Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 1 of 86)

This One’s In B

One must assume that Mickey only brought underwear and socks on tour, and each day wandered–bare-chested and half-cocked–by the merch table to yoink himself a fetching top.

OR

If Mrs. Donna Jean had balls, they’d fall out of those shorts. Balls are always looking for a way out; they’re like Papillon.

OR

What the hell is Bobby playing? It’s an Ibanez, but it’s not Cowboy Fancy. Anyone?

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.

 

Suburban, Commando

Hey, Billy. Whatcha doing?

“Thoughts on my Ass! Long time, no care.”

I think the phrase is “long time, no see.”

“Nah, I meant that I haven’t cared in a very long time.”

Sure.

“Excellent fuckmobile, the Suburban. You can do anything back there. Fattest chick you can find, it’s no problem.”

Inappropriate.

“You wanna fuck in a Porsche, she’s gotta have an eating disorder. Or a midget. But only the right kind! You can’t fuck one of those midgets with the chubby arms and Easter Island heads in a 911. Maybe if you got the top down.”

I truly missed these conversations.

“No position you can’t do in a Suburban. Skank on top, skank in front, taking a dump on a skank’s chest. The world is your oyster.”

Why would you do that?

“The dump thing?”

Yeah!

“Sometimes the skank is into that. And, you know, the road messes your stomach up. Gotta punch the poodle once in a while.”

Punch the poodle?

“The turd hitting her tittieballs? Sounds just like when you punch a poodle in the ribs.”

You should not know how either of those things sound.

“Here’s a fun fact: if you have a Stealie on your car, any member of the Grateful Dead can commandeer it in case of emergency.”

Like cops in the movies?

“Just like that. Back when he was Governor of California, Jerry Brown snuck it as a provision into a giant budget bill.  And it works in every state, too! That’s the Full Faith & Credit clause of the Constitution.”

That is absolutely not how that clause works.

“Hey, I ain’t the Supreme Court. Speaking of which–”

This won’t be good.

“–I’d toss that Mexican one a good thumping. What’s her name, Bongo Santamaria?”

Maria Sotomayor.

“I’d beat that ’til candy came out.”

Stop it.

“I’d give her an Illegal Immigrant.”

“I’d give her an Illegal Immigrant.”

“I’d give her–”

What’s an Illegal Immigrant?

“You sneak around back and cross the border without being invited in.”

Goddammit, Billy.

Lee’s Tower

“Yo.”

I didn’t call for you, Precarious.

“You were gonna.”

Yeah. I was just stunned into silence. Dude, what the fuck?

“Be more specific.”

I cannot. The lack of aesthetics and basic safety requirements is all-pervasive. The stage looks like a Radio Shack, but not a good one; the Radio Shack in the bad mall, where the knife fights break out every so often. The bad mall wasn’t always the bad mall, but the economy and demographics and all that. Used to be a place that sold fancy popcorn. Flavored, seasoned, nice packaging. Now there’s nine stores that sell baseball caps. Time will do her marching, Precarious.

“You got a question?”

I asked it: What the fuck?

“Their choice of apparel and instrument is on them.”

Granted. Do you remember why Garcia was wearing his going-to-court jacket on stage?

“I do not.”

Did the road crew make fun of Bobby’s pink guitar?

“Obviously.”

Was there any thought whatsoever given towards purchasing a tie-dyed scrim to hide some of the more unattractive geegaws and wedged monitors?

“Obviously not.”

Why not?

“This way is easiest for us.”

A performance stage shouldn’t be set according to the laziness of the road crew.

“Not lazy. Efficient.”

What about the tower of speakers behind band?

“Yeah, maybe that was a little lazy. We probably should have set up the rigging.”

Wooden palettes and a forklift, right?

“How else would you do that?”

Holy shit, those cabinets at the top aren’t even strapped down, are they?

“I don’t recall anyone dying, so we must have done it right.”

