Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
The Way It Is wouldn’t come out until 1986; this was ’84, and Bruce Hornsby was in Sheena Easton’s touring band. Bills gotta get paid, man. This video was shot–obviously–the same day as Sugar Walls, and is thus just as shitty and underlit. In case you don’t wanna watch the whole thing, or just laugh at the whitest boy in the whole wide world:
You’re welcome.
COME INSIDE THEM.
(He’s mostly in shadow, but you can see Hornsby’s face and fro clearly five seconds in. Also: it’s fucked up that this song was not performed at the Farewell Shoes. It’s better than Liberty, at least.)
“Jerry, wow. It’s such an honor to meet you. I’m a huge fan.”
“Great, great. Where’s my meatball sub?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not the kid with the meatball sub?”
“No. I’m Bruce Hornsby.”
“That means what to me?”
“I sing the piano songs on the radio.”
“We’re circling around the point here.”
“The meatball sub.”
“I have my mouth all fixed for it.”
…
“Do you want me to run and get you a sandwich?”
“Gee, could ya? Here’s a twenty. Get yourself something, too, and keep the change.”
“Um, okay.”
“Great. Be back in under a half hour and you can join the band when Brent dies.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Hurry.”
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.
MRONCHH
“BRUCE!? WHAT THE FUCK!? YOU BIT MY FINGER OFF!”
“HORNSBY FEEEEEED!”
Excuse me.
“MAAAAANFLEEEEESH!”
Hey! Stop this!
Dude, what the fuck? What the fuck, dude? You’re crossing the streams. Italic guy can’t interrupt a dialogue post. It’s tough enough for people to understand who’s talking as it is. Y’see, this universe is narrated by several different “voices,” and which one is speaking is indicated through typography and punctuation. Are you familiar with the concept of semi-fict–
Shut the fuck up. Stop being weird and either write something worth reading, or don’t bother people.
Aw.
“Rando War!”
What? No. You missed it by, like, a month.
“Lots happened since then.”
Things move pretty quick in this universe. Hey, Bruce: question.
“Shoot.”
I read this interview with you where you said you didn’t drink, but your band does and every year or so, you would join them because they thought it was funny.
“Yeah, the guys love it. I get silly real fast.”
Follow-up question.
“Shoot”
If your band was all gay, would you blow dudes once a year or so?
“Okay.”
What if they were all Italian? Would you lose wars just to make them laugh?
“We’re done.”
I just worry about you sometime, Bruce Hornsby. You’re very susceptible to peer pressure, apparently.
“Stop talking to me and my son.”
That’s your son?
“Brice Hornsby.”
Sure.
Happy FathHOLY SHIT, LOOK AT THOSE TWO.
“Made me some good-looking boys.”
Nice work, Bruce. Jesus, how big are they?
“Together, it’s around 17 feet and half-a-ton of Hornsby.”
That’s why you tour so much. You had to feed these behemoths.
“You got no idea, man. It’s like owning an elephant.”
Haven’t recommended a show in a while, and I certainly haven’t recommended a show in which Vince was the highlight, and I am utterly positive that I’ve never recommended a show in which Vince was the highlight AND the best part of the show was Space, but here we are at 9/16/91 from MSG.
It’s come to this.
It is, however, a spectacular Space that starts with a wheezing and sepulchral hockey organ that–if you’re not paying attention–will scare the shit out of you: it’s a breathtaking two minutes of demonic acoustics. Then there’s a fifteen-minute MIDIthon. Many people, some of them Enthusiasts, shun the MIDI-produced blorps and shmeeps of the era, but they are so wrong. So, so wrong.
(MIDI is a technology that, among other things, allowed you to play a synthesizer with a guitar or any other digital instrument. MIDI stands for Music Is Digital, Innit? It was invented in England.)
Rest of the show is outstanding, and you should listen to it, but Space is the place for this one.
Plus: Bruce Hornsby on GDTRFB.
Many tales have been told of the Grateful Dead: they’ve been examined from angles musical, financial, sociological, historical, chemical, metaphysical, biographical, academic, and there was a coloring book once. Never, though, has the Dead’s relationship with exercise been detailed, and certainly not with the scholastic rigor I intend to apply to the following bullshit I’m about to make up.
Bobby was the most physical-minded of the group; he cared about the parts of his body that were not his dick or stomach, and engaged in strenuous and joyful fits of exercise, plus many soothing and barefoot yoga sessions. Bobby enjoyed running almost as much as he enjoyed running shorts. In the 70’s, he took up mountain biking, and in the 80’s got into hill biking; the 90’s saw Bobby become interested in riding his bike on flat terrain, and in the 00’s, Ebay was founded, which is where Bobby sold his bike.
Mickey gave Bobby a run for his money, though, and sometimes literally: Mickey liked to combine his athletics with gambling and would often make more money off his impromptu wagering than from a tour. Like Bobby, Mickey took up bicycling for a while, but always preferred his horses, as it was impossible to dose a bicycle.
And here lies a sheer and fatal drop-off in both athletic ability and exercisial enthusiasm. Except for Bobby and Mickey, every Grateful Dead would be picked last and sent to right field. (There are pictures of Bobby playing softball; there are pictures of Garcia watching softball.) You might pick Billy a little higher up if you were playing hockey and wanted to start a fight.
Billy’s exercise came primarily from running amok. Smoothie in the morning, throw a mailbox at a cop around lunch, run through a hospital with a chainsaw before the show, and then finish up the day with cardio (Billy calls anal “cardio”).
The ocean also provides Billy with a chance to stretch, strengthen, and shape up; he has invented something he calls “sharkour,” but is actually just swimming slowly and looking at fish. (You cannot do parkour underwater as there are no benches to vault over, and even if there were, you can’t vault over anything underwater.)
Phil’s idea of exercise was standing up during a blowjob.
The keyboardists were all over the place, as should be expected: Pig did Tai Chi once, by accident; TC did some fancy bullshit, I’m sure; Keith, along with Mrs. Donna Jean, trained in mixed-martial arts and practiced on each other constantly; Brent was the Marin county free-diving champ three years in a row until he was beaten; Bruce beat him; Vince owed his taut tush to ballroom dance.
Garcia always carried his own briefcase, though sometimes it was heavy.
THE WAR ON DRUGS – TOUCH OF GREY
PHOSPHORESCENT, JENNY LEWIS & FRIENDS – SUGAREE
BRUCE HORNSBY & DEYARMOND EDISONÂ – BLACK MUDDY RIVER
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TM-shsMngdw[/embedyt]
COURTNEY BARNETT – NEW SPEEDWAY BOOGIE
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XdaAQlmExmI[/embedyt]
THE NATIONAL – MORNING DEW
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLVLCXgTx3o[/embedyt]
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