Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Being handsome in a very time-specific fashion.”
True. This particular handsome you have going on is limited to, like, two years in the late 70’s.
“Or current-day Brooklyn.”
Sure.
“You think I need some more air on the thatch?”
Not really.
“I can undo another button or two.”
You can, but you shouldn’t.
“I’m gonna.”
Go to it.
When did Phil stop drinking? Because this is from before that. I think it’s ’85; that shirt combination was one of Garcia’s favorites in ’85.
OR
“So it’s me and Mydland and Jer. and we’re singing or something.”
“Okay.”
“But then the camera pulls to out reveal we were on a monitor.”
“I don’t think there’s a special effects budget.”
“We’ll figure it out. Anyway, now we’re in the studio and you read the copy or whatever and Billy sits there and dicks around.”
“Right.”
“But then the camera zooms out…”
“I’m listening.”
“And I’m sitting there, too!”
“I don’t get it.”
“I was in the teevee monitor.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then I’m sitting next to you.”
“You can always sit next to me, buddy.”
“Weir, I just fucking can’t with you today.”
OR
There are (at least) three schools of thought about the Grateful Dead’s business acumen, two of which are wrong and believed by others, and one of which is correct and obviously belongs to me. The first is that the organization was made up of apple dumplings with scrota full of glitter and hugs; men and women who cared nothing for the material and did it all for the fans, and for the music. Maaaaan.
The second take, the revanchist take, the contrarian take, is that the Grateful Dead were visionaries of commerce and communication. That their early-adopter stance towards technology advanced the industry as a whole, and that their intuitive use of branding led to memetic penetration of the teenage mind via ballpoint drawings of Stealies on desks and backpacks, and then you’re gonna hear a rap about how tapers either built the internet or were the internet. Run from these types.
The truth is that the Dead did all the same bullshit the other big bands did, but–due to congenital bushiness of their collective league–they almost always fucked it up. They tried hard to be big stars, and they worked diligently at pushing merch; they played Lovelight for 45 minutes at the biggest gig of their life, and they made commercials like this.
Go watch that bullshit again. I demand it. You must. I’ll wait.
…
CASUAL WHISTLING
…
Did you see that bullshit?
Did Precarious Lee write this script? What is for sale? “Projects and products.” What is that, Grateful Dead? You literally could not be less specific. “Projects and products” encompasses actions and objects. You’re basically saying “We have nouns and verbs for sale.”
Also: calling back? Younger Enthusiasts, before the internet there were far fewer ways to buy stuff. You went to the store. Other than that, you had catalogues. You wrote the company, usually longhand, having been taught both the proper format for a business letter, and enclosed a check or money order in the envelope. Mailed it off and then waited. There was no app to obsessively check the status of your package, so there was joy in the surprise when it arrived.
After a while, you could call an operator and order out of the catalogue.
By ’85, you could also shop on teeevee. Call the number on the screen, give ’em your credit card number, and they’ll send out your Ab Weasel. (The Ab Weasel was an actual weasel that bit you if you stopped doing sit-ups.)
And that was it. There was no “call you back.”
So: the customers had no idea what they was buying, and–even if they wanted to put their money down on sight-unseen merch–needed to wait for you to get back to them?
Good work, Grateful Dead. Proud of ya.
What are you wearing?
“Gardening gloves, work boots, and a yoinked shirt. You know: bicycling gear.”
What happened to spandex? You bike people love that bullshit.
“Oh, that’s just for when you’re on public roads. Then, you wear that stuff so everyone knows you’re exercising, not that you’ve gotten so many DUI’s that you don’t have a license.”
Oh, that’s what that crap’s for.
“It’s a status signal.”
Man, being a white person is complicated. Any thoughts on John Mayer’s outfit from last night?
“Who?”
Josh Meyers.
“Ah. You’re referring to his toppermost.”
Everyone needs to stop saying that non-word.
“I liked it. Looked, uh, roomy. Very comfortable. He let me try it on after the show.”
Oh, no.
“Thinking about getting some for myself.”
I forbid it.
“They got more pockets on the inside than you’d think. Wouldn’t need my fanny pack.”
No. This is not happening.
“Bobbermost.”
Goddammit.
No, Bobby.
“I’m, uh, the Chief.”
I know your nickname is Chief, Bobby. But you’re gonna make people mad at you.
“Where are they?”
The internet.
“I don’t care.”
Excellent choice.
“Besides, uh, we got a thing going on here.”
What?
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Stop talking to me like 14-year-old Henry Hill when he gets caught selling stolen cigarettes.
