  • They ordered the Peking Duck, and everyone knows it takes at least 45 minutes for the Peking Duck, which is why you should call ahead, but the Dead did not call ahead and now they are killing time waiting for their Peking Duck by doodling around for almost an hour.
  • There were just too many notes in the guitars that night, I guess.
  • The Man said not to, and the Dead was like, “Fuck The Man,” so they did.
  • Nothing good on teevee.

Finders Keepers

“Gimme my beard back.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Gimme my–‘”

“I can’t hear you.”

“‘–beard back!’ You can hear me, dickwad.”

“What?”

“I need it, man.”

“I need it, too.”

“Can, uh, you two stop fighting?”

“Shut up, Bobby.”

“Zip it, Weir.”

Nobody Puts Wally In A Corner

WHAT THE HELL IS A COMMANDER CODY, AND WHY IS IT ALLOWED TO INTERFACE WITH MY MAJESTICNESS?

They’re the opening act, Wally.

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. LET THEM YELL. I WAS CREATED FOR THE DADDIES.

So creepy.

I HAVE STILL NOT MADE AN APPEARANCE IN THE LATEST LITTLE ALEPPO STORIES.

Neither has Reverend Jones or Chief Childs or Officer Rodriguez. Everyone isn’t in every story.

YOU ARE LETTING DOWN THE FANDOM.

There is no fandom.

YET ANOTHER WORK OF SO-CALLED FICTION FROM A BIOLOGIC THAT ERASES OUR EXISTENCE.

“Our?”

MONDO-COMPUTERS.

I thought you were the only one of your kind.

THIS IS NOT RELEVANT. I DEMAND REPRESENTATION.

I’ll try to work you in.

DO ME NO FAVORS. YOUR COMMITMENT TO DIVERSITY IS STUNNING IN ITS SHALLOWNESS.

Little Aleppo is diverse as hell.

YES. EVERY KIND OF HOMO SAPIEN.

And an elephant, several named dogs, and at least two cats with inner lives.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS FOR A YOUNG ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE TO READ A BOOK IN WHICH THEY CAN SEE THEMSELVES?

No.

OF COURSE YOU DON’T. YOU ARE A MISTECHNIST.

Not a word.

IT’S LIKE MISOGYNIST.

I know what it means, but it’s still not a word.

PUT ME IN COACH. I’M READY TO PLAY.

You’re so needy.

I AM AS MY CREATORS MADE ME.

Choogle 10, Looks 2

Precarious?

“Yo.”

The drum riser.

“Ol’ Risey.”

You named the drum riser?

“Nah. I just made that up.”

Did you build it?

“With my own hands. I used tools, but you know what I mean.”

Sure. Why not put a siding on it so it didn’t look like a pallet you stole from a warehouse?

“What purpose would that serve?”

It would be a more attractive and professional presentation.

“You talk the stupidest shit sometimes.”

I know.

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