Get crazy with the cheez wiz.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: 1990 (Page 1 of 2)
“You having fun. man?”
“Fuck, man, I had no idea about you motherfuckers.”
“Yeah, we get it on for white boys.”
“This is a blast, Jerry. You do this every night?”
“Except for when we suck, yeah.”
“That happen a lot?”
“You’d be shocked.”
“Well, not tonight. I feel like I can’t play a wrong note.”
“You’ve got an open invitation, man. Hell, you can join the band if you want.”
“Lemme think about that, man. I’m really gonna–
SHWAZZATHOOM!
“–think aboutWHAT THE FUCK?”
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?”
“What’s up, Branford? Do you need some Fret-Eeze?”
“No! Where am I? What year is it? BOBBY? What the fuck? Where’s Garcia!?”
“Ah. What, uh, year do you think it is?”
“1990!”
“Ah. Did you, uh, play a D-flat?”
“I think so.”
“Well, there you go. It’s 2018, Jerry’s dead, I’m the Garcia now, Josh is me, and our new bass player is also named Branford.”
“What kind of white person bullshit is this?”
BANG!
“What the fuck?”
BANG!
“Bobby, someone’s–”
…
“Bobby? Damn, he’s quick.”
“I got you now, Wynton, you corny motherfucker!”
BANG!
“STOP SHOOTING! I’m not Wynton! It’s Branford!”
“Branford?”
“Yes!”
“Not Wynton?”
“No!”
“Hate that fucking brother of yours.”
“I know!”
“Hey, motherfucker. Why you hanging out with those old white motherfuckers?”
“I wasn’t! I was hanging out with middle-aged white motherfuckers and then I got shoved sideways through time or something!”
“Chill the fuck out before I slap you.”
“Okay.”
JAZZ SLAP!
“I was calm!”
“You was getting to calm. I helped you along the fucking way. C’mon, let’s go for a ride and I’ll take you back to wherever the fuck you came from.”
“You can do that?”
BANG!
“I’m Miles Davis, motherfucker. Course I can travel through fucking time.”
“I’m so confused.”
These men got groupies.
OR
Younger Enthusiast, this cannot be explained away by invoking “it was the fashion of the time.” When the Dead wore rainbow trousers and fringed jackets and frilled shirts: well, it was the 60’s. That was what hip young men wore to attract groovy young ladies. But this bullshit? This bullshit right here? This bullshit was not the fashion of the time. This bullshit was not the fashion of any time in human history.
OR
It is rare, exceedingly so, that Bobby’s short shorts are the most acceptable pant on stage: if a bit risqué, they are still basic and classic jean shorts. Whereas Phil is wearing sky-blue velour and holy fucking shit there are cuffs on Garcia’s.
OR
None of their shoes are helping, either.
OR
If Phil sits down, his balls are escaping. That’s a fact.
OR
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Is Brent’s monitor on an end table?
“Yup.”
Why?
“Coffee table was too low.”
Sure.
We have an Enthusiast of the day to honor. You may recall that I recently couldn’t post pictures. Why? I have no idea. A wonderful man named Mike (same guy that helped me movie the site a while ago) came to my aid. Go thank him by buying a shirt celebrating 9/8/90 at Richmond Coliseum.
Additionally, you may also go listen to the show. I have not vetted this show at all, let alone in an extreme fashion; I cannot speak to its choogliness. This is the setlist:
At first, you think “Not many surprises,” but then you realize it’s got an Eyes>Estimated, and that is just crazy talk. Grateful Dead was having backwards day on September 8th.
This is from the Scarlet>Fire; the angle makes Keith look heavy.
A rare show in which Brent halts the proceedings dead twice: once in the first set, and once in the second; the rest is good, though. Killer Shakedown opener, braj. Twelve-minute Sugaree. Oddly-ordered second set that kicks off with an Estimated>Scarlet>Crazy Fingers. Huge Throwing Stones and then the always-welcome And We Bid You Goodnight to close the show.
It sells itself, really: 4/3/90 from the Omni in Atlanta. (And if you don’t take my word for it, just know that this was one of the spectacular shows released as the Spring ’90: The Other One box set, so it’s officially good.)
More Dylan.
No one would blame me for slapping a “Look at this bullshit right here” on this sumbitch and moving on. Who could blame me for not wanting to spend time with whatever that bullshit is right there?
Make no mistake: that is some bullshit right there.
But TotD is dedicated to providing you, the loyal Enthusiast, with comprehensive coverage of every 25-year-old photo of a defunct choogly-type band there is.
The temptation is towards reductionism, of separating the bad from the terrible from the unholy from the damned. (There is no “good” here. There is not even “acceptable” here.) This would fail the gestalt, and if there’s anything the gestalt hates worse than being failed, it’s being used vaguely incorrectly by people trying to sound smart.
No, this is the wrong approach: Phil, here, is to be viewed as a piece, holistically. With this in mind, Thoughts on the Dead presents Things Worse than Phil’s Appearance:
- Holocaust (Jewish)
- Holocaust (Armenian)
- Holocaust (Ewok)
- Holocaust (Any I have missed)
- Certain cancers (Face, dick, asshole)
- Global economic collapse
- Shitting yourself during an audience with the Pope.
- The Pope getting turned on by it.
- Spanish flu of 1919-20
- Dead astronauts
I don’t understand how you were born in the desert and raised in a lion’s den, Bobby. Lions live nowhere near the desert: lions live in the Savannah and drug dealers’ basements. Unless–and this unlikely–you’re a miraculously survived member of the Barbary lion population. That might put you in the area of being “born in a desert,” but it’s like someone from the Five Towns saying they’re from new York.
And then we see that your number one occupation is stealing women from their men.
Bobby: that’s kidnapping.
Did you know this was a James R. Anderson photo? Should I be paying him? How do I erase his name and pretend I took the photo? Is that moral? I feel like that’s the moral thing to do, but let’s all remember my stance on taking dongs out at Foot Locker. (All for it.)
This thing has more watermarks than a suede jacket in the Ninth Ward.
Too soon.
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