This has nothing–nothing in the slightest–to do with the Grateful Dead…
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o7pVjl4Rrtc]
…but it’s so goddamned beautiful.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: Grateful Dead (Page 5 of 25)
And if you fall in my direction, don’t expect no help at all.
Right? Was that what you were thinking? “Help him, Phil. Stop singing the song that no one really likes and pick Bobby up.” Was that your first thought?
Because Phil’s first thought was, “Again?”
So cut him some slack. Also, give Phil credit for not immediately Mola Ram-ing Bobby’s liver out of his abdomen while he was down.
you don’t know how precious a stool is until the road crew brings you one.
you don’t know why all these people are in your living room.
you don’t know how it feels to be me.
you don’t know where garcia is.
you don’t know how you knew that if you ever collapsed onstage that phil would just keep singing, but you were right.
you don’t know how bitcoin works and, quite frankly, don’t wish to know.
you don’t know how easy it is to love you.
you don’t know if the doctor said one pill every four hours or four pills every hour so NOM NOM NOM PILLS YAY GO SLEEP NOW KTHXBAI.
you don’t know where that highway leads to.
you don’t know what happened to the rest of your pants.
you don’t know how hard it is to love you.
you don’t know the way to minglewood.
you don’t know the way to el paso.
you don’t know the way to mexicali.
you don’t know the way back to new york city, but i do believe you’ve had enough.
Mockery shall re-commence when it turns out he’s okay.
Sound quality is the thing–it’s a deal breaker for me. I need my shows to sound like a closeted preacher’s marriage: clean and separated.
“You gotta kinda struggle to hear everything, man, but it’s totally worth it.”
No, it is not. It sounds like a Belgian farting in a laundromat. There must be separation: Garcia and Phil at 12 o’clock, Keith and Bobby at 10 and 2. Billy spreads out along the bottom or Billy on the left and Mickey on the right. No exceptions.
My quest for aural satiety continues, festers, defines. It broods in the winter and sweats like a holy man in the summers. Some enthusiasts of an audiophile bent will settle for nothing less than FLAC files, while others–confused, spotty lads and broken old men the lot of them–content themselves with mp3 files.
I, on the other hand, make Charlie Miller come to my house and sing to me.
All nonsense, of course. No stereo here in Fillmore South with which to crank tunes, bitchin’ or otherwise. Just one of those little dock things and the computer, whom I hate and fear and will one day beg to come back. You know: Dad.
Computers combine the worst qualities of dogs and cats: they’re as stupid and literal and single-minded as dogs, and as annoyingly independent as cats. (To think of the computer this way falls into what I call the “canine fallacy,” which is that adorable habit humans have of thinking of all animals as weird-shaped dogs, much to their chagrin as a bull moose stompjacks their heads over and over with his dinner-plate sized foot. Fewer people would get mauled and eaten each year if they remembered that, out of the entire animal kingdom, only dogs have a category called “buddy.”)
Where do you even begin? The headband, right? You’d have to start with the handband.
First thing I did when I got back to the bloggings was to check on the internals, the numbers, the data dammit. Analytics, they’re called. They are called this because it is remarkably easy to become anal about them.
That is not true.
The first thing I did when I got to Tokyo was buy a Japanese guitar.
Are you kidding me?
What?
You’re making Cheap Trick jokes now? Cheap Trick’s one of those bands you see by accident.
The second thing I did is check whether anyone had cracked the cipher I’ve hidden within the posts that, when cracked, leads to the hidden cache of cash, fine narcotics, and solid B+ whores.
There is no such cipher, nor are cash, drugs, or…wait, why are they B+ whores? Why not A+?
Because all whore grading is situational. I’m just gonna TELL the whores that they’re just B+ and that’s gonna make ’em work that much harder. It’s gonna make ’em want it. I’m gonna whitewash their fences.
Maybe coming back wasn’t–
That has a double meaning, what I just said.
–such a great…Yeah, I got it. I see what you did there, chief.
