Gotta level with you, Enthusiasts. Still love you. You know that.
Arrow should be green, though.
Yes, it should, but that was the best I could do. It took twenty minutes.
Disappointments all around, then.
Yeah.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: 3/28/73
Game time, Enthusiasts: let’s play Spot The Heineken.
…
Yeah, there it is.
OR
Sadly, Keith died before he could reap the publicity benefits of the “panorama” setting on phone cameras.
Precarious!
“Yo.”
Keith is having trouble hearing himself.
“Yeah?”
…
…
…
“I could put a giant speaker a foot from his face.”
Good plan.
“Eh. Plan.”
BACKSTAGE
“How long til he notices?”
“That it’s the set break?”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly? If he hasn’t by now, then he might not.”
“Sounds right. Crowd still there?”
“Guys went to the bathroom. Girls are still there.”
“That sounds right, too.”
“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 other way, Garcia.
“Which way?”
Rotate to your left about 140 degrees.
“Wouldn’t that make it way too hot in here?”
Bobby, don’t help.
“This way, Jer!”
No, no. Don’t listen to Phil. Turn towards the crowd. The way Bobby is facing.
“Are you talking to me?”
DON’T TURN AROUNDoh goddammit.
“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.”
I’ve not recommended a show in a while, and what better way to get back into the spirit than with a show I previously recommended. (Not that I remember doing it, but the “tags” box auto-completed the date for me, so apparently I have.) Who cares, though? This one’s a barn-burner, in both the figurative and literal senses. (Garcia burned down a barn.)
3/28/73 from the Springfield Civic Center in Springfield, Massachusetts or maybe Ohio or could be New Jersey, has an hour-long Dark Star>Eyes>Playing, and that cannot be a bad thing unless you really need to go to the bathroom and want to wait until the end of the song. Go listen to the whole thing.
In fact, the show’s so good that it was released as Dave’s Picks Vol. 14, wasn’t it?
I did not recall that until I had already started writing.
Ah.
As usual, the newest release in the Dave’s Picks series comes with extras beyond the music. There’s the colorful artwork of a house with a vagina for a door, and some cool pictures via Master of the Visual Galleries, Nicolas von Meriweather. Also, an essay from long-time Dead scribe Dennis McNally about how the show (McNally’s first) almost didn’t happen due to Garcia and Hunter getting busted in Connecticut Jersey the day before.
Once again, TotD was not asked to write the liner notes even though I sent in a sample I worked very hard on.
Tell the nice people what you wrote.
It’s good; they should take my word for it.
Tell them what you wrote.
Fine: If 3/28/73 were a pasta, it would be rigatoni that knew how to give a killer blowjob. This show is like some sort of Spaghetti Suckoff and I’m going back for seconds. Pile my plate high, Grandma, and then shove it in my crotch!
…
Do you understand why that’s not acceptable?
Is it racist against Italians?
No.
Is it racist against cocksuckers? Or pasta?
You’re not getting the point. Even if that was the right way to cheerlead for a show, you shouldn’t be doing that: the show’s been purchased. You need to add a little something. A story pertaining to the show.
Can I mention Hitler?
Must you?
Y’know, I could actually make the same point using Winona Ryder as an example. Forget Hitler.
We must never forget Hitler.
No. We must never forget Hitler.
…
That was weird.
Yeah.
What if I use the space allotted to me in the liner notes to attack enemies and give diet tips?
No.
Poetry about being in Mickey.
Hell, no.
Free verse about being in Mickey.
Maybe.
How many times should I thank American Express?
At least twice, I would imagine.
Yeah.
Enthusiasts are always saying to me: David Lemieux knows wine, TotD, but does he know the Grateful Dead? And I’ll answer: Not according to the comment boards on Dead.net, but if you ask people who aren’t monomaniacal lunatics, then he’s got a pretty good track record.
Dave’s 16th Pick is from 3/28/73 at the Springfield Civic Center in Springfield, MA, and it’s a massive, 30-song show with a half-hour Dark Star: if there exists a Dead show which causes an Enthusiast to cry “yield!” then it is this one. It is clearly far too much Dead for the unprepared mind; merely the opener, a rare and sprightly Cumberland, would cause a newcomer to the Dead’s dong to explode. This is graduate level Dead.
Go for the upgrade and buy the thing, or just watch David Lemieuxmasandthepappas wax enthusiastic about it over at the official site, but be forewarned: you might not recognize David without his wind; he has wandered a few miles inland and there is neither a pervasive sea breeze nor does he get distracted by gulls or seals.
A further forewarning (a fivewarning?): keep to the article, stay off the comments. That way madness lies.
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