Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: billy (Page 5 of 6)

You Know Our Love Will

March 1, 2012 / / 1 Comment

Listen to Not Fade Away, all the way through. Please. I promise you it’s worth your time.

LISTEN TO THE WHOLE THING! LISTEN TO THE WHOLE THING, FUCKER (Sorry for the “fucker,” pal.) NO, I’M NOT! DON’T BE A FUCKER: LISTEN TO THE THING I WANT YOU TO LISTEN TO!

Did you listen to it?

Got something in your eye, buddy?  It’s okay, I got misty, too. Not full-on The Green Mile weeping, the memory of which is still a bit humiliating, but still a suggestion of a tear upon the eye. If you didn’t get a little choked up, then you’re not an Enthusiast, full stop.

This, my fellow obsessives, is what redeems the silliness and utter lack of discipline. The solo albums and the 1972 drum solos with just Billy for six or seven minutes and the fact that, while yes Truckin’ does have tough lyrics, 25 years is enough time to have figured them out–all of these former problems reveal themselves in the true scale of the thing as mere piffle.

Moments that made you remember that, for around 30 years, the Dead were the best house band in the world, no matter how big the house.

Take Me To The Leader Of The Band

February 29, 2012 / / 1 Comment

The real problem with late-period Dead is the Uncanny Valley: it no longer sounds like physical music anymore. They were just playing with their toys (not including Billy’s Drawers of Sensual Toys which the band is not paying for, Billy! The tour pays for drumsticks, not dildos, Billy. It is NOT a tour-related expense: you get up to that weird shit at home. You get up to that weird shit in MY LIVING ROOM, BILLY. You’re a horrible sexual Boojum, Billy. Fuck this, I quit and by the way, I stole all of your money again. Yoinks!) 

And I’m not even talking about the late-period hobby of rhythmically floating somewhere around the beat, which was the one thing that had absolutely nothing to do with Vince, that Ren Faire extra. Bands have leaders because bands are, at their essence, just groups of men, and groups of men have leaders in every culture in the entire world. For all of Garcia’s talk about “when Phil is on, we’re on,” he was the leader of the band. If the aliens landed outside a Dead show, only to make the usual clichéd demand (leaders, taking), you wouldn’t take them to fucking Phil. It was always Garcia’s band: to speak of anything else is to invite madness to stalk you and invade your fine homes and shave your fine servants. So, when the leader started wandering around the musical wilderness without a map and dressed like a salmon, the rest of them had to follow.

No, what I speak of is the molecular sound of the beast.It was raw and growly which made the sweetness that much more hard-won. (Please provide 350 words on why a show cannot be truly great unless it has earned its Jerry ballad. Begin.) Bobby’s guitar always sounded sprightly until he turned tinkly and shiny. Bobby was, sadly the worst of them at it. Phil generally sounded like himself except for space and other weirdo jams, when he liked to pretend he was a flute player with a wall of amplifiers. Garcia liked to pretend he was a trumpet player, but he would do those little triplet rolls down to the note thing and it would be okay, but Bobby? Bobby wanted to play the marimbas. Bobby loved that marimba setting so much, one speculates about the endearingly creepy  island based dreams Bobby might have lurking below his placid exterior. he could be Mustache Bob, player of marimbas and layer of tourists. He works in the hotel bar at night, and in the hotel rooms during the day. He’s got it pretty sweet, to be honest about the whole thing.

You have come to my beautiful suite.

You let yourself into my room while I was showering.

 My mustache is long, but my shorts are short: you have never seen a black man like me.

You are not a black man.

Bobby turns out the lights.

What about now?

What? No. Of course–listen, this is enough of this. Get going, you scamp.

Aww, okay.


Another Dick’s Pick In The Wall

February 22, 2012 / / 0 Comments

The Wall of Sound. Sweet heavenly Jesus: the Wall of Sound. These befuddled men asked themselves, “How much Sound do we need?” The answer–apparently–was, “A Wall’s worth.”

The problem was not really with the Sound so much as it was with the Wall. It was also an intractable problem, due to the fact that the very definition of ‘wall’ is something you cannot move easily, if at all. Hadrian’s Wall? Great Wall of China? All still there, mostly because of bunch of longhairs and bikers didn’t drag them around the midwest for months at a time. That a wall not be portable is its sine non qua is obvious with even my cursory knowledge of siege warfare, all entirely gleaned from 8th grade World history and whichever Lord of the Rings movie had the big castle fight scene. You know the name: it was the one with the little gay hobbits and the monsters and dragons and it lasts for nineteen fucking hours.  (Although, seriously, what kind of nimrod builds a castle with a drainage canal thing in the FRONT, where is easily accesible to your enemy, provided your enemy is a monster, WHICH HE TOTALLY IS AND YOU KNEW THAT GOING INTO THIS, SO WHY DIDN’T YOU BRICK THAT THING UP, GRAND MOFF TARKIN?)

