The world used to be primitive.
The world used to be primitive.
But now we have hangover powders backed by chooglists and honest-to-fuck doctors. Some people would call that progress.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 11 of 139)
“Oh, hey, Branford. I thought you and Elvis went to fight Hitler.”
“Motherfucker, why does that sentence make sense to me now? It wouldn’t have before I started hanging ’round you weird motherfuckers.”
“It’s, uh, amazing how fast the human mind can acclimate to new stimuli.”
“I don’t give a shit. No offense, Bob, but I’ve had enough of the time travel and whatnot.”
“Whole lotta whatnot around here, yup. ‘Whatnot’ is pretty much the dark matter of the Grateful Dead’s reality: we don’t know what it is exactly, but we know there’s quite a bit of it.”
“Did you just call me ‘dark matter?'”
“No, no, no. I, uh, don’t see color. Makes driving a hassle, but the Tesla does it all for me now.”
“Goddamn, I wanna get out of here.”
“Oi! Branny-Wanny!”
“Whoever called me that is catching some hands.”
“Sting? What the fuck are you doing being a part of this?”
“Well, Trudy and I accidentally learned the secrets of time travel via tantric humping.”
“No dumber than anything else I’ve heard so far.”
“And I heard your beautiful saxophonations through the infra-streams.”
“Okay, that’s dumber.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“That depends. Do you want to bring me back to where I came from, or are we going on adventures?”
“Adventures.”
“Cracker-ass cracker.”
“Why is Branford so angry, Jerr-o?”
“Ah, you know, man: skipping back and forth through the infra-stream is a bit disconcerting at first.”
“He makes it about race, though.”
“Well, in his defense, it is exclusively white people doing this to him. He’s just being observant.”
“It’s still hurtful.”
“Sack up, Gordon.”
…
“Jerr-o, did you see Branny-Wanny?”
“He lets you call him that?”
“I’m a knight; I can call anyone whatever I want.”
“Huh, didn’t know that.”
“Comes with the title.”
“You people are fascinating.”
“Seriously, though, where did he go?”
“Boy, what did I tell you about white people?”
“They were the devil.”
“Time travelling demons! Each and every one, even the ones seem okay. Tom Hanks? Time travelling demon.”
“I know, sir.”
“You dumber than a box of dicks.”
“I know, sir.”
“MotherFUCKER! How am I back here? Me and Miles drove off in his Lamborghini.”
“Did he turn left?”
“Yeah.”
“There you go.”
“Bob, you’re gonna explain what the fuck is happening or I’m shoving my horn up your ass.”
“Branford, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”
“Oh, this is some white people bullshit.”
“I won’t argue with you about that. Pig’s girlfriend and Merl Saunders said the exact same thing. I,uh, don’t know much about black people, but I do know that you folks are aggressively averse to time travel. Our bass player gets real pissy about it.”
“I’ll bet.”
“His name is Branford, too, as I’ve mentioned.”
“Uh-huh. Yo, Oteil?”
“Yeah?”
“Why does Bobby think you’re named Branford?”
“The Grateful Dead thinks every black man is named Branford.”
…
“I don’t know if I’m pissed off or honored.”
“I’d be pissed off if they knew white people’s names, but they just make up shit for them, too.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna tell me what’s happening here?”
“Well, remember that I’m the new guy.”
“Sure.”
“But we’re stuck in some sort of lazy universe full of unexplained magick.”
“Why’d you stick a ‘k’ on that ‘magic?'”
“Because magic is card tricks. This shit is some bullshit.”
“Uh-huh. And is there any–”
SHWAZZATHOOM!
“–way out ofOH C’MON!”
“Oh, hey, man. You back?”
“WHY DID THAT HAPPEN?”
“Did you talk to Oteil?”
“Yeah.”
“There you go.”
“THAT’S NOT A FUCKING REASON FOR TIME TRAVEL!”
“Yelling is almost always counter-productive, man.”
“Well, can you blame me? This is downright unsettling.”
“You get used to it. Good thing is that dying is less consequential.”
“What? You can’t die in here?”
“Oh, no, you can. But then the guy who co-wrote Billy’s book comes to the afterlife and brings you back in a racecar.”
…
…
…
“What!?”
“It’s not the most efficient method, probably.”
“AH’LL TAKE YOU HOME, MISTER BRANF’RD!”
“That can’t be who it sounds like.”
“AH HAVE BROUGHT WITH ME TH’ TIME SCARF T’ AID US IN OUR CHRONOLOGICAL TO-IN’s AN’ FRO-IN’S!”
“This is all just stupid.”
“AH SEE YOU AN’ YER GIANT SUNGLASSES THERE, HAIRY GARCIA!”
“Hey, King.”
“NOW JOIN ME, MISTER BRANFORD. WE GONNA GO ON ADVENTURES THROUGH TIME TOGETHER.”
“No, I don’t want to.”
“WE GONNA KARATE HITLER RIGHT IN HIS FACE!”
“Garcia?”
“Yeah, man?”
“What the fuck?”
“Well, it’s like the snake said to the old lady: You knew we were weird before you jammed with us.”
“SADDLE UP, SAX MAN!”
“Goddammit.”
“You having fun. man?”
“Fuck, man, I had no idea about you motherfuckers.”
“Yeah, we get it on for white boys.”
“This is a blast, Jerry. You do this every night?”
“Except for when we suck, yeah.”
“That happen a lot?”
