“WAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha do–
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
Um, why are you yell–
“TOOOOOOOONGGGGGGGGUE!”
Okay, that’s it for this post.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: bob weir (Page 13 of 198)
40% casualty rate is good, right?
OR
Billy found his drum kit in a Cracker Jack box.
OR
Why are they set up like a normal band? Pig should be on a different truck ten yards away, or Phil should be in the driver’s seat. This is, like, how you’re supposed to do it.
OR
Phil still weighs exactly the same, and still has the same amount of hair.
OR
Young Garcia = Chubby Slash.
OR
That fucker was at every single rockyroll show in the 60’s. The shirtless dude with no body fat doing his freaky-deaky arm-wavey dance? He was at every show.
OR
Obviously, Pig is not playing the gargantuan Hammond B3 organ that was his usual instrument; that is a far more portable (and affordable) Vox Continental, and it is unbelievably cool.
See? Sounds good, too:
Hear?
“Young lady, I’m gonna need you to reassemble my piano right now.”
“It’s a harp, Bob.”
“No, no. You can’t be a harp player; my drummer would be hurling drumsticks at you.”
“I swear to you that what I’m playing is a harp.”
“Uh-huh. And was it invented–”
“Harpo Marx did not invent the harp, Bobby.”
“–by Harpo…ah. So his name was just a coincidence, then?”
“Um, sure, yeah.”
Good to know.”
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Receiving an award, apparently.”
You didn’t know you were getting that?
“I thought I came on the stage to jam with Peter Tosh.”
He died in ’87.
“Peter Tosh’s hologram, then.”
No. What is the award for?
“I have no idea. It’s a lovely gesture, though. I’m, uh, gonna thank some Jewish fellows.”
Why?
“Well, I watch the Oscars every year, and that seems to be the thing to do. Get an award, thank some Jews. So, uh, here goes: Thanks, Mickey. And, uh, who’s the redhead with the voice who runs this festival?”
Peter Shapiro.
“Him. I thank him. Yaphet Kotto, too. Wanna be diverse in my appreciations, so I’m gonna thank Yaphet Kotto.”
Bobby.
“The man’s a Jew.”
Bobby.
“Wouldn’t know it from looking at him, but he’s a full-on Hebrew.”
…
“And, uh, that lady who plays Wonder Woman.”
You done?
“With what?”
Good speech, buddy.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Reclining. I’m, uh, getting ready for Passover.”
Sure. Why are you doing it onstage?
“Well, you know the Jewish fellow who isn’t Bill Graham?”
Peter Shapiro.
“He’s got a theory that I don’t have to play any more to draw a crowd. People just, uh, wanna be in my presence before I go. So, we’re testing the theory.”
You’re gonna make Deadheads buy tickets to watch you snooze on a futon?
“No, of course not. We’re gonna let them.”
Ah.
“And there’ll be VIP packages available.”
Of course.
Here.
“We don’t gotta hold hands, Bob.”
“It’s not a sexual grasping, Sam.”
“I know, I know. You can let go, though.”
“No, uh, tantric pleasure is being derived thereof. As you can see from my face.”
“I see your face, man. You don’t wanna smile for the crowd?”
“Nope. Giving ’em the glower.”
“It’s like they’re revenuers you want off your land.”
“Well, Sam, I wasn’t in Van Johnson–”
“Halen.”
“–and I don’t know much about your heavy mental world. Maybe grinning like a sap is what you folks do, but the Grateful Dead always went their own way. We glower. Actually, most times we’d just ignore the audience entirely. Never got into that Hello, Cleveland stuff.”
“Okay, man, okay.”
…
“Bob, are you brushing my palm with your middle finger?”
“Yes, but it’s not sexual.”
“About my height, but not as handsome. Brown hair. I, uh, think he dyes it nowadays.”
“I haven’t, Bob.”
“Although, if you meet the him that’s from 1986, he won’t need to dye his hair. It’ll still be brown, though.”
“Huh?”
“Goes by Hewis. He’ll, uh, yell at you for calling him that, but I don’t know why. It’s the man’s Christian name.”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
“Nifty.”
OR
Look how wee an iPhone looks in Scottie’ massives grawpers.
OR
Kind of a dick move for Walton to stand with Scottie. Bobby must have felt like he was standing at the base of Mount Rushmore.
Everything fuzzes and slides together, where you start and the world ends, and the colors eat each other.
The summers become one, but the beatings will remain sharp until they don’t; violence has an integrity which kindness does not.
And then no more faces, no more words, it’s all just the hard, white empty.
“You said you knew the damn song, Bob.”
“I know lots of songs.”
“This song. The one we’re playing right now. The Boxer.”
“Oh, no. Never did any of that. I’m more of a tai chi man. Much more relaxing. And, uh, you don’t get punched in the nose quite so much.”
“The song! The song is called The Boxer!”
“Is it about Boom Boom Mancini?”
“No, Warren Zevon wrote that one.”
“We could do Werewolfs of London. I know that one in and out. You got a slide I could borrow?”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Paul, I gotta take this.”
“What!?”
…
“Weir here.”
“ARE YEW HAVIN’ TROUBLES WITH YER ACCOUNTANT, HAIRY GARCIA?”
“Oh, no, Elvis. Everything’s copacetic.”
“AH GOT NO IDEA WHAT COPACABANA MEANS, SO AH WILL ASSUME YEW ARE SPEAKIN’ IN CODE AN’ NEED RESCUIN’!”
“Don’t you usually wear clothes?”
“NO.”
“Ah. Right. Don’t you usually wear jumpsuits?”
“UH-HUH.”
“Well, that’s settled.”
“AH WON’T HAVE MAH BES’ FRIEND HAIRY GARCIA GETTIN’ ROUSTABOUTED BAH NO TINY BAGELFACE! AH WILL DON MAH FINERY, GET IN TH’ STUTZ, AN’ BE THERE MOMENTARILY.”
“Sure, uh-huh, gotcha.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGHT PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
…
“Okay, what chord are we on?”
“Bob, who the fuck was that?”
“Elvis.”
“Elvis Elvis? He died 40 years ago. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Paul Simon, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fic–”
“Oh, just shut the fuck up.”
*Gonna be straight with you, Enthusiasts: I’m a little disappointed in myself that it took all day and four posts to come up with this title. It really couldn’t be more obvious.
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