It is Sam Cooke. The answer is always Sam Cooke.
But if you can get Les Paul and Jeff Beck, too, then that’s a good afternoon.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: les paul (Page 1 of 2)
“Les Paul didn’t invent the refrigerator, but he was the first person to affix his children’s artwork to one.”
Bobby.
“He also invented the crisper.”
Bobby.
“And where the eggs go? That was Les Paul, too. Amazing mind.”
Bob.
“I’m giving a speech here.”
You’re not. This ended, like, a week ago.
“Well, you’re the one who keeps finding the damn pictures.”
Let’s just say we’re both at fault.
“I’m not gonna say that.”
…
What’s in your fanny pack?
“Garcia’s stash.”
Still?
“I don’t know if the speech went well.”
“it was great, Bob. Everyone really enjoyed it, except for the people who got burned when your giant robot amplifier caught fire. And the people that Elvis kicked.”
“Well, there I don’t know if I agree: folks seemed awful excited for Elvis to do karate on them.”
“Either way, it was only a couple of people. And I can’t thank you enough for bringing us down to Creepy Ernie’s for shorts.”
“You fellows bought in bulk, and Ernie appreciates that.”
“Why did he make us all shower before trying the shorts on?”
“To film you naked.”
“That’s what we all figured, yeah.”
“Does Ernie have any shorts left?”
“No, we bought all the shorts.”
“Yup. Again, I apologize. You know, for all the weirdness. It’s, uh, just symptomatic of greater maladies.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“There ya go. I got another story about Les Paul if we’ve got time. During the rainy season, Machu Picchu is home to guitarists and mercenaries; Les Paul was both. He was drinking gin in a bar when–
Hello.
Here we are.
We’ve always been here.
Hungry.
SHMOCHSHMOCHSHMOCH
NARFNARFNARF
…
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?”
“Dancing bears ate the guy in the baseball cap.”
“Which one?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Where’d they go!?”
“They’re still here. They’re always here.”
…
“Anyway, I got my tour bus back from Soup and that’s where I’m going. Thanks for the award. Sorry about the guy who got eaten, and the ones who got burned, and the ones who got kicked. Namaste.”
“You’re just gonna go?”
“Do you want an autograph?”
“Just go.”
“So, where was I?
“Right: Les Paul had killed two teenaged underground wrestlers in the basement of a hardware store in Staten Island. I believe they were both Italian-Americans, but it was not a racially-motivated crime. Those kids should’ve known: you step in the ring with Les, and you enter his dojo. Dojo can only have one sensei, y’know? Those are the rules.
“So, uh, Les let ’em have it. He gave one of them a How High the Moon. That’s a body slam, but Les would pick people up with his ass. Me and Phil were just flabbergasted. Well, I was. Phil would have been, but he, uh, had befriended an off-duty firefighter and was in the parking lot doing donuts in a ladder truck.
“And then Les, you know: recognizes me. So now I gotta help him get rid of the corps–”
“WHASS THIS ALL ‘BOUT? SOMEBODY GIVIN’ OUT AWARDS? AH WILL ACCEPT THESE GARLANDS. AH DESERVE THEM.”
“Elvis, can you gimme a min–”
“ON BEHALF OF MY SAINTED MOMMA, WHO AH CALLED MAH SATNIN, AND MAH WAYWARD DADDY, VERNON, AH HUMBLY ACCEPT THIS AWARD FOR MAH GREATNESS.”
“It’s not for you, man. I won the–”
“EVER SINCE AH WAS A YOUNG BOY, AH WANTED TO BE THE HERO OF THE COMIC BOOK, AND WEAR CAPES AND GET AWARDS. AH AM DOING BOTH TONIGHT AND IT IS A SPECIAL OCCASION. TO HONOR MYSELF, AH WILL NOW PERFORM KARATE.”
“Precarious!”
“Yo?”
“Have you been standing there the whole time?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Sure. Can you do something about the King?”
“Like what?”
