Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Oh, no. Bobby?
“Yeah?”
Don’t let him start soloing.
“Well, you know, I’ve stood next to some obsessive solo-ers before.”
Not like this guy.
“He’s got a lot of notes in that guitar.”
Just trust me on this one. He gets going and you’re gonna be there all night.
“Sure, sure. Now, uh–”
Steve Vai.
“–you wouldn’t happen to know…ah, gotcha.”
You two are representing both extremes of the male shoe spectrum.
“I can see that.”
If there is a camera within 100 feet of him, Bobby can sense it. And glare at it.
OR
An incomplete list of Parish’s strengths:
If Parish grabs you, you’re grabbed.
OR
The fellow in the blue is Steve Silberman. He wrote the indispensable Skeleton Key: A Dictionary For Deadheads, which was a bit of a tangible shibboleth of Deadheadedness in the 90’s: every single Deadhead owned this book. (Of course, there were fewer books about the Dead back then, as opposed to the shelves’ worth you see today.) And he’s in Long Strange Trip, where he does a wonderful thing by discussing the Deafheads, who should be brought up often and loudly.
“Who’s your favorite band?”
…
“Oh, they’re cool. My favorite band is so good that even Deaf people listen to them. Checkmate.”
OR
Nice pants, Bobby.
“They were sold to me as a ‘clingy slack.'”
Is there spandex in there?
“They got a lot of give.”
OR
That’s Bobby’s wife, Natasha Monster, and she’s in Long Strange Trip, too; everything she says is eminently reasonable to the point where you wonder how she got involved with a Grateful Dead.
When Phil makes that face, you need to give him about three feet of space or you’re getting bitten.
OR
Bobby?
“Uh-huh?”
Is that a Fender?
“Yeah. But, you know, it still cost twenty grand.”
Oh, thank God. I was worried.
“It’s a ’59. This sucker liked Ike.”
He was a genial sort.
“People don’t know this about Eisenhower, but he was our most graceful president.”
Really?
“Moved like a panther.”
I learned something today.
“Yup, okay.”
OR
Bobby’s wrist is reaching Johnny Deppian levels of tchotchkes and bric-a-brac.
OR
Phil loves that green flannel so fucking much I cannot begin to describe it. It might be his wubby at this point. Don’t believe me? Here’s Phil tonight:
Several of you go to Terrapin Crossroads regularly; someone bring Phil a new shirt.
This looks like a Before/After shot in a laxative ad.
OR
“Kobe got fired? I thought he retired.”
“James Comey, Bob.”
“Who did he play for?”
“He was with the FBI, Bob.”
“Female Body Inspectors?”
“No, that’s not a thing.”
“Then where did Billy get the tee-shirt?”
“Just play the song and glare at the camera, Bob.”
“You bet.”
“Whammy bar.”
Nice.
“I’m all-in on the whammy. Some people call it a wang bar, but I don’t. Shouldn’t play with your wang onstage.”
No.
“Billy did a couple times.”
I’m sure.
“Y’see, the bridge here isn’t solid. It floats on a pivot. Your, uh, basic fulcrum is what’s at work in this situation. Then this bar–that’s the whammy–rocks it back or forth using the principles of leverage.”
I understand how guitars work, Bobby.
“Archimedes said ‘If you give me a whammy bar long enough, I could solo so loud the whole world would hear.'”
He did not say that at all.
“Most of the fans don’t know my longtime love of the whammy bar.”
None of your guitars used to have them.
“Oh sure. The Flying V.”
What?
“The double-neck.”
Nope.
“The one shaped like a Jack Daniels bottle.”
That’s a bass guitar, and it belongs to Michael Anthony.
“I should call him.”
Bobby, are you having a moment? Did your shoulder start hurting?
“Nah, I’m messing with you. I just like to daydream about being one of them heavy mental rockers back in the 80’s. Those guys were wild.”
You serious?
“I dug the pyro. And the makeup was neat. The whole presentation of the thing.”
What about the music?
“Oh, God, no. Not for me. I used to leave Headbanger’s Ball on mute while I played Ell Fitzgerald records or whatever. I tried listening to it, but I found the bands were all much better suited to be looked at than listened to.”
A prescient observation.
“But, yeah. Between you and me?”
Sure.
“Once or twice when I was home alone, I got the blowdryer and the AquaNet and just went for it. I looked like I was in Dokken.”
Awesome.
“If the internet had been around, I would’ve ordered some of those sissy-biker clothes they used to wear, but I didn’t want to be seen buying it.”
Makes sense.
“I’ll tell you this: those guitar guys played too many notes.”
Are you just jealous?
“No. Whole point of picking of an instrument is to sound like no one else. Those guys all sounded like each other. I sound like me. I win.”
…
“I’m a little jealous of the tapping. I thought that was neat-o, but I could never figure it out.”
It’s all in the wrist.
“It’s not.”
No.
“Why are you staring at my hair, Bob?”
“Looks great. Just bought it?”
“I don’t wear a hairpiece, Bob.”
