TotD consigliere and Commodore of the Cascadian Fleet Mr. Completely notes Keith’s isolation in this picture, taken somewhere between September ’76 and June ’77.
Also of note: Keith’s vocal mic, which was used as often as turn signals on a BMW.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 67 of 139)
Did the Dead tape a TV show in ’76? Those are film lights, not stage lights.
Also, this photo brings up a possibility so terrifying even TotD never had any thoughts on it until this moment: what if there were three drummers?
Also also, Mickey is once again fully immersed in his persona of Sniffles, the God of Cocaine.
Look: everyone’s ignoring Mrs. Donna Jean.
C’mon, buddy: you’re killing me with that thing.
“Y’know: it’s my frailty or, um, deviation–as it were–and it doesn’t get on my tits, man. Whaddya got against it?”
It’s a symbol of life’s intrinsic chaos and the unknowability of the future.
“Huh.”
Your nubbin is the opposite of the actor’s smirk to let us, the audience, know it was all just fun. That thingy reminds us with every chord that even though it’s just a game, life plays for keeps. Wins and losses get tallied.
“You’ve thought about this.
Apparently so.
…
“What do Bobby’s thighs represent?”
Are you seriously asking? Because the answer takes about an hour and I need to teach you Sanskrit.
“Yeah, I died twenty years ago: I got time.”
Hey, Gar–
“Two grand?”
–cia. How did you hear?
“I hear things.”
Godammit, did Phil let you play with his phone again?
“I’m on Tinder.”
Get off Tinder.
“I use my code name.”
Yeah, man: it doesn’t matter how hard you insist your name is Harry Mendoza, women are going to recognize you. And they’re going to realize you died in 1995. And then a clever one’s gonna realize “Oh, my God: the Grateful Dead has some sort of time machine,” and they’re going to call the government and you’re gonna get Bobby vivisected.
“Well, no one wants Bobby vivisected.”
…
“Phil does a little.”
Probably.
Hey, Bobby’s Tush.
“Oh, hey. I’m my own character now? Great, great.”
I already regret this.
“I mean, cuz I saw several discussions with Garcia’s moobs and you gave Billy’s mustache an advice column–”
None of that is true.
“–so I was wondering when Mr. Big Shot Blogginator would get to little ol’ me.”
This attitude is unhelpful, at best.
“Well, can you blame me? Look at Schlumpfy over there. Jesus, even his shoes are, like, the pajamas of shoes.”
Speaking of shoes, the hi-top Cons are killing it.
“We weren’t speaking about shoes. We were speaking about me, Bobby’s Tush.”
Anyone ever tell you that you’re full of shit?
“THAT IS AN ANTI-SEMITIC REMARK AND I DEMAND AN APOLOGY.”
…
You’re Jewish?
“I converted.”
Ned Lagin is just about the same size as one of Billy’s more whiskey-soaked boners. Phil’s beard weighs more than him.
The kitchen at Club Front was laid out oddly. Most kitchens do an open sort of thing, but not here. The Dead had all voted that quinoa surprise (the surprise was that it contained pork) Bobby liked to cook stank, and therefore, the kitchen should be enclosed. There was a heavy door with a lock, but over the sink was a large window made from plexiglass; it faced into the main room, so everyone could look in and watch Billy do his Swedish Chef routine, or Keith get chased by the lobsters he was forever buying, bothering, losing control of, and being pinched by.
So when Garcia wandered in one morning at three in the afternoon, he was not surprised to see the kitchen full of smoke.
“GARCIA!” a voice coughed out from inside the kitchen.
Garcia’s shoulders slumped and wondered if he could run back to his car, claiming deafness.
“Garcia. It’s me. Mickey.”
“Yeah, Mick.”
“There was a radiation leak, Garcia.”
And with a SCHMOCK! Mickey’s face slammed against the plexiglass: it was covered in cheese and sauce of some sort, but probably marinara.
“A radiation leak?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t forget to take the chicken parm out of the foil before you microwaved it again?”
“No. Definitely radiation.”
“Well, open a window in there, man.”
“NO! The jams of the many–”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“–outweigh the jams of a few.”
Mickey wheezed and hacked, and then stubbed out his cigarette, and then wheezed and hacked some more.
“Front Street…out of danger?”
“Sure, why not.”
“And you are…my friend?”
…
“Well, we’re definitely bandmates, Mick. let’s stick with you’re my drummer.”
“Then I am…your drummer?”
“Oh, yeah: you are amongst my drummers.”
Mickey slapped his hand against the plexiglass in the Vulcan salute. Garcia looked at it.
“C’mon, man.”
“Mick, I don’t really…”
“I don’t ask a lot of you.”
“Oh, fine.”
Garcia put his hand on the plexiglass, too.
“I feel it would be more iconic if you used the fucked-up hand, Jer.”
“And I’m done here.”
…
“KAAAAAAAAAAAAHN!”
“John Kahn?”
If you look at Billy, you’ll…
Billy is here seen…
Billy was…
Billy.
It was the worst performance of Y.M.C.A. that anyone had ever seen.
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