Bobby and the rest of Dead & Company went out of their way to make Mrs. Donna Jean feel welcome, including hiring her a rando for the day.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: donna godchaux (Page 4 of 7)
“My word, Phil. You have changed.”
“Not Phil, Mrs. Donna Jean. Oteil Burbridge.”
“Oh! Did the Supreme Court integrate the Dead?”
“It just kind of happened. Have you seen Jeff Chimenti?”
“Yeah, bad news. I drove into him in the parking lot. Muscle memory.”
“Shit!”
“Well, sugar: he was a keyboardist for the Grateful Dead. They don’t get pensions.”
…
“You’re crazier than the rest of them put together, aren’t you?”
“Shh. No one’s figured it out yet.”
There are Enthusiasts who despise everything Dead and Bro stands for and sounds like; there are others who will fill stadiums and Shakedowns across the country this summer.
On a terrible day, they played music for a few hours. Mrs. Donna Jean sang, and she sounded just like she used to. It wasn’t a Dead show because there isn’t any Grateful Dead anymore, but it was close.
Close is good enough for today.
“When did you learn how to play bass, Mr. Marsalis?”
“YOU WEREN’T EVEN IN THE BAND WHEN HE SAT IN!”
“Bob?”
“Yeah, Josh?”
“Something is happening.”
“Uh-huh, yeah. Infinacy.”
“Not a word.”
“And yet a thing.”
“What happens now?”
“Gotta fight all the other versions of you.”
“I don’t think I want to be in this band anymore.”
“Well, you know: you called us.”
“You’re my Bobby, now.”
“What was that, Mrs. Martin-Godchaux-Ricardo-McGillicuddy-McKay?”
“Nothing, sugar.”
It’s been 45 years, and they’re still working on Mrs. Donna Jean’s monitor situation.
From Garcia’s pinky, down; between his hand and John Kahn’s headstock; his face, up: the rule of thirds.
John Kahn, Mrs. Donna Jean, and Garcia are certainly not as close as they seem to one another: foreshortening.
The brilliant white glow of the headstock and Garcia’s forehead against the ink-black background: chiaroscuro.
The arm, the bass neck, and Wolf: balance.
Your eye starts on the “Fender” and the tunings pegs, then travels upward–clockwise–to Garcia’s face, continuing down Mrs. Donna Jean’s arm to Wolf and then up Garcia’s forearm: the Fibonacci spiral.
This is Renaissance art.
INT – MASSIVE APARTMENT THE ENTIRE DEAD LIVES IN FOR SOME REASON – DAY
GARCIA and MICKEY are sitting on the couch. BOBBY is in the kitchen.
BOBBY
Do we have anything but 2% milk?
MICKEY
No. Why?
BOBBY
Well, I’ve been reading the label. It doesn’t say
what the other 98% is!
AUDIO CUE: LAUGH TRACK
MRS. DONNA JEAN enters in a towel. There is another towel wrapped around her head.
AUDIO CUE: “WOOOOOO!”
BOBBY
Oh, no! A suicide bomber!
MRS. DONNA JEAN
It’s a towel, Bob. Not a turban.
AUDIO CUE: RACIST, LOWEST-COMMON-DENOMINATOR LAUGH TRACK
GARCIA
So, what’s with the getup?
MRS. DONNA JEAN
I bought some new herbal shampoo from
Big-Donged Sheila and LOOK!
Mrs. Donna Jean REMOVES THE TOWEL and her hair is TIE-DYE.
AUDIO CUE: “OHHHHHHHH!”
MICKEY
Well, Donna: you wanted to be a Grateful Dead,
and now you’ve got a grateful head!
AUDIO CUE: LAUGHTER, APPLAUSE, ME SHOOTING MYSELF
Here’s a welcome tonic and a counter to all the narcissistic wieners in tuxedos: good guy and FoTotD David Gans (whose book This Is All A Dream We Dreamed, co-authored with Blair Jackson, can be ordered from the sidebar) inducted our own Mrs. Donna Jean into the Alabama Music Hall of Fame the other night.
No jokes or snark about this one: congratulations, Mrs. Donna Jean.
(A word on tuxedos: I always screw up the timing with a tux. Any time I’ve had to wear a tux, I figure “Well, it’s a tux, so I have to look and smell my best, so I should start my ablutions early,” except I’m a dude with short hair. My full toilet takes less than fifteen minutes, and that’s pushing it, so I’m all black-tie fresh and clean an hour too early. And, you know, you can’t just lay around the house in a tuxedo, so I always end up sitting on the edge of my bed in a towel afraid to move in case it makes me sweat. Regardless of my difficulties, David looks very handsome.)
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