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

Tag: rambling jack elliot

White Folks, Burdon

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Vastly overshooting the carrying capacity of this couch.”

That’s a two-person deal.

“Oh, yeah.”

Can you introduce me to your friends?

“Sure, yeah. I assume you know my potato salad.”

I do.

“And, uh, Ramblin’ Jack.”

I know Ramblin’ Jack.

“Next to him, well, that’s a lady.”

Mm-hmm.

“I’m thinking her name is Gloria.”

No.

“G.”

No, Bobby.

“L.”

Stop it. Her name is not Gloria. She sang Gloria.

“Ah. Then it’s Laura Branigan.”

No, the other Gloria.

“Ah. Then Van Morrison has lost a lot of weight.”

That’s Patti Smith, Bobby.

“Was she a punker? With, uh, the ripped shirts and middle fingers?”

Kinda.

“I admired that genre’s effervescence.”

Sure. And the guy on the end?

“I’m just gonna be honest: no idea.”

Eric Burdon from The Animals.

“Good for him.”

Lord, Jack Was Born A Ramblin’ Man

bobby-ramblin-jack

Hey, Ramblin’ Jack. Whatcha doing?

“Same thing I been doing for 65 years.”

Singing cowboy tunes?

“Yup.”

85 years old.

“Yup.”

Lemme ask you something: this the worst you’ve seen the world?

“Ever read a history book, son?”

Yes.

“So, you wanna retract that question, or just leave it sit as a monument to stupidity?”

I see your point.

“Everything’s better now than it used to be. Easier. Maybe too easy, but that’s another conversation.”

Except the air and the water.

“You know rivers used to burst into flames for no reason, right?”

Uh-huh.

“Now they don’t.”

Guess we can thank Nixon for that one.

“Smaller that guy gets in the rearview, the better he looks.”

Well said, Ramblin’ Jack.

“Ain’t gonna be no revolution, kid. The dumb folks are too lazy and the smart folks are otherwise occupied.”

“SHHH!”

Excuse me?

“Ahh, that ain’t me.”

“SHHH!”

Bobby Tee-Shirt, stop shushing people.

“SHHH!”

FUCK YOU, SHIRT!

“SHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

FUCK YOUUUUUUUU, SHIRT!

“Bob?”

“Yeah, Ramblin’ Jack?”

“Your shirts often come to life and get into arguments with offscreen narrators?”

“Quite a bit, yeah. Are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”

For The Benefit Of Mr. Barlow

bobby-chimenti-sean-lennoothers

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Group shot.”

Yeah.

“Benefit for Barlow. Hospitals are expensive.”

Better than the alternative.

“Depends on your level of Buddhism, I guess.”

I have zero Buddha-nature. I have Daffy Duck nature.

“I can see that.”

How many of these people can you name?

“I could give ’em all names, if I wanted to.”

No, I meant their actual names.

“Ah.”

“Well, there’s Ramblin’ Jack.”

Of course.

“Other folks.”

There ya go.

“Wait, wait. That’s my keyboardist.”

And his name is?

“I stopped learning their names three or four keyboardists ago. You get attached.”

Sure. Keep going.

“Is the guy on the end Sir Paul McCartney’s daughter?”

Yes.

“Okee-doke.”

Question.

“Is it about the shirt?”

It’s about the shirt.

“It’s me.”

Yeah.

“And it says ‘STFU.’ That means ‘Stop Talking, Focus Up here.'”

It doesn’t.

“Then my daughters are messing with me again.”

Probably. Baller move wearing a shirt your own face on it.

“Victory Lap, man.”

Oh, no capitalizing.

“Billy got to capitalize Summer of Skank.”

It’s October. Summer’s over.

“Nope. Fall of 2016 is officially the Bob Weir Victory Lap.”

Dammit.

“I should probably steal the Earthroamer.”

Yeah, okay.