Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
The lack of a nose isn’t funny until you put the beard on, and then it’s hilarious. Look at Lego Garcia. Look at him.
The future is turning out underwhelming, half-baked, but it allows a guy from Japan to listen to a band from San Francisco, build a diorama of them with toys from Denmark, and post it on a social media site that is also from San Francisco. So, there’s that.
Also:
LOOK AT LEGO GARCIA.
Hey, Garcia. Whatcha doing?
“Wearing a silly hat!”
You seem so happy.
“Look how silly it is!”
It is silly.
“Jer, would you say that we–you know, as a group–enjoy a party?”
“It’s a party every day around here, Bob.”
“Every day?”
“Well: some days more than others, right?”
“Sure, sure. And, uh, Jer: we play for a pretty long time, huh?”
“What?”
“Like: we rock and roll, you know, all night?”
“Yeah, I guess. What’s going on, man?”
“Bobert Herbert Walker Weir, you take that shit off your face.”
“Aww! C’mon, Garcia!”
“Right now, mister.”
“Mumblemumblemumble.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s right, nothing. Take it off.”
…
“I was gonna–”
“NOW, Weir.”
“–do your makeup, too. Aw.”
FELICIDAE IV, THRONEWORLD TO THE FELIS EMPIRE
“Jenkins! Get in here!”
“Yes, Space President?”
“Dammit, kid: fix your antenna.”
“Sorry.”
“The other one.”
“Gotcha.”
“The other one.
“Ah. Better?”
“You look like a Sallarian. Listen: what is this signal that Alien NASA picked up?”
“It’s so odd we call our space agency that, sir.”
“Answer the questions, Jenkins.”
“There are competing theories on the signal, sir. The mathematicians think it’s an equation that proves five plus two is seven.”
“Five plus two is seven, Jenkins.”
“Yes, but this proves it.”
“Have math executed.”
“Right away, sir.”
“You said there were other interpretations?”
“Yes, sir. The generals think it’s a threat.”
“The generals think lunch is a threat.”
“The cloners fed the data into the chromosonometer.”
“Monster?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Casualties?”
“Many, sir.”
“Well, have the cloners executed, too.”
“We’ve tried that, sir. They just make more of themselves.”
“Anyone else weighing in?
“The artists think it’s crap.”
“What do the people think?”
“The people think it’s art.”
“Great.”
“There was one interesting idea, sir. Someone ran the data through a soundifier–”
“Is that really the machine’s name?”
“–and, well: it appears to some sort of rock band.”
“Like Space Bon Jovi?”
“Sort of, sir.”
“Are they any good, Jenkins?”
“That’s subjective, sir. In fact, this might be some of the most subjective music I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you dance to it?”
“Kind of.”
“I’ll need a full report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jenkins?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wasn’t joking: take math outside and shoot it in the head.”
“I didn’t think you were joking at all, sir.”
“Good man.”
I’m sure there’s an explanation for the cage behind Garcia beyond “the past was weird as shit,” but I can’t figure it out.
Also: this pic’s from 2/11/70 at the Fillmore East; you can listen to it here, because everything happens simultaneously nowadays.
Holy shit: Garcia was born in the past. This shit is the past right here. There was a cholera outbreak ten feet out of frame; everything is made out of wood and prejudice. Men’s hair doesn’t even do that anymore, the wavy thing: hair just doesn’t grow like that now. (Probably the antibiotics in the feed chain.)
But they’re not old, are they? The Garcias: in this picture, they’re at least ten years younger than I am now. People in the past were more grown-up than today; if they weren’t they would die. Life was tougher. At the moment this picture was taken, literally the entire world was at war. Always remember: the past was terrible.
That city they’re standing in? just 36 years before, it had shaken and burned. (Now, sure: San Francisco will be destroyed any day now, but we have the innertubes; those of us not in San Francisco when the Big One happens will be able to keep updated on the carnage; that is much better, at least for us. For the people in the city, it will be the exact same experience as 1906.)
Also: Garcia is about to get Lion Kinged.
…and goes and whispers in a well,
is not as apt to make a dollar,
as he who climbs a tree to holler.
So, you know: go buy the best t-shirt in the world.
This is the only picture available from 7/5/78 from the Omaha Civic Auditorium, and it may or may not be a random picture from ’78 that I am claiming is from 7/5/78. Regardless, it is enormous and fit for use as a desktop or, if you are a medievel Pope, a ceiling fresco.
As you may have guessed, somehow or other a copy of the Complete July ’78 Recordings Of Completeness found its way to Fillmore South and, after a minute or two of thought, I decided to start with David Lemieuxnitionsexpert’s pick, the Omaha show; holy shit, is this thing stellar. I have not heard the second set, but I am ready to declare it the BEST EVAR. In fact, I am doing so. It has been declared.
Also: Garcia’s plump little titty.
Look at this bullshit. Look at all this bullshit. I’ve been sitting here giggling at it for five minutes. Everything is off-kilter and askew: nothing kilters and there is no skew. Not one skew. To paraphrase Ghostbusters: no human would set up a rock band like this.
The Dead’s crew took “Just put that anywhere” as a dare.
Precarious Lee never won any awards. He came in third in his sixth grade spelling bee, and that was better than he had expected to do, so he was happy. He created no lasting works; Precarious never learned to sculpt, and he didn’t have the patience for novel-writing. He facilitated art, but never got around to making any. Precarious has lived his life without inflicting much of a scar on the historical record.
But, Precarious? He did that bullshit right there.
And that bullshit right there? That’s art.
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