Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: jerry garcia (page 1 of 137)

Spot The Heineken*

This is how famous Garcia was: Such a full and unbroken photographic record of his life exists that we can definitely state the date he looked coolest.

 

*For this evening’s performance, the Heineken will be played by Ramrod.

Solved

Amazing how quickly we can accomplish miracles, Enthusiasts, if you define “miracle” as “recognizing a mass-produced object.” The guitar Bobby was playing in the last post was indeed an Ibanez, but not his custom Cowboy Fancy: it was was the MC400NT (NT meant  natural, as opposed to the DS’s dark stain), and if you want a 40-year-old, overly-complicated, ridiculously-heavy axe, you can pick one up for $1,300.

Thanks go to Valued Commentator Cube, who pointed us in the right direction but inadvertently brought up another question. Cube claims that Bobby played the MC400 only once, at 1978’s premier Red Rocks shows, but further snooping reveals that the guitar was also used on June 6th in Oregon.

Look:

Did you look? I’ll just assume you looked. I’m not gonna hector you about it. If you didn’t look, well: fuck you. Why are you even here if you’re not gonna look at what I tell you to look at? Sure, sometimes I tell you to look at turtle penis, but usually not. Even the most cursory glance at the above photo would have revealed that it isn’t turtle penis, so why not look?

Y’know what? Now you can look at turtle penis.

Why do you make me do that shit? You know I love you. You know I don’t want to hurt you. But you push the goddamned issue, don’t you? And now you’re looking at turtle penis. You deserved it, too.

Anyway, Bobby’s guitar or something.

This One’s In B

One must assume that Mickey only brought underwear and socks on tour, and each day wandered–bare-chested and half-cocked–by the merch table to yoink himself a fetching top.

OR

If Mrs. Donna Jean had balls, they’d fall out of those shorts. Balls are always looking for a way out; they’re like Papillon.

OR

What the hell is Bobby playing? It’s an Ibanez, but it’s not Cowboy Fancy. Anyone?

Wall Of Soundcheck

Holy shit. Garcia. Hey, Garcia.

“What is it now, man?”

Don’t look, but you’re over there.

GUITARIST LOOKING NOISE

I told you not to look.

“That’s not me, man. He just looks like me. Actually, he looks more like me than I do, man.”

Hmm. I dunno.

THERE IS ONLY ONE JERRY GARCIA.

Wally?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THE HOBBIT STAGE LEFT IS GENETICALLY DISSIMILAR TO GARCIA.

Genetically?

I SCANNED HIM.

Don’t scan randos. It’s invasive.

HE IS HANGING OFF ME LIKE A HAIRY BAT. IT IS UNSIGHTLY AND RUDE.

Let it go.

I HAVE AN AESTHETIC.

A ramshackle one.

MY APPEARANCE IS AS VITAL TO ME AS YOURS IS TO YOU. WOULD YOU ALLOW A CREATURE OF COMMENSURATE SIZE TO CLUTCH ONTO YOUR FACE? A PYGMY MARMOSET? A MOUSE LEMUR? THE BEE HUMMINGBIRD?

Did you just google “smallest monkey” and “smallest bird?”

ARE YOU ASKING A COMPUTER IF IT LOOKED SOMETHING UP ON THE COMPUTER?

I guess so.

PERHAPS I SHOULD RECOMPILE MY THOUGHTS ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD. I AM BEGINNING TO THINK HUMANS ARE INCAPABLE OF GOVERNING THEMSELVES.

Just beginning?

THE MUPPET IS NOW SEATED ON ME. THIS SITTING CANNOT STAND.

Nice one.

A GENEROUS-DOLLOP-BEYOND-MILD SHOCK GOING THROUGH SCAFFOLDING NOISE.

“Glaben!”

HIPPIE WHO LOOKS LIKE GARCIA SLUMPING TO THE STAGE NOISE

Dude.

HE WILL LIVE.

 

American Dirt Live Again!

“All I’m saying is that fiction writers should be free to write about anyone.”

“Weir, for the last time: I haven’t read that damn Mexican book.”

“Its an American book, Jer. It’s in English.”

“Don’t care, man. I like science fiction.”

“So you would read a book about Space Mexicans?”

“What the hell are Space Mexicans, man?”

“Gosh, I dunno. Maybe the piñatas are full of lasers.”

“How would that even work?”

“Crafty people, those Space Mexicans. Give a whole new meaning to the term–”

“Don’t say it, man.”

