Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: bob weir (Page 38 of 198)

Keith’s Left, Keith’s Right, He’s Gone

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Why did Keith’s piano move from one side of the stage to the other, depending on what show it was?

“Two reasons.”

Were they shits and giggles?

“Little bit, yeah.”

Why would you do that?

“Gotta find your fun somewhere. We’d put his piano stage left for a few shows, then shift it to the other side, and he’d get so confused. One time, he just sat on a road case and started playing a monitor.”

That is kinda funny.

“Yup. He kept tweaking Bobby’s nipples trying to turn himself up.”

That’s damn funny.

“Certainly was.”

Amir, A Mirror

“Rando.”

Bobby, that’s not a rando. That’s Amir Bar-Lev, director of the acclaimed Grateful Dead documentary Long Strange Trip.

“Ah. I’m looking forward to watching it”

It came out several months ago, Bobby.

“I know. I’ve been, uh, binge-watching Friends. There’s like a million seasons.”

True. Friends? You like that crap?

“Great stuff. Y’know what that show’s really about?”

What?

“Relationships.”

Uh-huh. A certain kind of relationship, to be specific.

“When I watch, sometimes I like to wonder who in the Dead was who. For example, Phil is a Chandler.”

Could Phil be more Chandler?

“He couldn’t. And, uh, I’m a cross between Phoebe and Joey.”

Accurate. Garcia?

“100% Rachel.”

I can see it.

“Oh, and–and I don’t know if anyone else has noticed this–that Rachel girl always has her headlights on.”

Like Garcia?

“No. Jer was famously soft-nippled.”

This conversation has gone in a strange direction.

“Conversations often do.”

Sure.

“Wait. I know why I’m here.”

It always comes to you eventually.

“Lunch.”

Right. What’d you have?

“Vegan charcuterie.”

How was that?

“They just brought me an empty plate.”

Sure.

“And this is the director fellow.”

Yes.

“Amyl Ben-Nitrate.”

Nope.

“Amy And-Steve. No, that’s a couple me and my wife–”

Natasha Monster.

“–play parcheesi with. Was I close?”

Close enough.

“He seems like a decent sort. You sure he’s in show biz?”

Positive. Why?

“He didn’t molest me at all.”

He’s an ally, Bobby.

“Good to know.”

We Were Having A Thigh Time

These men got groupies.

OR

Younger Enthusiast, this cannot be explained away by invoking “it was the fashion of the time.” When the Dead wore rainbow trousers and fringed jackets and frilled shirts: well, it was the 60’s. That was what hip young men wore to attract groovy young ladies. But this bullshit? This bullshit right here? This bullshit was not the fashion of the time. This bullshit was not the fashion of any time in human history.

OR

It is rare, exceedingly so, that Bobby’s short shorts are the most acceptable pant on stage: if a bit risqué, they are still basic and classic jean shorts. Whereas Phil is wearing sky-blue velour and holy fucking shit there are cuffs on Garcia’s.

OR

None of their shoes are helping, either.

OR

If Phil sits down, his balls are escaping. That’s a fact.

OR

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Is Brent’s monitor on an end table?

“Yup.”

Why?

“Coffee table was too low.”

Sure.

Finger-Easy To Love You

You spray that shit on the strings?

“Oh, yeah. Finger-Ease. Love it. It’s, uh, pretty much my longest relationship.”

What does it do?

“It makes fingering easier.”

Could’ve answered my own question, I guess.

“Only for guitars, though. Not the other kind of fingering.”

Billy tried?

“Oh, yeah. That was a hospital trip.”

Really? It’s just a silicon-based oil.

“Yeah, yeah. But, uh, he shoved the can up a meter maid’s ass.”

That’ll do it.

“And, you know, every time she hiccupped, the nozzle would depress. She was starting to get full.”

No good for anyone.

“Well, Billy got free parking after that.”

Oh.

Rob, Bob, Bill, Hill

“Bobby Ace! How yew doin’, hoss?”