It was a Tom Sawyer reference, but I was also referring to my gift. I’m going to give the B+ whores my gift.
Are you done?
…Yes.
Then do you think we might–
GIVE IT TO THEM ALL OVER THEIR PRETTY BOOBIES!
Bang!
Wow…that is the quickest we’ve needed a replacement. This one must have had a bad motivator or something. Well then, below is a small collection of the best search terms people have used to get here recently. They’ve not been altered in any way. Also, when the police ask about me shooting the other guy, let’s all say that he was coming at me with a knife and he also looked Chechan.
We’ll have some auditions real soon and, anyway, we were thinking about going in a different direction for Mark II, so–
I’M NOT DEAD, MOTHERFUCKER!
Cut to the list! Cut to the list!
Close, but no cigar – thoughts for someone who is deceased, thoughts to be dead, thoughts for someone who is diseased.
All of it – how much did lenny hart steal?
Actually, a pretty good idea for a post – dead logical fallacies
Weir, I know you’re out there googling yourself – phil lesh yelling at bobby, hey bobby? i was hoping you’d play slide tonight, bobby problem
You gotta have a gimmick – billy kreutzmann dick punch, billy kreutzmann dickpuncher, dickpunching billy
Whatever you’re on, I want two – furrybooru fireon, bagger vance i am your caddie, gamma fuck prone.
Go to a doctor right now – total nipple refraction
This one is–completely on the level–oddly affecting and beautifully melancholy – i was called a pretty panther
It means you need to sit down and drink fluids – what does it mean when they said that the telegraph plat dance better to the grateful dead?
It wasn’t good in the first place – is 2 year old coors light still good?
Oddly specific – two dogs in communion #3
I don’t like your tone, pal – garry w. tallent jew
They screwed Vince, let’s all agree on that. The sounds they made him use were one thing, but it was the personal stuff that really led to Vince’s failure and eventual demise. Before joining the band, Vince was named Cock Money and combs would snap in two immediately upon entering his thick lustrous mane. On Vince’s first day at Front Street, Mickey shaved him and gave him a loser’s name.
(Try saying it like Jerry Lewis: Vince WELLLLL-nick. Glaben.)
Vince didn’t want to dress like that either, but Jon McIntire would wire his Hawaiian shirts to explode if they were removed. This hurt Vince and he went to the band–except Garcia because he was in the bathroom–and told them that if wearing the shirts was so important to everybody, he would just do it. No C-4 necessary.
So Billy punched him in the dick. (In his defense, Billy hadn’t been paying attention in the slightest and just wanted to punch the new guy in the dick. Now, that was certainly not how Vince read the situation; he cried for 90 minutes. I’m just relaying facts here.)
The sounds, however, were truly the crux of the problem: wheezy, hollow tinklings made by primitive synthesizers. The aural equivalent of watching a clown car get raped to death.
A clown car get…what the fuck is wrong with you? This is the comeback special and you’re talking about Vince and a forcibly penetrated harlequinade?
Is that not the show business way?
It is not, no. Welcome people back. Maybe a list. An update on your mental health.
Doesn’t the clown rape kinda give a clue about my mental health?
Point taken.
Anyhoo, imagine if someone pulled the bullshit on you that they pulled on Vince: “Here’s your new office and your desk and you know your responsibilities, so I’ll just let you dive right in…oh, that guy? That’s the guy we hired to also do your job. But better. And everyone’s gonna love him more. Oh, and he’ll be able to get away with things you wouldn’t even dare to THINK about.”
Because there were no rules for Bruce. He was allowed to waltz into the house at all hours and turn the basement into his room and his girlfriend slept over sometimes. So unfair. Listen to the cavalcade of Dark Star teases in this show from ‘Chicago ’91 .
Seriously, if Vince had ever tried teasing Dark Star, Phil would have smacked him with a rolled-up newspaper. And a chair.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: – Do I wake or sleep?
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