Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
This neat picture of Garcia was taken at the Big Rock–
No.
–Powwow in…what?
This is October of 1976. The Day on the Green. It was an official release.
So was the Big–
Shut the fuck up.
–Rock…aw. You’re mean.
Yeah.
This is a much better look for the Big Guy, though.
Y’know that bit from Kill Bill about how Superman is the real guy, and Clark Kent is the disguise?
Sure.
Garcia’s beard was his real face.
Whoa.
Yeah.
I have to think that history class at a German high school is more depressing than one in an American high school, if only for the fact that I have been led to believe that Germans teach what actually happened instead of presenting “God said America goes all the way to the Pacific” as a coherent narrative.
“Jenkins, tell those Injuns to get the hell out of the way. God said this was our land.”
“Right, Sarge, but they say God said it was theirs.”
“Oh. Whose God gave them machine guns?”
“Ours, Sarge.”
“That means our God is right.”
“Always has.”
Anyway, an Enthusiast from Germany (that would be a ChoogleLieber, in the local tongue) named Uli Tente (which is an awesomely German name) sets the record straight: the pics from yesterday were not from the Big Rock Powwow, but from the Aztec Bowl, which is in San Diego. In my defense, San Diego and Florida–though separated geographically–are the same thing.
Uli has also put together an overview of the short-lived mustache/hockey sweater look and I’ve saved it here: Mr_Mustache.
We may not know what the future holds, but we know when Garcia had a mustache; some days that’s enough.
Speaking of terrible mustaches, the Powwow Festival, and spoons, here’s this pic. There was a good four or five-year period of this bands life when they were trying to out-hippie one another through the cunning use of facial hair and strategic deployment of vests. Mickey’s vest seems like it might come with a long story about Native Americans, too.
Hey, Garcia. I see you back there.
“I’m the Babadook, man.”
How do you even know what that is?
…
Are you using the Time Sheath to go to the movies?
“You get so much more popcorn in the future.”
Goddammit.
Why has there been no scholarly attention paid to the state of Garcia’s facial hair and its relation to the jams? Were the jams, in fact, hairier when Garcia was, or did the music and his face vary inversely in hirsuteness? What predicated the shavening? Did Mountain Girl throw him out again? Seems like that might lead a man to cut his hair in a dramatic fashion.
We need dates, people. What the fuck are those slackards at Deadbase doing if there’s not an educated and sourced reckoning of Garcia’s beard/mustache/muttonchops? I think we can narrow it down to weeks, or even days: it probably took Bobby the whole summer to grow that shitty ’77 beard, but Garcia could most likely raise himself a decent beard in a long weekend. From the neck up, Garcia was at least a quarter wolfman. (From the neck down, Garcia was strangely hairless; like a Brazilian dolphin.)
From the Comment Section: this is most definitely Florida–the Powwow show that got released as one of the sorely-missed Road Trip series. You can listen to it, if you’d like.
Here’s another shot of Garcia rocking the mustache/hockey sweater combo, or–as it’s called north of the border–the Canadian Birthday Suit. (Canadians are legally naked once they get down to a hockey sweater and a mustache.)
Was this, too, taken at the April festival called the Big Rock Powwow in Hollywood, FL? (Not a half-hour from me, and–according to the internet–held on the site of what is now a Hard Rock Casino.) I can tell you that rooms in Florida do look like that: the walls and ceiling and lights. All buildings in Florida have those things. I also see a coat hanger, which are all over the place down here.
Garcia had a good look, but this is not it. He looks like a Groucho impersonator who doesn’t get found after his suicide until the whole apartment building starts to smell.
I feel, though, that we’re close to triangulating the start and end-dates of this unfortunate follicular arrangement: this is ’69, I’m fairly certain. Holy God: is this the way Garcia’s head looked when Live/Dead was recorded? Because that could change everything.
Everything.
Phil looks like “Hippie #2” in a terrible biopic about the Sixties; I don’t want to talk about the others.
Garcia without his beard is like Superman without his cape, or Magic Johnson without his AIDS: it just seems like he always had it.
This pic is from that Zoo World magazine article I mentioned yesterday, and it seems like the shots were taken in Florida, which would explain Garcia’s black turtleneck.
Zoo World was some sort of brief and unmoneyed competitor to Rolling Stone for a few minutes in the early 1970’s and I can’t imagine why it folded.
“Jenkins!”
“Yes, Boss?”
“How’s the cover for the January issue coming?”
“Not great, Boss. We couldn’t decide between fonts, so we just used all five.”
“Okay.”
“Plus, you cannot read half the words. Just can’t make them out, and that’s before we print it onto that second-hand newsprint you bought from your friend, Rudy.”
“Big Rudy! Cheapest paper in town.”
“There’s a reason, Boss. There’s a reason Rudy is so cheap.”
“What else?”
“Picture’s rough.”
“How rough?”
“Only one of the guys in the band is even human-looking.”
“Which band is it again?”
“Grateful Dead.”
“Oh, that’s not the picture. That’s how they look.”
“Jesus.”
“Not a Deadhead, Jenkins?”
“I like hip-hop.”
“Jenkins, it’s nineteen seventy-fucking-four: you most certainly do not like hip-hop.”
And, so on.
PLUS, if you knew nothing about the Dead and looked at that picture and I told you that the guy on the left was about to leave the band, you would believe me.
ALSO PLUS, the men on either side of Billy are protecting their dicks. That’s muscle memory.
“Jer? You still awake?”
“Sure, Bob.”
“Good movie, huh?”
“It was a blast. Gotta see that again.”
“What was your favorite part? I bet you liked the scene in the bar with all those crazy aliens.”
“I did, man! That was cool: cats from all over the galaxy having a drink together, listening to some music.”
“I think we played that place.”
“Yeah, man, yeah. The guy with the ass for a mouth was the manager.”
“Jer, do you think I look more like Luke or Hans?”
“Han.”
“Wha?”
“Han. Han Solo.”
“Not Hans Olo?”
“He wasn’t Danish.”
“Yeah, sure. Anyway: which one?”
“Which one had the butt-chin?”
“Luke.”
“You look like him.”
“Cool. We’re kinda like Han and Chewie, though, right?”
…
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you know, Jer: I’m a dashing rogue given to mischief and adventure, and you’re usually in the vicinity and hairy as fuck.”
“I’m going to sleep, Weir.”
“You don’t want to talk?”
“I did want to talk, but then you started talking, and now I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Aw.”
“Why are we sharing a hotel room, anyway? It’s 1977.”
“Got me. Just go with it.”
…
…
…
“May the Force–”
“Shut the fuck up, Bob.”
“–be with you. Aw.”
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