“All right, but you can’t say anything.”
Promise.
“This whole sensual harassment thing?”
Sexual.
“I do it sensually.”
Sure.
“Anyway, this whole ongoing kerfluffle? Well, uh, the RRS are getting a pass.”
RRS?
“Remaining Rock Stars.”
Ah.
“After 2016, everyone’s just happy to have any of us left, so we’re on the cuff as far as getting accused of anything. Grandfather clause, kinda.”
That’s great news.
“Billy’s thrilled.”
I would imagine. How about you?
“Couldn’t care less. Never harassed anyone in my life. When I took it out, everyone in the room was happy. Sometimes, you know, it would get taken out for me.”
Nice when they do that.
“Shows they’re team players. But, yeah, harassment is when the chick doesn’t want it to happen. Girls used to break into buildings to meet us. Well, me.”
So you’re covered? I can’t read about any of you in the Times or the Post. They’re alternating pervert stories every day lately.
“You’re good. You all caught up on that?”
Got my daily fix today, yes.
“Pete Rose, huh?”
Charlie Rose.
“The guy with the table?”
Yeah.
“Ah.”
…
“I could see Pete Rose being one of those, though.”
Oh, hell, yes. Pete Rose has been grabbing at every tit he’s seen for six decades.
“Maybe it’s his turn next.”
Who can tell the future?
This, Younger Enthusiasts, is what was called General Admission. Clubs and small theaters without seats still use it, and fly-by-night festivals, but promoters who didn’t buy their insurance from Antoine’s House of Chicken and Indemnity try to break the crowd into smaller pieces now. Three or four paddocks on either side going back. This keeps your audience safe. (Or controlled, however you want to think of it.) Otherwise, the audience surges towards the stage when the band starts and doesn’t stop until everybody’s favorite fun game, Take A Step Back.
That’s how shitty free-for-all GA was: it went wrong so often that a song (kinda) was named after it. There are famous Take A Step Backs, for fuck’s sake. The band couldn’t have enjoyed doing that, either. How can you choogle when you’re watching a 15-year-old in a tube top get crushed against a police barrier? It also killed people, making GA the equivalent of Communism: an idea so bad it’s lethal. Eleven kids at a Who concert in ’79, three at an AC/DC show in Utah in ’91, two at Donnington during Guns n’ Roses’ set.
Younger Enthusiasts will also notice that there are no Superluxe Esteemed Guest Praetor’s Suite boxes upfront.
Keen-eyed Enthusiasts will note the ultra-rare sight of Phil playing a normal bass guitar.
Keener-eyed Enthusiasts will spot the chick in the black tank top standing next to the tall guy and know that Bobby was making eyes at her the whole set.
All Enthusiasts will notice the loose wires all over the goddamned stage and know who was responsible.
Jeff Chimenti looks like a beloved high school music teacher who’s also a member in good standing of his local BDSM community.
OR
Billy and Oteil have both noticed the meatball the intern is holding aloft. This will not end well; Billy loves meatballs, and interns. Oteil also enjoys meatballs, but no one’s getting tackled for one. Billy’s gonna tackle the intern.
OR
All new on CBS this season: Friends. Due to legal incompetence on the part of Warner Brothers, the rights to remake Friends became available, so CBS cast these six and they perform the episodes line-for-line. It’s fucking terrible. (Bobby used to be a Joey, but now he’s a Phoebe. Mickey is Ross. Josh banged Rachel.)
OR
Can Mickey still fit the merch he’s yoinked these past few tours into a storage space, or does he need a warehouse?
OR
ATTENTION PLEASE: Billy has new sneakers.
OR
I can’t see his feet. Is Oteil in his goddamned flippity-flops? Bobby had the sense of decorum to put on his formal socks, but I think Oteil is going full flop. You are not running into a Sarasota Publix in for a chicken tender sub and a sweet tea, Oteil. At least Bobby’s sandals are made of leather.
Pss pss pss.
I am being informed that there are such a thing as vegan sandals, and even if Bobby didn’t care, he would most likely wear them just so not to get protested by Lilian Monster.
OR
What is that?
“My toppermost?”
Your kimono.
“No, no. It’s a Japanese-influenced men’s toppermost designed by Givenchy in associated with streetFUVK”
There’s no such thing as a toppermost.
“You only know about poor people clothes. We have access to shit you’ve never heard of.”
Uh-huh.
“This is what I like to call ‘Fun John.’ Real playful, just mixing and matching and, you know, trying to display my own style. I’m always thinking ‘What is my aesthetic?'”
