Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 1 of 183)

This FaceApp Thing Is Out Of Hand

“Who’s this jamoke?”

“This? He’s, uh, Top of the Pops. Tom of the Dell. Something in that neighborhood. He writes about us.”

“Seems squirrely. Want me to bop him?”

“No, no. He’s okay.”

“I got my knife. I could saw through his achilles tendon real easy.”

“Overkill. Parish, he’s fine.”

“I got my eye on him.”

“Why do you think I’m so relaxed?”

“Parish?”

“Yuh-huh?”

“What, uh, exactly is going on with you and that blonde guitarist who’s young enough to be your granddaughter?”

“Purely Platonic.”

“Ah.”

“In the sense that Plato was Greek, and so I meant we only do anal.”

“Ah.”

A Challenge To John Mayer

Dear John,

Hi. How are you? I’m fine. It is very hot here, and there are iguanas everywhere. The animals will not take to befriendment. If you’ve ever met an iguana, you know what I mean!

Anyhoo.

You’re a coward, Meyers. You’re a toe-dippin’ son of a bitch. You fear the depths, my butt-chinned friend, and instead float atop the waters. It’s a low quality in a man. It’s the reason Steve Aoki doesn’t return your texts. He can smell a dilettante a mile away; everyone knows that about Aoki. You dabble. You’re a nibbler. Dude, you’re Cliff’s notes.

You think wearing Madonna Tee-Shirt makes your bones, Meyers? Not on my watch. Not even on your stupidly-expensive watch. You wanna impress us?

You go Full Bobby, or you got no balls, Meyers. Do it. You wanna. You know you wanna. You’re dying to do it, so do it. Release him. Release all of him. Go Full Bobby.

Only then, can you truly become New Bobby.

Sincerely,
ToTD, DDS

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.

For The Enthusiasts Not On Twitter*

Josh Meyers has donned what is certainly a vintage tee-shirt–not a newly-printed replica like some disgusting poor person might buy–from Madonna’s 1987 Who’s That Girl tour.

(FUN FACT: In support of her third album, True Blue (which had Papa Don’t Preach, Open Your Heart, Live To Tell, the title track, AND La Isla fucking Bonita on it), Madonna’s tour lasted 38 shows and made her $25 million; the Dead played 86 shows in 1987, and made about the same. Plus, Madonna didn’t have to split the dough with five other guys. On the other hand, Madonna didn’t go on tour and earn $25 million in 1988, whereas the Dead did. On another hand, Madonna continues to perform as she didn’t die too young, and in a strange bed. On word to your mother hand, Madonna has gotten sad. On Dr. Joyce Brothers’ hand, all the great ones get sad. Remember Dick Cavett prompting Groucho through his old bits, and Groucho was just tired and sparse and gray? Madonna’s like that now, but with more environmentalism. Hands, man. Got a lotta hands involved here.)

That paragraph became incoherent.

Dude, you can’t hear me when I’m in parentheses. It’s an aside to the audience.

It’s not. 

I’m going back to my point, which is non-essential. At best, this piece of information is classified as “non-essential.” If you had to evacuate, you would leave this knowledge behind. Yet, here we are:

Josh is, of course, paying tribute to one of the most storied of all the Bobby Shirts, Madonna Tee-Shirt. Bobby wore this on 7/26/87 at Anaheim Stadium, along with his most famous shorts:

It was an iconic night for all of us.

Occupying the Pantheon along with Snake Tee-Shirt, Pink Polo, and others, Madonna Tee-Shirt instantly became a fan favorite, and by that I mean everyone made fun of Bobby and some people were angered. The word “faggy” was thrown about quite a bit, I’d imagine. Younger Enthusiast, remember that this was 1987, and irony hadn’t been invented yet. At least not wide-scale dissemination of it, and definitely not in shirt form. (That was my generation. We did that in the 90’s. We came up with the concept of wearing shirts with lame shit on them. That was Generation X. We did literally nothing else, but the shirt thing was ours.) Tee-shirt fronts were for sincerity. To wear the shirt of an unloved band was simply unthinkable. It was 1987, and there was no difference between one and one’s shirt.

How could Bobby wear that shirt, man? Moochie had a bad trip from that shit. Her forthright sexuality freaked Moochie out! Tell him, Moochie!

“…”

See!?

