“Honey, this is the worst real estate seminar I’ve ever been to.”
“I agree: I’m beginning to think the guy whacking on the cowbell knows nothing about the housing market.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: mickey hart (Page 36 of 71)
After a little judicious and violent application of my keen and ninja-like Google Fu, I’ve found this picture from the Miami shows in 1974, but it’s not illuminating as to how the Wall was set up in the oddly-shaped space.
Also: Bobby wins the knees-down handsome competition this night.
Also 2: Garcia’s shirt is only possible in Miami. Everyone involved in that shirt–designer to manufacturer to seller to buyer–has to be on cocaine for that shirt to exist, and Miami is the only place where this is assured.
Also 3: Mrs. Donna Jean is gonna rest up for a spell.
Um.
“Ya’cobui.”
You can’t be here. This area needs to be clear for Mickey’s drums and bullshit.
“Am Mickey.”
What.
“Me Mickey. Am to Mickey.”
Still not getting it.
“Mickey buy.”
…
Godammit, he bought another dwarf.
“Ya’cobui.”
Is that your name or “please don’t hurt me?” Never mind. It doesn’t matter.
“I am to Mickey now. Mickey play.”
Is he treating you well, at least?
“Food. Bed. Sun. Drum. Mickey play.”
…
“Mickey dog chase.”
MICKEY! A WORD!
“Hi, how are you?”
This is the least trustworthy you’ve ever looked.
“That hurts me, man. Why this aggressive stance and posture and emotion and, you know…just the feeling of everything that–
You need to stop petering out.
“Sure. So, what’s up?”
Did you buy a human being?
“Legally, he belongs to the drum. But I bought the drum, yeah.”
Where’d you even find him?
“San Mateo.”
Okay. You have to set him free.
…
“But I get such a good sound out of him.”
You’re actually playing the little fucker?
“Soft mallets only.”
Okay, listen: something else I need to talk to you about.
“Those sea-lion carcasses that keep showing up in schools?”
What?
…
“What did you want to talk about?”
Three guesses.
“Greece.”
That was such a bad guess that I won’t count it.
“The primal thaumaturgy that was Drums?”
No.
“Want the number for a good thumb-piano guy?”
Nope.
“I don’t have any extra dead shirts, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
No, I don’t want any Dead shirts.
…
“Yeah?”
Nothing weird about that pic?
“Hate to keep talking about Dead shirts, but I am not wearing one. That’s pretty weird.”
This is how you want to play this?
“That may be a Photoshop.”
What about this one?
“That is a kufi: I converted to Islam during the set break.”
Nuh-uh. That is a sailor’s cap which, it should be noted, you are wearing incorrectly; you have donned it for Bobby’s song Lost Sailor because you do not like that song and felt it necessary to editorialize the fact while you were half-heartedly playing the tune.
“You can’t know that for certain.’
Billy threw you under Furthur.
“Fuckin’ Billy.”
Benjy, too.
“Fuckin’ Benjy.”
Yeah. I mean, Jesus, Mick: did you bring that hat all the way from California.
“Heh.”
Here’s more evidence of your foul deed. LOOK AT IT:
“Heh.”
With malice aforethought, Mickey. And, how do you not know how to wear a sailor’s cap?
“I was in the Air Force.”
Right.
“Ah, Thoughts on my Ass!”
I see that name has stuck.
“Oh, yeah. I’m glad you’re here. I have a favor and I need a favor.”
You have a favor? What does that mean? That’s not a thing.
“I was going to give you the tour and a short, but thorough, explanation of the histories and social significances of all my drums.”
…
Pass.
“Some are from Africa.”
Pass.
“The Motherland.”
I am aware that Africa is the Motherland: I cannot hear lectures about the tabla right now.
…
“Tabla are–”
India, yeah.
“–from India. Okay: not tour. You still owe me a favor.”
It’s weird to me that a Jew doesn’t understand the favor system.
“I was planning on addressing the masses again after the Donor Rap, or before the Donor Rap: basically, whenever there’s a clear shot to a mic, I’m seizing my moment.”
Like in Santa Clara.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing: it turns out I am not a great extemporaneous speaker.”
Your theme was unimpeachable, but in the delivery…there were issues of petering.
“One big peter! That’s what we had on our hands: petering from beginning to end.”
Yeah. Phrasing, but: yeah. What do you want from me?
