Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: mickey hart (Page 12 of 71)

Trade Season

The rock and roll world was stunned last night when, just as the trade deadline was about to expire, Led Zeppelin shipped John Bonham to the Grateful Dead for Bill Kreutzmann, Mickey Hart, and a keyboardist to be named later. The trade is expected to be approved by the league after the men fail their physicals and then retake them with a less scrupulous doctor.

Bonham, 27, was quoted as saying, “It was time f’r a change, wunnit? Tired of playing wi’ a guitarist on th’ nod. Jimmy’s gettin’ sloppy. Be much better wi’ Fatty, wha’ever his name is.” Bonham then hit this reporter with a folding chair for no reason.

Kreutzmann, who gives his age as “Suck my balls, that’s how old I am,” responded to the trade by saying, “Turns out I’m getting paid more. Billy’s happy enough to punch dicks.” Kreutzmann then punched this reporter in the dick. Hart also refused to give his age and became belligerent with this reporter for asking. More dickpunching ensued, and, before this reporter lapsed into blessed unconsciousness, there were raccoons loosed.

The first performances of each newly-constituted band went poorly. Kreutzmann and Hart refused to rehearse and became enraged when offered English food to the point of sexually penetrating bacon butties. During the show, both drummers conspicuously mocked the other band members, frequently putting their sticks down to rise and do unflattering imitations of Jimmy Page’s guitar moves. When Robert Plant asked the crowd if they remembered laughter, the men leaned into their drum mics and told him that they did, in fact, remember laughter and called him an asshole. John Paul Jones was completely nonplussed.

Not surprisingly, the Dead’s performance was worse. Bonham, nervous about his first show, drank heavily and began throwing punches and tables. The Dead’s crew put up with it for about ten seconds and then began whaling the living tar out of Bonham to the point where he was unable to play that evening. The show was cancelled and Bonham was left in a dumpster on the way to the airport to pick up Hart and Kreutzmann.

The keyboardist that was to be named later is now being named: Brent.

 

There’s A Reason Drummers Don’t Get Microphones

Enthusiasts, you know my opinion of the so-called “jam band scene” is “get the hell away from me, and take your 45-minute cover of John Barleycorn Must Die with you.” Had I Kyrptonian technology, I would imprison all of them within the Phantom Zone. (Phantom Zone in this case being the JamOn channel on SiriusXM.) Most of this is Garcia’s fault, by the way. Selfish bastard died, and now we’re stuck with the Widow Pancakes or the Dibble Bibbles or whatever the fuck any of their terrible names are.

(Why do all jam bands have such shitty names? My theory: it’s a warning, like the bright colors on poisonous frogs. They’re telling you right upfront they suck. SIDE DISCUSSION: What’s the best band with a terrible name? My vote is for the Fountains of Wayne. Great power-pop, horrible name.)

And so I treat the jam scene as Patrick Moynihan suggested we treat minorities: with benign neglect.

By the way, if you’re unfamiliar with jam bands, there are two categories:

  1. Bands that sound like Phish.
  2. Bands that sound like they’re doing a cover of Cumberland Blues.

That is all.

So it angers me, Enthusiasts, that I must spend one iota of my New Yorker magazine-declared genius on any of these bearded bores. Christ, I could be writing about something wonderful, meaningful, beautiful, or maybe Sleepy Batmanful, but instead of that I have to mock an idiot. However, in the mockery, there will be a lesson. You know TotD is a tedious moralist, and there must be a lesson in everything.

Michael Travis, who is the drummer with Boulder’s own Strep Throat Instigators, decided that Facebook was the best place to work out some of his theories on the Jews. I don’t know what specifically it is about Jews that causes so much freelance theorizing, but hoo boy can you find a shitload of ’em. And easily! Used to be if you wanted a good juicy Jew Theory, you had to mail order self-published books, but now they’re literally in your pocket.

Mr. Travis has chosen as his Jew Theory an oldie but a goodie: Jews control the banks. Now, as far as pernicious and unfounded slanders against the Hebrews go, it’s better than the “drinking Christian children’s blood” one, but just barely.

Mikey strikes me as someone who would bitch about being taken out of context, so I’ll let him misspell for himself:

Enthusiasts, why is it that people smart enough to figure out centuries-old conspiracies aren’t able to use “their” and “there” properly?

Oh, fuck it: let’s go to the bullet points.