“You’d be shocked.”
“Well, not tonight. I feel like I can’t play a wrong note.”
“You’ve got an open invitation, man. Hell, you can join the band if you want.”
“Lemme think about that, man. I’m really gonna–
SHWAZZATHOOM!
“–think aboutWHAT THE FUCK?”
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?”
“What’s up, Branford? Do you need some Fret-Eeze?”
“No! Where am I? What year is it? BOBBY? What the fuck? Where’s Garcia!?”
“Ah. What, uh, year do you think it is?”
“1990!”
“Ah. Did you, uh, play a D-flat?”
“I think so.”
“Well, there you go. It’s 2018, Jerry’s dead, I’m the Garcia now, Josh is me, and our new bass player is also named Branford.”
“What kind of white person bullshit is this?”
BANG!
“What the fuck?”
BANG!
“Bobby, someone’s–”
…
“Bobby? Damn, he’s quick.”
“I got you now, Wynton, you corny motherfucker!”
BANG!
“STOP SHOOTING! I’m not Wynton! It’s Branford!”
“Branford?”
“Yes!”
“Not Wynton?”
“No!”
“Hate that fucking brother of yours.”
“I know!”
“Hey, motherfucker. Why you hanging out with those old white motherfuckers?”
“I wasn’t! I was hanging out with middle-aged white motherfuckers and then I got shoved sideways through time or something!”
“Chill the fuck out before I slap you.”
“Okay.”
JAZZ SLAP!
“I was calm!”
“You was getting to calm. I helped you along the fucking way. C’mon, let’s go for a ride and I’ll take you back to wherever the fuck you came from.”
“You can do that?”
BANG!
“I’m Miles Davis, motherfucker. Course I can travel through fucking time.”
“I’m so confused.”
I’m not usually this much of an asshole, but someone on Twitter sent me this pic and asked who the other guy was.
I replied, “?”
She said, “The other guy. Not Garcia.”
So I repeated, “?”
And she said she’d ask someone else and I’m giggling because I’m a lousy crumb-bum.
EDIT: I am now informed that is Link Wray, but I don’t believe it.
Pack your bags, Enthusiasts, and join Peter Shapiro and A Bunch of Jam Bands To Be Named Later on the Briefcase’n Tour! In honor of Garcia’s briefcase, we’ll be hitting all the funnest spots in the world!
Dates announced so far:
- A morgue in Trenton, NJ!
- Jonestown!
- Anne Frank’s attic!
- Plum Island!
- That Apple factory in China where workers keep throwing themselves off the roof!
- Centralia, PA!
- Tuol Sleng, Cambodia!
- John McCain’s bedside!
And many, many more! Shapiro: It’s Hebrew for class.
If you didn’t hear his voice in your head the second you saw the photo, then I don’t wanna talk to you any more.
OR
The Step Brothers reboot looks awful.
OR
Garcia was not the Last Great Smoker. No, that was Peter O’Toole.
Lighting a freshie off the dying butt is a power move, but doing it on national teevee is god-level fuckery.
OR
Bet you a million bucks Tom’s watch is broken.
Well, this is something I didn’t know existed: Garcia reading a short story by Stephen King. What do I tell you, Enthusiasts? There is always a Dead connection.
My father said he was at Woodstock, but he also said he was at Game 5 of the ’69 World Series where the Mets beat the Orioles; my dad said a lot of things.
OR
This is one of not-very-many photos of the Dead playing Ol’ Man Yazgur’s farm on this date 49 years ago, and holy shit is next year’s 50th anniversary gonna be annoying. Get ready for a lot of interviews with Country Joe and/or the Fish.
OR
Woodstock wasn’t Curveball. There was no glamping section, as the portmanteau had not yet been invented, nor was there a free-form radio station broadcasting from the site over multiple media. No webcast, ATMs, sculpture gardens, or pop-up general stores. Also, there was no water, food, or medical staff. It was just a fucking field and no one was in charge and it’s astonishing that everyone didn’t die of cholera. The past was terrible.
OR
“Billy.”
OR
The problems began with the stage. The production crew had built a circular contraption; instead of having to strike and reset the gear in between each band, one could play out front with the roadies set up the next group backstage. When it came time to switch acts, the stage would rotate 180 degrees. Repeat until Jimi Hendrix.
Except, of course, the Grateful Dead brought every amplifier in the world and the back half of the round stage sunk two feet into the mud. Which meant the production crew had to strike and reset the gear. This resulted in a delay of around an hour.
Then came the rain, which wouldn’t have been such a hassle had most of the band not had electrical equipment strapped to their chests. Or literally anything been grounded properly.
And the wind, which–again–wouldn’t have been a big deal had the Dead not strung up a giant sheet behind them for the light show. A giant sheet, Enthusiasts will realize, is also called a “sail.” The stage threatened to tip over before Parish and Ramrod clambered up, Captain Blood-like, to shred the canvas with their knives.
Also, their sound man was the Most Famous Drug Dealer In America, so they were way too fucking high.
OR
Speaking of knives: What the fuck, Mickey?
OR
I’d link their set, but they played Lovelight for 45 minutes and I’m not rewarding that behavior. 45-minute Dark Star? Yes, please. 45-minute Other One? This gives the Deadhead a boner. 45-minute Lovelight? Why do you hate America?
Here’s the only worthwhile performance from that muddy self-suck:
If it’s this easy, maybe I should write a foul-mouthed poem about Trump…
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