Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Now, the ’73 wasn’t the car he got busted in, no: that was the black 1984 733i (not seen above enjoying a day at a flood plain,) the first of the iconic 7-series ever exported to America. For a 7, it was actually fairly modest: only 3500 pounds and six cylinders. That’s pratically a SmartCar.
Does anyone remember when we were kids and the Days Between weren’t quite so commercial? Before Big Dead turned it into the multi-billion dollar sell-fest it is today? My God, every radio station I listen to is talking about nothing but!
Again, though: you’re being lied to. Much like Christmas is actually a syncretic mutt of Yule and Saturnalia and whatever the Druids called their Winter Solstice Pancake Death Orgy, the Days Between was originally just one of many competing holidays to honor Garcia.
Let’s keep this Day at the Races going with this neat pic of Garcia’s prized 1973 BMW 3.0 CS: check out the aggressive overbite on the sucker.
Commentator and probably not the dead poet jim carroll informs us that the previous pic–and this nifty one he sent along as well–were taken in Switzerland, which would explain the presence of the Citroen 2CV, which was the Gallic version of the Model T and the Jeep at the same time.
Like the Beetle, it had a small air-cooled engine and could be configured into a bunch of different platforms: this one is the “hippie-lugging” package, I guess.
Also, our younger Enthusiasts should note the spare tire on the roof rack and realize that there was room in the truck for the spare, it’s just that the driver knew without a shadow of a doubt he was going to need it soon enough. Tires used to be made out of semi-chewed Bazooka gum and luck.
Between Garcia and the 60’s Citroen he’s leaning on, this might be the least reliable photo ever taken.
(Anyone know anything about this photo? Why would a Citroen truck that was almost certainly never imported be adorned with Dead stickers? Also: what human being would design a car with the steering wheel in that location?)
The crowd was chill in Deadville,
for the Summer tour that day.
The band, too, was a bit confused,
so they let the music play.
Bobby played his cowboy tunes,
and you could see the drummers scowl.
Then he played his slide guitar,
and dogs began to howl.
Phil was on his seventh beer,
and it was the first set.
Trouble was a brewing,
but they couldn’t see what just yet.
The monitors went in and out,
the lights shined in their eyes.
The only constant on that stage
were Bobby’s manly thighs.
They asked themselves, are we just jokes?
A hoax, a fraud, a sham?
When Jerry stepped up to the mic,
and said simply, “Let me jam.”
Phil threw a bomb straight at his pal,
a million-megaton blast.
But Jerry simply smoked his cig,
and let that sucker pass
Bobby teased a hundred songs,
in every time and key.
But Jerry just tuned up his axe,
and sniffed, “Those weren’t for me.”
But from the tinkling and the chimes
of those tuning guitar notes,
you could hear the Terrapin Flyer
on its speed run down the coast.
And somewhere Heads are dancing,
both the casual and devout.
For there is joy in Deadville,
Mighty Jerry has rocked out.
Happy birthday, buddy.
The caption from this photo said it was Garcia, but I’m fairly sure this is Phil from ’74 with his giant Viking beard.
Also: got all his lego-fingers.
Garcia’s belly is bigger than Mountain Girl’s and she’s pregnant.
The Dead always liked high school foxes, but when they started taking them to their proms, there needed to be some real talk.
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