Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jerry garcia (Page 19 of 139)

When A Blind Faith Takes Your Hand

October 17, 2017 / / 4 Comments

This is either the 23rd or 24th of March, 1968. Traffic was playing at the Fillmore and Winterland that weekend, and they set up their gear for a free show in front of the local hippie-run FM station; Garcia dropped by to jam. (I DARE you to find a sentence more 1960’s than the one I just wrote. I dare you, motherfucker.) Garcia brought Mickey, and Mickey brought his stupid hat.

Anyway, you can go read the story on Hooterollin’ Around. I know it posted it yesterday, but fuck it: I was just that entertained by this well-researched and deeply strange post. Besides the free gigs in front of radio stations, and the famous flatbed truck show during the Haight Street Fair, and the Disneyland gig (!), there was this:

In a better, purer world, the Dead served as Chuck Berry’s backup band those nights. Well, they did for the first night.

A Partial and Loose Timeline of the Weekend the Grateful Dead was Chuck Berry’s Band:

  • A month before the show, Bill Graham hires the Dead for the gig, giving them a list of Chuck’s songs and a pep talk about rehearsing and show biz and then he and Phil started yelling at one another.
  • The Dead do not learn any of the songs.
  • The night of the show, Chuck Berry arrives alone in a rented Cadillac ten minutes before curtain time.
  • Bill Graham pays him in cash.
  • He exits the Cadillac.
  • With five minutes until lights up, half the Dead is almost ready; the rest are missing, too high to function, or wrist-deep in skank.
  • Bill Graham corrals the Grateful Dead, much like a border collie with sheep, but if the sheep were surly and sarcastic.
  • There is a crisis: Billy cannot get his hand out of the skank.
  • The crisis is averted: a sneeze is induced in the skank and everything opens right up.
  • The Dead take their places.
  • Chuck Berry enters.
  • “Why the fuck are there so many people up here?”
  • “Hi, Mr. Berry. I’m Bob.”
  • “Shut the fuck up.”
  • Chuck Berry says “Maybelline in E flat.”
  • The Dead play Johnny B. Goode in G.
  • Chuck Berry calls out “No Particular Place To Go” in A flat.
  • The Dead play Johnny B. Goode in G.
  • This is the point at which the fistfight broke out.
  • The Flaming Groovies were called into service for the second set, and the following two nights.

I’m Gonna Sing A Song For You

October 12, 2017 / / 4 Comments

This is the past. This is the era we are no longer in, the Post-War era; that’s all over with. The men are dead, and the women are dead, and so are their tools. Ink and telephones and typewriters. Those things are for fetishists now. Guitars, too, maybe. Guitars speak in Base-6, but the culture only recognizes Base-2 lately.

This is the past. Cars required regular maintenance and could not drive themselves, not one little bit. Seatbelts were an option, and you had to pay extra for them. You could buy airplane tickets in cash without identification. There was one phone company in all of America. It was called Ma Bell. I’m sure some realized how creepy that was, but not most. Big cities had six or seven newspapers, and some would publish in the afternoons so the men leaving their offices had something to read on the train back to Levittown. If you wanted to deposit a check or take out money, you went to the bank. The bank was closed. The bank was open for an hour a day in the past.

This is the past. Little boys wore shorts and sported crewcuts. Girls wore pigtails and learned to make goulash; the Hungarian ones did, at least. Bees were everywhere. At night, the villages would dance and burn creosote and then the mass lickings began. The sun was left-handed. The national pastime was sissyfighting. Erosion had not yet scrubbed the presidents’ dicks from Mount Rushmore. Shampoo was free.

Excuse me.

Oklahoma was where Belgium should have been, but not vice-versa.

Stop this immediately.

What did I do?

It got weird.

It did. The past was very weird.

You started making things up.

No. I am a journalist.

Tell the nice people about the website.

Sure. The Smithsonian (la-dee-dah) has thrown up a new crowd-sourced rock photo site. Go check it out.

…

That was it? 

Eh. It’s kind of shitty to navigate and they make it a pain-in-the-ass to steal the pictures.