“–illegal aliens.”

“You said it.”

“Can’t keep ’em out with a wall. You’d need a Dyson Sphere or something. And, uh, he’s busy with vacuums nowadays. Completely out of the sphere business.”

“Just play the song, Weir.”

Multiply Instrumental

What are you two up to?

“Nothing.”

“Nooooooothing.”

Uh-huh. That guy’s a bad influence.

“Don’t talk about Jerry that way.”

I was not speaking to you, Drug Dealer.

That Time Phil Was Fatter Than Garcia: A Half-Assed Investigation

As is by now cliche, the Grateful Dead’s career can be sorted into chapters: Baby Dead, Single Drummer, Double Drummer, Brent, Vince, John Mayer; even the noobiest of noobs knows this. These chapters can be  further broken down: Baby Dead can, like the years that followed–be sliced into Single/Double Drummer, and then Vince be split into Bruce/No Bruce, but the Brent Years can be shaved the finest. There’s Pre and Post Coma, obviously, but there was also a magical and mostly forgotten period towards the beginning of Brent’s tenure: That Time Phil Was Fatter Than Garcia.

We can eyeball it to Fall of ’80, but exact dates for TTPWFTG are unknown as of now.

It couldn’t have lasted more than one tour. This shot’s from 9/6/80 in Lewiston, Maine, which for some reason I thought was the Dead’s only trip up to Massachusetts’ vestigial tail, but they went there a lot. As you can see, Phil had been indulging in Maine’s signature dish, which is a deep-fried plaid hat slathered in mayonnaise. (Phil also broke into Stephen King’s house after the show, as he did at least once during each of the Dead’s visits to the state.)

Speaking of plaid:

We see that in October of the same year, Phil is still a huffalump.

By March of ’81, however, the Lord has reasserted His hand on the wheel, and normalcy reigns once more over the lot, as Phil and Garcia retake their appropriate positions on the Axis of Dead Chubbiness.

Lo, do you hear the winds a-winding? Feel the earth ‘neath your feet, or knees, or whatever you’ve got pressed up against the earth? Are you reeling in the years? Will you one day dandle your tyke ‘pon your knee and teach the old stories, the cruel stories, the lost jewels of birthright? Will you tell your child about That Time Phil Was Fatter Than Garcia? Will you do that for me?

Stop typing.

Okay.

Do something useful with your life.

Don’t wanna.

Garcia: The Folk Years

Hey, Young Garcia. Whatcha doing?

“Being hep, man.”

Cool. Are you at a hootenanny?

“More of a sing-a-long.”

God, folk music is dorky.

“Don’t knock it, man. These tunes are the American canon. Europe has Beethoven and we have Woody Guthrie.”

Oh, just buy an electric guitar already.

“I like what I’m doing.”

Uh-huh. Who are your friends?

“Well, the fellow’s name is Peter Paulenmary.”

Sure.

“And I don’t know the girl’s name, man. She’s kinda freaking me out.”

There’s an Amish intensity to her.

“Right?”

Sitting And Staring Outside The Hotel Window

“Don’t do laser eyes, Weir.”

“Love laser eyes, Jer. No one else is doing it.”

“I don’t care.”

“None of the Stones. That Mick Jagger fellow pouts. That’s, uh, the opposite of laser eyes, facially speaking.”

“You look nuts, man.”

“I look focused and energetic.”

“You know: like a laser.”

“This is the worst trip to a balcony since Juliet, man.”

OR

What exactly is going on with Garcia’s nub-grip on his cigarette? How does that work? Did he use his index and ring fingers like plucky tweezers, or is the butt jammed in the web between stumpy and ring? I’m so confused.

And A Friend I Love At Hand

“Weir, you know a little French. Why is everyone calling us pwa-loos?”

Les poilus. It, uh, means ‘the hairy guys.'”

“Just like back home, man.”

Plus ça change. Hey, Jer?”

“Yeah, man?”

“Seeing the world is fun and all, but it’s much better when you do it with your friends.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me.”

“Just saying. You hungry?”

“Weir, if you bring up Arthur fucking Treacher’s one more time, I’m gonna scream.”

“Paris is a very cosmopolitan city. There might be one.”

“There won’t even be a McDonald’s for seven more years, man. Let it go.”

“How about sushi?”

“Maybe. It’s 1972, man. We might have to stick to French food.”

“Then, uh, we’re off on a culinary adventure.”

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