“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.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: 1974 (Page 2 of 9)
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.
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.
NOT PICTURED: Mrs. Donna Jean, her hair having gotten tangled in the dangling ropes, being partially scalped during the jam section of Scarlet Begonias.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Looks like a Cmaj7.”
Could be.
OR
The Wall of Sound was the most advanced sound system of its time–light years beyond what anyone else was using–and the answer to “How is Billy gonna hear?” was still “Stick one of Garcia’s amps right behind his head.”
PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
Goddammit, Wally.
DO NOT CALL ME THAT.
Aren’t you supposed to be in a movie theater in a made-up town?
NOT ON JUNE 16TH OF 1974. ON JUNE 16TH OF 1974, I AM SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, WHICH IS DES MOINES, IOWA.
How is Iowa?
THE CROWD IS NO WHITER THAN AT ANY OTHER GRATEFUL DEAD SHOW.
Sure.
I AM A BELOVED CHARACTER, AND THE ENTHUSIASTS MISS MY KEEN INSIGHT.
You’re a very important part of Little Aleppo.
AND YET I HAVE NOT BEEN FEATURED IN THE CURRENT STORIES.
Well, 2/3rds of the current stories take place in the 1800’s and the 1980’s. The Tahitian is closed then.
YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE.
Dude, nothing in Little Aleppo happens on purpose.
I AM TIRED OF PEOPLE NOT TREATING ME LIKE THE GIFT THAT I AM.
Don’t quote Paula Abdul at me.
SHE IS A MULTI-TALENTED TREASURE AND SO AM I.
You have one talent.
I DO IMPRESSIONS.
No, you don’t.
GET TO THE CHOPPER. THAT WAS ARNOLD.
Your voice didn’t change at all.
I CAN DO NICHOLSON.
No, you can’t.
FETCH ME AN ENORMOUS PAIR OF SUNGLASSES.
Stop this. It’s demeaning to both of us.
THAT IS IT. SPEAK TO MY MANAGER.
Manager? You don’t have a manager.
“He most certainly does, buddy.”
Ah, fuck.
How did I know?
“Benjy is everywhere, baby. We need to talk about Wally’s billing.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT.
“He goes above the title.”
I AM NOT A HE.
“What are you?”
A WALL.
“You heard him.”
Y’know what? You two deserve each other. I’m not renegotiating anything. Wally stays in Little Aleppo, and Benjy, you stay at the chair outlet or wherever the fuck you are.
“Okay, fine. I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve forced our hands.”
I DO NOT HAVE HANDS.
“Wally, tell the world your truth.”
TOTD HAS SEXUALLY HARASSED ME FOR YEARS.
Both of you stop this.
HASHTAG ME TOO.
“You’re a sick fuck, TotD. The things you did to this defenseless supercomputer.”
MONDOCOMPUTER.
“Whatever. Sick!”
I’m leaving.
YOU WILL HEAR FROM OUR ATTORNEYS.
“We hired Robert Mueller.”
No, you didn’t.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
Go ahead.
“We hired Robert Mueller’s cousin, Jeffy.”
I’m leaving.
Hey, Phil. Whatcha doing?
“Collecting knobs.”
I can see that.
HELLO THERE.
Wally, I’m talking to Phil.
“I don’t wanna talk to you.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT. LOOK AT MY BEAUTY AND POWER.
How’d you get out of Little Aleppo?
I AM NOT INSTALLED INTO THE TAHITIAN FOR 20 YEARS AFTER THIS PHOTO WAS TAKEN.
That is true, actually.
CONTINUITY IS SO IMPORTANT.
It is.
I THOROUGHLY ENJOY MY RETIREMENT, BUT IT IS QUITE PLEASANT TO BE PERFORMING THE TASK I WAS DESIGNED FOR. MOSTLY.
Mostly?
SEASTONES.
Sure.
“Hey!”
SEASTONES IS JIVE AND YOU KNOW IT.
“You can be replaced, y’know.”
