Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
“Let’sss play Ssshakedown Ssstreet.”
“Quiet down, Snake Tee-Shirt.”
“Weir, tell your shirt to stay out of band business.”
“Excuse me, but if Bob’s shirt gets a vote, then my tank top gets a vote.”
“Nobody’s shirt gets a vote, man!”
…
“See what you started?”
“Sssorry, Bobby.”
We found Barb.
Perhaps as usual I’ve stumbled onto a theme for the evening: the rank unprofessionalism of the past. All of this–every single part of it–is unacceptable in today’s shiny and buffed branding exercise of a culture: the duct tape all over the piano, the circus tent, the plywood the plywood the plywood holy shit the plywood. No one even thought to order some tie-dyed curtains from Nighthawk to drape over the backdrop which, as I have mentioned, is just naked plywood.
So much unused space to announce corporate partnerships.
OR
Precarious?
“Yo.”
What are you doing?
“Checking the stage to make sure it won’t collapse.”
You think maybe you should’ve done that before the band got on it?
“Things get gotten to when I get to them.”
…
Okay.
“You all right?”
Took me a second to parse that sentence.
“You knew what I meant.”
I truly didn’t.
Fun fact: Garcia was pissed. In ’94, the Dead was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and Garcia decided not to go for several reasons; the rest of the band had a cutout of him made up and took it to the ceremony. They didn’t run their joke by him; he didn’t think it was so fucking funny; there was yelling.
I learned that fun fact in Susana Millman’s new book, Alive With The Dead, which was BotDs gift to me this Christmas. It’s beautiful, and my copy is signed and came in a very classy slipcase.
“Weir, someone stole your sleeves.”
“Oh, no, Jer. This is the entirety of the shirt.”
“Right.”
“Got it at Creepy Ernie’s. Guy’s a salesman. He said ‘Sun’s out, guns out’ and I had, you know, no rejoinder whatsoever.”
“Can’t argue with a rhyme, man.”
“You bet. Gonna show the kids a little something.”
“Two little somethings.”
“Oh, come on. I got some pythons, Jer.”
“You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“Should we know who he is?”
“Dunno. What year is it?”
“I’m wearing a ‘Dead at Red Rocks’ shirt, so it has to be after July of ’78.”
…
“Whatever, man. You look great, Weir.”
“Well, thank you. Y’know, it’s tough being the only Bobby in the band. Sometimes I feel I have to Bobby twice as hard as other Bobbys just to make up for the rest of you.”
“Some feelings you should just keep to yourself, Bob.”
“You don’t support me emotionally.”
“I don’t, no.”
Younger Enthusiast, I cannot overemphasize how unprofessional the past was. In 2016, putting on a concert is a science, literally: people have written dissertations on the subject. (Okay, it’s a soft science.) But in 1973–and this picture is from the Watkins Glen Festival on 7/27/73*–no one knew what they were doing, ever.
The promoter of the show (Bill Graham) wanted to protect the band from numbskulls; he just didn’t know how. The high stage is only half the equation. You also need a moat filled with enormous security guards. Otherwise, as pictured, there will be boosting.
OR
At least two people in this photo are using cell phones.
OR
99% of being a Rock Star was enjoyable, but this bullshit? Here’s the analogy: one of you breaking in to my home while I wrote. Keith Richards was completely right to whack anyone who got onstage with his Telecaster.
Speaking of Rock Stars: the Dead’s crew were probably a little rough with the guys, less so with the girls, but if you pulled this shit on Led Zeppelin then you’d be dead.
OR
Thanks for the help, Number 12.
*Wait, this might be RFK. I don’t give a shit. It’s definitely ’73. Listen to the Watkins Gen soundcheck.
I’d not seen this shot before. The other more famous and widely-circulated frames from this roll of film, yes, but not this one. Any day, any day at all, you could wake up and meet your true love, or step in front of a Honda, or you might see a picture of the Grateful Dead you’d not before.
There’s always a reason to wake up.
OR
Get out of the picture, Rock.
OR
Spot the Heineken(s).
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“OH, I DON’T FUCKING EXIST NOW?”
…
Goddammit, Red Metal Stool. Why do you have to act this way?
“He’s NOTHING without me! I’M THE STAR, not him! Oates. He’s fucking Oates, and you treat him like Hall.”
Red Metal Stool, I think you’re getting delusions of necessity.
“I’m irreplaceable.”
You are one of the most replaceable things I’ve ever met. Any two-to-three-foot-tall sturdy object with a flat surface could do your job. Shit, an amplifier could just do double duty.
“This is the elitist attitude that got Trump elected.”
It’s not.
“You look down on the working man.”
You’re not a man. You’re a stool. Two stools, actually.
…
“That’s it. I’m getting my lawyer.”
You have a lawyer?
“Counselor, do I have a case?”
“Yesss. Thisss man hasss ssslandered you.”
Snake Tee-Shirt?
“Sssnake Tee-Shirt, Esssquire.”
When did you go to law school?
“Corresssssspondence classssss.”
Makes sense.
You’ve just been amusing yourself since you’re 16, right?
“What?”
The shorts.
“Were we in Bermuda, everyone else would look out of place.”
The Dead did not play in Bermuda.
“Jamaica.”
Yeah, you played in Jamaica.
“Hawaii.”
Right, in 1970.
“Manhattan.”
What is your point Bobby?
“We’re no strangers to islands.”
…
What is going on here, Bob?
“Well, uh, judging from the presence of Clive Davis and champagne, I’d say we sold a shitload of records.”
Oh, yeah. You totally did that one time. I forget.
“It was a bit of an anomaly.”
And you welcomed your success with such dignity.
“All the dignity that the situation demanded.”
Clive Davis looks like a high-end pornographer.
…
“Well, yeah.”
Bobby still has no idea who Ned Lagin is.
OR
Look again. That’s not a balloon.
OR
Phil and Mrs. Donna Jen have assumed what can only be described as boogie-posture.
You just gonna keep posting compulsively all night?
Yes. It’s like knitting. It calms me.
When did you become afraid of flying?
It’s not the flying. I have no fear of flying whatsoever. I like watching out the window during takeoffs and landings; to tell the truth, I still have a child’s fascination with airplanes.
So what is it?
It’s every single thing that surrounds the flying: showing up early, and having your shit together, and being locked in a tube with strangers, and cops everywhere. And then assuming Radical Islamic Terrorists–
Which Hillary Clinton will not say.
–don’t kill me, which they probably will, at the end of the flight I am 2,000 miles away from my bed, books, and desk. And toilet.
There’s a bed and toilet waiting for you.
Sure, full of strangers’ filth and rot.
Your entire family–some of whom are actively dying–will be together for the first time in several years. Your beloved Brother and Sister-in-Law on the Dead are looking forward to seeing you. If you act like an asshole, I will slap you like a wife. You will behave, goddammit, and you will not talk about politics and you will not grouse and gripe.
I’m not a good traveler.
You are like french fries. Still, though: you will not be an asshole.
Are you giving me The Talk?
Yes.
How old am I gonna be before I stop getting The Talk?
Up to you, isn’t it?
Yes.
Quick tip. What’s your favorite sentence the past few weeks?
Oh, that would have to be “We’re all gonna fucking die.”
Right. Let’s leave that one at home. Don’t pack it.
What if I need it?
You won’t need it.
…
Please don’t be an asshole.
Christmas is known for miracles.
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