It took 12 hours to set the Wall up. The Amish can knock off 6, 7 barns in that amount of time. If something takes you twelve hours to build, it should be permanent. These facts, though, pale in comparison to the fact that they chose to do this during a gas crisis. You cannot haul 75 tons of anything around during a gas crisis and expect to turn a profit: it’s one of the first things they teach you at Wharton, right after, “mention Trump and you fail.”

The Wall didn’t stop at the speakers, all of which were custom-built at a special facility in Daly City, CA that lights its workshop with burning cash. No, the boys also had new space-age instruments made up for themselves, most famously Garcia’s Wolf. Phil also got a new bass, so heavy and laden with doom it looked like the melee weapon of Phil-Garr the Grateful.

I will break my own iron held rule about research to quote at length:

Phil is using a new quadraphonic bass, the electronics of which were designed and built by George Mundy and the body and pickups by Rick Turner. The new bass has the same versatile qualities as the old bass: three pickups (bass and treble pickups covering all the strings, and a quad pickup which has a separate signal for each string); on each of the bass and treble pickups there are controls which enable him to select 1) the band-width of the filter, 2) the center frequency of the filter, 3) the kind of filter being used and 4) mix unequalized unfiltered direct sound with the filtered sound. The variety of sounds which can be achieved on the bass is the result of the many different combinations of these variables which can be used. The new bass has a frequency response with a crisper tone, and two quad pickups instead of one, the new one being a frequency-detector pickup. The main addition to the new bass is a Digital Decoding Circuit such that ten push buttons on the bass allow Phil to select any one of sixteen quad spatial arrangements of his speakers, and eight in stereo mode

I DARE you to make sense of any of that. And then factor in the fact that this is all to play Chuck Berry tunes. You can see how the Hiatus was, maybe, a necessary and inevitable thing–what comes after the wall of Sound, after all? The band made a brief and desultory attempt to build an exact replica of Versailles out of speakers, drugs, and promissory notes, but after spending $200,000 and Mickey burning down the model, the boys lost interest.

It all sounded different after they came back. The music held less secrets, but it would have been good to hear the Wall with Mickey, too. Imagine this Samson coming through a sound system that in Olden Days would have been worshipped as a god, perhaps even two gods and a saint. The Wall had that much impressive in it: pilgrims would often leave notes in the cracks of the Wall, which was a horrible, horrible idea for two reasons. First, members of the band would invariably mistake the folded-up paper prayers for bindles of narcotics and savagely knock you to the ground trying to get to them; second, Steve Parrish had a strict policy about punching anyone who touched the Wall.

Prime Numbers

February 17, 2012 / / 0 Comments

They played The Eleven and Loose Lucy 98 times each. One song is more important than the other, but it is not the better song in any way.

The Eleven is more representative of Primal Dead than any other song, including Dark Star, for the simple fact that they kept playing Dark Star. DS kept popping up every few years or so, always reflective of the current makeup of the band: in the 60’s, it was a dark and speedy hellride; in the early ’70’s, it was jazzy and air-filled; in the late ’70’s, it was played in a hockey arena; and in the 80’s and 90’s, people were just happy that the song was being played at all. But they left The Eleven back in the nether reaches of the misty baroque Baby Dead.

They barely qualify as songs: Dark Star is just a head theme, then some lyrics, and The Eleven is just a party trick–Hey, look what we learned to play in! It’s not very subtle, either: it’s in eleven, about a list of eleven things, and called The Eleven. Perhaps they were auditioning for Sesame Street:

“Hi, I’m Billy!”

“And I’m Bobby, and we’re gonna teach you about the number 11, and the letter 7.”

“That’s ‘L.’ Why did we let the dyslexic guy do this? Hey, puppet-guy: c’mere.”

And then Billy punched the guy holding Grover in the nuts and then he punched Mr. Hooper in the nuts four, maybe five times. Mr. Hooper wasn’t moving after Billy got done with him. That’s really how Mr. Hooper died: Bill Kreutzmann, drummer for the Grateful Dead, dickpunched him to death.  David Gans is KEEPING THIS INFORMATION FROM YOU.

The Dead is no longer Primal by 1970. Mickey and TC would leave the band, everyone would watch one too many John Ford movies, and they would be in the next great phase of their run.Looking back, the Primal period was shouty and wobbly–the sound of a baby band.