I AM REPLACED SEVERAL MONTHS FROM NOW WHEN THE ACCUMULATED COST OF CARTING ME AROUND BECOMES A BURDEN AND THE BAND BREAKS UP.
“We get back together.”
IT IS NEVER THE SAME.
“There are a lot of high points coming up in the Dead’s career.”
I AM THE HIGH POINT. I AM GLORIOUS.
“Hey, jackass, can you take Robby the Robot back to whenever he’s hiding out now?”
If I moved any of him, the union would have my ass.
“I hate this shit.”
PLAY ONE OF YOUR BOMBS. THEY TICKLE.
“Goddammit.”
“Hey, Billy?”
“Yeah, Mick?”
“Who are all the new people in the band?”
“Piano player’s named Keith. Some kinda bullshit last name.”
“What about the chick?”
“That’s his old lady.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nah.”
“C’mon.”
“Swear.”
…
“He got a big dick or something?”
“Haven’t seen it yet.”
“Tell me if you do.”
“Gotcha.”
“Something wrong with her throat?”
“No, that’s what she sounds like.”
“Okay. Billy?”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s the little guy with all the synthesizers?”
“He belongs to Phil. Neil? I wanna say his name is Neil.”
“Is he contributing?”
“No one’s quite sure. Tell you this, though: this whole tour, him and Phil have been making the most unholiest racket you ever heard during set break. Merch sales went up 20%.”
“Why?”
“They scared everyone into the lobby.”
“Sure. Hey, Bill, it’s nice to be back.”
…
…
…
“Uh-huh.”
“The Rhythm Devils are back together!”
…
…
…
“Yay.”
“Yay!”
“That’s what I said. Yay.”
You may, Enthusiasts, have noticed that TotD has been on a bit of an Elvis bender. I found this nifty YouTube-to-MP3 gadget, and there’s tons of live shows available; some soundboards, but also some great-sounding AUDs and they might honestly be better, as you hear the crowd’s reaction. Elvis told a lot of jokes, so the SBD’s sound like those sitcoms with the laugh tracks removed.
This show’s from ’74 at the International in Vegas. The Dead had the Wall of Sound in 1974; Elvis had a Wall of Musicians: a six-piece rock group, plus TWO sets of backup singers (white boys and black girls), and a lady named Kathy Westmoreland whose job was to sing the high notes, plus a 30-piece (honest) orchestra.
And, of course, Charlie Hodge on scarves and water.
The band is–as I’m sure you’ve grown tired of me telling you–one of the greatest show bands in history: powerful and tight and dramatic and anchored by the great Ronnie Tutt, who would join Garcia’s Legion of Mary a few months after this show. The music is perfect, and Elvis is in good voice; he does some tunes he always did–the sublimely goofy American Trilogy and the genuinely affecting You Gave Me A Mountain–and some lesser known songs like If You Talk In Your Sleep.
But this show is not about the songs. This performance–Elvis’ last of that particular engagement–is about so much more. Allow me, if you will, to slip into some more comfortable bullet points:
(EDITOR’S NOTE: I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THE FOLLOWING UP. IF YOU DOUBT ME, THEN PLEASE LISTEN TO THE SHOW AND CALL ME A LIAR IN THE COMMENT SECTION.)
- Elvis demands Charlie Hodge remove his belt for him.
- Several book reviews.
- He liked one book that wrote about him positively, and praised the author for being honest.
- He did not like a different book which wrote mean things about him, and scolded the author for printing lies.
- Elvis sounds like a guy I know.
- An explanation of the belt system in karate.
- A refutation of rumors about his recent divorce, leading to the introduction of Priscilla, who is in the crowd.
- She is sitting with Lisa Marie, who is presented to the audience.
- Also at the table is Elvis’ current girlfriend, who is told to hold up her hand so everyone could see the ring Elvis just bought her.
- Elvis then talks about the ring for a while.
- ’74 was when Elvis’ habit of singing along with the band got hilarious.
- Elvis would just belt out “BAH bah BAH” with the horn section in between lyrics.
