From the Comment Section, Tor Haxson pitches in with some highly useful videos from the In Concert With AIDS show. Above is Garcia and Bobby trying, in their way, to cut a donation spot. The efforts are typically bush league, with Garcia winning the “Quotables” competition with “Send money, and anything else you got.”
Then, Bobby and his chest thatch get interviewed. It goes poorly, as Bobby cannot seem to find a happy medium between single-word answers and logorrhea.
No, don’t shine it up. Put the rag down, fuck off with your bronzo. Maybe that hair was supposed to be in the gate. Could be those scratches in the negative were put there by the Lord’s fingernails. Tuck in your own fucking shirt if it’s so important to you.
It was nice of John Fogerty to let Bobby and Garcia hang out onstage while he played the old hits. Our heroes added little to the proceedings other than backing vocals, but even the awesome power of two fully bush league chooglers can’t quite trainwreck the afternoon when the rhythm section was Steve Jordan and Randy Jackson.
You can’t hear the church bells; the guitars are too loud. Those scuzzy boys and their rockyroll. Someone told those boys, those snotty little brats, that they’d never die, and–seeing as how they were too busy learning how to play a D chord to attend to their studies–they bought it. That’s freedom rock, man. Turn it up. And it drowns out the church bells.
They ring ’em for babies, even the dead ones, and they ring ’em for couples, even the ones who were beating on each other in the rectory before the ceremony, and they ring ’em when the soldiers come home. Soldiers come home one way or another. Izzy the Priest slit his wrists in the mall. Right where Santa sits come December, but it was April and so he wasn’t there. Bells rang for Izzy the Priest, too.
And, lo, Joseph did return to his fields and to his brothers.
He looked so fine.
“Brother,” they said. “Where did you get that coat?”
Joseph answered them,
“In a Dolly Parton song.”
Behind every prophet is a brother rolling his eyes.
The guitars are too loud; you can’t hear the church bells. Assumption of their toll is the odds play.