When you think of wine, you think of Canadian archivists, so this Cabernet Sauvignon (that’s French for “the stuff that’s not Merlot”) blended by David Lemieuxscatel will delight the palates of both rich winos, who are called oenophiles, and poor winos, who are called winos.
I’m not knowledgeable enough about wine to know whether “blending” is an actual thing that layman can do, or just ad copy bullshit. Is there an actual blender involved? This is what I see happening:
SHZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
…
SLURP
“Missin’ something, eh?”
“Yup.”
“Hand me that cup of Tim Horton’s”
GLUGglugglug
SHZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
…
SLURP
“There ya go.”
(Fun fact: the person David was talking to in that little skit was Whoopi Goldberg. They’re friends.)
Starting with sourcing premium grapes for this special Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon, we brought in Grateful Dead archivist David Lemieux for a one-on-one blending session at the vineyard with our top winemakers, and wrapped it all up in a one-of-a-kind bottle that brings to life the great essence and personality of the Dead.
Someone got himself a Napa vacation is what I’m getting from that blurb, plus a couple of cases of wine to throw in the trunk for the ride home. I fully approve of this licensing decision.
Finally–and I hate to nitpick–all wine is limited edition. By definition.
As you might have surmised, the last post was just a bit of tomfoolery: Dead archivist David Lemieuxicaliblues is obviously not a prize-fighter from Montreal with a record of 32-2 who currently holds the IBF middleweight belt. That gentleman with the same name can be seen here…
…and as you canHOLY SHIT, I AM SO FUCKING GAY NOW.
Not really, no. People say lovely things about you.
“Aw, isn’t that a sweet thing for you to say. Made my day. Anyway, yeah: lot of rage under this fleece. I just focus it like a laser upon my opponents.”
Really?
“Bell rings? It’s time to get to boxing? Well: my eyes, they go over black, like a moose’s eyes go black when he goes in for the kill.”
No, they don’t. And that’s from Jaws, kind of.
“There’s a motion picture, eh?”
You betcha. Dave?
“Uh-huh?”
You are not fighting for money.
“Oh, yeah. I figure this Dead thing can’t last forever and, you know: I’m in my forties with a family, so I figured that professional boxing was our ticket to the good life.”
…
Did Billy hit you?
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Okay, champ. Want some ice cream?
“Yeah.”
Okay, let’s go get some ice cream.
“It’s just that I love the Dead so much and then one of them comes along and hurts me and it hurts SO MUCH.”
Does anyone else remember Dave, and his Picks? They’re back!
Dave’s Picks 14 comes from the legendary, but mysterious, Academy of Music run at the end March, 1972, right before they hit Europe. As usual, it sounds pristine and clear and clean and wide; you can hear nascent (but still deeply spacey) Playin’ and the greatest love song that no one’s ever heard of Two Souls in Communion here (and while here, order the whole shebang.)
The Academy of Music in 1972 was a–
Dude.
–place full of whoopty-doo and also a lot of yippee.
I don’t know. But that’s better than you could do. It contains facts and talks to itself far less.
How much less?
None at all.
Bold choice. Ah, I was going to yell at David Lemjolnieuxir.
Oh, why? Of all the related ventures that fall under the umbrella of “Grateful Dead,” the one that bears his name is the most consistently high quality. And comes out on time.
I have some things I need to discuss with him.
At least let the man speak for himself.
As always, DL was interested and interesting when you could hear him over what I can only assume was a sharknado taking place immediately behind the camera. For those of you in countries in which the above video was blocked, please let me give you the transcript:
WHOOOOOOSHpigpenWHOOOOOSHthe bandWHOOOOOOOSHEurope WHOOOOOOSHlook a bird.
Luckily, the third and fourth DaP’s of the year generally come during less windy months in the Bay Area, so we have that to look forward to.
But, Enthusiasts, we here at Thoughts on the Dead need to look forward to nothing, because here for an exclusive interview that will go poorly is the man, himself: Dead archivist David Lemieux.
“Oh, hi. Am…am I a part of this now? I don’t think I want to be a part of this. Please don’t–”
Hey, Dave. Whatcha doing?