“Sure, sure. Hair system. Whatever they call them now.”
“Weir, it’s all me.”
“Ah, yeah, I dunno.”
“Whaddya mean, ‘I dunno?'”
“Well, everyone knows I’m the one with the good hair in the Grateful Dead.”
“40 years ago. 40 years ago, you were the guy with the good hair. Now, due to the vagaries of male genetics, I have the hair.”
…
“Like how the Democrats and Republicans flipped in ’68?’
“Please don’t compare my hair to the Southern Strategy, Bob.”
“I make no promises.”
When dunces give you that “Jerry didn’t want it to be about politics, maaaaaaan,” jive, just remind them the Dead were literally the house band of a student riot. This is 5/6/70 on the Kresge Plaza at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The band was scheduled to play the next night in the gym, but when the kids took the campus in protest of the National Guard murdering four Kent State students, the Dead agreed to provide the soundtrack; they were hidden in the back of a bread truck and smuggled onto the site. (It looks like they didn’t bring Pig’s organ.) It was cold–May in Boston can get wicked chilly–and they had more trouble keeping their guitars in tune than normal, but the set’s got a crackly and wired energy; Dancin’ in the Street is the highlight, which makes sense given the context.
Garcia didn’t do politics because he was terminally passive-aggressive, but the Grateful Dead always chose sides, and it was always the side you’d expect.
Not one question about Thoughts on the Dead, not even an allusion.
“You looking forward to the tour?”
ALL BOBBY DOES IS TOUR, JIMMY JARBLES! Ask him something important, like “Why did you pick the wrong guy to write the Amazon show?” or “Do you agree with The New Yorker that TotD is a genius?”
“Do you remember 1977?”
BOBBY DOESN’T REMEMBER BREAKFAST, JUNIOR JOHNSON! Here’s something interesting you could have done: Word Association. Let’s see how it would go:
Hey, Bobby. I’m gonna say a word, and then you say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Isn’t that how talking usually works?”
…
Yes.
“All right, then.”
But let’s do this, anyway.
“You bet.”
Choogle.
“Hamper.”
Hamper?
“There are no wrong answers in Word Association.”
But it makes no sense.
“When your clothes get all choogled up, you put the in the hamper.”
Where did you learn to speak English?
“One a ranch one summer.”
And so on.
YOU’VE BURIED THE LEDE, JASPER JOHNS! An opportunity wasted to talk about me. My heart breaks for America.
Luckily, the great Jesse Jarnow redeems himself in the Lord’s eye with this article about the Dead’s visits to Minneapolis, which, sadly, does not include a thousand-or-so words describing the imagined hilarity of Craig Finn from the Hold Steady trying to sing Stella Blue. (Short version: not well.)
“How’s the little one?”
“Baby Levon?”
“Sure.”
“The best. I’m teaching him to read.”
“English?”
“Yes, Bob.”
“Hey, ya never know. Me and my wife–”
“Natasha Monster.”
“–Natasha Monster were going to raise Chloe in German.”
“Why?”
“Scheißt und kichert.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“That’s the only German I know.”
“Makes sense. We’re gonna stick to English for now.”
“Now is really the time to teach him other languages, though.”
“That’s true.”
“Get the busboys on that.”
“A bit of a racist assumption, Weir.”
“I’ve met them.”
“Still.”
“That polite fellow that runs the Vault speaks Canadian.”
“Not a language.”
“Now who’s the racist?”
“Weir, the kid’s American. He’s gonna speak English and that’s it.”
…
“Was I supposed to bring the drummer?”
“I wasn’t going to mention it, but: yeah.”
“Darn.”
“I heard they built a casino on Saturn.”
“No, Bob.”
“Oh, yeah. Big place. Steve Wynn, I think.”
“Cassini, Bob. It’s a spacecraft that’s crashing into Saturn?”
“How do you crash into Saturn? It’s big enough to avoid.”
“It’s crashing intentionally.”
“Insurance scam?”
…
“How are the drummers?”
“No idea. Haven’t heard from Billy since Mexico. I think Mickey’s taken up painting.”
“Like Dubya.”
“More nudes, but yeah.”
“Mickey paints nudes?”
“No, he paints nude.”
“Right.”
“You, uh, should call before you stop by. Learned that lesson the ugly way. How’re the busboys?”
“Restive.”
“That word always confuses me. It sounds like ‘rest,’ but it means the opposite.”
“Like enervating.”
“Phlegmatic.”
“Right, yeah. If you’re full of phlegm, you should be a madman, not calm.”
…
“What were we talking about?”
“Casinos.”
“No, Bob. Hey, man: remember to say hi to Brent before you leave.”
“He still in the turtle suit?”
“He lives in that thing.”
“He’s expressing himself. And, you know, you’re saving money on hiring a kid to wear the suit.”
“You always see the silver lining.”
“Glass is half-full.”
…
“Phil?”
“Yeah?”
“Did we forget to call a drummer?”
“Apparently.”
“Ah.”
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