“Well, you know, man: are you on the road crew or not? What happens when people start screwing around?”
“Violence.”
“There ya go.”
…
“I’m not tackling Elvis, Bob.”
“You tackle people all the time. It’s a function of the job.”
“He’s Elvis, Bob. Just not gonna do it. Besides…”
KICK
PUNCH
JUMPSUIT
“…he knows karate.”
“Do something. I’ve got a lot of story left: me and Phil end up taking the bodies of the teenaged wrestlers to Studio 54 and throwing them at Steve Rubell.”
“I love that story, boss.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“AH SEE MANY PEOPLE IN THIS TENT WITH FINE HAIRCUTS, AND IT MAKES ME THANK GOD FOR AMERICA.”
“Get this jackass out of here.”
“How?”
“No idea, but if you can’t do it, then get someone who can. Wally’ll do it.”
“I dunno about that. They both do the all-caps thing. It would be confusing.”
…
” All of you have ruined my award. I’m going to my tour bus.”
“Oh, oh, ohhh. No. Not the bus. Maybe not right this second? Give it a minute?”
“You better not tell me that Soup got in my bus.”
…
…
…
“Soup got in my bus?”
“Little bit.”
“MotherFUCKER.”
“YOU WILL REFRAIN FROM FOUL LANGUAGE IN THE PRESENCE OF THE KING.”
“Ah, fuck you, Elvis.”
“Anyway, where was I? There was some distraction. Some petty t-shirt bullshit? I don’t know, man: I don’t write this shit. Oh, yeah: Les Paul. Top notch gent.
“As you might know, Les had a regular gig at the Iridium jazz club in New York until, well, he couldn’t anymore. Well into his nineties, y’know? What else was he gonna do? That’ll be me, man.
“So, one time when the Dead was in the city, a couple of us went over to see him. Me and Phil and a couple other guys. Garcia was busy. And this was, uh, back in the analog era. I had an Apple Watch because of the Time Sheath, but there weren’t any cell towers of satellites, so it was just a watch. Actually, it doesn’t even work as a watch if you don’t have all the infrastructure. Not a great use of a time machine, if I think about it.
“We didn’t know New York that well, and we get in the cab expecting the cabbie does know the city, and we said Iridium and then just started talking and whatever. Next thing you know, we’re in Staten Island at an underground wrestling event. Here’s the truly, um, synchronous thing about it: Les Paul was there, too, wrestling under the name The Axeman.
“He may have straight-up murdered two teenagers in luchador masks. I mean, they lost a lot of bl–
shnikkashnikkabokbokBLANG!
ka-FWOOOMP
“Thats sounds like a, um, job for our crack equipment crew.”
“Workin’ on it, boss!”
“Don’t call me that, Precarious. What’s going on out there.”
“Wally’s a little bit on fire.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT AND PUT ME OUT RIGHT NOW.
“Workin’ on it!”
“Okay, everybody who doesn’t actually exist needs to go wait in the bus.”
…
“Define ‘exist,’ Bob.”
I HAVE MANY THOUGHTS ON THE QUESTION OF EXISTENCE.
“Now!”
“Sure, sure.”
I DO NOT FIT IN–
“NOW!”
“Friends, Paul family, randos, members of the jam-band press, Soup–
“Heeeeey, man.”
“–festival-goers who wandered in thinking this was the yoga tent,and all assembled here: good afternoon, and thank you for this, uh, very nice award. On the off-chance that Mickey doesn’t integrate it into his drum kit, it’ll look real nice in the rumpus room.
“Les Paul was an innovator. Multi-track recording, and overdubbing, and the catalytic converter. You know those extendable back-scratchers you can buy at the register of 7-11? That was Les Paul. Guy had what you call, um, a febrile imagination. Built his own house, did the wiring. Hell of a guy.
“But the guitar? Hoo, boy. That’s a thing. People really like it. I got a couple. Real nice ones, too. Sunburst ’58. Black one, think it’s a ’63. Played that one onstage a little. Nothing against the guitar, but you could just walk into a store and buy one. You know: I’m a Grateful Dead. That’s not how we do business. Good little guitar.