“You up for some temp Benjy-work?”
Oh, God.
“All I’m looking for is, like, 30 seconds that summed up the weekend, and encouraged people to love one another, and also maybe brought about world peace.”
Urgh. Why? Why not just let the music do the talking?
“Oh, I like that. The phrasing. Let’s use that.”
We’re late to that parade. Anyway: is there pay for this?
“I tried to pay you with knowledge.”
You whacking on congas while listing black guys you’ve jammed with does not count as knowledge.
“Doesn’t it?”
…
No.
“Okay.”
I’m gonna go, Mick.
“Great. If you see any drums, bring them back here.”
You love drums.
“I love them so much, I do.”
Without even a feint at any sort of order:
- Everyone looks pretty good.
- Mickey is using his tremendous forearm and wrist strength to keep Phil and Billy in proximity.
- Mickey’s got dad strength, old guy strength, and drummer strength: you would not want to play the Lobster Game with him.
- There’s just not much to really goof on: everyone looks healthy and upright.
- Mickey and Bruce should not both be standing, though.
- As always, this turns into a commentary on Mickey.
- Look at how adorable Trey is with his potato salad and then Bobby’s all SHAZAM! and the contest is over.
- And then there’s Bobby’s thigh, which is now a full-fledged Grateful Dead.
- …
- They all look good and that makes me happy but is complete shit for material.
Dear Grateful Deads,
A’salaam Aleykem, Grateful Deads and assorted bearded youths or hot wives. How are you? I am fine, but tired from destroying America.
Michelle and I salute you in your fifty-year “long, strange trip.” She would be here in person, but she’s busy telling people what to eat and murdering the American cattle farmer in his sleep. Michelle’s thing with broccoli…it’s verging on sexual at this point, Grateful Deads.
I digress.
You travelled to the unsung cities of this great country: Lakeland, FL; Reno, NV; Philadelphia more than once. If nothing else, this country owes you a debt of gratitude for going back to Philadelphia so many times: no one should have to do that.
And now you end your voyage in my adopted hometown city of Chicago. Try to avoid being shot or running into Rahm Emmanuel; they’re both terrible things that require medical intervention. At least getting shot, you wouldn’t have to deal with that finger nub: thing gave me the heebie-jeebies and the nasty little fucker knew it, too. Wave it around the Oval Office. President shouldn’t have to deal with that shit.
Once again, I digress.
I first listened to the Grateful Dead while I was living in Hawaii, hanging out with the Choom Gang. We would smoke cigarettes, of both a tobacco and marijuana nature, and get down to, say, a good ’72. The rhythms reminded me of the music from my Kenyan home, where I was born and taught how to destroy America, and I also enjoyed when Garcia would rip shit up.
When you visited me in 2009, as we see in the picture above, I was taken back by your still-contagious enthusiasm for music, magic, and joy. My entire staff and I were taken aback by the amount of things from my office you stole. Look: we know people are going pocket stuff. It’s the White House, you want a souvenir, so we leave crap all over the place: ashtrays even though it’s 2015, and pads, and whatnot. Everyone else just understands that it’s the swag and you can have it. Not the Dead; several of them had to be stopped from ordering Jeff Chimenti to roll up rugs and put them in his van.
Billy took the Resolute desk.
Anyway, I wish you the best of shows in Chicago and, as Garcia would say, “Someone please bring me seven tacos or I’m not going onstage.”
Presidentially Yours,
Barack Hussein Obama
ps Seriously, Billy needs to bring the desk back.
Mickey, can you come with us, please?
“What?”
We have reason to believe that have violated the NFL’s policy about performance-enhancing drugs.
…
“Marijuana is not a performance-enhancing drug.”
It is if you’re in the Grateful Dead, man: get in the bathroom.
“Fuck. Ok. Gimme a minute or two.”
Are you trying to cheat the test, Mickey?
“No! My prostate’s the size of a conga drum.”
…
Is everything about drums with you?
“Yeah. You didn’t know that.”
No, I knew it; I just never saw it in action before.
“Welcome to my world.”
Set 2 – Mississippi Half-Step >Wharf Rat> Eyes Of The World >He’s Gone >Drums w/ Sikiru Adepoju>I Need A Miracle >Death Don’t Have No Mercy >Sugar Magnolia
E: Donor Rap>Brokedown Palace > Mickey’s Prayer for Peace
As always: not a review of any sort, just kinda thoughts. On the…well, you know.