“–make me a part of whatever goes on in here. Um, hey.”
Great pick, man. Looking forward to it.
“Thanks. Listen, can I leave? Not to be rude, but: may I go?”
Dave, this is a safe space.
“It is not. It is explicitly not: you have created a semi-fictional version of me to use as a sock puppet for the purposes of–and I’m quoting you–yelling at me. It is the opposite of a safe space.”
Just a couple quick questions. I promise you I won’t accuse you of things.
“You do that a lot. It’s unsettling.”
No accusations. No weird stuff. You’re doing such a great job with the Dave’s Picks: they’re both a worthy successor to Dick’s Pick’s, and stand on their own. A neophyte would do worse than to simply listen to the DaP series in order to get an overview of the band’s music.
“Oh, all right.”
What’s the next Pick?
“Can’t talk aboot it.”
…
“Really?”
What? What did I do?
“Gonna gimme the thick Canadian accent, eh? Oh, c’mon!”
All right! Sorry. Sorry. You’re right: no one should do that to the English language. Gimme something on the next pick: it’s surely chosen?
“Ahhhh, ok. The show did not take place in California. Wait: that might be the one after this one. Disregard everything I said. It’s gonna be a great show, I know that.”
What about the Big Box Set? Are the rumors about the May ’77 Betty Boards true, and that’s the Big Box Set? Tell the nice people about it.
“It’s big. Bigger than Europe.”
Literally?
“Like, the actual continent?”
Or the rock band.
“Still talking physically?”
Yeah.
“Neither. It’s a couple dozen CD’s in a nice case with some books and stuff. There were five big Swedes in that band and Europe is a place. Places have to be bigger than things. It is their complementary nature.
“Things need places to be.
“And without things, how do you even know there’s a place? These two simple words encompass this reality and all others, at their cores.”
That’s some deep shit, David Lemieux.
“No charge.”
We should be in the next season of True Detective.
“Sure.”
Anyway: I like your videos. I might be one of the very, very few people who made it all the way through due to the wind noise which makes it painful to listen to with headphones, but I like them. Your enthusiasm is catching.
“Well, thanks. I appreciate that.”
I take your advice, too: I downloaded a copy of Mickey’s 1972 album Rolling Thunder. I also noticed you really made a point of the liner notes. Guy named Jammy Jerbil wrote ’em?
“Jesse Jarnow. He’s a tremendous young writer and smart young man and everybody is very, very high on the kid. Great, great writer and tremendous addition to the Grateful Dead creative family.”
…
Jimmy Jumpjump?
“I think we all see what you’re doing.”
IS HE PRETTIER THAN ME?
“Stop this. You’re just embarrassing yourself.”
NO, YOU’RE NOT. SHUT UP.
“Okay, what’s going on here? Jesse is very nice to you on Twitter.”
He is, yes.
“So, you should be happy for him.”
Yeah, that’s the way brains work.
“Regardless: do you even want to do liner notes? You’ve expressed no interest in ever writing a straight review and, you know, buddy: we just can’t have Mecha-Billy showing up in anything official.”
You mean you won’t admit to Mecha-Billy in anything official.
“Okay, whatever, sure. You want an audition?”
For the liner notes gig?
“Yeah.”
Now?
“Yeah. What show do you want to do?”
Any show? Wow. How about a dark horse teenage favorite, 9/10/91?
“Oh, 9/10/91? You need to bring Bruce and Branford’s lawyers into this? Good choice, dope. That’s why you can’t do the liner notes. Just pick something obvious.”
Fine, how about 4/12/78? The Duke show.
“Well, you know: not that obvious.”
…
There was no show I could have picked you wouldn’t have been mean about, is there?
“No. Okay, let’s hear the liner notes. Just gimme a taste.”
Huh. Okay.
“No rush.”
Don’t do that. Gimme a second. Okay: Webster’s dictionary defines “Grateful Dead” as a large and hairy brute, given to raping and pillaging, but only statutory rape, and it was the seventies.
…
“Are you kidding me?”
You’re saying it needs a polish?
