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

Tag: 1977 (Page 1 of 11)

Also Gonna Be A “No” From Me, Dog

Casual, or new, readers may notice a lack of Cornell coverage on this site. This is because Thoughts on the Dead is grad-level, baby. We’re above that here, Enthusiasts; you should have covered the fundamentals somewhere else.

I’ve also written about the stupid show for, like, the past seven years and have nothing more thoughts. Search for ’em if you want.

Corona delenda est

Do You Remember…

Fuck Captain America; that is America’s ass.


Hey, Ramrod!


There may be no outfit that places the wearer in the 70’s more than “shirtless, jean shorts, white tube socks with green/yellow calf stripes/Adidas low-tops.”


Keith’s placement on stage was decided via Random Walk, otherwise known as Brownian motion. All the observer could know for certain is that the piano wasn’t going to be in the same place it was last show.


There are two (2) extant photos of Bobby playing that Ibanez double-neck. This is the other one:

Parish looking thicc.

Four Score

Hey, Philbert.

“Not my name, choad.”

Happy birthday, sir.

“Another year defeated.”


“Life’s a battle, monkeynuts. Just you versus Death, and I got that boney fucker’s balls in my teeth.”

One way to look at it.

“You wanna know what I do every morning?”


“Me and Jill get up real early, throw Grahame out of bed, and we do our P90X.”

Grahame’s in the bed?

“He has nightmares a lot.”


“Then one of the Busboys makes me my coffee and I walk out to the porch. Faces east. Faces the sun. And you know what I do?”


“I show the sun my cock. Just so the yellow fucker knows I’m not scared of him.”

That’s very metal.

“I don’t need your approval.”





You’re not gonna answer that?

“Fuck, no.”

What if it’s Jill?

“Then she’d call on the Jill Phone.”

Is that like the Bat Phone?

“Obviously, dullard.”

What if it’s Grahame?

“Grahame doesn’t have my phone number. He used to, but he would call a dozen times a day to tell me about about dogs he’d seen.”


Just answer it.

“It’s some dumbfuck who’s gonna say dumbfuck shit, isn’t it?”


“Ah, for Christ’s sake, I’ll answer it if it’ll shut you up.”

“Thank you for calling Terrapin Crossroads, home of the Ross James sandwich and Ross James. Out of caution, we have closed until April 2nd, but the gift shop is still open 24 hours a day. This is Phil.”

“Spicy Phil!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“So spicy. Love to give and take. Like Larry David, but with hair and no Jewish.”

“What do you want, lardass?”

“Worried about Spicy Phil. Want protect. I send bubble.”

“I don’t need a bubble.”

“Like Travolta. You go in bubble. Stay healthy.”

“Fuck off. I’m not going in any damn bubble.”

“Is top-quality bubble! Custom! Is no Walmart bubble!”

“I don’t give a shit if it’s bespoke. Keep your bubble.”

“Is done. Bubble send.”

“No bubble!”

“You bubble!”

“No bubble!”

“Is send!”




“I will send the Busboys to your house. In real life, not in here. Out there where you and your loved ones are. I will have you beaten if I have to talk to that ball-gargling pantload one more time.”

I understand.

“Do ya?”

Happy birthday, Phil.

“Thank you. Fuck off.”

Easy To View You

I have uploaded to my channel this newly-discovered clip from Englishtown not to steal anyone’s thunder, simply to spread its wacky goodness further. The news segment popped up this morning on Facebook, and then migrated to the Archive, and neither of them are YouTube. (Just put everything on YouTube. Don’t embed shit on Twitter, don’t use Instagram Stories, and for Christ’s sake stay away from Daily fucking Motion. DailyMotion is the Golden Corral of video streaming sites.) If anyone has any proprietary feelings towards the video, please inform me.

Otherwise, enjoy.

Sitting And Staring Outside The Hotel Window

“Don’t do laser eyes, Weir.”

“Love laser eyes, Jer. No one else is doing it.”

“I don’t care.”

“None of the Stones. That Mick Jagger fellow pouts. That’s, uh, the opposite of laser eyes, facially speaking.”

“You look nuts, man.”

“I look focused and energetic.”

“You know: like a laser.”

“This is the worst trip to a balcony since Juliet, man.”


What exactly is going on with Garcia’s nub-grip on his cigarette? How does that work? Did he use his index and ring fingers like plucky tweezers, or is the butt jammed in the web between stumpy and ring? I’m so confused.

