Bobby, what are you doing?
“Scuttling.”
Yeah. Spot on.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: bob weir (Page 28 of 198)
Hey, Bobby.
“Did you know Branford could play keytar?”
Jesus.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Bobscotch.”
Not a thing.
“Oh, yeah. See, I’ve been playing these songs for, uh, ever and I gotta keep ’em interesting.”
So you play a child’s game while you’re performing?
“It’s not a child’s game. Would a child wear this hat?”
No, Bruce Dern would wear that hat.
“Underrated Dern. Most folks go with Laura, but I’m a Bruce man.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Hold on, I gotta get this.”
…
“Yello?”
…
“Uh-huh.”
…
“Really, now?”
…
“Uh-huh. Could you, uh, hold the line for a sec?”
…
“Hey, you.”
Me?
“Yeah. Guy on the phone says is name is Clarence Darrow. Wants to ask me a few questions.”
I truly doubt Clarence Darrow is calling you, Bobby.
“Roman Sparrow?”
Ronan Farrow? Is that the guy’s name?
“Hold, please.”
…
“He says it is, yeah.”
HANG UP THE PHONE, BOBBY.
“He sounds like a fan. Actually, he sounds like Frank Sin–”
HANG UP THE PHONE, BOBBY.
“Why don’t you talk to him?”
What? No! I don’t wanna–
ROCK STAR HANDING A PHONE TO AN IDIOT NOISE
Ah, Christ. Haloooo?
“Hello, this is Ronan Farrow. To whom am I speaking?”
Holy shit, you look like your dad.
“Woody Allen?”
…
…
…
Yeah. Sure.
“Mm-hmm. I was calling to speak to Robert Weir, late of the Grateful Dead about some allegations made against the organization.”
Rowboat–
“Don’t call me that.
–there’s no story here. Trust me on this one. Whatever may or may not have happened was all consensual and in the spirit of highjinks and larks.
“Well, I’m just going where the facts take me. Can you put me back on with Robert, please?”
In a second. Lemme just ask you something: do you have a Time Sheath?
“A what?”
It’s like a time machine.
“So why don’t you just call it a time machine?’
Because “machine” implies technology, and the Time Sheath runs on magick.
“Was there a ‘k’ at the end of that word?”
Ronan, do you have a Time Sheath?
“No.”
The Grateful Dead does.
“Who the fuck would trust those morons with something that powerful?”
See, there’s the journalistic instinct that is serving you so well. I have no idea how they got the Time Sheath, but they did and holy crap the things someone with even the tiniest bit of imagination can do with it! For example, it could be used to strand a nosy nelly in the year 1322. You can do all sorts of things with it. Capiche, paisan?
“I’m not Italian.”
Uh-huh. Do we understand each other?
“Are you threatening me?”
Yup. Stay away from the Grateful Dead.
“Or what?”
SHWAZATHOOM!
Or that.
“THERE’S A FUCKING STEGOSAURUS IN MY OFFICE!”
Do we understand each other?
“FINE! FINE!”
Awesome. Big fan of your work, but stay the fuck away from the Dead.
“HOW DO I GET RID OF THIS THING?”
A meteor might do the trick.
“Oh, hey, Branford. I thought you and Elvis went to fight Hitler.”
“Motherfucker, why does that sentence make sense to me now? It wouldn’t have before I started hanging ’round you weird motherfuckers.”
“It’s, uh, amazing how fast the human mind can acclimate to new stimuli.”
“I don’t give a shit. No offense, Bob, but I’ve had enough of the time travel and whatnot.”
“Whole lotta whatnot around here, yup. ‘Whatnot’ is pretty much the dark matter of the Grateful Dead’s reality: we don’t know what it is exactly, but we know there’s quite a bit of it.”
“Did you just call me ‘dark matter?'”
“No, no, no. I, uh, don’t see color. Makes driving a hassle, but the Tesla does it all for me now.”
“Goddamn, I wanna get out of here.”
“Oi! Branny-Wanny!”
“Whoever called me that is catching some hands.”
“Sting? What the fuck are you doing being a part of this?”
“Well, Trudy and I accidentally learned the secrets of time travel via tantric humping.”
“No dumber than anything else I’ve heard so far.”
“And I heard your beautiful saxophonations through the infra-streams.”
“Okay, that’s dumber.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“That depends. Do you want to bring me back to where I came from, or are we going on adventures?”
“Adventures.”
“Cracker-ass cracker.”
“Why is Branford so angry, Jerr-o?”
“Ah, you know, man: skipping back and forth through the infra-stream is a bit disconcerting at first.”
“He makes it about race, though.”
