Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
It’s like a denim farm exploded.
OR
I would throw these men out of Starbucks.
OR
Is Bobby playing the ‘There was a fly on your head’ game? Yes, Bobby is playing the ‘There was a fly on your head’ game.”
OR
Just don’t look at him.
OR
Ten bucks says Mickey called what he was smoking “SEE-gars.”
OR
Seriously, don’t look at him.
“Gimme my beard back.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Gimme my–‘”
“I can’t hear you.”
“‘–beard back!’ You can hear me, dickwad.”
“What?”
“I need it, man.”
“I need it, too.”
“Can, uh, you two stop fighting?”
“Shut up, Bobby.”
“Zip it, Weir.”
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Well, uh, it’s the 80’s.”
Oh, yeah.
“So, I’m taking advantage of the fact.”
The only way this photograph could be more 80’s is if you were playing Dig Dug.
“More of a Crystal Castles man, myself. There’s something soothing about the trackball.”
I agree completely. Who’s the lady?
“Got me.”
Where’d the tie come from?
“Same answer.”
Your hair looks awesome.
“I go through six blowdryers a tour.”
Worth it.
“I think so, yeah.”
“Josh, slow down.”
“You’re like 40 years off, Weir.”
OR
Nothing says “professionalism” like a couch pillow lazily stuffed in a bass drum.
Hey, Pig. Whatcha doing?
“Movin’!”
Yeah?
“Groovin’!”
Sure.
“Doin’ it, y’know!”
You were the hardest working man in show business.
“Nah. The ol’ Pig was lazy as sin an’ you know it! I liked to screw an’ watch teevee!”
Nothing wrong with that.
“Me an’ Garcia met the Godfather. I ever tell you this story?”
No.
“1969. Him and us was both playin’ in New York City, so we went uptown to see him. Invited us backstage, gave us cold beers, treated us real nice. Talked to the man for twenty minutes!”
About what?
“I got no idea!”
Sounds right.
“Couldn’t unnerstand a damned word!”
I’ve heard that about James Brown.
“An’ then he fined us fifty bucks apiece.”
I’ve heard that, too.
“We tried tellin’ him that we wasn’t even in his band, but he jus’ doubled the fines on us. That man ran a tight ship!”
You guys played one of his songs.
“It’s a Man’s World. Yeah, I liked doin’ that number.”
Why didn’t you do more of James Brown’s songs?
“Heh. We ain’t got the right kinda bass player.”
Nope. Why do you have two tambourines?
“You only got one, it gets lonely.”
Oh.
You’re done with the La Croix, huh?
“I, uh, don’t need your commentary on my drinking hobby.”
Habit.
“They’re virtually the same word if you have a speech impediment.”
That’s not a metric we judge vocabulary on.
“You play your game; I’ll play mine.”
You ever think of getting any tattoos?
“Sure, yeah. I was gonna get a big swastika on my chest. But, uh then I remembered that I wasn’t a Nazi.”
No.
“Or a Buddhist.”
You’re close.
“Yeah. I’m Buddhish. I was thinking about maybe an eagle on my face.”
Do not get a tattoo of an eagle on your face, Bobby.
“It would really up my Soundcloud clout.”
Bad idea.
“Maybe some pot leafs on my cheeks.”
Are we still talking about your face?
“I think so.”
Don’t do it. Whenever I see someone with tats, I wonder what they’ll look like when they’re 70.
“Well, uh, that was last year for me.”
Oh, right. Get all the ink you want.
“Sweet.”
Bobby. Buddy. I want you to concentrate on your cheeks. The muscles in there. Pull them upwards.
“My smile isn’t free.”
Fine, I’ll pay.
“You don’t have enough cash.”
True. What’s going on here?
“I think this is my uncle.”
Nope.
“Elderly cousin?”
Nuh-uh.
“Do I have an older brother?”
You don’t. That’s Chris Robinson, and he is 20 years your junior.
“You’re, uh, shitting me.”
Swear to God.
“Huh.”
What’s in the La Croix?
“Straight tequila.”
Sure.
“So, uh, you’re a weatherman now?”
“No, Bob. I’m interviewing a woman named Stormy.”
“Ah. And this gal is who?”
“She is an adult actress.”
“Like Betty White.”
“Not that kind of ‘adult,’ Bob. Pornography.”