Best Practices Mandates Immediate Fencing In

In the last installment of Your Festivals and You, we discussed the above semi-debacle, Summer Jam ’73 at Watkins Glen Grand Prix Raceway in Upstate New York. The promoters sold 150,000 tickets and then 600,000 kids showed up. This kills the Thruway. Once again, the producers and backers are not placed in the stocks for, oh, about a week or so, and once again New York’s governor does not call out the National Guard. (Reagan ABSOLUTELY would have sicced the Guard on the hippies, and had them set fire to a few black neighborhoods on the way back to their barracks. You couldn’t have gotten away with this bullshit in California at the time.) There is no way to keep the fans out.

Because–as I’ve mentioned before, and you can see for yourself in the posted photo–the Watkins Glen Grand Prix Raceway is located in a field.

Terrible strategic positions, ranked:

  1. John Travolta when he was in the bathroom at John McClain’s apartment and left his Uzi in the kitchen. That is the bottom. Worst possible place to be. Cannot be defended. 2/10, would not pet.
  2. Alley in between two buidings with lots of windows. A skilled operator tries to avoid this situation. There could be a sniper in any window. Or maybe just a guy with a brick. Literally no way to gain an advantage over your opponents from this position.
  3. Food Court. You cannot hold the food court. That’s the first thing prospective SEALs are taught during their training. Can’t be done, maggots! Food Court is a chaos engine! the instructors scream. The young men sound off in the affirmative, though they have no idea what their instructor means. They will learn. Oh, they will learn. And then the instructors try to drown the trainees. (I’ve watched several documentaries on SEAL training school, and it seems like 90% of it is just holding the recruits underwater and not letting them sleep until they go insane.)
  4. The upstairs closet. Michael Myers knows you are in there, Laurie. Stop being such a dummy.
  5. A fucking field. You can fight in a field. Until this very century, that was what war was (except for the navy stuff). Your guys and their guys oiled themselves up and ran at one another. Field is a great place to fight. Think of the alternatives! Swamps, mountains, forests: all wrong for fighting. You want a good field. Gettysburg is a field. Flanders Field is a field. Nothing like a field. But you can’t fucking hold a field.

Unless you build a wall.

This was Englishtown in 1977, and it was the next mega-concert on the East Coast after the Summer Jam. California had their Jam at the Ontario Speedway in ’74, and drew 350,000 for ELP, Deep Purple, and Black Sabbath; the show was well-received, and the kids were well-behaved, and so there was another California Jam in ’78 that drew in equal number. Missouri also had a massive rockyroll event you’ve never heard of in 1974 called the Ozark Music Festival. 350,000 teens showed up there, too, but everyone overdosed and fucked in public and shit on the ground, and the Missouri legislature immediately passed a law against staging a concert that size.

Anyway, Englishtown is a racetrack just like Watkins Glen and Altamont and Ontario; same problem, therefore: How to limit attendance to ticket-holders only. The promoter John Scher’s inspired idea was to circumplant rail cars around the track like Caesar at Alesia. 150,000 (or so) came out, which is what the producers had prepared for, and–but for the scorching heat–everyone had a good time. There were enough hot dogs and bathrooms for everyone.

So: it could be done. A multi-act, all-or-several day(s) festival-style show could be produced in America without the governor getting involved, just a lovely weekend  listening to hairy men playing Chuck Berry covers in a field.

Many in both the music and business industries found that to be interesting information.

It’s What We Do; It’s Why We’re Here

“Good evenin’, folks. We’re the Grateful Dead. We play rockyroll music.”


The Dead’s career can also be read as three men’s desperate struggle to not have the least expensive guitar.

“Mine needs two cords, man.”

“Yeah, Jer. I see that. Nifty. But, uh mine has a motorized pickup that goes back and forth. And fancy crap on the fretboard.”



That should have been the line in the poem.

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look upon my works, you wieners, and despair!

Much better.


When was the last time you called someone a wiener? Probably been too long. Try it; you’ll left-foot a fucker. No one’s expecting to be called a wiener in 2019.

You have veered off-topic.

It was more of a drift than a veer.

Either way.

The Fullest Muppet Possible Given The Genetics

No one gives your ’77 beard enough credit.

“Yeah, she’s pretty manly.”

I don’t know if that sentence makes sense.

“Well, obviously my beard is female.”


“It’s, uh, sitting on my face. Not to get too Billy about the whole thing, but only ladies are allowed to saddle up.”


“But, you know, the characteristics displayed are masculine. Robustness, stolidity, forward-thinking.”

If you say so. Why do you have Dee Dee Ramone’s haircut?

“I asked for it specifically. Gotta keep up with the punkers.”

Okay. Tell Phil I say hi.

“He’s not fond of you.”

I’m aware.

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