But sometimes, the baby sounded like this.

P.S. Loose Lucy isn’t all that awful; it has a nice lope. It might have been a hit for .38 Special. But I don’t particularly care to hear Garcia talking about getting on top of ladies. Or, having ladies climb on top of him, which is, let’s be honest, almost definitely the case.

The Wheel Is Turning

February 14, 2012 / / 0 Comments

Ever listen to the Dead and your attention slips just as they start to jam and then you come back to the music and realize you have absolutely no idea what song they’re playing? And then you realize, they don’t know, either.  THAT’S why it’s all worth it: the clams, the time signature disagreements, the tuning, I Fought the Law–it all rolls away when they hit that Moment.

…and…

I have, for the past two weeks, not downloaded a single show. Not one. But have I received the intended grace for my absolution? Has there been even a dent in the backlog of shows taking up space on my full-to-bulging* hard drive that I haven’t gotten to yet?

No. Of course not. I have begun listening to the streams at archive.org.

*This was Billy’s constant rejoinder to the question, “How are you, Billy?” It would go like this:

“How are you, Billy?”

“Full to bulging.”

And then he would fake punch you in the dick and then he would actually punch you in the dick because Billy’s nickname on the road was Dickpunchin’ Billy and a man without a name is nothing, nothing at all.

Good Lovin’

February 14, 2012 / / 1 Comment

The Dead used to masturbate together. Not just in the old days, when Pig would whip out his thick, greasy hog and announce, “Let’s put our hands IN our pockets!” No, it was a constant throughout the years. Lineup changes, health problems, financial chaos? The music got them through, along with regular sessions of group masturbation. It was men being men together and, occasionally, all over each other. And what could be wrong with that?

Oh, hell, I can’t hold on to this horrible knowledge any longer: the Dead were gay. Very, very gay. And much like metal fans with Rob Halford and Ronnie James Dio, we had absolutely no idea. This the kind of thing that Dead.net won’t tell you, my friends! LOOK AT THE EVIDENCES!

Do I even have to make the joke about Garcia being a bear and Bobby being a twink and Phil being the guy at the orgy still wearing socks?

Ramrod. His name was Ramrod. No matter where on the planet you are, if you get into a taxi and say “Ramrod,” you will be taken to a gay bar.

Mustaches, mustaches, mustaches.

(Okay, this has to stop: I’m just taking out some frustration on you, Fellow Enthusiast. Sitting here listening to 2/23/93–Ornette Coleman sits in for the last half of the second set and they open up with a Mardi Gras-infused Iko Iko and IT’S AWESOME except I’m breaking rules all over the place: a Vince? Listening to a Vince, even with Ornette Coleman? PLUS, I’m listening to drums->space and IT’S AWESOME, TOO and now I’m worried that I’m turning into one of those drums->space people and the only step after that is quibbling about different recordings of the same show. That’s no life at all.)

(Oh, right: the Dead are, of course, not actually practicing homosexuals, which, of course, would be perfectly fine and would probably be real good for Mickey. He needs some masculine energy around. Not Billy, though. Let’s face it, Billy was gonna be punching anyone you placed in front of him. Also, I don’t think Dio’s gay: like always, I will be sticking to my ban on research of any sort. If Dio were gay, though, he’d be roaming around the fantasy world of Homoslavia with his giant penis sword, riding on top of a penis dragon, and penising everything around him with his penis. Penis.)

1977 and Bobby Jokes: You Know, The Usual

February 14, 2012 / / 3 Comments

Why hasn’t Barton Hall been released commercially? Not that I’m looking for it, obviously: I can still remember the all-black Maxxell with 5/8/77!!! written on the tag in red ink. Since then, I’ve never not listened to this show. Even though the boys and I drifted apart during the first decade of the new millennium, that second set still called to me. “Just the first little bit,” I would tell myself. “Just the opening to Scarlet: dat dat dat–bom ba WHOOOM!” And then, of course, it would be seventy minutes later and the Dead would have destroyed and rebuilt the world with Morning Dew.

But no official release. They have the tapes, obviously, along with a fondness for releasing Spring/Fall ’77 shows–there have been 5 Dick’s Picks, one Road Trip, one Digital Download, To Terrapin, and the 10 CD Winterland ’77 box set. (Swear I did that by memory, so if I’m wrong, then…I don’t know: nothing, I guess. Carry on wasting time reading this nonsense.)