“More references to rape than you usually see in liner notes to live albums by choogly-type bands.”
Okay, I can tone it down.
“Way down. Way, way, so much more way down.”
I got it, I got it: The Grateful Dead’s concert at Cameron Indoor Stadium on April 12th, 1978, only makes sense if you imagine that–through some arcane and evil magicks–cocaine has acheived physical form as a rabid polar bear rampaging through the building, and eating all the people who it didn’t infect with the Curse of the Werepolar Bear.
“Do you not hear the problem?”
Did I misspell Cameron?
“That was not the problem. Which, again, boggles the mind that you can’t hear.”
How about this: The Duke show: great, you know it by heart, blah blah, let’s talk about Bobby’s potato salad.
TotD has been banned from any and all academic conferences concerning the Grateful Dead. I was already on probation after summoning Abbadon the Unforgiving to the Marriott ballroom a few years ago, so the kidnapping of David Lestellablieux was not seen in the humorous manner it was intended.
(It’s rather easy to kidnap a Canadian. Saying “Come with me: I’m kidnapping you,” in a stern voice almost always works. They’ll stay put until you release them or they get shot in a botched rescue attempt.)
But I needed access! How else to hear the presentation of such papers as “Calliope Wail: A Second Look at TC” or “The Work of Man: A Queer Reading of the Weather Report Suite” or “Mirror Shatters: The Intersectionality of the Dead, Size-ism, and Body-Positivism?”
Luckily, the Museum of Modern Terrible Dead Art (Mom: ta-DAA!) had agreed to loan the Conference one of their most terrible pieces:
I came up with a brilliant plan: I would secret myself within the statue of a ‘Squatch dressed like Garcia. Then I would–under cover of darkness while the academics slept with one another–sneak out of my hiding place. It was such a good plan, I couldn’t understand why no one had tried it before.
What underhanded plots did I ferret out? What nasty secrets did I dig up?
TO BE CONTINUED!
You never continue stuff, though.
I will this time.
Really?
…
Sure.
PS Thanks for the pic go out to a person who lives nowhere near Seattle, Mr. Completely.
There are, as always, rumors and scuttlebutt floating around the interwebs about the Dead’s 50th, and the plans for it. Ideas about residencies on both coasts, with select stadia shows, and headlining gigs at two or three of the big festivals. This is much better than some of the other concepts, including Mickey’s: he lobbied hard to sneak into people’s homes at night and throw raccoons at them while they slept. One of the business guys told Mickey that the insurance would just be too expensive, but the guy hadn’t called the insurance office: he just wanted Mickey to stop throwing chairs around the office.
As this is the Dead, things need a good complicating up, so the trial balloon of “rotating guitarists” has been floated. This is for logistic reasons, I suppose. Financial, also. Plus, Billy is in a fight with at least one of the guitarists. (That’s absolutely true.) The usual suspects: Steve Kimock, Warren Haynes. Trey is mentioned, because–you know–why the fuck not bring him into this debacle?
Ruler of the Northwest Realms and Dryer of Socks Mr. Completely saves the day yet again (with help from Gavin’s Dad and Little Umbrellas) with this list of the most inappropriate fill-in guitarists for the reunion:
10. Steve Vai
9. Neil Young
8. Jack Black
7. The Edge
6. Mid-80s Alex Lifeson
5. Slash
4. Johnny Ramone
3. Michael Kang (of SCI)
2. Ted Nugent
1. John Kadlicek
A few notes.
Steve Vai was chosen to represent the entire decade of wheedley-deedley shredding machines. He’s roughly equivalent to Joe Satriani, but he has better hair and–let’s never forget–ran out of notes to play on a six-string guitar and forced an otherwise sane guitar company to build him a seven-string.
What about Eddie Van Halen? you might ask. He would be tragically mismatched, you might say. True, but Van Halen afficianados (and I wear that label with pride, but ony when no one else is around or can see me) know a hilarious thing about Eddie: he can ony play Van Halen music. At quite literally any other style of music more complicated than a twelve-bar, he’s terrible and just ends up making noises with his guitar. So, Eddie would just give up fairly early in the set, but Steve would think he was fucking killing it and would be playing those solos of his that sound like air raid sirens getting raped all night.