  • Y’see that third sentence? The one about reading the Torah? Mikey’s got notions about who is and isn’t a real Jew and I guaranfuckingtee you they’re fascinating. Know how I know? He knows better than to write them down on the internet.
  • It would be a stretch to say elementary school, but I learned that you can’t prove a negative fairly young. You, too? I feel like that’s common knowledge. It’s not one of those esoteric logical fallacies that all the wieners on Reddit like to throw at each other.
  • Following up a Jew Theory with an emoji makes it simultaneously better and worse.
  • Responding to it with an angry-face emoji definitely makes it worse, though.
  • THIS IS AN OFFICIAL TOTD DECLARATION: Disliking Donald Trump doesn’t excuse the rest of your behavior. I have a feeling fuckers on trial are going to start pulling this shit: “Your honor, I did eat that family, but I didn’t vote for Trump. I’m not a bad guy.”
  • Who’s taking my bet on who Mikey did vote for? I got Jill Stein. Any takers?
  • Do honest arguments about Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians and continued human rights abuses often get smeared by accusations of antisemitism? Yup. Will some Jews (Alan Dershowitz! Cough cough cough) immediately start yelling “Anti-Semite!” at the first hint of any criticism? Yup. Is it wrong to call the notion that Jews control the banks an antisemitic one? Nope.
  • An analogy:
    • “I have many, many Jewish friends…[but] the Zionist Banking cartel is a thing.”
    • IS TO
    • “I have many, many black friends…[but] their propensity for violence is a thing.”
  • I dated a Rothschild. Swear to God. Distant relation, but she had an enormous apartment in Beverly Hills all to herself.
  • We could go into the history of the Jews and their relationship to banking, which was mostly thrust upon them by Christian and Muslim hypocrites not wanting to sully themselves with “usury,” but we all know that Jew Theories are utterly immune to facts and context and nuance; this is literally the Protocols of the Elders of Zion.
  • If it weren’t the title of a deliberately-written smear on an entire religion, Protocols of the Elders of Zion would be a great name for a Rush record. Maybe King Crimson.

Anyway, Mikey went on and on in an uninteresting way (much like his band) and you shouldn’t be subjected to it (much like his band).

Let’s settle this once and for all. Hey! Mickey?


“Sup?”

Do Jews control the banks?

“Probably the ones in Israel.”

That’s true.

“And New York.”

Should’ve quit while I was ahead.

“People always say that around me.”

Yeah.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be a lesson?”

It’s in there somewhere.

Jam Night With The Grateful Dead

The Grateful Dead were hanging out at Front Street one day when Bobby said,

“Fellas?”

“What, Weir?” Phil said.

“Blow me, Weir,” Billy said.

“Look at my new drum,” Mickey said if he was in the band when this scene take place.

Garcia said nothing, because he was in the bathroom. SUDDEN TWIST: Garcia is clean, and he is there for legitimate reasons related to the 7-11 hot dogs he ate on the way in. REVERSE TWIST: he lights a shitload of matches to cover up the stank, drops them in the waste bin, and sets the bathroom on fire despite his (relative) sobriety. COUNTER-CLOCKWISE TWIST: he feels so bad about it that he goes back to using Persian.

Are there keyboardists there? Yes, no, maybe, who gives a shit, possibly. If one shows up, he shows up.

“Why don’t we, uh, have a Jam Show?”

“Why are you capitalizing that?” Phil asked.

“Free country,” Bobby said.

All the Grateful Deads in the room were intrigued by this idea, and displayed their interest by ignoring Bobby and playing grabass.

Garcia emerged from the bathroom as Parish ran in with a fire extinguisher.

“I agree with Weir. Let’s do one show and just lose it, man. Just go out as far as we can on everything. Throw caution to wherever caution gets thrown nowadays.”

Garcia was not the Grateful Dead’s leader; it was a coincidence that everyone always did what he wanted.

“Good idea, Jer,” Phil said.

“Jazzbo Billy’s making a comeback!” Billy added.

No one else in the band said anything because I don’t feel like writing dialogue for them.

And so the Grateful Dead announced their very first Jam Show at Madison Square Garden. Since there was no internet, they informed Dick Latvala of the news and told him to keep it a secret; every Deadhead in the world knew within 48 hours. There was even a theme: Skeleton Jam. (They did not work hard on the theme at all.) Tickets sold out immediately.

