…and you’re all like:
This guy knows what I’m talking about.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: estimated prophet
All hands are on deck of this ship of fools, fellow Enthusiasts: ideas, hosannas, and nifty artifacts streaming in over the digital transom from Friends of TotD.
This one comes from Mr Completely, head of the Interdimensional Affairs Desk operating out of the satellite office in Fillmore Northwest, where a Gore-Tex fetish is a helpful acquisition and soccer is openly tolerated.
It’s a decent show, for an ’85 right before Garcia went night-night. But the fun is watching Bobby stop merely comprehending gravity: finally he would understand it.
Watch, starts around 53:30:
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5qjwcMJnqc&t=53m47s]
So, Bobby goes to do The Lunge, which–and, being a Bobby Man as I am, this pains me to say–Bobby is the only one in the room not getting the joke on. Bobby, the cheering you heard for The Lunge was sarcastic: I am sorry to have to be the one to break this to you. Everyone forgave you immediately after it happened, but if it had not have happened at all, people would have been cool with that, if you’re reading me on this one.
Anyhoo, the best part isn’t watching Bobby fall (which is , obviously, hilarious in and of itself), no; it’s the direct aftermath, when by means of body language and general rocking, Bobby attempts to convince the crowd that he intended to fly ass-over-teakettle to celebrate Estimated changing keys.
Who goofed on Bobby the longest for this? You’d think Mickey, right? Seems like some Mickey shit to do, but in reality: Phil still brings this up to this day; it was part of a horrific fight on the last Furthur tour. They were drinking green tea in their hotel suite. (Bobby and Phil share a room on the road; in fact, they share bunk beds.)
“This is delicious honey,” said Bobby.
“Why did you call me honey?” said Phil.
“I didn’t. I said that the honey was delicious, not that–”
“It makes me uncomfortable when you call me honey,” said Phil.
“–you were my…what’s happening here?”
…
“Hey,” Phil said. “Who am I: ‘My time coming, any day. Don’tWHAUUUUGH!’ I’m down! Bobby down, repeat: Bobby down!”
“Why do you always go there? You’re not my Garcia! YOU’RE NOT MY GARCIA!”
How much Dead do you listen to?
I listen to two shows a day, on average. During the day, I’m in the car: it’s South Florida, so everywhere is 25 minutes away from everything; either from pure distance or rain in the summer and Canadians in the winter. Load up a show (or three or four, just in the case we have sound quality issues) onto The Precious (which is what I began to call the iPhone after I woke up one night fondling it) and make my way through, say, 11/1/77 from Cobo Arena in Detroit that features a Hall-of Fame Estimated in great gulps throughout the day.
Then another show here in Fillmore South at night, while I write these bloggings. Or avoid writing them. Or pretend to, let’s be honest: whole lotta pretending to write goes on. Trollope finished 47 novels and uncountable shorter works while keeping up a heavy correspondence load and a job at the Post Office. Three paragraphs about how much I like an obscure country-rock song and I’m spent, man.
Plus, the temptations of those twin succubi, the internet and Henry Louis Gates, Jr.*, sing to me from the cliffs like a mangled classical allusion.
“Just ONE peek at Headyversion! And you can COMMENT on SOMETHING. It will be GOOD advertising!”
Why are you capitalizing like a Marvel character from the ’60’s?
“MY ill intent, and YOUR creeping insanity!”
Makes sense.
“You know you NEED to HEAR this 86′ Frost Desolation Row! And WHILE you’re THERE, you know you might as well CHECK the COMMENTS!”
I don’t wanna check the comments.
“It says HERE that SUGAREE is WTF!”
It says that?
“It actually says there’s XTRA WTF.”
Did you capitalize that, or–
“NO, THE GUY DID!”
Then, I gotta listen to this shit, yo!
“YAY!”
YAY!
SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO? IT’S CHEROKEE NOSE-JOBS ALL AROUND IF THIS SHIT CONTINUES.
So, there are digressions to the process, is what I’m trying to say. The path of the Enthusiast is more than heavily influenced by Brownian motion.
*Avid readers and eager beavers will recall that this is what I have named the physical piece of equipment that houses The Library because it is small, black, and remembers everything.
Q: Why did the Dead play Estimated so much in ’77?
A: What time signature is Estimated in?
I’m sorry: did I just blow your mind?
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