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

Tag: bob weir (Page 1 of 198)

Hooterollin’ And Rockin’ And Researchin’

New Hooterollin’! Is my body breaking down in new and exciting ways? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’. Are some of the emergent nightmares far too disgusting to even mention in mixed company? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’. Am I living through the second act of a David Cronenberg film? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’.

Did you know that Bobby–in addition to being a guitarist, singer, and cowboy–was a record producer? I did not, and I know a lot of stuff about Bobby. Luckily, Corry has abandoned the tenets of Without Research to, you know, look shit up and thus enlighten all with this ribald* tale of a Grateful Dead and one of the guys who wrote Mississippi Queen. Why are you still here? Go read something that makes sense.

And if you need something to listen to…

Here’s the Dead’s set from 4/9/70 at the Fillmore West.

And here’s Mr. Davis and the Lost Quintet (featuring Chick Corea on the Fender Rhodes):



*There is no ribaldry whatsoever in this tale. Everyone keeps it in his or her pants at all times.

And Here’s A Better Picture

Eagle-eyed Enthusiasts will note Matt Kelly is not being assaulted by any drummers whatsoever in this photo. Hawk-eyed Enthusiasts understand that the look on Jaco’s face might best be described as “currently deciding whether you’re a secret robot assassin.” Hippo-eyed Enthusiasts will take the photo as a threat, and charge and kill it. Aye-aye-eyed Enthusiasts won’t be taken seriously by anyone. Cock-eyed Enthusiasts won’t see dick.

Stop it.





I haven’t the energy to fight. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it–

God, I hate you.

–but I’m riddled with disease.

You’ve brought it up once or twice.

I’m being inspiring. I’m an inspiration. I’m a hero.

Please just spit up a few more lines about the Dead and go back to sitting quietly and not bothering the nice people.

Fine, but once more: I’m only giving in because–


–I’ve lost my wind due to my many and various maladies.

No re–

Do whatever you want, man.

–sponse? Thank you for your support in this trying time. Keen-eyed Enthusiasts have spotted that Bobby’s fit during the Jaco gig includes a sling, and not the Hell In A Bucket video-type sling, either.

Bobby fell off his bike in September of ’86 and spent the next month or so plastered up and unable to play guitar, but still perfectly capable of wearing jean shorts. As usual, Corry over at Hooterollin’ has more info and some context to thereby heighten one’s understanding of the situation.

Also: John Cipollina. That’s it, that’s the whole tweet.

Now Playing At Fillmore South

Jaco started off crazy and then got hit on the head a lot, plus he was from Florida; poor bastard was doomed from the start.

ALWAYS A DEAD CONNECTION, TORTURED GENIUS EDITION: Bobby and Jaco were in a band together for 15, maybe 20 minutes. They called themselves Nightfood, and if you wanna know how they were, then listen to this:

Yeah. Don’t play Misty for me, please.

Ace Of Bass

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Hanging out with my new buddy, Les Maddox.”


“Gregg Maddox.”

You went the wrong way.

“Les Nessman.”

That is not Les Nessman, Bobby.

“Then why is there tape around his desk?”

That is Les Claypool, Bobby. He plays bass.

“And how.”

Hell of a bassist.

“He does that thumpity-bap stuff. Gets all four fingers involved; thumb too. All kinds of wild noises emanate thereof. It’s a scene.”

The man’s got his own style.

“Yeah, I keep finding those kind of bass players. Him, Lesh, Wasserman…they don’t play the instrument correctly. And, uh, I always enjoyed that.”

You even played with Jaco Pastorius once.

“Oh, yeah. That fellow was something. I was thinking about asking him to join Ratdog.”

Why didn’t you?

“Caught him going through my wallet. And, uh, we were on stage at the time.”

Jaco had a lotta personal problems.

“Yuh-huh. Y’can’t have that on the bus.”


It Was Fifty Years Ago Today…

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Losing a wrestling match, seems like.”

That is an enormous guitar.

“You need a permit for it in Mendocino County.”


“So, uh, you still got Covid?”


“I knew it started with a C. But I know you’re a bather, so it probably wasn’t crotchrot.”

Crotch is fine.

“Common cold. That’s two C’s right there. Although, cancer and crotchrot both have two C’s, too.”

I do not have the common cold. In fact, what I have is rare and I currently have a fever.

“Lemme ask you a question: how much spirulina are you ingesting daily?”


“Good. Stay the hell away from that crap. Superfood, my ass. Spent a long weekend on a Taos toilet after I tried that garbage.”

Avoid spirulina. Gotcha.

“Lemme ask you another question: Are you positive that you didn’t piss off a gypsy woman a few months ago?”

No such thing as a gypsy curse, Bobby.

“Sure there is. We’re discussing it right now. You even know how to spell it.”

I didn’t anger any gypsy women.

“Gotta be polite to ’em. I mean, you should be well-mannered with everyone you meet in your travels, but y’gotta give those ladies a wide berth. Deer, too.”


“Deer’ll kick your ass. Bambi was a lie.”

I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore.

“Well, uh, whose fault is that?”



Happy Halloweir

“…and, uh, the next morning, the teens found a hook stuck into the top of their car.”

What are you doing, Bobby?

“It’s Scary Story Season. So I lit up the ol’ campfire and started spinning some spooky yarns.”

You lit a campfire?

“I had Matt Busch do it. ”


“He missed his calling. Could’ve been a great arsonist. Y’blink your eyes and boom: fire. But, uh, he only uses his powers for good.”

Matt’s an ethical man.

“And he cares about the environment. Won’t use a disposable lighter.”


“Lotta fun at the campfire. We got Super S’mores.”

What are Super S’mores?

“Y’take s’mores-flavored Pop Tarts and use ’em as the bread in the sweetness sandwich. It’s gooey as all get out, but your mouth’ll thank you.”

Sounds delicious. What’s your favorite ghost story?

“I like the one where the call is coming from up your own ass. Y’know: you’re alone and the phone rings and the voice is all I’m gonna slice ya or whatever and so you call the police, and they trace the call and they’re like The call’s coming from your in your butt! Love that one.”

The call’s coming from in the house, Bobby.

“Yeah, sure. Your butt’s in the house, so the call’s technically coming from inside the house.”

No, it’s…forget it.

“Forget what?”

Don’t worry about it.

Frankie Says Relax; Bobby Says Vote

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Public service announcing. Everybody’s gotta vote this time ’round. Men, women, white, black, foreigners, babies…everybody.”

Foreigners and babies can’t vote.

“Inequality everywhere you look.”

Have you always voted?

“Oh, yeah. I believe in exercising my body and my franchise.”

What was your first Presidential election?

“That would be, uh, 1972. They had just lowered the voting age, so that was the first time I pulled the big lever of democracy.”



Y’voted for Nixon, didn’t you?

“McGovern was a naif.”


“And, uh, Nixon had a plan to get us out of Vietnam. I don’t remember if he ever shared that plan, but he said he had one.”

Okay. What about this go-round?

“Well, as you know: It’s a secret ballot. You close that curtain behind you and it’s just you and Sweet Momma America.”

That’s true.

“But, uh, between you and me and Mount Tamalpais: I’m going for the guy who hasn’t killed 200,000 people.”

Good call.

“There’s been elections where I was up in the air until November, but not this time.”

Easy choice to make.

“Everybody’s gotta get their vote in, because this motherfucker’ll be the death of us.

That’s some good public service, Bobby.

“You betcha.”

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