- There will be a meeting about microphone privileges.
- If the trend continues, July 5th will be capped by Jeff Chimenti thanking his parents for piano lessons and his Christopher Walken impression, which is not great.
- Sometimes in life, you’ll turn away for just a second and when you look back: black guy.
- His name was Spiro Agnew or something and he whomped on some stuff.
- Mickey brought him along; he is not Mickey’s Benjy, though.
- White guys cannot have black guys as their Benjies.
- Black guys can be Benjies, of course: Puff Daddy had a Benjy.
- Morris Day and Jerome.
- White guy can’t have a black Benjy.
- The whole point of a Benjy is that he’s your property.
- Gotta have a Benjy the same as you; why have the internet write about how problematic you are?
- Billy might be about to murder someone, and it’s going to be whomever is singing at the moment, I think.
- Bobby seems to have recently shifted to a more Willie Nelson-type of phrasing.
- Don’t get me wrong on this one: TotD loves the Redheaded Stranger.
- But what Willie sings and the music being played has no bearing on one another.
- They’re two separate and unrelated things happening at the same time in the same place.
- Like getting a tugger in the stands of a minor-league hockey game: the players don’t know about your potato salad getting whipped; the jerk-job doesn’t, say, go faster if your team is up.
- And that works fine for Willie, because Willie either accompanies himself with Trigger or tells the band ahead of time, “Do not listen to me; actively ignore me or this will go poorly. Especially the drummer. Who wants to smoke weed with Willie?”
- But Bobby and Billy have no such understanding, it seems, and Bobby is torch songing the fuck out these tunes and Billy keeps getting thrown off the horse and Im afraid Billy’s going to stab Bobby. I’m sure Mickey has a knife somewhere in there.
- “It’s not a knife: it’s a drum shaped like a knife.”
- Thanks, Mick.
- Treyvon is killing it.
- Someone needs to tell him that he has tenure.
- Trophy Alfaromeo is less fire-able right now than Joe Biden.
- MAKE THEM JAM, TRELLIS.
- There’s an old saying about how you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t it drink, but that’s not true.
- You just have to torture the horse.
- Horses are just like anyone else: if you torture them, they will do things.
- TORTURE THE HORSES, TRUFFLE.
- Next time, you must not pretend to not notice Bobby trying to get you to stop jamming.
- Look him in his eyes.
- Then, redouble your efforts towards the jam.
- MAINTAIN EYE CONTACT, TROMBONE.
- The jam ends when the jam ends.
- Is it not written?
- A long time ago, a man named Bear addressed Garcia, Bobby, and Phil. “You can sing, you can sing, you can sing. You cannot all sing at the same time.”
- The players change, but the song remains the same.
- I don’t know what that last sentence means, either.
- We learned during Miracle that Jeff Chimenti has been authorized to sing; from what I could make out, he has a fine voice.
- There are five vocalists onstage and the very laws of probability and music theory say that at least one or two combinations should be pleasing to the ear.
- These combinations have not been found, but hope springs eternal.
- There was a visible on ramp to Dark Star after Half-Step, which would have been perversely awesome: Dark Stars every night.
- First set Dark Star.
- “YOU get a Dark Star, and YOU get a Dark Star!”
- Instead, they downshifted to Wharf Rat.
- I’m pretty sure if you asked Jeff Chimenti to do you up an arrangement of Wharf Rat with the only musical direction being “Break my heart, Jeff Chimenti: fuck my shit up with song,” then Jeff Chimenti could give you what you’re asking for and stuff you didn’t know you wanted.
- If he didn’t already have that shit in his pocket.
- Jeff Chimenti prepares.
- The sight of a sold-out football stadium set up for a concert–where the field is full as well as the stands–is halfway between glorious and terrifying.
- These shows are a big deal for the stadium, and not specifically these shows: summer concerts at football stadiums.
- A stadium’s a business: it needs customers and their main patrons take three-quarters of the year off for the ridiculous reason that adding even one more game to the NFL schedule would kill all the players the first year it was implemented.
- There aren’t a ton of acts that can pack the house anymore so when, say, the Kinda Dead or Taylor Swift decide to play your venue, it’s a big deal.
- You celebrate and, of course, everybody takes pictures and there are gifts and it gets in the paper and the wheels of show business go round and everyone feels like a big shot.