The morning of the show, no one had seen whichever keyboardist was alive for two days. If the keyboardist who was alive had a wife who was also a Grateful Dead, then no one had seen her, either. The entire hotel was not on fire, but only because it was a very large hotel. Nearly most of the band piled into the van around one o’clock.

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

The van was in Yonkers and Billy had punched the driver’s dick to death.

Phil took the wheel.

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

“Monticello?” Garcia asked. “How’d we get to Virginia?”

“There’s one in New York,” Phil said.

“Didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty up here.”

“God’s country.”

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

“Weir’s asleep,” Garcia said.

“Little angel,” Phil said.

“We should tell him we’re proud of him more.”

“Good idea.”

“Where are we?”

“The last few road signs I saw had Cyrillic writing on them.”

“Not optimal.”

With ten minutes until showtime, Phil got the van to MSG. The giant inflatable gorilla in the tie-dye leapt from the building and began making bulbous love to the vehicle. Billy was aroused, and joined in.

“Come get a piece of this!” Billy cried.

“A piece of what?”

“I got no idea, but I’m fucking it!”

Extricating themselves from the penetrations of King Kong’s dong, our heroes went directly to the stage, stopping only to smoke, chat, grab ass, enjoy cocaine, receive tuggers and/or beejers, tune, bicker with each other, bicker with the crew, smoke another cigarette, throw paella at the promoter, ignore the fact that there were naked fucking children everywhere, and re-tune.

Earlier, Bobby had proposed that they play The Other One for the first set, and Dark Star for the second set. This was a reasonable plan, so of course it was ignored in favor of “finding jams where we didn’t know there were jams.” Garcia and Phil were very big on this plan, but neither was fond of rehearsal, so the plan never got further than “we should jam shit out.”

The first song was Promised Land. The jam was not found, even though they looked for it for a quarter-hour. The evening deteriorated from there.

Mitt, Mick

Hey, Bill Walton. Whatcha doing?

“Mitts up on defense!”

Sure. What are those things?

“They’re clearly labeled.”

Why do you need them?

“Why do we need the sun?”

Not a great analogy.

“Sun provides warmth; so do Turbotits.”

Nope.

“Teriyakimynx.”

Wow.

“Whatever they’re called, they’re wonderful. Just the best giant blue heating/cooling therapy mittens I’ve ever owned.”

How many have you owned?

“These are the first.”

Sure. Does Mickey have a pair?

“Oh, yeah. He’s gonna play ’em during China>Rider tonight.”

Of course.

No Head, No Backstage Pass

This is the worst kickoff to a presidential campaign I’ve ever seen.

My dad used to say that America didn’t elect Senators. My dad used to say a lot of bullshit. Ten seconds of research shows that 16 Senators have become President, and that’s almost exactly a third. Obama, Kennedy, and Harding went straight from the Capitol to the White House. Well, not straight there: Obama stopped at his mosque to pray, Kennedy stopped for a blowjob, and Harding stopped for [INSERT WARREN HARDING JOKE HERE].

So: could Al Franken be the next President of the United States? He is Jewish, which does not help, and he is not even the right kind of Jewish for Middle America, which is non-religious. The yokels have not met many Jews, you see, and do not know much about Judaism except that bacon is not on the menu and Saturdays are for the Sabbath. (Middle America has heard the word Sabbath.) Jews are supposed to keep things. Jews keep kosher; Jews keep the Sabbath, Jews keep getting expelled from countries and/or massacred. Jews keep.

But a Jew who doesn’t do any of that? A secular Jew? Nah, not in Peoria. Only thing worse than being a different religion is not having one. However–and I’m sure you’ve already intuited this–it is certainly possible to be too Jewish, both in a religious and a cultural way. Hasidic isn’t getting the nomination, and neither is Ed Koch. I hate to give him any credit, but Joe Lieberman threaded the needle perfectly. Didn’t wear a yarmulke, but made a big deal about going to temple every week.

TotD, you’re saying, we already elected a black guy and a rusted bucket of racist diarrhea: why not a Jew?

And I would answer, We also elected a woman, but the Electoral College didn’t agree.

To which you would reply, That’s the system; why should California get to decide for the whole country?

I would say, Because that’s where all the fucking people live.

And you would say, This is why Trump won and there’s no Russia.

Can you stop this?

The imagined conversation or the whole post?

Either would be fine with me.

John Mayer picked that bandana out special to meet the Senator.

He totally did.

