Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 1 of 85)

Plays Central Park About A Quarter To Nine

The rarest (and scariest) Billy of them all: Shirtless Billy.

OR

“Are we all playing red guitars, man? It’s gonna look like we planned it.”

“Ah, the dummies out there will hardly notice.”

“I’ve, uh, also got my shirt off.”

OR

The scariest (and rarest) of all possible Mickeys: Mustache Mickey.

OR

Picture courtesy of the great Jesse Jarnow, who wrote about this show (6/22/69) in his outstanding book Heads: A Biography of Psychedelic America, which you should buy and read. You can also listen to the afternoon’s offering via a two song SBD (which is crappy) or a full-ish show AUD (which is also crappy).

OR

Ramrod’s Little Orphan Annie afro is always so easy to pick out in a group shot.

OR

This is the Naumburg Bandshell in Central Park. Martin Luther King once gave a speech there, but did not play Dark Star. WINNER: Grateful Dead.

Someday, Your Name Is Gonna Be In (Bush League) Lights

Precarious?

“Yo.”

You know what I’m gonna ask, right?

“They’re Christmas lights.”

Thought so. Jesus, that looks terrible.

“You should’ve seen the first version.”

Was it spelled wrong?

“Yup.”

Hell of an organization you guys had.

“Yup.”

Man At Work

 

“Ass!”

Hey, Billy. Summer Tour, huh?

“Yup. I gotta tell you something: I love this band more than I loved the Grateful Dead. And not just because Phil isn’t in it.”

Is it the checks?

“You really do know me, man.”

Uh-huh.

“Deadheads got so much more money now! They used to sleep a dozen to a room and give tuggers for drug money, but now half of ’em are real estate assholes. Or respectable criminals. You know: classy shit like fraud, or computer shit. Dead & Company got more respectable criminals in their audience than any other band.”

Almost certainly true.

“And they’re desperate to give us their money. We priced the merch so high as a joke. Figured we’d have to knock ten bucks off, but the rubes ponied right up.”

Please don’t call your fans “rubes,” Billy.

“What would you call someone who spent three grand on a blanket with a Stealie on it?”

Yeah, okay.

Sign Of The (Rhythm) Devil

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy. Signing guitars?

“Nah. Drawing dicks on ’em.”

Why?

“I draw dicks on stuff. It’s, like, my thing. Drew one on New Brent’s back the other day.”

His name is Jeff Chimenti.

“Fucker cried. I guess I drew too hard or something. Whatever. Fuck him and his hair.”

Those guitars are for charity, right?

“I got no idea what they do with ’em. Don’t give a shit, either. I get a hundred apiece. Cash.”

You’re charging for this?

“Shit, yeah. I charge for everything now. Remember when I worked out with Bobby?”

Yeah.

“Made him Venmo me $700.”

You’ve become mercenary with age, Billy.

“Nah, I was like this when I was a kid.”

True.

You Better Work

“Jesus, Weir, you get a couple compliments on your arms and now you’re Jack LaLanne.”

“Sound mind in a sound body. Romans said that. I mean, they said it in Latin, but you get the gist.”

“Only exercise I like is pulling my pud.”

“Don’t pull your pud, Billy.”

“I will. Right here. Three sets of ten.”

“Leave your pud out of it.”

“Nope. Me and him are partners.”

“Just concentrate on the exercise. Hold the shaft upright.”

“Heh-heh.”

“Grasp it firmly.”

“You’re killing me, Weir.”

“Now: big strokes. Strooooooke. Strooooooooke.”

“I played this game when I was a teenager, but there was a cookie involved.”

“No cookie. But after we work out, we get protein shakes. You gotta force as much protein down your throat as you can.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?”

“C’mon, buddy. Hop to it. One more set of this and we do Romanian squats.”

“I had a Romanian squat on me once. That can go wrong real quick.”

Back And White

“Guys? Hey, guys? Why is my piano set up so my back is to the crowd? Is it cuz I’m ugly?”

“Uh, no. No, definitely not. Nuh-uh.”

“Nah, man.”

“The ol’ Pig don’t think you’re ugly, KG! It’s just that your looks is an acquired taste!”

“Yeah.”

“You’re scaring off the skank, Sloth! Hide your face!”

An Aesthetic

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Why must there always be pandemonium?

“Referring to?”

The stage. It looks like a woodworking shop had a baby with a Guitar Center, and then the baby exploded.

“Eh. Band liked it this way.”

How could anyone like this?

“Maybe ‘like’ is wrong. How about ‘The band didn’t give a shit if it looked this way?'”

That sounds right.

Lei Down, My Dear Drummer

Hey, Billy. Still celebrating your birthday?

“Birthweek!”

Huh?

“It took me about five days to come out. I was what they called a ‘logy fetus.'”

That’s an unpleasant phrase.

“I was happy in there. Hell, I’ve spent the past seven decades trying to get back in.”

Sure.

“I just didn’t wanna come out.”

How’d they entice you into the world? Forceps?

“Nah. They laid a check at the foot of the bed.”

You’re a remarkably consistent man.

“Oh, yeah. Hey, you sex striking?”

Oh, that thing Alyssa Milano is on about? I don’t know if that’ll work.

“I’m into it! Love me some sex striking.”

Billy, do you mean–

“Punching puss!”

–physically striking women…I thought so.

“I got no idea how it’s helping get rid of Trump, but I’m all in.”

Happy birthweek, buddy.

“Yeah, I’m great.”

Acrostic The Rio Grand-ee-oh

W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.

O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.

O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.

D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.

Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.

S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)

T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.

O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.

C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.

K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.

Lei, Billy, Lei

Hey, Billy. Happy birthday.

“Thoughts on my Ass! C’mere and blow out my candle!”

I don’t know about that.

“The candle’s my dick!”

Right. I got that. How’s your big day going?

“Aw, it’s been great. Got up early, watched the sun rise, then I went down to the IHOP and got myself a syrupjob.”

Is a syrupjob what I think it is?

“Exactly.”

Ew.

“You gotta shower afterwards, no matter how powerful the skank’s tongue work is. Strongest muscle in the body, but that boysenberry is sticky.”

Uh-huh. Then what?

“Stopped at the bakery on my way home.”

You picked up your own cake?

“Nah. Fuck cake. I had to see Eduardo.”

He works at the bakery?

“He doesn’t work anywhere now. I mean, he’ll dig for a while, but that tires you out.”

Billy, did you bury a baker alive?

“Yeah.”

Why?

“He knows what he did. Well, he knew what he did.”

You celebrate your birthday weird.

“It’s the Grateful Dead way.”

Is it?

“I don’t give a shit.”

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