You’re mad at an organization for attempting to protect its intellectual property?

Yes.

As long as we’re clear.

One-Tub Man

October 10, 2017 / / 10 Comments

Why are you in the bathtub?

“Rest of the room is on fire.”

Currently?

“It’s more of a smolder-type deal now, but you get the drift, man.”

What about a pipe? Maybe if you smoked a pipe, you’d set fewer hotel rooms on fire.

“A pipe? Like Sherlock Holmes? What are those suckers called, the big ones? A calaboose?”

Calabash.

“Right, right. What’s a calaboose?”

A jail cell.

“Y’know the thing about jail? No fun.”

I knew that.

“Well, to be honest, it varies. Last couple times I got arrested weren’t that bad. The cops let me sit in an office and smoke. One of ’em brought me a meatball sub.”

Can’t complain about that.

“I asked for a meatball parm.”

Okay, you can complain a little. Seriously, though: one of these days, you’re going to start a big fire.

“Yeah, maybe. We tried hiring a kid to sit up with me and pluck the cigarette from my hand when I nodded off.”

How’d that turn out?

“I set him on fire by accident.”

Sure.

Proud Miles

October 9, 2017 / / 3 Comments

“Look at my fine possessions.”

You have a lot of clothes.

“I’m a fashionable motherfucker. Always. Had to have my hair neat and beautiful. Italian shoes. Used to get my suits made, but I don’t wear suits no more.”

Why not?

“Tell you why. Was playing a show with some fucking hillbilly group. What’s their name? Pretend to be from New Orleans when they’re from the suburbs of San Franfuckingcisco. Always wearing lumberjack shirts.”

Creedence Clearwater Revival.

“Terrible. Jingle-jangle bullshit. Simple fucking shit. Play a C a couple times. Go to G. Back to C. I’d put my gun in my fucking mouth before I got to the chorus. White people like some baby music. Who’s that motherfucker likes to fuck rabbits?”

…

Lenny from Of Mice And Men?”

“Yeah, that motherfucker. That’s all you. Bunch of rabbit-fucking retards.”

Please don’t use that language.

“So they out on stage playing that up-and-down bullshit. Singing about how he was born on the bayou. Motherfucker, you was born in a mayonnaise shop. And I’m standing there. I look sharp. Double-breasted jacket with a real subtle herringbone. Tie from Hermes. Looking clean as a motherfucker. Band’s looking good.”

Okay.

“And everyone backstage is kind of edging away from us. Giving us the corner of their eye. I assume these white motherfuckers are racist.”

Sure.

“But there’s n—–s down there staying away, too.”

Please don’t use that word.

“Fuck you. So, I don’t understand what’s happening. I call over the promoter. What’s his name? Jew who yells a lot.”

Bill Graham.

“That’s him. He comes over. I say, ‘What the fuck is with these fucking people of yours? They’re treating me like a leper.’ He starts laughing. Says, “Schmuck, they think you’re a cop in that fucking suit.'”

What did you do?

“First, I glared at Bill for about three or four minutes for calling me a schmuck. Then I thought about what he said. At first, it angered me. Slapped all the white people around me. This calmed me down. Felt better. Slapped them all again. This felt good. Next day, I threw out all my suits and bought some flashy shit.”

You looked good in the suits, and you look good like this.

“About taste, y’see. Gotta have taste. Fashion ain’t shit. All about taste.”

“I’ve always said that in regards to dressing.”

“Goddamn, you look like shit.”

“Nah, man. Like you said. Different taste.”

“No, motherfucker. You just sloppy.”

“Ah, bite me. You got any stash?”

“Shit, yeah. Get the fuck in my closet, you fat Mexican motherfucker. Bring your guitar.”

“Of course.”

Down In Front

October 6, 2017 / / 6 Comments

The past looked like shit. The present is a hyper-designed nightmare of weaponized professionalism, but the past looked like shit. It was slapped together; “good enough” was good enough for the past. You could see all the seams, several of which were fraying before your eyes. See how there’s no chairs or aisles or sub-divisions within the crowd? That’s called general admission. It kills people. Not always, and not often, but it kills people. The past was more flammable.

