TotD will occasionally refer to Garcia as a “fat Mexican,” and Enthusiasts will rush to offer corrections. I say to them this: if Garcia weren’t a fat Mexican, then why is he playing with Los Lobos?
Checkmate.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 30 of 139)
“What the hell was that all about?”
Queen.
“The band or the lady?”
Band.
“I saw their show, man. Over at Winterland in ’77.”
Isn’t this picture from ’72?
…
Go on.
“Thank you. So, yeah, it was ’77 because we were doing the Terrapin record. You know the part in Terrapin: BAHHHM-bum, BAAAAHHHMM bum?”
At A Siding.
“That, yeah. We were doing that part, and everybody just kept fucking it up, y’know? And it was a real nice night out, so I walked right outside to get some fresh air.”
And a cigarette.
“Well, yeah, man. Sure. Fresh air.”
Okay.
“So I go back in, man, and Mickey and the producer are throwing ladders at each other. Like, a lot of ladders. I don’t know where they got them from. And also Phil and Billy had cut open the heads of the tympani, and were sitting in ’em making the crew race ’em up and down the hall. It was a weird scene. I’m not kidding about the ladders. Ten of ’em, easy.”
Plentiful ladders. Was Keith there?
“He was there, but he wasn’t there there, man. Right?”
Gotcha.
“And I kinda flashed onto a thought.”
Which was?
“Fuck this.”
Healthy response. So you went to see Queen. How were they?
“That’s a show, man. Every trick in the book. You know, I dig those big rock and roll band moves, man, but it’s all a bit manipulative in the end. Those cats can play, but that We Will Rock You shit is not for me. Creeped me out, honestly.”
Okay.
“And the solo, man. The guitarist stood there for, like, ten minutes showing off without anybody else playing.”
You’ve done that.
“When the situation called for it. Not, you know, because it’s that time in the show.”
I see.
“But, you know: just different modalities of thought regarding presentation. Kids were eating it up. One song after another, man: boom boom boom. It was exhausting, a little.”
You go back and meet the band?
“Nah. Went back to the studio. You ever hear of an owl cannon?”
A cannon that shoots owls?
“Yeah.”
No, that’s not a thing.
“Mickey built one.”
You went home?
“I did, yeah.”
Good call.
Goddammit. Garcia?
“What?”
…
“Oh, that. Piss off, man. I started a little fire. Not the end of the world.”
No, that’s a flood.
“Right. We’re all good here.”
Not really. Garcia?
“Uh-huh?”
How come the Grateful Dead never had any pyro?
“Show biz bullshit.”
Not debating that. Still, though: pyro is awesome.
“I think the Dead killed enough people without having explosives onstage, don’t you?”
Excellent point.
“You’re kidding, man.”
All in good fun, Garcia.
“Nothing fun about this.”
You didn’t like Van Halen?
“Eh. Heard the first few records. The hit single with the synthesizers that was on the radio. I think they hired Bobby’s shaggy friend to sing, right?
That’s pretty much the timeline, yeah.
“Eh.”
(EDITOR’S NOTE: Thanks to Spencer for the ‘shop. Spencer has something deeply, deeply wrong with him; luckily for us, he does not keep this wrongness to himself.)
“Are you Timothy Dalton?”
“Non. Ah ahm your OOZ-band.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Ah ahm Frooooonsh.”
“I thought you married my sister.”
“Non. Vous.”
“Oh.”
“Your blouse! Ah saw le Jerry! At the Olympia in Soixante-Douze.”
“Sixty-twelve?”
“Non, non. ’72.”
“If you say so.”
“Le Jerry was a Frooooonshman, you know.”
“I thought he was Mexican.”
“Non, mon petit. Big nose, smoked like un chimné, liked to cheat on his wives. Le Jerry was Froooonsh.”
“Oh.”
…
“And we have sex?”
“Oui.”
“Oh.”
Game time, Enthusiasts: let’s play Spot The Heineken.
…
Yeah, there it is.
OR
Sadly, Keith died before he could reap the publicity benefits of the “panorama” setting on phone cameras.
Precarious!
“Yo.”
Keith is having trouble hearing himself.
“Yeah?”
…
…
…
“I could put a giant speaker a foot from his face.”
Good plan.
“Eh. Plan.”
“What is it, Jer?”
…
“C’mon, guess.”
…
“Jeeeer, guess.”
“It’s a duck, Weir. Stop making shadow puppets and play your guitar.”
“ZzzWHANGggg!”
“Phil.”
“BahkaDOOOOM”
“Phil.”
“NONGANONGANONG!”
“Just play your bass, man. Stop making the noises.”
“Bite me, Garcia. SHWURM!”
“What’s this one Jer?”
“It’s also a duck, Bob. You only know one shadow puppet.”
flump
…
“Did Keith just pass out again, Jer?”
“Just keep playing, Weir.”
The other way, Garcia.
“Which way?”
Rotate to your left about 140 degrees.
“Wouldn’t that make it way too hot in here?”
Bobby, don’t help.
“This way, Jer!”
No, no. Don’t listen to Phil. Turn towards the crowd. The way Bobby is facing.
“Are you talking to me?”
DON’T TURN AROUNDoh goddammit.
Penduluminescent super troopers wrestle feedback gremlins in the balcony, while the ushers and the kids have ongoing discussions about the propriety of sitting on stairs, and the road crew barters for blowjobs backstage. The bathrooms need to be cleaned, cleansed, purified, all. In the concourse run round the loge, there is dynamism and torque, spooky action at such a far distance from the stage, where the next chord is a B minor.
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