Questions

  • This guy?
  • This guy right here?
  • This fucking guy right here?
  • Have you read Senator Franken’s new book Al Franken, Giant of the Senate? (You should; I just did. Here’s my review: if you’re going to buy it, then do so via that link, as I get a percentage. That was my review of Al Franken, Giant of the Senate.)
  • Did Mickey come directly from the cruise?
  • What’s in Bobby’s pocket? (Vape pen, backup vape pen, $1200 in cash, vegan rabbit’s foot keychain, bottle of Fret-Eeze.)
  • Would you like to see a larger version of the painting of John C. Calhoun behind them?
  • “WHAT DID YOU SAY T’ME, BOY?”
  • He looks mean as shit, doesn’t he?
  • I wonder if he treated his slaves well?
  • How many Senators would own slaves now if they could? (Definitely not Al Franken, I think we can assume that. Not that it would be a straight ticket, either: mostly, it would be Republicans, but I think Pelosi would buy her household staff if she could. Just to make taxes easier.)

A Never-Before Seen Publicity Photo Of The Grateful Dead In 1977

That look on Bobby’s face? That’s the look you get when Bono starts talking to you.

OR

That’s Dick Durbin from Illinois on the left, and Patrick Leahy is next to Mickey, but does anyone know who the tall lady and the round man are?

OR

“Bob. Can I call ya Bob?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Otherwise, you know, I won’t know I’m part of the conversation.”

“Bob, what d’ya know about African debt?”

“Just what I hear on the radio.”

“Tremendous problem in th’ Third World.”

“Y’know, when I have money troubles, I do a tour and get a new business manager. Has, uh, Africa considered that?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Always worked for me.”

“Bob, there’s one more wee matter.”

“Shoot.”

“Can you get John Mayer to stop trying to join U2?”

“Who?”

“Tall kid, wears clothes.”

“Oh, Josh. He doing that to you, too?”

“No, U2.”

“We’re both correct here.”

“Bob, it’s got to stop. The Edge is gonna punch him.”

…

“You really call him that?”

“The Edge? Of course.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okee-doke. I’m gonna talk to anyone else.”

OR

Durbin’s shitfaced.

OR

Seriously, look at him. Schnockered. Trying to stand perfectly still, keep a neutral expression on his face: Durbin’s laced.

OR

Is Bono just allowed to come and go from secure buildings at will? Can he wander into the Situation Room? Can he play basketball in the Supreme Court’s court? (The Supreme Court has a basketball court in it. The building, I mean. Not the nine people who we refer to collectively as the Supreme Court. You could not fit even part of a basketball court in Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She is tiny.)

To Leahy Me Down

“Psst. Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“Who’s this?”

“Senator from Vermont.”

…

“Not–”

“No, no, no.”

“Oh, good. That guy shows up and white people start arguing.

“This is the one who likes to be in movies.”

“He’s got the looks.”

“Handsome devil, yeah.”

“Hey, Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“I think we made the right decision not tucking our shirts in.”

“We’re rockers, Mick.”

“Totally. This place have a Hostility Suite?”

“Yeah, but they call it the Cloakroom.”

“Cloakroom?”

“Yup.”

…

“Does that mean–”

“It’s not a room full of cloaks you can yoink.”

“–that it’s…okay, just checking.”

“Try not to steal anything while we’re here, Mick.”

“I promise nothing.”

High Level Meeting

Frankenflesh, baby. That little sliver o’ calf? Sexiest part of an aging white man. It’s dad-cleavage.

OR

Mickey is drunk, thinks he’s at the hotel, and has been sticking that keycard into the door latches of Senators’ offices all day. Mitch McConnell had Capitol Police place Mickey into a wheelchair, and then drag him out of it.

OR

The frame/art ratio is off, isn’t it? Shouldn’t the art be bigger than the frame? I’m not exactly Robert Hughes, so I’m not to be trusted on matters of art, but I always thought the art should be bigger.

OR

Goddammit, Bobby, you couldn’t even put on your socks?

OR

“Psst, Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“He really loves that fucking song.”

“What’s it been?”

“Twenty minutes straight.”

“He doesn’t even know we’re here. He’s just talking.”

“Well, yeah. He’s a Senator. That’s what they do.”

“You think they told him who killed JFK?”

“His co-worker’s dad did it.”

“Oh.”

OR

That Calhoun fellow’s got a flash haircut, man. Dunno where I’ve seen it before. (Okay, fine: would someone PLEASE ‘shop a beard onto John Calhoun?)

« Older posts Newer posts »