Precarious?
“Yo.”
What’s the little one on the left?
“Donna.”
Not the little person. The small wooden box on top of the monitor.
“Humidor.”
Obviously.
OR
Keith’s posture can be used to calculate Pi.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: donna godchaux (Page 2 of 7)
Maybe it was just the ossification of habit, but Brent was always stage left. Keith was left, right, sometimes in the middle, once he was by the merch table.
OR
“Don’t you do it, Weir.”
“What?”
“Step on a balloon.”
“You saw my leg?”
“I saw your leg, man.”
…
“Hey, Jer.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Y’know, it’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Every fuckin’ year.”
“That means, uh, that this is the anniversary of our friendship.”
“Great, man. Play the song.”
“I got you a little something.”
“You really shouldn’t have.”
“Here ya go, Jer.”
“You went to Jared.”
“I did, yeah.”
“Is this a tennis bracelet?”
“Better. Anklet.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
OR
Later that evening, Mrs. Donna Jean (already in her ceremonial gown) would be thrown into the volcano to appease Gbaja-biamila, the god of backup singing.
We now know what Billy did during the Hiatus: eat away the sadness.
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.
Game time, Enthusiasts: let’s play Spot The Heineken.
…
Yeah, there it is.
OR
Sadly, Keith died before he could reap the publicity benefits of the “panorama” setting on phone cameras.
Mrs. Donna Jean Godchaux,
How, oh how, does your hair grow?
“A hundred strokes of brush and then,
Another hundred strokes again.
Flaxseed oil, shampoos of beer,
(I only cut it once a year.)
I simonize and wash and dry,
And when the moon’s full in the sky,
I sacrifice a virgin fair,
For Sassoon! (He’s the God of Hair.)
The salty blood of my selection
Stains the mouth of my reflection.
Demon? Monster? All beware?
Kiss my ass: I’ve got great hair.”
…
…
…
That got weird.
“You asked, sugar.”
Hey, Godchauxes. Whatcha doing?
“Huh?”
“Waitin’ for my turn to sing, bein’ proud, wearin’ skirts. The usual, sugar.”
Who you two voting for?
sha-plumpf
…
Did Keith slide bonelessly to the ground?
“Looks like.”
Well, who are you voting for, Mrs. Donna Jean?
“Same person I always vote for: Jesus.”
I don’t think He wants the job.
“He didn’t wanna be the Messiah neither, but He did that pretty good. Jesus ’16!”
Not the worst candidate you could vote for.
“No, that’s Gary Johnson, honey.”
Right.
“Which one of you is the astronaut?”
“That was the other night, sugar. This is my band. Y’all are sittin’ in with us tonight.”
“Ah. What does the kid play?”
“He ain’t in the band, Bob.”
“We got a kid in the band now, but he’s a little older. Taller, at least. Have you met him?”
“Josh?”
“Is that his name?”
“I have met him several times now. How much of this summer you remember, hon?”
“There were fireworks on the Fourth of July.”
“You and I both know that was a guess, Bob.”
“Was it hot?”
“You’re not inspirin’ confidence, sugar.”
…
“Phil’s black now.”
“It’s comin’ back to you.”
“We battled Godzilla.”
“That some sort of half-memory/half-translated hallucination about Fenway Park and the Green Monster?”
“Good chance it is, yeah.”
“Then: yes, Bob. We battled Godzilla.”
“We win?”
“Even better.”
“We made friends with him?”
“It was a good summer, sugar.”
Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?
“Wearin’ the hell out of these here slacks, sugar.”
You totally are.
“That Meyers boy is bitin’ my style.”
Not really. Where are you?
“Now you should know this, darlin’. This is Muscle Shoals Sound Studio in Sheffield, Alabama. You got Graceland, the Opry, Sun, Stax, and you got this bitty place right here. Black folks made some hits, so white boys been makin’ pilgrimages here all these years. Good kinda Southern landmark.”
Yeah?
“Everybody got along in the studio. Didn’t matter what color you were. Just had to play. Me and the girls in Southern Comfort here, we sing for white acts, black acts, no one cared.”
That’s nice.
“And, hoo boy, was there some humpin’!”
That’s too much, Mrs. Donna Jean.
“Back then it was called miscegenation and it was against the law, but we didn’t care. We was young and it was so damn hot out.”
That sounds nice, actually. Hey, what was Elvis like?
“Elvis was like Elvis. Only way I can explain it.”
That makes perfect sense.
“Yeah, it kinda does.”
Allow me to preface my silly little jokes with this: hail to the road crew. First in, last out, first blamed.
In no particular order:
- If you asked someone to describe what this photo would look like before they saw it, they would have gotten it exactly right; nothing about this photo is a surprise.
- Oh, wait: there’s a bunch of ladies.
- They are hidden in the back.
- Maybe the photographer is a bear, and all the women are menstruating, and the men are being chivalrous.
- Beard guy.
- Bald guy.
- Bald guy who is maybe black.
- Lady in red cocktail dress.
- Matt Busch.
- Other beard guy.
- Waldo.
- Harry Knowles.
- Y’know, I think Bald Maybe Black Guy and Handsome Dan back there are the drivers for some reason–the two guys by Mrs. Donna Jean in the Stealie button-downs–and now I am fascinated by them and am starting to make up stories about them.
- I will come up with better names, though.
- And speaking on behalf of Mrs. Donna Jean: same shit, different century.
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