OR

This is 11/27/70, which was the day after Thanksgiving that year. The Dead played on the 23rd in New York City, and then this show on the 27th. Did they fly back to the Bay, or did they eat their turdrugken in Manhattan? (Turdrugken is a chicken stuffed into drugs stuffed into a turkey.) The venue was called The Syndrome, because in 1970, you could name a venue “The Syndrome” and people would respond to that by saying “Groovy” and “Far out,” instead of “That’s a terrible fucking name. Are we in a hack novel about the Sixties? Don’t name it that.”

The Syndrome used to be called the Chicago Coliseum when the Blackhawks played there in the 20’s. In 1904, Teddy Roosevelt accepted the Republican Party’s nomination when they held their convention here; TR accepted the Bull Moose Party’s nod here, too, in 1912. Didn’t work out as well. There was roller derby during the Depression, and then the Chicago Packers laid in a hardwood floor and put up some hoops. They would change their name to the Chicago Zephyrs shortly before moving to Baltimore and becoming the Bullets, then heading a few miles south to D.C. where they are today the Washington Wizards. (Fun philosophy question: is it still the same team? Discuss.)

Out of date and lacking any sports teams to support it, the Coliseum turned to a life of crime; worse, it started presenting long-hair bands. The owners renamed the dump The Syndrome and booked acts throughout the 60’s. (Did they think the kids would be fooled by the dopey hippie name? That they would overlook the fact that the joint was less a building and more a building-shaped pile of material? I can smell the urine through the photo.)

Anyway, the Dead played there only once, on the Friday after Thanksgiving in 1970. They brought the New Riders with them, as was their wont in 1970. There’s no tape.

Three months later, 6,000 fans crammed into the arena to watch the simulcast of the Ali/Frazier fight. The projector broke. Riots broke out, and the fight fans damn near tore that old building down. The ensuing insurance inspection turned up so many fire code violations that even a bribe couldn’t fix it, and may I remind you that this was Chicago. Takes quite a bit to be beyond a bribe in that city, but the Coliseum was not longer financially feasible as a performance space. Japanese Buddhists own it now, and they do Japanese Buddhist things there. There is most likely no roller derby at all.

OR

Check out JT Leroy looking back at the camera.

That Confounded Bridge

October 6, 2017 / / 3 Comments

For fuck’s sake. Precarious?

“Yo.”

Precarious Lee, everyone.

ENTHUSIAST APPLAUSE NOISE

“Hey.”

What the hell is that?

“That’s the Dead. Choogly-type band.”

Yes, thank you. I recognized them.

“They’re easy to spot.”

But mostly I recognized your handiwork. Are those speakers?

“Where?”

On the right.

“Yup.”

Are those two columns of speakers separated by a couple feet with another speaker bridging across the top?

“Yup.”

Why, man?

“Why not?”

So, so, so many reasons.

“If someone dies, we’ll do it different next show.”

That’s your motto, isn’t it?

“Mottos are for assholes.”

True.

It’s What He Would Have Wanted

October 1, 2017 / / 6 Comments

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“When I say ‘Jerry Garcia,’ what do you think of?”

“Tie-dye? Hippies?”

“No.”

“Beard.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“20-minute solos.”

“Stop that. Concentrate, damn you, or I’ll give you such a hiding.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, sir.”

“Skank!”

“Wow, that wasn’t even close to one of my guesses.”

“Jenkins, when you think of Jerry Garcia, you think skank. Semi-naked titty-bitches writhing in orgasmic ecstasy in furtherance of a capitalist agenda. You know, skank.”

“That’s a bit misogynist, sir.”

“Yes. I’m a terrible man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing, nothing at all, sells like skank, Jenkins. Humor, cleverness, outright lying: these work in ads, but not like skank.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but what is this exactly an ad for?’

“The concept that Garcia’s guitars were magical.”

“Ah.”