“Oh, uh, those comics that come in Bazooka gum? Les Paul invented that. And he drew Bazooka Joe. Y’see: Les couldn’t draw faces, so he gave Joe the ol’ turtleneck design that became so iconic. Got a lot done, Les Paul.
“I remember a conversation I had with my best friend Jimi Hendrix. Jimi said–”
“Hey, Bobby, man?”
“–that he wanted to join the Dead, and I said–”
“Bobby, man?”
“–that I’d have to ask Garcia, and…Soup, c’mon, man. I’m being serious here.”
“Me too, man. Real quick, I swear, man.”
“What?”
“Can you get the rando to put his potato salad away, man?’
…
“Okay, yeah, that’s a rough view.”
“Right, man?”
“Deal with it.”
“I’ll be in your bus, man.”
“Soup, God love ya, if you get within 100 feet of that bus, you’re getting tackled.”
“I’ll be in the Earthroamer, man.”
“Sounds good.”
“Bob, I’m sorry we had to throw your sister-in-law out.”
“Oh, hey, no: if she doesn’t get escorted from at least two premises a day, she feels lazy.”
“Oh, good. Looking forward to your speech.”
“It’s a doozy. Me and Barlow figured it out, then we called an actor from Battlestar Galactica. Thing practically wrote itself.”
“Great.”
“Oh, yeah, so: how’s the, uh, security in this joint?”
“What do you mean, Bob? Oh, God: terrorism? Are you worried about terrorism? Is it terrorism?”
“No, no, no, no, no. I just have a feeling there’s gonna be some special guests.”
…
“What the hell are you talking about, Bob?”
AM I LATE FOR THE AWARD PRESENTATION? I AM SO PROUD OF DADDY BOBBY.
“Don’t call me that, Wally.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT, DADDY BOBBY.
“Excuse me: what the fuck is going on? Is that the Wall of Sound?”
HELLO, RANDO. DO YOU HAVE A MOMENT TO SPEAK ABOUT THE UPCOMING ELECTION?
“Uh, yeah. He came to life and…y’know what? Lemme do this speech.”
YOU MAY GIVE YOUR SPEECH THROUGH ME.
“Ah. Yeah? Huh. Gonna pass, buddy. Vocals ain’t your strong suit.”
IT HURTS ME WHEN YOU MIDRANGE-SHAME ME.
“Shh. Speech.”
“Bob Weir, on behalf of the Les Paul Foundation, we would like to present to with the first annual Spirit Award. It couldn’t have gone to a better person.”
“Is that bacon? Because–”
“MEAT IS MURDER!”
“–I really can’t do bacon in public.”
“Do you know that woman, Bob?”
“Well, can you ever really know anyone?”
“THERE’S NOTHING SUPER ABOUT A SUPER-DELEGATE!”
“You’re killing me, Lillian.”
In addition to his post-show speech to the Bonnaroo crowd, Bobby also addressed the Orlando massacre while being presented with the Les Paul Spirit Award.
(It would be dickish of me to make jokes, so I’ll just say that Bobby spoke wonderfully. He was very gracious and humble, and when he was done he put the award in his fanny pack, changed into his pajamas, and took the stage.)
Enthusiasts, I have no earthly idea why someone is Photoshopping Bobby into pictures with a Les Paul. Are there financial stakes underlying these photos’ creation? Sexual urges? (If the only thing that gives you boners is “Bobby with a Les Paul,” then maybe you’re just not meant to have boners.)
There are no obvious tells in the digital manipulation of the shot, but Bobby’s head has been pasted onto someone else’s body. Look carefully at Bobby’s face: that’s his expression from Bobby Picture Pose #2. Bobby only makes that face during BPP2, and during BPP2, Bobby puts his fist to his chin. Ipsy-daisy factotum: FAKE.
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