Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: brent mydland (page 1 of 13)

An Aesthetic

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Why must there always be pandemonium?

“Referring to?”

The stage. It looks like a woodworking shop had a baby with a Guitar Center, and then the baby exploded.

“Eh. Band liked it this way.”

How could anyone like this?

“Maybe ‘like’ is wrong. How about ‘The band didn’t give a shit if it looked this way?'”

That sounds right.

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.”

Clean, Elegant, Simple

Holy fuck. Precarious?

“Yo.”

Explain the aesthetic choices.

“None were made.”

That sounds right. Is there a window behind those drapes? Nothing about this photo makes sense.

“Uh-huh. Can I go? I’m in the middle of a Los Angeles noir-pastiche.”

Sure.

They Is Who They Is

Hey, guys. I had an idea. Why don’t you cover an album by a fictitious band? Like, you write a whole record’s worth of new material and pretend it came from another band. Maybe a comically foreign band, I don’t know. And then you seed the internet with information about the fictitious band to further the ruse. How about that?

“That sounds like a lotta work, man.”

“What are we, fuckin’ nerds?”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“Tell me more about the drums.”

“I’m happy with whatever the decision is.”

“Look how handsome I am.”

You do look handsome, Bobby, but what do you think about the idea?

“Of being handsome? Thought quite a bit of it. Then, uh, I ran with it.”

Something Magnolia

Oh, what in the name of Jonathan Frakes is this?

“I’m taking the Sex & the City tour. Remember how the girls got cupcakes here?”

I didn’t watch the show.

“Remember how big cupcakes were?”

A little.

“We were so innocent then.”

Brent, stop wandering around New York City. Especially in those shoes.

“Why won’t you support my transition?”

Into a mascot or a woman?

“Either.”

Dude, make your outsides match your insides. I don’t care. Good for you. Just saying that sparkly silver flats aren’t the right choice for that outfit.

“You’re commenting on my shoes?”

Yes.

“Please tell everyone about the last pair of shoes you bought, and then tell them the reason.

Bright red Adidas, and I purchased them because I saw Billy wearing them and I thought they looked cool.

“Can I close my case?”

Yeah, probably. Hey, Brent?

“Uh-huh?”

There’s a tourist couple coming up the street behind you and to your left. They look European. Jump out and scare the shit out of them.

“Done.”

A Mostly-Pointless Moment With Brent

Brent?

“Hey, buddy.”

Um, hi.

“Haven’t been in a story in a while.”

Well, it’s shit like this, Brent.

“This is my truth.”

Are you wearing women’s shoes?

“That’s my truth, too.”

Stop it.

“I’m a transvestite now.”

We don’t use that word anymore, I don’t think.

“I died in 1990. You’re lucky I didn’t use one of the other common terms.”

There’s just so much going on with you, buddy.

“Do I get to go to Singapore and hang out with Kim Jong-Un?”

No.

“Aw.”

Walkthrough

This is too many keyboards.

“Nah, just right. I’m playing the Rhodes. It goes kuhCHONK if you play hard, or shwoo if you play soft.”

Okay.

“On top of that is the Mini Moog. It goes WEEEEEEOOOOOweeeeeeoooooWEEEEEEE. I can freak fuckers out, man.”

Sounds like it.

“To the right is the Chichester Sparkle-Phantom XR6.”

That instrument is not named that.

“Oh, sure it is. It goes like this: Myah! Myaaaah!”

The keyboard sounds like Edward G. Robinson?

“Well, one of the settings does. It also has a drum machine built-in, so I could play a samba. And, of course, to my left is Adrian Zmed.”

That’s not Adrian Zmed; it’s a Hammond organ.

“No, Zmed.”

This is why you don’t appear that much.

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.

« Older posts