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

Tag: brent mydland (Page 1 of 14)

Tiger Beat

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Airing ’em out.”

I see that.

“Dunno if you can tell, but I made these shorts myself.”

Nooooo.

“Oh, yeah. I was, uh, inspired by Karl Lagerfeld. Sure, he’s big time, but he gets behind the sewing machine and does his own stitching.”

You were wearing those when you made them, weren’t you?

“Affirmative.”

Karl Lagerfeld doesn’t do that.

“What about Hedi Slimane?”

You shouldn’t know who these people are. What’s wrong with Brent?

“Sometimes, he’s a demon.”

Okay. Man, your legs are furry.

“Girls dig ’em. I’ve, uh, always said: Next to a guitar, a pair of hairy thighs are the best things for getting dates.”

I don’t think you’ve always said that.

“Something in the vicinity.”

Sure.

CELL PHONE NOISE

I have told all of you to stop using the Time Sheath to bring your cell phones back to the 70’s.

“You have definitely told us that. Gonna take this.”

Okay.

“Weir here.”

“Where Hairy Garcia? Kim Jong-Un call Hairy Garcia.”

“This is he. I think.”

“Where is degenerate drug beard?”

“What year is it when you are?”

“Juche 109.”

“Ah. I’m in Juche 68.”

“Good year. Disco so hot that year. What wrong with New Brent?”

“That’s not New Brent, it’s Old Brent. No, wait. That’s Brent Brent. Sometimes, he’s a demon.”

“Classic Brent Brent. So like him.”

“The man is easily anticipated.”

“You get kids I send you? How many survive trip?”

“I have received no children.”

“No. This terrible. Kim Jong-Un is embarrassed. Promise best friend Hairy Garcia wonderful gift, but is no gift. I lose face. Must make it up to you.”

“How about one of those giant hats?”

“I send sick people.”

“I don’t want any of them.”

“No contagious! Just dying! You can do whatever to them! They gonna die, anyway!”

“Hard, hard, hard pass.”

“Maybe you make movie. Use as stuntmen. Can actually set on fire.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Put in catapult.”

“Y’know, I really hate to be rude, but I’m hanging up.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Excuse me.”

Yes, Bobby?

“I don’t put my foot down a lot around here, but I’m gonna have to on this one.”

You don’t wanna talk to Kim Jong-Un anymore?

“The guy’s a bad egg.”

You’re right.

 

 

(With thanks to every Enthusiasts favorite (non-Lambert) host of the Grateful Dead Radio Hour, David Gans, for providing the photo from his personal collection. Not the one of Kim Jong-Un; the shot of Bobby and Brent.)

Turtle Club

“Missed you, pal.”

“Goddammit, Mydland, is that still you in there?”

“Don’t you cos-shame me.”

“Not a thing.”

“My feelings are valid! I’ve done a lot of work in therapy to get to this point, and I will not be dismissed.”

“When did you start going to therapy?”

“Couple years after I died.”

“All right.”

“You know I’m naked in here, right?’

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“The breeze shoots right through the fur. It’s sensual.”

“GRAHAME!”

“Yes, Pop?”

“Uncle Brent is leaving.”

“Oh, okay. Goodbye, Uncle Brent.”

“I MEANT YOU SHOULD ESCORT HIM OFF THE PREMISES!”

“Oh! Okay, yeah, gotcha.”

Every Silver Jerry’s Got A Coat Of Grey

Pre–

“Yo.”

–carious Lee? Oh, hey. I have more questions about this.

“Figures. Shoot.”

What the fuck, man?

“The speakers?”

Obviously. Among other things, but obviously the speakers and their configuration is our primary focus. Are they being held up by the power of suggestion?

“Among other things.”

Like rope?

“Could be. I personally don’t recall tying anything down, but someone definitely could have.”

Wow. My further line of inquiry concerns the overall jankiness.

“Lotta jank with the Dead, yeah.”

This picture has been placed at Silver Stadium in Rochester, New York, and dated to 6/30/88.

“If you say so.”

This was a show at Silver Stadium in June of 1986:

“Okay.”

Professionalism could be achieved in 1986. It wasn’t ’72 anymore.

“And yet the kids came.”

Every other band was right to work their crews like dogs.

“Good thing I don’t work for one of them. We ran into those guys a couple times.”

Who?

“Those Van Halen jagoffs. Mike’s okay, but the brothers like getting drunk and biting people. They’re vicious little fuckers. And Bobby’s terrified of David Lee Roth.”

Why?

“Instinct. For most of the people he meets, David Lee Roth inspires a fight-or-flight response.”

I can see that. Precarious, could you look at one last photo, please?

“Do it to it, chief.”

This is, once again, the Grateful Dead at Silver Stadium in Rochester, New York, on the 30th of June, 1988.

“Need a little zoom-and-enhance on that one.”

No, I like the long view that shows just how bush a league could be. That, sir, is the limit of bush. No league can contain more bush than that. That picture represents the exterior of infinity.

“What you need to remember about our audience–”

Don’t use the drug excuse.

“–is that they were on drugs. It’s true. Most of ’em spent the show staring at a stranger’s neck.”

Stop it. A couple of tie-dye banners. Some curtains to hide the exposed machinery. A proscenium. Something. Anything. You could have done anything and it would have been an improvement, as this is the bare minimum. You stacked heavy shit up, plugged it in, and cracked a beer.

“We were drinking beer while stacking shit up and plugging it in.”

I expect more out of the Grateful Dead’s road crew.

“Why?”

Lee’s Tower

“Yo.”

I didn’t call for you, Precarious.

“You were gonna.”