Johnny Ramone and the Nuge would be worth the booking because the Dead would dose the living shit out of both of those mean-spirited little men and I would find that amusing. Also, if Johnny Ramone tried to play Terrapin Station, he would get a nosebleed.
I do not know what a Michael Kang is, but I wish him luck.
Slash would be the most interesting musically. He was always an awfully melodic player and he’s played with just about everyone. Plus, he had ten years of dealing with Axl’s bullshit, so he can handle Billy and Mickey no problem.
Speaking of getting along with people, Alex Lifeson is a Canadian, and a particularly affable one. Being the nice Canadian is impressive: it’s like being the guy Argentinians refer to as “the passionate one” or being known as a “yeller” in Vietnam. Much like the Dead, he favors stupidly complicated guitar rigs that never sound anywhere near as good as plugging a good guitar into a good amp. He’s familiar with weird time signatures. There’s the language barrier, sure, but David Lemountaindieux can translate. On the “minus” list: Alex Lifeson has not jammed in 40 years.
The Edge is terrible.
I’ll be honest with you: I have no idea why Jack Black is there. he’s not really a guitarist, but watching him over-emote Garcia’s tunes would be amusing briefly.
And then there’s Neil. Putting aside the fact that he might demand the Boys accompany him on a brand-new folk-opera about the Prairie Blizzard of 1883, or get in a fight with someone and stop showing up. (If Neil Young were both alone and paralyzed, he could still get in a fight with someone and then not show up.) Plus, he’d do that thing where he plays one note for the entire solo, which was clever when he first stole it from a black guy in 1968, but just looks like slacking these days. Also, Neil Young’s voice sounds like the screams of animals as they flee a cornfield fire.
The newest release in the consistently brilliant Dave’s Picks series will be announced any day now, and once a lip-reader decodes David LeLouselatrec’s video which–according to sacred Canadian tradition–will be shot in a wind tunnel or directly underneath a wooden roller coaster, the grousing and sniping (and other bird-related verbs) can begin.
The usual suspects will loose their usual complaints. Spring ’83 was the best tour they ever did, someone will post. Vinnie, vidi, vicircus (Vince came, he saw, he made overpowering calliope noises) others will declaim. BENGHAZI MOM JEANS SECRET MUSLIM, a poster who wandered onto the wrong website will add.
It always amazed me the whinging humans–especially hobbyists of all stripes–can get up to and especially here. I can think of few long-running products that you could grab an individual item from randomly with such a guarantee of excellence. Bobbing for Dave’s Picks is like shooting a pistol while blindfolded at a Trump family gathering: no matter what you hit on, you’re going to be happy and the world’s going be better for it.
TotD has shared with you some of Dave’s Nix (shows that will never be released,) but did you know about the other series that have been proposed and turned down?
Dave’s Flicks This follow-up to the View from the Vault series was actually ready to go but cancelled due to the Great Recession. Thanks, Obama!
Dave’s Bics Subscribers receive four lightly-used disposable razors each year.
Dave’s Micks Mickey comes to your house and explains in great detail the history of one of his drums, then rolls his car off a cliff on the way home, cancelling the Summer tour.
Dave’s Chicks This limited-edition series was to consist of Dave reading the SI swimsuit issue with you.
Dave’s Hans Blix This was just copies of the UN’s reports regarding the Iraq War with cartoon doodles of Garcia drawn in the margins.
Dave’s Ticks Subscribers would be able to strip down and have an intern from Rhino Records visually inspect them for ticks every time they went outside.
Dave’s Dicks This is a fairly obvious set-up for a Billy joke and let’s take it as read.
Dave’s Licks Bobby comes to your house and puts his tongue on your food.
Dave’s Frix In addition to a remastered show, subscribers receive a coupon for a half-off rabbit fricassee at Phil’s restaurant which Phil will not honor.