Deadheads were aghast at that bullshit, Younger Enthusiasts! Madonna? Madonna? Deadheads prided themselves on their catholic tastes in music, as long as they got to define “music” as “a noise made by a handful of shaggy white guys.” Madonna made music–if one could call it that–for other people. Girls, mostly. Sensitive boys. And morons, let’s face it. If the general public were intelligent, then the ’83 Lake Placid Sugaree would be #1 on the Pop charts this week, but the public are drunken fools, and so the newest slurry from Post Malone is #1.

A Deadhead could not consort with the Whore of Detroit, it simply wasn’t done. A Deadhead could be into metal, sure. Or complicated jazz. Or the right kind of country, maybe. A Deadhead might listen to all sorts of unpleasant foreign bullshit, especially if Mickey mentioned it once in an interview.

But Madonna?

It simply wasn’t done.

 

 

Oh, yeah: Bobby got the shirt directly from Madonna when he met her two years after he wore the shirt onstage. No one knows why Bobby used Time Sheath technology to perform at a rainforest benefit with Debi Mazar, but he did.

 

 

*Good decision, by the way. The common euphemism for Twitter is a “cesspool,” but I do not believe Twitter lives up the those lofty standards. A cesspool, you will note, keeps the shit in.; it doesn’t let the poison seep out and contaminate the surrounding world. Twitter fails at this task. Another difference is that a cesspool is a necessary item we all like to ignore, whereas Twitter is unnecessary and we can’t stop staring at it. I can do this all fucking day, Enthusiasts. Twitter is killing us all.

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.”

Tangential To The Line

Aren’t those things supposed to have pedals?

“Yeah, but they’re tricky. I’m just faking it over here.”

Is that a Dusenberg Pomona 6?

“You had nothing better to do than to find out where I bought my steel guitar?”

No. Jesus, look at this website. It’s the digital equivalent of the Champagne Room at the Porsche dealership.

“There is no Champagne Room at the Porsche dealership. They’ll take you into the break room and tongue you for a while, but there’s no ‘Champagne Room.’ The GM will usually tug at you, too, if you seem receptive. That’s not abnormal for us.”

Us?

“The rich.”

Ah.

“Almost all of our services come with a tugger attached. At the very least. Sometimes you’ll get more, or even way more, but you’ll always get a tugger. I buy a watch for a million? I expect free shipping, and I demand to be worked off.”

Capitalism is scary.

OR

Okay, this is absurd:

And there’s no prices. My father warned me about that. Everyone’s fathers warned them about that.

Jesus Christ. Look here:

SHOW ME YOUR BUTTHOLE.

Stop it.

I feel home within buttholes. THERE IS MUSIC IN YOUR BUTTHOLE.

You barely even wrote 200 words, and lost control in the curve. Why can’t you concentrate?

Boo, you’re the worst. Anyway, it turns out that Duesenberg’s aren’t as ferociously expensive as they might be: you can get a used Pomona 6 for $2,300, cash on the barrel, which seems about right for a fancy guitar. Duesenberg guitars are not made by intolerable hipsters–

–but by clueless foreigners. Try and read that paragraph without a comically German accent. Duesenberg ist DREI MACHT STEPPEN! Also: Dieter Golsdorf? Here he is:

Because everything is a circle, maaaaaan.

Those Wild Backstage Happenings

Is it weird that I can recognize Matt Busch from the back of his head?

“A little.”

And that’s Katie Skene behind you.

“Good for her.”

You all right, buddy?

“Been two-fisting rosé since noon.”

Hey, it’s summertime.

“That was my excuse, yeah.”

Art Rock: Forever A Thing

This one’s got everything, Enthusiasts: Ann Magnuson and David Sanborn having a Hair-Off, underage back-up singers, multiple bass players, and Bobby looking even more confused than normal.

Credit for the find goes to Esteemed Commentator JES. Not thanks. I don’t know if thanks are in order here, but blame can be placed.

Hammer, Toes

This is, without a doubt, the whitest thing I’ve ever seen.

“And, uh, I’m listening to John Prine.”

Wow. So, so, so white. Speaking of which, where’d your armpit hair go?

“Friction rubbed it off around age 60 or so.”

Huh.

“The human body ages in many wonderful and exciting ways.”

How many pairs of toe shoes do you have?

“I lost count at eight. They’ve got their own road case, let’s say that.”

Huh.

This Hammer’s Gonna Be The Dead Of Me

“The, uh, boss man said–”

No.

“–that he had a steam drill comin’ round.”

Stop it.

“And, uh, if I should die with my hammer in my hand, then my wife–”

Natasha Monster.

“–will pick it up and finish my work. And then maybe do some hot yoga.”

You look mythic.

“That’s what GQ said.”

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