Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Whither the All-Star Super Jam?
Everybody, everybody
Everybody on stage for the All-Star Super Jam.
It’s in D
No, not A
B flat?
Fuck off with that, man
It’s in D.
Somebody
Grab Ringo
Set up a kit for Ringo
He’s gotta do it
Wouldn’t be right to All-Star Super Jam without Ringo.
You’ll take a solo
Then I’ll take a solo
And he’ll take a solo
It’s in D, remember.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Honestly? No clue. Am I at a Dead show? There’s a little kid wandering around the stage unsupervised, and that happened at pretty much every Dead show.”
No, I think this is a charity thing.
“Ah. Fellow on the bass is awful boisterous.”
He’s got an energetic stage presence.
“I can see. We, uh, never got up to much of that in the Dead. Mostly just stood there. I had a couple moves. Did the Lunge. Gave the fans the High-Knee once in a while. Lotta stuff going on with my neck.”
Yup. Those are your moves.
“Phil tried skanking for a couple shows.”
The reggae dance?
“Yeah. Turns out it’s not that easy. False advertising.”
I guess.
“Question.”
Shoot.
“What the hell happened to Emmylou Harris?”
That’s not Emmylou Harris. That’s Patti Smith.
“Ah. She is the warrior.”
No, you’re thinking of Patty Smyth. This is the Patti Smith from CBGB’s.
“She’s a punker?”
Yes.
“I’m having a wild night.”
You sure are.
Hey, Pig. Whatcha doing?
“Freezin’! Got t’ get back t’ California where the ol’ Pig c’n roast in the sunshine! You c’n put an apple in my mouth f’r all I care! Jus’ gimme some more fahrenheits, man.”
Is this Europe?
“Looks it.”
What did you think of Europe?
“Ain’t for me! Everything’s all wrong here. Can’t find a Mr. Pibb to save my life!”
I don’t think they had Mr. Pibb in Europe in 1972.
“Or ribs! The ol’ Pig had hisself a hankering for a rack o’ babybacks, but no can do. Didn’t matter which country we was in, I’d ask and the waiter’d look at me funny! Sometimes, they’d say somethin’ in European. Now, the ol’ Pig only speaks American like a good Christian, but I got the gist! These garcons was not being complimentary!”
Barbecue is kind of an American thing, Pig.
“Then fry a man up a chicken! Gimme somethin’ I can eat! Suckers kept tryin’ t’ get me t’ order organ meat. Whole continent o’ people thinkin’ a pancreas is lunch! No wonder they lost the Big One! Wasn’t fed right!”
You got a point.
“I could have all the points in th’ world. Still won’t get me a decent cheeseburger over here.”
True.
Valued Commentator JES brings this to our attention, presumably out of passive-aggression. The credits say that Bobby’s on the track, but I can’t hear him. The vocalists are Felder and Sammy Hagar, and the dweedly guitar is Joe Satriani, so where’s Bobert?
What’s happening here, Bobby?
“What’s, uh, happening here is that I still got it.”
Who said you didn’t?
“I can still pull, man.”
Good for you.
“And, uh, I don’t know if you noticed the particular brand of legging she’s wearing, but they’re sending a signal.”
What’s that?
“Everything’s in play.”
Is that what those mean?
“Oh, yeah.”
Bobby?
“Yuh-huh?”
Aren’t you married?
“Nobody’s married on the tour bus.”
Oh.
“One of the oldest rules there is.”
Sure.
BOOTY.
Stop that.
THICC.
I told you to stop it.
Like two fine hams making love under an ugly blanket.
Why won’t you knock it off?
Because the Enthusiasts demand the content that Jambase and Live4LiveMusic won’t provide.
Yelling nonsense words about a dead man’s tushee?
Precisely. Won’t get this shit from Pitchfork, either.
Are you wearing yoga pants?
“All pants are yoga pants if you’re bendy enough.”
Why the sudden pivot to fitness blogging?
“Gotta up the follower count on the Gram. Monet has been coaching me. Trying to get some spockcock going.”
Sponcon.
“Spooncows.”
Sponcon, Bobby. It’s short for sponsored content.
“Ah. And what about the spoon cows?”
I have no information about them.
“Thoughts and prayers. So, uh, we’re just really talking about ads here, right?”
Yes.
“I’ve done plenty of ads.”
Some people would call that selling out.
“Fuck ’em.”
Sure.
“Most of the ads were for guitar companies and so forth. They’d snap a few shots of me and I’d leave with a trunkful of gear and an envelope of cash. Luthiers were a lot less reputable back in the 70’s.”
I’ve read that.
“What kind of stuff gets promoted on Instagram? Chapstick?”
No. Weight-loss teas and tooth whitening gel and hair-thickening gummy bears.
“All I heard was ‘snake oil.'”
Good ear.
“You should see my feet.”
I’m really trying not to look at those.
“Weir, lemme lend you my comb.”
“I’m fine. Free and shaggy.”
“You look like a hobo. Not even a high-status hobo. You look like the hobo the other hobos goof on.”
“Really, I’m good.”
“Grahame, fetch Daddy’s hair implements.”
“Jeez, Dad, I’m talking to–”
“50 grand to get you into college and you’re in a jam band. I’m sick.”
“Dad, stop saying that.”
“I might go to jail, Grahame. Mommy and Daddy might go to jail because we had to bribe people to get you into San Mateo Junior College.”
“That’s not true, Pop. Uncle Bobby, he’s telling stories again.”
“GET DADDY’S COMBS, BOY!”
…
“Kids, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. Is yours on Instagram?”
“All he does all day.”
“Uh-huh. Does your kid get as many unsolicited dick pics as mine does?”
“Our children have different kinds of Instagram pictures, Weir.”
“Sure, sure. Hey, Phil?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you that puffy or is it just your coat?”
“Just my coat.”
“Okay.”
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Core work. Gonna get me some abominables.”
Abdominals.
“Abracadabras.”
We just call them “abs,” buddy.
“Abelardandheloises.”
Way off.
“Abortionondemands.”
I’m gonna go watch P-Funk.
“Happy hunting.”
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