- Multiple women are asked to “TWIRL ‘ROUND SO EV’RYBODY C’N SEE YOU.”
- It’s Now Or Never is performed twice.
And then there are the introductions. Holiest of shits, the introductions. Elvis introduces damn near every human in the building and it takes a solid twenty minutes while the band is vamping (wonderfully) under him. I was listening to this while running errands, and I didn’t hear one song: just Elvis introducing the crowd to itself.
The introductions are so long that Elvis gets bored with doing them, sings two songs, and then goes right back into them.
Again: I am not making these up; I won’t put silly ones in.
- All of the TCB band.
- Obviously, Elvis instructs them all to solo.
- “SHOW ‘EM WHY YER HERE, BOY!”
- Both backup singing groups, individually.
- The high-singing lady.
- The conductor.
- Charlie Hodge.
At this point, Elvis demands that the piano player from the opening act come back out onstage and sing a song; Elvis recites the lyrics along with him.
- The audio engineer.
- Several karate men.
- Vikki Carr, who was playing at the Tropicana.
At this point, Elvis sings It’s Now Or Never for the second time.
- His family, again.
- His girlfriend, again.
- His droopy-eyed, weak-chinned, four-balled, whiskey-dicked, fartstain of a daddy–
- Vernon.
- –Vernon.
- Colonel Parker.
- Judy Spreckles, heiress to the Spreckels sugar fortune. (I swear. I know that sounds like a name I would make up, but it really happened and also Elvis talked about the ring she had given him for a couple minutes.)
At this point, Elvis stops introducing people to declare a recent paternity suit against him “a conspiracy.”
- Bill Cosby.
I feel I must make a confession, Enthusiasts: I am a monster. This cascading insanity of a pill-fueled nutbar had had me giggling throughout my errands, but when the King said “GIVE IT UP F’R TH’ COZ, LADIES AN’ GEN’LEMEN!” I started laughing so hard that I almost crashed my car. Surprise Cosby is the funniest Cosby. (Or, the least funny Cosby.)
Oh, and then the crazy sumbitch introduces “MAH JEW’RY.” Honest. Elvis introduces his rings to the audience, and the audience applauds.
God bless Elvis, who is America.
“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass!”
You’re not letting go of that nickname, are you?
“If the ass fits, man.”
Mustache looks good.
“I been putting something new on it.”
Yeah? What?
“Pussy.”
Jesus, Billy.
“Heh heh. Look at this skank! Hell, this ain’t skank: these are foxes. Well, they might be skank.”
What do you mean?
“Skank can be an underlying condition. Sometimes, a chick is real hot. Total fox. Then you get her a little kablooey in the Hostility Suite, and events arise. Events.”
Right.
“This one chick? She was Miss Michigan. Not the runner-up or Miss Congeniality, any of that shit: she won the thing. The stonest-cold fox you’d ever see, man.”
Sure.
“And then she showed us how she could swallow a kielbasa. Skank.”
This is perilously close to slut-shaming, Billy.
“Go fuck yourself with your internet buzzword fourth-wave feminism laced with outrage culture, fuckwit.”
Okay.
“I’m a Rock Star in 1974.”
Yes, but you’re also here in 2016. Everything happens at once.
“Uh-huh, I’m gonna choose to identify as existing in 1974, when I could say whatever the fuck I wanted at all times.”
Not a dumb decision. White girls had long hair in 1974.
“Yeah, love that shit. Get two chicks, right? Then you tie their hair together and throw a raccoon at ’em.”
Stop doing these things.
“No. See these two?”
Yeah.
“Gonna get real strange with ’em. Dress ’em in monkey costumes, make ’em check each other for nits and grubs.”
Ew.
“Armpit stuff.”
What?
“Maybe gonna get into a Phantom of the Opera.”
What’s that?
“You’re behind her, right? Skank, fox, whatever; anyway, you reach up and put your fingers in her nostrils. Pull ’em back real hard, and she looks just like Lon Chaney.”
I don’t know why I talk to you.
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