“Otherwise, people will just think they’re overpriced geegaws that sounded objectively worse than a Strat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can’t have that, now. Bad for merch sales. Gotta sell merch, Jenkins. And do you know how?”

“With skank, sir?”

“Skank! Cures all ailments and washes away trouble, does skank. Puts a spring in your step and a boner in your pocket; talking about skank here. Jenkins, have you ever felt the warm summer rain on your face?”

“I suppose.”

“It was skank.”

“The rain was skank?”

“All is skank; skank is all. Like the Christ, but with a butthole you’d like to wrestle into submission.”

“Why would you need to wrestle a butthole, sir?”

“They get feisty. Buttholes have minds of their own, Jenkins. Never turn your back on a butthole.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You’ll be dead!”

“Sir, do you have a plan beyond ‘procure skank?'”

“Oh, yes.”

…

“Would you like to tell me?”

“You didn’t make it clear that was your desire, Jenkins. Be assertive, old bean.”

“What is the skank plan, sir?”

“That’s better. So: we get the skank.”

“Right.”

“And the guitars. Then, we apply a thick coat of polish.”

“To the guitars or the skank, sir?”

“Yes.”

“And then?’

“Well, then the skank skanks it up, I suppose. Wriggling. Going ‘woo!’ That sort of thing. Maybe we get some bellybutton in play. Who knows with skank?”

“So, the model will just dance around in her underwear in front of the guitars?”

“You say that as if it isn’t a mitzvah.”

“It’s not, sir.”

“Anti-semitism will not be allowed in this office, Jenkins. Unless it’s from me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, set up a casting session and run to the store for some polish.”

“Skank or guitar?”

“Yes.”

Friends

September 30, 2017 / / 2 Comments

You look happy.

“Found a teevee show I like. Too many white motherfuckers, but it’s funny. Makes me laugh.”

What show, Mr. Davis?

“Don’t know the name. About this white bitch wants to have everything. Works at some sort of comedy show. There’s a black man on the show, but he’s a buffoon. Talks like he’s got nine dicks in his mouth.”

Are you talking about 30 Rock?

“Told you I didn’t know the name, motherfucker. White motherfucker in a suit with a giant head got a voice like mine is on the show, too. Very funny. One episode I saw had a cartoon cat on it. They called him Meatcat. Used to know a trombone player named Meatcat.”

Yeah, you’re talking about 30 Rock.

“All sorts of misunderstandings and confusion going on. Leads to comedic situations. Kept my attention even though it was some racist bullshit. That white bitch who stars in it never knows what she wants. Family? Career? Bitch don’t know. Reminds me of Cicely.”

Tina Fey reminded you of Cicely Tyson?

“Yeah. When she started getting out of hand, I wanted to slap her.”

Jesus, Mr. Davis.

“One show, they did it live. Like that was some fucking big deal. I did my show live every night. White people always want you be impressed when they do some shit black folks do every day.”

I guess. But, um, I got some bad news for you.

KuhCHICK

Was that your pistol?

“You know it was.”

I did. Just checking. But 30 Rock is going off Netflix.

“When?”

Tonight.

“This is what the white man does. Gets you to enjoy something, then takes it away.”

There’s other shows.

“I ain’t watching no fucking Friends, motherfucker.”

I wasn’t going to suggest that.

“Shouldn’t be suggesting nothing to me. You a genius?”

Well, according to the New Yorker—

BANG!

I deserved that.

“One of these days, I’m not gonna miss. You lucky I’m a sweetheart.”

“That’s right, man. Miles is a prince.”

“Who said that?”

“Hey, man.”

“Garcia! Hey, motherfucker. Get your fat Mexican ass over here.”

“How you been, Miles?”

“Dead. How about you?”

“Same.”

“You holding?”

“Shit, yeah.”

“Good. I like that. Tell that chatterbox motherfucker to beat it.”

“Sure. Hey.”

Me?”

“Yeah, man. Cop a walk.”

But I–

BANG!

HOLY SHIT, Garcia! Did you just shoot at me?

“Yeah. I’ve wanted to for a while.”

“Heh heh. Shoot at him again.”

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