There’s a great book that came out last year, Love Goes to Buildings on Fire by Will Hermes. It might be the definitive history of one of the most fertile musical scenes in history, New York in the 70’s. The author is mugged taking the subway to the train for Cornell and loses not only his money, but also his Dead tickets. The New York Times wrote an article recently about the archive and the sheer volume of shows available nowadays and its effect on ranking shows and whether or not the band should be appreciated show-by-show or by tour. Quite honestly, I think the author of the article was assigned an article covering The Dead’s weary arrival into Manhattan and just couldn’t interview Bobby again. True, there had been no dickpunching since Billy went back to the ocean, but still, you try asking Bobby  any other question other than, “When did you start looking like Dad Wolf from Teen Wolf?

So, who was on Style’s Woof-mobile?

Anyway, what I’m saying is that 5/8/77 is kind of almost vaguely “out there.” And we’re coming up on the 35th anniversary, but no one’s talking advantage of it. New members, fresh blood. Think I haven’t seen hobbies die? I used to work in a comic book shop, man: Hell holds no terrors for me.

Play It Slow

February 11, 2012 / / 0 Comments

This game thing…this goddamn game thing. I would rather have Billy speedbag my nuts while tie-dyed ninjas force me to watch them delete all the beautiful Shows from my computer and replace them with audience tapes of 1995 than have anything to do with this goddamn game thing.

First off, the site looks like CompuServe’s Brazilian-raised clone, flashy and zitty and with music that starts playing when the page opens. Genocides have been started for lesser insults than playing music I didn’t ask for when the page opens and then HIDING THE FUCKING MUTE BUTTON IN YOUR PASTEL NIGHTMARE OF A WEBSITE.

Plus: it’s SHIT music. There’s a drums>space vibe to it, but there are two problems there: 1. That’s what you want to open up with, Grateful Dead Game? The thing that even hard-core fans of the band only barely tolerated? Not, say, an upbeat catchy number? And, 2. IT’S NOT EVEN THE DEAD PLAYING. It sounds like a guy with a Korg M-1.

Okay, fine, the site looks awful. Hell, this site looks awful. But we get to play a game! Except the game doesn’t exist. Not yet. So far, we’ve just voted on the Top Ten Dead Shows Of All Time In The Universe. Guess which show won.

Is Very Bad When Drumming Stop…

February 1, 2012 / / 1 Comment

Billy was the engine, even though he has never been seen in the same room as Brian Doyle-Murray. In between tours, Billy would yell and yell at those damn caddies to make something of themselves but they never listened. Billy had a Hawaiian shirt thing going on, and he spread it like a virus to successive keyboardists. Billy looks like he might have enjoyed starting fights. Billy is an Uncle: the ‘stache, the smirk.

But listen to ’73. No Mickey forcing everyone to sit there while he learns to play the kshdbviyus, the new percussion instrument he discovered in the village of extraordinarily foreign people, people so foreign that you secretly hate them because you sense they’re intentionally trying to be so foreign but whom Mickey will invariably refer to as “my brothers in drums.” Mickey was always saying shit like that when he wasn’t flying into rages and tackling business associates in restaurants. Mickey sounded like a lot of fun.

Now, when the two of them were on, they were unbelievable–this churning graceful giant. But, listen to 1973 when it’s just Billy out there. That motherfucker earns his mustache night in and night out.

My Favorite Things

January 31, 2012 / / 0 Comments

Have I been negative? Probably. Almost definitely. What about the positives? What is lovable about this band?

  • The black leather jacket Garcia used to wear.
  • Mississippi Half-Step. When it gets real quiet and they sing about the Rio Grand-ee-o.
  • The little songs they play during tuning–Funniculi, the Itsy Bitsy Spider, Stayin’ Alive.
  • Billy playing the drums all by himself.
  • Billy playing the drums with Mickey.
  • The proto-version of Brown-Eyed Women from 8/24/71 (Dick’s Picks 35). The beat is turned around and the melody sounds like a children’s playground taunt and IT’S AWESOME.
  • Bobby forgetting the words.
  • Garcia forgetting the words.
  • Phil never knowing the words in the first place and just making shit up as he went. (I’m looking at you, Tom Thumb’s Blues.)
  • The Celtic jacket Mickey wore in the Touch of Grey video.
  • Touch of Grey.
  • The AUD of Touch of Grey from the comeback show.
  • Garcia with his hair in pigtails.
  • Pig.
  • Branford.
  • Bobby’s Chuck Berry tunes.
  • Brent’s long, lustrous hair.
  • Terrapin Station.
  • Bobby’s wise-guy routines (“Turn around real slow, we gotcha covered.”)
  • April Fool’s Day 1980–opening up the show with Promised Land on each others’ instruments. (Garcia on drums!)
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