Yeah. I was just stunned into silence. Dude, what the fuck?

“Be more specific.”

I cannot. The lack of aesthetics and basic safety requirements is all-pervasive. The stage looks like a Radio Shack, but not a good one; the Radio Shack in the bad mall, where the knife fights break out every so often. The bad mall wasn’t always the bad mall, but the economy and demographics and all that. Used to be a place that sold fancy popcorn. Flavored, seasoned, nice packaging. Now there’s nine stores that sell baseball caps. Time will do her marching, Precarious.

“You got a question?”

I asked it: What the fuck?

“Their choice of apparel and instrument is on them.”

Granted. Do you remember why Garcia was wearing his going-to-court jacket on stage?

“I do not.”

Did the road crew make fun of Bobby’s pink guitar?

“Obviously.”

Was there any thought whatsoever given towards purchasing a tie-dyed scrim to hide some of the more unattractive geegaws and wedged monitors?

“Obviously not.”

Why not?

“This way is easiest for us.”

A performance stage shouldn’t be set according to the laziness of the road crew.

“Not lazy. Efficient.”

What about the tower of speakers behind band?

“Yeah, maybe that was a little lazy. We probably should have set up the rigging.”

Wooden palettes and a forklift, right?

“How else would you do that?”

Holy shit, those cabinets at the top aren’t even strapped down, are they?

“I don’t recall anyone dying, so we must have done it right.”

That’s not how that works.

Rest In Peace, Brent

You were the greatest or second-greatest keyboardist the Dead ever had. (Third if we’re counting Jeff Chimenti.) We’ll miss you forever, Brent.

You’re an asshole.

Pardon?

That is two-time National Security Advisor Brent Scowcroft, who is not dead and was never in the Grateful Dead.

That’s on me. I see it now. My problem is that I can’t tell Brents apart because I’m not a racist like you.

Uh-huh.

Seriously. Everyone knows I don’t have a racist bone in my body.

“Wrong, Jewboy.”

Was that you?

No.

Who was it?

“Down here.”

“When you said that you didn’t have a racist bone in your body, you were a little bit off. You have one racist bone in your body, and it’s me. I’m your left femur.”

This is so fucking stupid that I’m gonna kill myself.

SWALLOWING A BOTTLE FULL OF PILLS NOISE

TEN MINUTES GOING BY NOISE

ASPIRATING VOMIT AND THEN CHOKING TO DEATH NOISE

I didn’t think he had it in him.

“Fuck him. He looked Irish, anyway.”

Could you please stop being racist?

“Absolutely not. I connect the hip bone to the knee bone, and I preach the tenets of White Supremacy. That’s what I do; it’s why I’m here.”

Ah, this blows.

“Hey, you got 205 bones that are degenerates like you. Don’t oppress me. I’m a minority.”

I will not play your word games.

“How about sodoku? You people are good with numbers.”

We’re done.

“I’m gonna try to make you kick a Guatemalan.”

Italics Guy was right. This universe is so fucking stupid.

Sticker, Mydland Falls

Brent’s Stickers: An Explainer

War Chicken reading “Rottweil” #1 Brent, as you may know, was born in Germany; his father was a pretzel and his mother was a set of rules. The badge represents the specific German state, or DeutschePlatzenMamaLookaBoobooDay, where he spent his youth.

War Chicken reading “Rottweil” #2 Stickers fall off, man. Gotta back your shit up.

Jacksonville Jaguar mascot A combination of Time Sheath access, a lack of football knowledge, and a predilection for America’s shittiest cities led Brent to become a diehard fan of the Jacksonville Jaguars. Brent had Bortlesmania.

Jesus, it’s another Rottweiler Brent, buddy? Can we chat? Great. Yeah, I’ve seen your Rolex. Nice. Anyway, pal: maybe you should dial back the German pride. Are you aware of the demographics of the Dead’s audience? It’s like a Boca Raton of the mind out there.

Stealie #1 (little, bottom) It’s the Dead, man. Gotta slap some Stealies on shit.

Stealie #2 (little, top left) Brent wanted people to know for sure that he wasn’t Rick Wakeman. No pussyfooting with Brent (except when he stuck his foot in women’s pussies).

Stealie #3 (big, top right) We get it, Brent. Even Mickey thinks this is too many Stealies.

Flying Eyeball Thingamabob I don’t know; who gives a shit; don’t we have anything–literally anything–better to be doing?

OR

Precarious?

“Yo.”

What’s with the tape?

“Surgical.”

So?

“It’s sterile.”

Again: so?

“Just pointing it out.”

Seriously, man: tape? Was this the best way to attach the synthesizer to the organ?

“Best? No. Easiest.”

Sure.

Bikin’

Hey, Billy. How come you don’t have a bike?

“Probably cuz I’m not a homo.”

I forget how charming you can be.

“It’s an inherently queer activity. Might as well be huffing a hairy pair. I mean, if that’s what you’re into: go for it. But you know me, Ass. I’m a skank man.”

You’ve never explored that side of your sexuality?

“Explored? What am I, Gay Indiana Jones? What do I do, blow that guy who played the war-midget?”

What the fuck’s a war-midget?

“The movie’s got the war-midget and the gay guy and the little hairy fucks. Buncha other assholes with swords. Maybe a dragon. He had a beard, and he fought, and he was a midget. And he was Indiana Jones’ heathen friend.”

John Rhys-Davies. You’re talking about John Rhys-Davies.

“Whatever his name is. I’m not blowing him.”

I have absolutely no idea how the conversation got to this place.

“You wanted to talk about war-midgets.”

« Older posts