Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
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.
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.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Well, I’m not scowling.”
That’s big for you when you’re getting your picture taken.
“I knew you’d appreciate the gesture.”
Is Jackie Greene related to Benicio del Toro?
“I have no idea who either of those people are.”
Jackie Greene is the person to your right who isn’t your wife or Matt Busch.
“Is that who that is?”
Yes.
“I thought it was Steph Curry.”
No.
“Then why did he sign my basketball?”
“Long history behind those hats, y’know.”
“The ones the Navy guys are wearing?”
“Yeah. Originally, sailors just put jellyfish on their heads.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“It is, it is. Remember what Churchill said: The history of the Navy is based on rum, sodomy, and putting jellyfish on your head.”
“He didn’t say that.”
“Pretty sure he did. Plus, you know: sailors can’t wear helmets.”
“Why not?”
“Scurvy.”
“Let’s just sing the song, Bobby.”
“Okay, you’re gonna do the Pum-ba-dee-da part, and I’ll sing the words.”
…
“We’re not doing Happy Trails, Bobby. There’s no Pum-ba-dee-da part.”
“Ah. What about Ah-weem-ah-way?”
“Not singing that one, either.”
“What are we singing?”
“National Anthem.”
“Which nation?”
“America.”
“Happy Trails is an incredibly American song.”
“Bob.”
“So is Lion Sleeps Tonight, now that I think about it: black guys wrote it, and white guys stole all the royalties. Nothing more American than that.”
“Bob.”
…
“How about we do El Paso?”
“Gotta sing the National Anthem, man.”
“Whatever happened to freedom of speech?”
“We’re not speaking. We’re singing.”
“You make a good point.”
“Y’know, Mickey’s not the only one who knows how to execute a proper Merch Yoink.”
Nice. You and Jackie Greene are singing the anthem tonight, huh?
“Yup. Very exciting. We petitioned for a different song, but they were adamant.”
You didn’t want to sing the Star-Spangled Banner?
“Not especially.”
Why not?
“It’s a shitty song.”
Okay.
“There’s too many damn notes in the melody, and the lyrics are all about blowing people up.”
Morning Dew is about blowing people up.
“Sure, yeah, but the narrator of Morning Dew is upset about it. Whereas the authorial voice from whence the National Anthem issues is gleefully martial.”
Good point.
“But it’s mostly the notes. You gotta start down way lower than you’d imagine, or you run out of vocal range real quick.”
I’ve heard that.
“And, uh, you can’t dance to it.”
Strike three. You ever gonna wear that jersey?
“It will almost certainly be stolen by Monet to be worn as a dress on Instagram.”
Yeah.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Rando War?”
Nope.
“Then, this must be my wife.”
Natasha Monster.
“Solid woman.”
You two have been married forever.
“Not as long as Phil and Jill. But longer than any of Garcia’s marriages, yeah. Garcia liked getting married a whole lot more than he liked being married.”
Sure. What’s your secret?
“I once ran over a homeless guy right outside of Dallas. Kept on driving.”
I meant your secret to a lasting marriage.
“Ah. Well, the key to the whole thing is to marry the right person. Honestly, that’s about 99% of it.”
What’s the other 1%?
“Separate bathrooms.”
Sure.
“Hey, uh, maybe we could forget about the Dallas thing?”
Already gone from my mind.
“Great.”
Please tell me–
“I didn’t call him ‘Branford.'”
–you didn’t call him…oh, thank God.
“Been calling him ‘Reggae Steve.’ He, uh, hasn’t objected.”
That’s good.
“This was a popular haircut for our crowds. You saw a white kid with this haircut in the 80’s, they were our fans.”
No one in the group ever adopted the look.
“There would have been a meeting. We talk about it being a rule-less gestalt that we created in the Grateful Dead, but there were standards. You had to stand up, and you couldn’t have dreadlocks. Shirts. Some bands have a flexibility on the shirt question. The, uh, Foxy Pepperpots.”
Red Hot Chili Peppers.
“Yeah, sure. Those guys hate shirts. That’s what it seems to me, at least. But, uh, the Dead didn’t do that.”
An unwritten dress code.
“There you go.”
And that went for hair.
“It was expected that one would have the same haircut as everyone else, given some leeway for hair texture and individualism. Most of the guys went to Big-Dicked Sheila.”
You didn’t?
“She’s a lovely gal, but she wasn’t A-list. I used to fly down to Los Angeles twice a month to get styled by Renaldino. He was the partner of the guy they wrote Shampoo about.”
Wow.
“They made him the star of the sequel.”
What was it called?
“Conditioner.”
Sure.
“Lotta the Deadheads had similar hair to yours.”
“That so?”
“Oh, yeah. Wild stuff. But you’re going all the way with it. The towel is something. Looks like your hair’s being hugged by a Muppet.”
“Irie up yourself.”
“Back atcha.”
What’s going on here, Bobby. Walk me through it.
“Oh, you can’t walk through it. The machine’s solid.”
It was a euphemism.
“Ah. So, uh, this here is a piece of apparatus meant to stimulate your latissimus mueslix. People don’t know this, but every muscle has a foreign name. They’re not just your hammies.”
I think people know that.
“The trick is to not get too swole. I got a tendency to slap on the muscle, and then I look like Lou Ferrigno. Not great for the act. I got a hippie crowd, they’re not about that.”
Sure.
“That’s my one true regret. That I didn’t get jacked.”
Really?
“Sure. In, like, the 80’s. Made friend with some of the guys sitting on Muscle Bench. Got some of those crazy pills and salves and whatnot. Bought one of those belts. You know the belt?”
I know the belt.
“Made out of leather. Real thick. I feel like I had the genetics to become what’s called a mass monster.”
Hippie crowd, Bobby.
“We’re all allowed to dream, man.”
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