“Doing well, Mr. President.”

“Lemme ask yew a question, Bob.”

“All right.”

“Where’s the puss?”

“Uh, sir, your wife is right there.”

“Oh, man, it’s okay. Me an’ Hill got an arrangement.”

“Yeah? What’s that, sir?”

“I do whatever the hell I want all the time, and she faces the consequences.”

“Ah.”

“Billy here?”

“You know our drummer?”

“Shit, yeah. Me an’ Big Bad Bill got a common interest.”

“Skank?”

“Skank, yeah. That boy is a hound. Love Billy the K. Good people. You know that whole ‘triangulating’ bullshit we was all on about?”

“Sure.”

“Billy came up with that. ‘Cept it wasn’t ’bout no politics.”

“Was it about skank?”

“It was, it was. Skank got three usable holes, y’know.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“Hey, Bill. Bobby! So nice to see you again.”

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Clinton.”

“Can I trouble you for a quick favor?”

“I already donated to your foundation.”

“Not that. You got the Time Sheath?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“I just want to peek ahead a couple decades. See how it all turns out.”

“You don’t want that.”

“Do you have the Time Sheath or not?”

“Nope.”

Ready, Set-Up, Go

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Why?

“Which part?”

All of it.

“Drummers wanted to be up front.”

Why did you let them?

“Why would I care? They wanna set up in the bathroom, I’ll set ’em up in the bathroom.”

What about Phil?

“What about him?”

Why is he all the way in the back?

“He was feeling anti-social today.”

Sure. Precarious?

“Yeah?”

Is there any security at all?

“Now there is. Shitloads of it.”

What about in 1970 when the picture was taken?

“Yeah, no. No security at all. Concept didn’t exist. You hoped that the kids were too fucked up to riot, and the road crew punched stagehoppers. That was it.”

The good old days.

“The old days.”

It’s A Set-Up

We are told that the triangle is the strongest shape found in nature, but triangles do not occur in nature. Lot of shit’s triangular–mountains are pretty trianglescent, for example–but no actual triangles. Spheres? Circles? Absolutely. Bees’ll do ya up a nice hexagon. But triangles? Nah.

And certainly not hairy rhombi, which is the configuration the Dead have assembled into here. The Mickey-Bobby and Phil-Billy-Garcia (hereafter known as MB and PKG) line segments are parallel and share a slope of +1 (roughly).  The rhombus is an inherently unstable shape, which is why the Egyptians did not entomb their kings in them. (Also, Ptolemy hated rhombuses. “Your name being spelled wrong is my thing,” the pharaoh would often say, to which his courtiers did not respond, as the joke only works in modern-day English.)

Which brings me to my thesis: the Grateful Dead did shit wrong.

Is that your thesis or an overarching theme?

Both.

Okay.

Look at them. I mean, just look at them. Everyone is entirely off their kilter; perhaps no one had even been on their kilter at all that day. Besides the asymmetry–which would be bettered if Pig were in the shot–it’s the bocce court in between Mickey and Billy that’s the beauty bit.

You see those monitors? They’re not monitors. They’re speakers shimmed into position with some stolen motel Bibles. Monitors are wedge-shaped so you don’t have to lean them against stuff to get them into the right position, and in 1970 they didn’t exist. So you propped up some PA speakers, plugged ’em into the board, and fiddled with knobs until they didn’t feedback. That was about it. And they were just for the vocals, really; you heard your guitar through the nine giant amplifiers stacked behind you.

So, if you wanted to hear the drummer, you had to stand right next to the drummer.

But the mic was all the way at the front of the stage, so Phil had to run up Drummer’s Alley every time he had to sing. (Do you think he waited til the last second and sprinted up dramatically like the big-time Rock Stars used to do? Or was it a casual mosey? It was a casual mosey, wasn’t it?)

OR

Whatever their current relationship, Phil and Billy used to be Shirt Buddies, and that’s how I’ll continue thinking of them.

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