That’s not how that works.

Go Tele On The Mountain

“Hey, Jer?”

“What, Weir?”

“I’m kinda digging this Telecaster. Thinking about maybe becoming a Tele guy.”

“A what?”

“Telecaster guy. Get myself a shirt styled in the cowboy fashion. Maybe one of those haircuts that requires unguent to maintain its integrity.”

“Haven’t I told you to stay away from unguents, man?”

“At least once a day since 1968.”

“It’s good advice I’m giving you.”

“I think the Deadheads would appreciate the change. Perhaps they could learn to line-dance.”

“They can barely stand in lines, man.”

“Jer, I’ve heard the sound of my soul, and that sound is ‘twang.'”

“Just play the damn song, Weir.”

“Aw.”

Peel Your Face Right Off Your Head

Oh, God. Who gave you a monkey?

“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass! Meet Pinball.”

I don’t wanna meet Pinball. Why is there a chimpanzee around the Grateful Dead?

“The question is: Why HASN’T there been until now!? This fucker’s a hoot! Literally: he fucks and he hoots.

Who is he fucking?

“Bobby’s leftovers, same as the rest of us.”

This is not all right.

“He’s a show biz monkey, too. Knows all kinds of tricks. Watch this. Pinball! Card!”

CHIMP PRODUCING A NINE OF DIAMONDS NOISE

“Was this your card?”

Holy shit, it was.

“Rides a unicycle, juggles, everything. He’s a triple threat.”

Is he toilet-trained?

“Quadruple threat. The poop is the fourth threat.”

Those animals are dangerous.

“So are me and Mickey.”

He should be in a jungle.

“And I should be in skank. But the world isn’t fair, and so we’re both on tour. Besides, it’s not like he’s got nothing to do. Mickey’s teaching him how to play the timbales.”

How’s that going?

“Not well. He fucks ’em. Oh, and–”

Mickey keeps dosing him?

“–Mickey keeps dosing him.”

Jesus.

OR

Hey, Mickey.

“MONKEY!”

Uh-huh.

OR

That would be Mr, Jiggs, who was indeed a show biz monkey; he performed in between sets of the Dead’s 8/4/76 show at Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City. There is easily-found video of the poor animal’s minstrelry, and it is unbearably sad. Don’t search for it. The past was terrible.

Kreutzmenn

“Justy, I know you’re my son, but–”

“We’re not doing foot stuff, Pop.”

“–let’s do foot stuff. Why not?”

“It’s wrong.”

“Naaaaah. You ever hear about Abraham and Isaac from the Hotel Book?”

“The Bible. That book is called the Bible.”

“They did tons of toe-play. Nobody thought less of them.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels, Justy.”

“I’m here to talk about drums, Pop.”

“Shit, you wanna talk drums, you should call up your Uncle Mickey. He won’t shut the fuck up about ’em. I keep telling him to get a hobby, but he just pretends his hearing aids aren’t working. Deaf as a coffee table that had the mumps as a kid.”

“I already talked to Uncle Mickey.”

“He tell you about the time he fucked half the UCLA ladies’ volleyball team? He had to climb most of those chicks.”

“Pop.”

“Eventually, he got tired and just started rubbing against their knees.”

“Pop.”

“Benjy, you went bald quick.”

“Not Benjy, Pop.”

“Am I getting paid for this?”

Why Even Bother Having A Dress Code?

Hey, Billy.

“Ass! Good timing! I was just about to take it out.”

Really?

“Well, honestly: I’m always just about to take it out. Little Billy’s on call 24/7. Like a doctor, but not Jewish now.”

Inappropriate.

“You’re right. Doctors are mostly Chinese now. You’ll never guess what my urologist’s name is.”

Dr. Wang?

“You guessed! Oh, man, I laugh my ass off every time.”

Sure. This is for Justin’s documentary, Let There Be Drums, right?