- One of these gifts is a personalized jersey from the home franchise.
- Most stars get a “1” on the back, because they think highly of themselves and enjoy when others follow suit.
- I would guess that when Taylor Swift did this, they gave her number 89 because of her record.
- The Dead, obviously, got 49ers jerseys with 50 on the back to celebrate their 50 years as a band..
- There was a small ceremony and there was one made for every band member.
- Unlike the old days, when Phil would scowl at the record executives and Garcia would simply refuse to come out of his room, people were polite and even if football jerseys weren’t their thing they gave thanks all around and took pictures and were just generally pleasant human beings.
- Bobby will never wear his; Bruce is wearing that fucker around the house.
- Only Mickey fell in love.
- He caressed the shiny, slightly tacky letters: H A R T. 5 0.
- Fifty years. The band didn’t exist for 20 of those years, and Mickey himself was only a member for 26 of the other 30 years, but still: 50 years.
- It was so much more than just the symbolism: it was what the symbolism represented.
- This was not just a free t-shirt.
- A free t-shirt was designed, created, etc., with the intent of being sold; it only becomes a free t-shirt upon contact with Mickey.
- Not this.
- This jersey was made for the specific purpose of being given away: it had never had value attached to.
- Other than the value generated by the fact that it’s free.
- Mindfuck, right?
- Mickey saw it instantly, though, and in his mind he ran through his underground fireproof t-shirt bunkers with hatchet and bleach, damning his formerly beloved garments.
- Calling them whores.
- “I love you for you are pure, Football Jersey With My Name On It,”
- (Mickey had begun referring to the shirt that way immediately and it was clear that the words were capitalized and maybe you don’t want any piece of this one.)
- “I shall use you to hide my nipples from society and God.”
This week in TotD: more from Santa Clara, plans for Chicago, and the dramatic origin story of Mickey’s gloves.
Sure, there’s nothing like a Grateful Dead concert, but maybe you’re like me, Enthusiasts: unable to focus, twitchy of hand and eye, ruined by the present’s pace. I always need something to do while I’m doing something.
Some people going to Santa Clara must be reading this, along with others bound for Chicago – would you like to play a game?
1 point – Candid picture of Benjy.
5 points – Candid picture of Benjy not wearing his Benjy costume.
10 points – If, like in the picture above, you see Benjy and you’ve got the high ground, and then you fling yourself at him and take a picture of his terrified gawp right before you laid him out? That is worth ten points.
20 points – The hat. And you have to snatch it off him and then run into the crowd shrieking in delight with innocent and cruel joy. Five bonus points for making Benjy chase you.
25 points – Stealing Benjy’s wallet.
30 points – Using the information in Benjy’s wallet to steal his identity and purchase a Ukrainian mail-order bride.
35 points – Framing Benjy for the murder of said Ukrainian mail-order bride.
40 points – Taser. (Must be video evidence.)
Contest runs from now until the last Chicago show; participant with the most points will almost definitely go to jail, as most of these things are felonies at the very least.
I am posting these pics under formal protest against this nap that simply will not take. Did I not lay down all sleepy-shluffy? Were there not David Attenborough-narrated nature documentaries on the Netflix?
I blame Peter Shapiro.
Let’s see what’s going on around the Dead’s world:
“Bruce, I’m gonna show them my power.”
“Jeff Chimenti: do not do that. They can’t handle your power. Bobby can’t even stand.”
“Power’s gotta come out, man.”
…
“You look like a drag queen’s Emmylou Harris routine.”
“Fuck off, Bruce.”
“Hey, Billy?”
…
“How’d you get up there?”
“No idea. Listen: can I have some real drumsticks?”
“Out of the question. You realize how much embossing Stealies on all those mallets and brushes was?”
“I guess. Can I bring every drum ever made?”
“Oh, sure, definitely.”
Were you aware that Bill Walton enjoys the Grateful Dead? He doesn’t really wear it on his sleeve – his freakishly large, surgically reconstructed sleeve.
People failed to recognize John Mayer’s buddy Andy Cohen in the previous shot; he is an executive at the Bravo channel and has some sort of talk show where he gets drunk with reality stars.
John Mayer is most often referred to as a douchebag; Andy Cohen has never been called this because douchebags are for vaginas and Andy Cohen is most assuredly not for vaginas.
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