Back when we were young
(and all alive)
I made you a promise.
What was it?
I cannot recall the words.
Hum a few bars and I’ll fake it.
Hum a few bars and I’ll fake it ’til the end of time.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 9 of 139)
Everybody’s favorite fun game: Spot The Fret-Eeze.
OR
Cipollina was the only one from that whole Summer of Love batch that actually looked like a Rock Star.
OR
Lee Oskar’s harmonibelt is not worse than John Popper’s harmonoliers. It’s not better, either.
OR
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Is everyone allowed on stage? There’s all sorts of randos creeping in from the corners.
“Uh-huh.”
Why?
“Modified work stoppage.”
You’re on strike?
“Nope. Just forgetting to do certain parts of the job. Like keeping randos off the stage.”
Why?
“Band and crew aren’t getting along. I don’t even remember the exact reasons. Started at a softball game, and Kidd crashed Mickey’s car, and then Phil liked this chick but Ramrod threw up on her. It’ll be good for us. Relationship’s gotta be re-balanced every now and again.”
Sure. How long until the randos start wandering out and hugging Garcia?
“It’s already happened. Why you think he’s ducking back there by the drum kit?”
Sure.
“Hey, Jer?”
“Yeah, Weir?”
“What if cars drove us?”
“I’m not having this conversation, man. Just play your guitar.”
“Or is my guitar playing me?”
“You’re playing it. You can’t just flip the subject and the object of a sentence around like that unless you’re Yakov Smirnoff, man.”
“In Grateful Dead, guitar plays you.”
“Yeah, right. And that makes no sense.”
“What if the guitar took lessons as a kid?”
“Just play the song.”
“Jer?”
“What, man?”
“I bet the first bullfight was accidental.”
…
“Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”
I wanna fuck Joan Lunden’s hair.
Going generally counter-clockwise, but retaining the option to call an audible and double-back or skip around:
- Is Keith staring Death in the eyes?
- That’s the only explanation for that expression.
- And he is about to spill his Fanta.
- Keith Godchaux loved Fanta.
- Mrs. Donna Jean, as always, has the best hair; if she were a collie, you would think her owner had been mixing raw eggs in with her kibble.
- I bet Mrs. Donna Jean had all sorts of rules and schedules and protocols regarding her hair and its upkeep.
- Shampoo once every this many days, and condition once every that many, and various calibers of comb and brush.
- Plus assorted scarfs and babushkas for bad hair days.
- Deadheads over the years have spread vile rumors about Mrs. Donna Jean regarding supposed assignations that were extramarital but intrabandial, and I find this low gossip intolerable and cruel.
- But she definitely wasn’t banging Phil.
- That is some rough body language there.
- The longer you look, the more they hate each other.
- The hips are the giveaway, but Mrs. Donna Jean’s lean–as if she’s italicizing herself–is the clincher; one will also note Phil’s posture, which can be described only as “surly.”
- Everyone in the top row is happy not to be in the bottom row, because the bottom row is weird and unfun and Keith might have just pooped himself.
- OF IMPORTANCE: Each of the non-Billy men in the top row has taken caution in re: getting their dicks punched, and punched hard.
- Bobby’s elected to go all-in with the knee, while Mickey and Garcia have not only positioned their shoulders in front of Billy’s, relieving him of any leverage, but also have their free hands in dick-adjacent readiness.
- The non-Billy men have done this unconsciously, by sheer muscle memory, as they have been in a band with Billy for 12 years now.
- You live, you learn.
- Speaking of Billy, this–long hair and mustache–was his best look.
- Coming back from the Hiatus to ’77, I think.
- He looked like a dog-track habitue.
- Owned a dozen laundromats on the black side of town, racist as fuck, good tipper, got divorced more than he got married.
- Had an Airedale terrier named Chico.
- And finally: Being a Rock Star is a hoot most of the time, but you’re still gonna spend a lot of afternoons in rooms with folding chairs and bare lightbulbs.
Holy shit, this is the most 50’s photo I’ve ever seen.
“The times, they were not a-changin’, right?”
Is that kid smoking a pipe?
“Pipey? Yeah. It’s his thing, man.”
Who else is there?
“Well, all the way to my right is Taxicab Thompson.”
Why’d you call him Taxicab?
“Ears.”
Sure.
“Next to him is Pipey.”
We’ve been introduced.
“And there’s me, and another guy, and on the other end is Joe Strummer.”
Time Sheath?
“Yeah.”
You skipped a person. Who’s the kid standing next to you?
“Don’t worry about that, man.”
Why not?
“Well, you know how it’s 1958 and all?”
Uh-huh.
“And, as you can see, the cat’s a bit darker than the rest of us, right?”
…
Oh, God, you just called him “N—-r,” didn’t you?
“No.”
Oh, good.
“We called him ‘N—-r Pete.”
God, the past was fucked up.
“That’s what our teachers called him, man.”
The past is cancelled.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Is that Cipollina?
“Yup.”
Why is Keith in the middle?
“Pizzazz.”
Seriously.
“One of the casters locked up while we were moving the piano. Just left it where it was.”
But Keith should not be in the middle. Especially not in 1978.
“We had to wheel him to the stage, too.”
I’m not shocked. Is that a skull?
“Where?”
Under the Perlstein.
“I think so.”
Why is it there?
“Sounds like a Mickey thing.”
Yeah.
“Hey, Jer.”
“You thought of something new since we got out of the car?”
“Thoughts flood my mind.”
“What, Weir?”
“You should have your beard fight that guy’s beard.”
“How would that even work, man?”
“According to Queensbury rules, I guess. But, uh, I got a foxy black chick.”
“Huh?”
“You got the bearded gent, and I got Pig’s girlfriend. So, you know, I kinda win getting out of the car.”
“Weir, get back in the car.”
“Did you forget something?”
“No, I just want you to get back in the car, man.”
“You’re a sore loser.”
Due to illness, the part of Ramrod will be played by the Fourth Doctor.
OR
Is Garcia wearing his coat backwards as a makeshift blanket? Ramrod’s got his shearling on, and those are warm as fuck; where are they? Did the Dead play Ice Station Zebra?
OR
Milk? Is that a pint of milk, packaged in the familiar cube of waxy paper that used to accompany our school lunches? Who the fuck is drinking milk? Nothing about this picture makes any sense at all.
OR
Heineken?
Symbolism! Getchyer symbolism here!
OR
A man goes to a psychologist.
“Doc,” the man said. “I’m miserable. Don’t get any joy out of life, y’know? No colors, right? It’s a real chiaroscuro type deal.”
The psychologist answered,
“I have the solution for you. The Grateful Dead is in town tonight, and they could make any man happy. You should go see them.”
So the man said,
“We’re doing this bit?”
The psychologist responded,
“It is well-worn ground, huh?”
And the man said,
“Kinda. Hey, you think you could write me a scrip or two while I’m here?”
The psychologist said,
“You want a psychiatrist. I can’t actually prescribe anything.”
Then the man said,
“This was not the most productive use of time.”
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