“Maybe. Could be. I got no idea. Justy showed up and told me I couldn’t see my grandkids unless I talked about Buddy Rich for a while.”

I believe you.

…Is A Vote For Nature In The Streets

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy. Are you holding a pickle?

“Nah. Optical illusion. I stuck a half-sour up my ass once, though.”

Why?

“The thing about touring is that most of the country sucks. You ever been to Norman, Oklahoma?”

No.

“Best restaurant in town is a dead goat on the side of the highway. That’s the only entertainment, too. So, I shoved a pickle in my butthole. The brine makes for a very strange sensation. I’m convinced there’s phantom taste buds down there.”

There aren’t.

“Then why did I want a corned beef sandwich?”

I have no idea.

“Course, you can’t get any decent Jew food in Oklahoma. I called down to room service for some kascha varnishkes and they threw Mickey out of the hotel.”

Sounds right.

“And don’t order the tacos, either.”

Why not?

“They just give you a steak while singing La Cucaracha at you. Shit, even I thought that was racist, and I was wearing blackface at the time.”

Wow. Can we talk about voting?

“Shit, yeah. Love voting. Doing all my research right now.”

What are your views on the candidates?

“I’m beginning to think this Trump guy is bad news.”

Perceptive.

“Most likely not going for him again.”

Sure.

“Biden’s all right. I kinda see myself in him.”

How so?

“He’s an old, confused man that’s been coasting on his reputation for a few decades now.”

Sure.

“And I like the chick.”

Woman. And there are several in the race.

“Who’s the crazy one?”

Tulsi Gabbard.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’d launch the nukes before she was halfway through taking the oath. I’d still bang her, but I can’t support her. What’s the other one’s name? I wanna say Lady Branford.”

Kamala Harris. And that is WILDLY offensive.

“I’d claim her like King Leopold.”

Jesus, man.

“And y’know what? I’d even toss Frowny Saltpeter a quick one.”

Her name is Elizabeth Warren.

“She’s an Indian, right? What’s her name, Softens Boners?”

Let’s move on. What about the men in the race.

“I’m not banging any of them, not even the two that enjoy that shit.”

This was a great chat.

“We push boundaries.”

Sure.

I’m Ready For My Close-Up Now, Mr. Kreutzmann

“Hey! Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy.

“Camera’s set up! Get over here and take off my clothes.”

Wha?

“We’re shooting a porn, aren’t we? What’s the title, Grateful Head?”

We are in no way shooting a–

Dark Starfish?”

–porno movie.

Mississippi Hand-Job Yankmyshmoo?

I don’t even know what that means. No porn. That’s your son behind the camera.

“Which one? Linoleum?”

You don’t have a son named Linoleum.

“Fartin’ Ted?”

Nor do you have a–

“Philsucks?”

–son named…are we just gonna do the same joke over and over?

“I’m in that kinda mood, to be honest.”

Stuck in a rut?

“Oh, yeah. I stick it in, and then I rut.”

I walked into that one. This interview is for Justin’s documentary about drummers. Aren’t you proud of him?

“Proud enough. Kid’s not a complete letdown, but he’s not living up to his potential. I didn’t want him to be a director.”

What did you want him to do?

“Bullfighter.”

Weird.

“We lived on a farm when he was a boy. I would sneak into his room at night and chuck goats at him.”

For God’s sake, why?

“Well, you don’t start off with a bull in bullfighting. Gotta work up to it. First, you fight reptiles and maybe an owl. Not one of those big fuckers, though. Little owl.”

This doesn’t sound right.

“Boy was gonna be a toreador. Y’know how much money I spent on tights and those fruity slippers?”

Since when were you a fan of bullfighting?

“Ah, I was really into Hemingway at the time.”

I didn’t know you enjoyed Ernest Hemingway.

“Not Ernest. Mariel. I was cranking two or three out a day to that chick, man. Tits and a pedigree? The Bill was tolling damn hard.”

Always good catching up.

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