“Well, in his defense, it is exclusively white people doing this to him. He’s just being observant.”
“It’s still hurtful.”
“Sack up, Gordon.”
…
“Jerr-o, did you see Branny-Wanny?”
“He lets you call him that?”
“I’m a knight; I can call anyone whatever I want.”
“Huh, didn’t know that.”
“Comes with the title.”
“You people are fascinating.”
“Seriously, though, where did he go?”
“Boy, what did I tell you about white people?”
“They were the devil.”
“Time travelling demons! Each and every one, even the ones seem okay. Tom Hanks? Time travelling demon.”
“I know, sir.”
“You dumber than a box of dicks.”
“I know, sir.”
“MotherFUCKER! How am I back here? Me and Miles drove off in his Lamborghini.”
“Did he turn left?”
“Yeah.”
“There you go.”
“Bob, you’re gonna explain what the fuck is happening or I’m shoving my horn up your ass.”
“Branford, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”
“Oh, this is some white people bullshit.”
“I won’t argue with you about that. Pig’s girlfriend and Merl Saunders said the exact same thing. I,uh, don’t know much about black people, but I do know that you folks are aggressively averse to time travel. Our bass player gets real pissy about it.”
“I’ll bet.”
“His name is Branford, too, as I’ve mentioned.”
“Uh-huh. Yo, Oteil?”
“Yeah?”
“Why does Bobby think you’re named Branford?”
“The Grateful Dead thinks every black man is named Branford.”
…
“I don’t know if I’m pissed off or honored.”
“I’d be pissed off if they knew white people’s names, but they just make up shit for them, too.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna tell me what’s happening here?”
“Well, remember that I’m the new guy.”
“Sure.”
“But we’re stuck in some sort of lazy universe full of unexplained magick.”
“Why’d you stick a ‘k’ on that ‘magic?'”
“Because magic is card tricks. This shit is some bullshit.”
“Uh-huh. And is there any–”
SHWAZZATHOOM!
“–way out ofOH C’MON!”
“Oh, hey, man. You back?”
“WHY DID THAT HAPPEN?”
“Did you talk to Oteil?”
“Yeah.”
“There you go.”
“THAT’S NOT A FUCKING REASON FOR TIME TRAVEL!”
“Yelling is almost always counter-productive, man.”
“Well, can you blame me? This is downright unsettling.”
“You get used to it. Good thing is that dying is less consequential.”
“What? You can’t die in here?”
“Oh, no, you can. But then the guy who co-wrote Billy’s book comes to the afterlife and brings you back in a racecar.”
…
…
…
“What!?”
“It’s not the most efficient method, probably.”
“AH’LL TAKE YOU HOME, MISTER BRANF’RD!”
“That can’t be who it sounds like.”
“AH HAVE BROUGHT WITH ME TH’ TIME SCARF T’ AID US IN OUR CHRONOLOGICAL TO-IN’s AN’ FRO-IN’S!”
“This is all just stupid.”
“AH SEE YOU AN’ YER GIANT SUNGLASSES THERE, HAIRY GARCIA!”
“Hey, King.”
“NOW JOIN ME, MISTER BRANFORD. WE GONNA GO ON ADVENTURES THROUGH TIME TOGETHER.”
“No, I don’t want to.”
“WE GONNA KARATE HITLER RIGHT IN HIS FACE!”
“Garcia?”
“Yeah, man?”
“What the fuck?”
“Well, it’s like the snake said to the old lady: You knew we were weird before you jammed with us.”
“SADDLE UP, SAX MAN!”
“Goddammit.”
“You having fun. man?”
“Fuck, man, I had no idea about you motherfuckers.”
“Yeah, we get it on for white boys.”
“This is a blast, Jerry. You do this every night?”
“Except for when we suck, yeah.”
“That happen a lot?”
“You’d be shocked.”
“Well, not tonight. I feel like I can’t play a wrong note.”
“You’ve got an open invitation, man. Hell, you can join the band if you want.”
“Lemme think about that, man. I’m really gonna–
SHWAZZATHOOM!
“–think aboutWHAT THE FUCK?”
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?”
“What’s up, Branford? Do you need some Fret-Eeze?”
“No! Where am I? What year is it? BOBBY? What the fuck? Where’s Garcia!?”
“Ah. What, uh, year do you think it is?”
“1990!”
“Ah. Did you, uh, play a D-flat?”
“I think so.”
“Well, there you go. It’s 2018, Jerry’s dead, I’m the Garcia now, Josh is me, and our new bass player is also named Branford.”
“What kind of white person bullshit is this?”
BANG!
“What the fuck?”
BANG!
“Bobby, someone’s–”
…
“Bobby? Damn, he’s quick.”
