Why do..
…all these…
…baby werewolfs…
…look so fucking much like Bobby?
(I don’t know what the fuck this is, so maybe you can tell me.)
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: bob weir (Page 35 of 198)
Just about sums it up more than anything I could ever write, dunnit?
“I’m not gonna tell you to slow it down again, Josh.”
“Was I going too fast?”
“Oh, yeah. You were, uh, not holding your horses at all. Free horses, man. I don’t know if you know this–”
“You spent a summer on a ranch.”
“–but I spent a summer on a ranch, so I know my horses. Gotta be held. Otherwise, you know, you got chaos.”
“We don’t have chaos, Bobby. We’re killing it.”
“The fans have grown used to Dead & Company tempos, and this sudden shift might discombobulate them.”
“I think they’ll be fine.”
“They’ll be relieved of their comboble.”
“‘Comboble’ is not the root word of discomb–”
“Don’t lecture me, Josh.”
“I let the first one go, but I have to correct you this time. I’m not Josh. In fact, there is no Josh.”
“There’s no Josh? Am I manifesting my imaginary friends again? That happens occasionally.”
“John. The man’s name is John. And I’m not him. I’m Trey.”
“Are you the one who plays basketball?”
“No, that’s Bill Walton. I’m Trey Anastasio. I played with you for the Dead’s 50th anniversary.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“How’d it go?”
“Eh.”
“Sounds right. Now, listen: whoever the hell you are, and however the hell you got on stage: slow the hell down or I’m gonna do attack yoga at you.”
“Gotcha.”
“So, uh, where’s this Jane lady? I’ve had some experience with drug abusers. Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
“There’s no Jane, Bob. That’s the name of the band. Jane’s Addiction.”
“Did she die?”
“She never existed.”
“I have several friends that don’t technically exist, but it doesn’t stop me from caring about their wellbeing.”
“It’s just made up, Bob. Just a name. Like how there’s no actual dead people in the Grateful Dead.”
“Well, uh, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s tons of dead people in the Dead.”
“Why don’t we just jam?”
“Okee-doke.”
“Hey, tell Big Red over there to slow down.”
“I keep telling him, Weir. He won’t listen.”
“Gingers can be obstinate.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Is Radio City an actual place?”
“No.”
“Because, uh, I’m picturing a universe like in the children’s film Cars.”
“But instead of cars being alive, it’s radios?”
“Yeah. And the fancy systems are racist against the transistors. And, uh, the senior citizens are all AM car radios with the push-button.”
“And then video comes and kills everybody.”
“There you go, there you go.”
“Hey, how much did you tell Treyvon we were gonna pay him?”
“Oh, I didn’t. I thought you were having that conversation with him.”
“Nope.”
“Ah.”
“So, no one has discussed him getting paid?”
“Looks it.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“Good idea, yeah. We should give him cab fare, though.”
“Oh, sure. And I got a shitload of coupons for the restaurant.”
“That’s perfect.”
“I think so.”
“I’d like you to meet my secret, Mexican family.”
No, Bobby.
“Please, uh, don’t tell my regular, American family.”
You are not related to these people.
“This lady here is my wife, Phlebitis.”
Are you all right?
“All the way on my right, which would be your left, is my brother-in-law Luis Agarraculo.”
Stop this.
“On the other side of the aisle is, well, we don’t exactly know. He kinda came with the house. There’s some sort of feudalism situation going on down here.”
There isn’t.
“And the remaining two are our strapping young sons, Primero and Segundo.”
Bobby.
“Primero is older.”
I got that. Bobby, none of what you’re saying is true. These people are not your family.
“Es this verdad, Papi?”
“Tell him that we are familia, Papi!”
“Settle down, boys. You, uh, you better go. You’ve riled them up.”
This whole site gets dumber every day.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTt7QzIu2XU&t=728s
Enthusiasts, I was wrong–wrong as hell–about the Bobby & Phil Duo shows. I thought they would be goofy (they are, but in a good way), and sloppy (they are, but in a comforting way), and most of all I thought they would be boring.
I was not prepared for the jams, Enthusiasts. This is last night’s second set with Trim Arugula, and you should watch it.
“It just doesn’t work, Weir.”
“It’s a great backdrop.”
“You tacked up your old Farrah Fawcett poster.”
“Right. Great stuff. It was, uh, cold that day.”
“It’s coming down. This is a swanky place, Bob. We gotta go upscale.”
“I could draw a bowtie on her.”
“No poster.”
“Okee-doke. You’re right, this is classy in here. Much better than the Mattress Firm Amphitheater.”
“Jesus, is that what those sheds are called nowadays?”
“You got the cash, they’ll put your name on the building.”
“I miss the old days. The venues had better names.”
“Like the Miami Jai-Alai Fronton?”
“Okay, not that one.”
“Onondaga War Memorial Auditorium?”
“Ugh, not that one, either.”
“The Iowa State Fair?”
“Just forget I said anything.”
“Done.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m not in the band any more, Bobby.”
“Are you sure? We’ve got a rug. Usually, when you and me are standing on a rug, then that means the Grateful Dead is on the move.”
“The rug notwithstanding.”
“What exactly was it we fired you for?”
“I didn’t get fired, Weir.”
“Was it sexual harassment? Very popular these days.”
“Can we just figure out what we’re gonna play, please?”
“I got a great idea. When I was in Mexico, I learned a whole bunch of narcocorridas.”
“Let’s not get the cartels involved in this.”
“You should hear ’em. They’re plaintive as all get-out. We’d, uh, need several trumpeters and the same number of giant hats.”
“Let’s stick to the usuals.”
“I sing a couple of cowboy songs, you bleat out a few of Jer’s numbers, we doodle at each other for fifteen minutes, donor rap, we’re in the van before the lights come all the way up?”
“Bingo.”
- Dicks out for John Perry Barlow.
- The whole set’s acapella.
- Hologram Garcia. (Do not make Hologram Garcia.)
- Even though it’s just the two of them, they’ll still manage to fuck up the ending to Samson.
- A confused and out-of-place Antelope Greg wanders in and starts a fistfight with Rockstar Richard.
- No drummers; 15 minutes Drums.
- More stories from the ranch.
- Out of habit, Phil tries to upsell the crowd on the jalapeno poppers.
- You dosed the Rockettes? I dosed the Rockettes. Jesus, how many people dosed the Rockettes? We should check on them.
- Mayor DiBlasio gets humiliated in public by a guy from Miami. (New York politics joke.)
- “Maybe, uh, they should call it ‘Internet City Music Hall’ now. Just saying.”
- Trey joins in on guitar, gets all psyched up to play the riff from Fire on the Mountain, Bruce Hornsby steps on it again, Trey cries.
- Baby Levon on percussion.
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