What is your aesthetic?
“Guy who spent an hour deciding what to wear.”
You nailed it. What is that garment made of?
“Ultrasilk.”
Is that like ultrasuede? A synthetic?
“No, it’s real silk, but much fancier. The worms are all wearing little tuxedos–get this–made from the silk that they themselves produced. It’s self-sufficiency in action.”
Is it expensive?
“Oh my God, yes.”
Ballpark it for me.
“Where are we?”
What?
“I wanna know how far my dollar goes. We could buy a town in most countries for what this thing cost.”
We’re in America.
“You could start your own business.”
Pre-built space or custom structure?
“The second thing.”
Goddammit, Josh Meyers.
“Don’t call me that. Don’t worry about how I spend my money.”
I’m not worried. I’m judgmental.
“Kiss my ass. What should I do with my money?”
Take as much of it as you need for yourself and give the rest to the poor.
“I will not.”
Well, there you go.
“And of course you’d say to give my money to the poor. You’re the poor.”
I’m just repeating the words of some Jewish guy I met once.
“You would buy just as much stupid bullshit as me if you had a nickel to your name. Easy to make a decision for someone else when you’ll never face it.”
You’re right. Absolutely right. Tell you what: you give me all your money. Then you’ll see that I would live up to my words and distribute it to the needy.
…
“This is a trick.”
It is.
“You wouldn’t give the money away.”
I would.
“I don’t believe you.”
If you’re feeling froggy, leap.
“What if I gave you a little bit of money and saw if you gave that away? Like, as a test.”
No. I will keep and squander any amount of money less than all. All or nothing. Maximum Christ, baby.
“I’m gonna pass.”
“I like that toppermost, boy.”
“Them other white boys look like homeless lumberjacks or some shit. Hats on indoors. They lucky I got a cocktail.”
“Oh, wow, Mr. Davis. Hi. My name is John Mayer.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
“I am such an enormous fan of your music. I have every one of your albums, every single one. You’re one of the most important men in musical history. In American history! It’s just such an honor. Wow.”
“In the key of E flat, what does the C minor resolve to?”
“G minor.”
“You see this medal?”
“I do.”
“You holding?”
“We are. Collectively.”
“Gather that shit up. Those motherfuckers look smelly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice. Respectful. Hey, motherfucker.”
“Me?”
“The other motherfucker.”
Me?
“Yeah. Why didn’t you introduce me to this white boy before? I like this young man.”
Awwwwww. I wanted you to hate him.
“I’m fucking unpredictable.”
Aw.
Stop looking at Mickey, Jeff Chimenti.
“I can’t. His doohickeys are vibrating.”
Did he explain himself before the performance?
“Kinda. He said, ‘New Brent–‘”
He still calling you that?
“–I’m tired of being a Vulcan. I’m an Andorran now.”
Is that a Space Track reference?
“Maybe. I’m not a nerd.”
Good for you. Stop looking at him.
“He’s just so fascinating.”
In his own way.
You’re more iPad than man now, Bobby.
“Technology is just incredible. Couldn’t live without these suckers.”
What do they do?
“One on the left is for social media.”
Twitter?
“Pinterest.”
Sure.
“And, uh, the one on the right is for gaming.”
Oh, no.
“Yeah, I’m a gamer now.”
Don’t be a gamer, Bobby. Be anything but a gamer.
“Too late. All in. I’ve, uh sent a number of death threats to Nintendo this morning.”
Why?
“I told you: I’m a gamer now.”
Awesome. How do you feel about not being named 2017’s Sexiest Man Alive?
“Better than not being named 2017’s Sexiest Dead Guy.”
I admire your sanguine outlook.
“Uh-huh. I never quite got a handle on what that word means.”
Me, either. I was hoping you wouldn’t call attention to it.
“Ah.”
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Do I want to know what’s in the sack?
“No.”
…
…
…
Is it–
“Not a human.”
–a human? Okay.
“Just let this one go, boss.”
It’s gonna be tough.
“Suck it up.”
Mickey’s raccoons?
“Let it go.”
Fine.
Is that directed at the rest of the band because of the Cumberland?
“Little bit. You know, uh, usually the train wreck comes in the middle of a song. I haven’t seen anything start that poorly since the Obamacare rollout.”
Topical. Nice.
“I read the papers.”
Bobby?
“Uh-huh?”
How come you’re flipping off your band three nights ago for something that happened tonight?
“Are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”
Hey, don’t pull that shit on me, man.
“You asked for it.”
I did, yeah.
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