Why do you refuse to examine the evidence we have presented on Billy’s role in the as-yet-unsolved 1990 art heist at Boston’s Erle Stanley Gardner Museum? What do you make of the fact that the security guards were all taken out by being punched in the dicks with “uncanny precision and pleasant professionalism.” And that quote is from legal depositions, real AMERICAN legal depositions, you dollar-coin accepting socialist, not what passes for law in Canada, where two trees are planted in a grove with ‘guilty’ painted on one and ‘innocent’ on the other, and a family of specially trained and licensed Law Beavers is released; whichever tree they fell first closes the case. (In your country’s defense, the system is remarkably impervious to bribery.)
Are you finished?
Because it is Canada, the Law Beavers wear those fancy powdered wigs.
I awoke–or, rather, came to–on the floor of a long hallway. There was no natural light, but I could still see.
My head was fuzzy, and my face hurt: I had been hit. I had been struck, and repeatedly. My phone was gone.
As I looked around, I realized that it was not a hallway I had found myself in; no, I was in between parallel shelves reaching ten or twelve feet up. It was like the stacks at my college library, but with less drug dealing and clandestine gay stuff. There were books, but there were also cardboard boxes and record albums and was that an oud? and a shopping bag with “Billy’s I.O.U.’s” scrawled on it.
At the end of shelves, in the dimness, was a pair of maroon sweatpants with the elastic holding on out of sheer duty and a size XXXL black t-shirt. The clothes were suspended in the air in a human shape with no visible means of support.
Like this crazy bullshit Batman used to pull:
how the fuck did Batman even do that? There’s a lot of craftsmanship in that thing, and technology, too, it seems. Is this how Batman takes his mind off being Batman? By using his advanced Morgan Freeman stuff to permanently turn the judging glare of the teenager he pretty much murdered on him while he worked? Did he wear the Batman suit while he worked on it?
Also, at one point–stick with me here–Batman had to be molding the crotch of that thing and, seriously: don’t you take a breather and reevaluate things? You’re a grown man in a pervert suit making a voodoo dead kid in a cave and maybe law school?
You had an idea. You were doing so well and developing things and being a big grown-up writerly writer–
Yeah, those first few sentences were killing it, thank you.
—and then you squander your energy and their time–
If they’re reading this, they have nothing better to do.
—on Batman nerd-porn. Stop it and get back to the story about how you found yourself…
…sitting between the shelves when I heard footsteps. There were two of them, one lighter than the other, but they had the gaits of soldiers. They walked like men of violence and my hand went to my already-bruised face and I was frightened; most of all, though: confused? What had I done to deserve this. Besides all the things I’ve done to deserve this. Like, if there were a vote: it would be a runaway that I thoroughly need and merit a solid thrashing, but it isn’t a democracy. I’m the only one who gets to vote.
When the two men came around the corner, I could see that one was lanky and tall; the other, almost perfectly spherical in dressed in old-fashioned tweeds and a matching eye patch. He made it work, you had to give it to him.
Both of them had dangerous, drug-fueled lightning flashing in their eyes and I feared for my life. I snatched a random manuscript off of the shelf and, rising to my feet, made as if to tear it.
Don’t come any closer! I said.
The men stopped.
“NO!” the short one cried. “That is the only remaining copy of Bobby’s aborted 1978 novel, Who Is Clive Davis and Why Does He Keep Grabbing my Ding-Dong?” You mustn’t destroy it.”
His voice was plummy and flutey, yet manly. Clearly educated.
Bobby? I asked. My god…I am in–
“You are in THE VAULT, my dear boy. We have brought you here to–”
Who are you calling ‘boy?’ I said. There was a second of silence.
“Are…you…um. This is a rude question, but–”
What difference does it make?!
“because you’re allowed to say–”
ALLOWED? Check your privilege, son! I said
And then Billy leapt from the highest vantage point and punched me in the dick.
As I sank into unconsciousness, the one in the suit stood over me.
“My name is The Reverend Dr. Sir Nicholas Aloysius Kensington Flensington Jamiroqui Rothschild Baracus–
I then passed out.
TO BE CONTINUED…
(Honest. I know I’ve done this before. I wish Elvis would come back, too, but there’s MORE TO THESE STORIFICATIONS, Enthusiasts!)
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