“Keith did that for a while. Not a pleasant-looking man, but he had a hog on him. He went, uh, what’s called ‘gay for pay.’ Although sometimes he would work directly for drugs, and he called that ‘straight for weight.’ Keith would stick it anywhere if you paid him.”
“I have no idea who this Keith person is.”
“Now, uh, why are you interviewing this sex-lady?”
“Because she apparently had an affair with the President and then got paid off to keep quiet.”
“To keep quiet? Billy used to pay chicks to tell everyone how well he humped.”
“I don’t know who these people you keep talking about are.”
“They’re top men, Whitey.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“And, uh, now this Stormy woman is the Special Counsel?”
“No.”
“I thought we were talking about Stormy Mueller.”
“We weren’t. And there is no such person.”
“Well, then, I’m lost.”
Why do you keep stealing children?
“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass! Look! I got tykes.”
Where did they come from?
“Vaginas.”
Not what I meant.
“And balls. Kids are stored in the balls before they get scooched out the wowzer. This is basic stuff, man. Your dad should’ve had this conversation with you.”
I know where babies come from, Billy. I meant these specific children.
“They’re my grandkids.”
Oh, that’s sweet. How many grandchildren do you have?
“At least two.”
Sure. What are their names?
“Buddy and Sweetheart.”
No, that’s what you call them. What are their actual names?
“I got no idea. Remembering names is a mother’s job. I’m a grandpa: I pull quarters out of ears and eat gross shit in front of ’em. Good kids, though.”
All kids are good kids.
“Nah. Kids are just little people. Some of ’em are complete assholes. But these ones are all right”
Is your grandson playing with Bobby?
“Yeah. Weir’s yelled at him twice to slow the fuck down.”
The circle of life continues.
Bobby, what the fuck?
“And, uh, ‘hi’ to you, too.”
When did you start reviewing concerts?
“Four years from now.”
Care to explain?
“Sure. I remember it as if it were tomorrow.”
Stop being so casual about causality.
“This was 1978. Cartermania was in full swing. That humble Georgian had lifted America’s spirits.”
Your last two sentences are completely incorrect.
“We were in Nashville, which is called Music City. Now, the buildings aren’t physically made of music, if that’s what you were thinking.”
I wasn’t.
“I made sure.”
Continue.
“We do our show on Saturday night to, like, twelve people. And, you know, not attractive. It was a small, ugly crowd. I wanted them to find their bliss, but I wanted them to do it elsewhere, you get me?”
I do.
“Backstage after the show, someone tells me that Bootsy Collins is gonna be there the next night. I say, ‘Catfish’s brother?’ And they say, ‘Yeah.’ So, I gotta go.”
Bootsy, baby.
“Place was packed. And not ugly. I mean, the Dead sells out a lot, but the crowds are still unpleasant to look at. Lotta dudes in blue jeans who just threw up. Or are about to throw up. Instead, it was wall-to-wall suits and dresses. And the crowd was, uh, different than ours in other ways. Well, one way.”
Black crowd.
“Is that what we’re saying now? ‘Black?'”
That’s what we’re saying in the now when I am. In the now when you are, God only fucking knows what you’re saying. Let’s stick with black.
“No one was barefoot. Not a one. Guys had ties on. And not just normal ties: massive suckers. There were Windsor knots the size of grapefruits. And the ladies all had their hair did.”
Black people dress up for stuff more than white people do.
“It’s preferable, I gotta tell ya. They smelled better, too. There was some Hai Karate, there some Brut by Faberge. Quite a bit of cocoa butter. Much nicer than our fans. Our fans smell like balls. By, like, the fourth or fifth show in a tour? You’ll be onstage and all you can smell is balls. Summers are the worst.”
True.
“I got steamed. My dander went right up. And, uh, I went back to the hotel and I wrote an open letter to the Deadheads. Asking them, you know, to shower and cut a more refined figure. And also fill up the venue.”
Okay.
“But, as you know, I’m dyslexic so the open letter came out a concert review.”
No.
“And I figured ‘Waste not, want not’ and sent it in to the paper.”
No. That’s not what happened. That’s not how dyslexia works.
“I have a very individualized form of the disorder.”
You’re not gonna tell me, are you?
“I don’t honestly remember the incident in the slightest.”
Good answer.
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