“I got you now, Wynton, you corny motherfucker!”
BANG!
“STOP SHOOTING! I’m not Wynton! It’s Branford!”
“Branford?”
“Yes!”
“Not Wynton?”
“No!”
“Hate that fucking brother of yours.”
“I know!”
“Hey, motherfucker. Why you hanging out with those old white motherfuckers?”
“I wasn’t! I was hanging out with middle-aged white motherfuckers and then I got shoved sideways through time or something!”
“Chill the fuck out before I slap you.”
“Okay.”
JAZZ SLAP!
“I was calm!”
“You was getting to calm. I helped you along the fucking way. C’mon, let’s go for a ride and I’ll take you back to wherever the fuck you came from.”
“You can do that?”
BANG!
“I’m Miles Davis, motherfucker. Course I can travel through fucking time.”
“I’m so confused.”
He can’t be in the band. The rhythm’s wobbly enough as it is.
“Who? Phil Collins?”
That’s not Phil Collins, Bobby.
“Tiny, cranky, plays the drums. Sounds like Phil Collins to me.”
No. That’s Lars Ulrich from Metallica.
“Ah. One of those Heavy Mental bands.”
The big one. Pretty much the Dead of Metal.
“How so?”
Only made two good albums, but they’ve been around forever. Made most of their money from merch. Their new bass player is ethnic.
“That does sound like us.”
Bobby, I gotta say that your wife–
“Natasha Monster.”
–looks spectacular. What’s her secret?
“She’s 30 years younger than me.”
That’ll do it.
Can you adopt me?
“Absolutely not. One’s all I can handle.”
You have two daughters, Bobby.
…
…
…
“Yes. Yes, I do. There’s this one and, uh, Lilly Saint.”
No, Bobby. Your other daughter is not named Lilly Saint Weir.
“Should’ve been.”
Oh, I agree. But I think it’s Chl–
“Chlorophyll!”
–oe. Chloe.
“Sounds very familiar. If I’m honest, that’s one of the things that my wife–”
Natasha Monster.
“–handles. It’s a partnership, marriage. She remembers stuff, and I buy all the sports cars.”
That’s fair. I’ve said it before, but: your kids are having a much different childhood than you did.
“Oh, yeah. This is a step up from a semi-stolen Ford Cortina.”
Little bit. God bless the child.
“She’s got her own.”
My father said he was at Woodstock, but he also said he was at Game 5 of the ’69 World Series where the Mets beat the Orioles; my dad said a lot of things.
OR
This is one of not-very-many photos of the Dead playing Ol’ Man Yazgur’s farm on this date 49 years ago, and holy shit is next year’s 50th anniversary gonna be annoying. Get ready for a lot of interviews with Country Joe and/or the Fish.
OR
Woodstock wasn’t Curveball. There was no glamping section, as the portmanteau had not yet been invented, nor was there a free-form radio station broadcasting from the site over multiple media. No webcast, ATMs, sculpture gardens, or pop-up general stores. Also, there was no water, food, or medical staff. It was just a fucking field and no one was in charge and it’s astonishing that everyone didn’t die of cholera. The past was terrible.
OR
“Billy.”
OR
The problems began with the stage. The production crew had built a circular contraption; instead of having to strike and reset the gear in between each band, one could play out front with the roadies set up the next group backstage. When it came time to switch acts, the stage would rotate 180 degrees. Repeat until Jimi Hendrix.
Except, of course, the Grateful Dead brought every amplifier in the world and the back half of the round stage sunk two feet into the mud. Which meant the production crew had to strike and reset the gear. This resulted in a delay of around an hour.
Then came the rain, which wouldn’t have been such a hassle had most of the band not had electrical equipment strapped to their chests. Or literally anything been grounded properly.
And the wind, which–again–wouldn’t have been a big deal had the Dead not strung up a giant sheet behind them for the light show. A giant sheet, Enthusiasts will realize, is also called a “sail.” The stage threatened to tip over before Parish and Ramrod clambered up, Captain Blood-like, to shred the canvas with their knives.
Also, their sound man was the Most Famous Drug Dealer In America, so they were way too fucking high.
OR
Speaking of knives: What the fuck, Mickey?
OR
I’d link their set, but they played Lovelight for 45 minutes and I’m not rewarding that behavior. 45-minute Dark Star? Yes, please. 45-minute Other One? This gives the Deadhead a boner. 45-minute Lovelight? Why do you hate America?
Here’s the only worthwhile performance from that muddy self-suck:
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“I, uh, have a question.”
Oh, this should be good.
“Which one of these folks is my bass player?”
Goddammit.
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