“Y’know, Irv: woke up this morning and felt super.”
“I see what you did there.”
“What did I do?”
“Anyway. Bob: I got Dead & Company a great show. Big publicity. Huge crowd.”
“You haven’t mentioned the money.”
“It’s a free show.”
“Yeah, huh, about that: no. Well, I mean: the drummers won’t show up. If it’s a real good cause and there’s a private plane and all that then maybe I could go with my acoustic and play some numbers.”
“This is worth it, Bob. Big show!”
“Where?”
“Havana.”
“Illinois?”
“Cuba.”
“There’s a Havana in Cuba, now?”
“Bobby, concentrate. Millions of people. Broadcast around the world. Huge pub, baby.”
“Well, wait: do Cubans know who we are?”
“No. But they know who the Stones are. You’re opening.”
“Opening for the Stones?”
“Yeah.”
“At a free show?”
“Right.”
“Click. Dial tone.”
“Bob, did you just say “click” and “dial tone?”
“Well, you just can’t hang up on people dramatically anymore.”
We’re done with the Stones, but this is too much fun not to share.
Also: this would never happen at a Dead show. First off, those balloons would be far too valuable at a Dead show to just waste throwing on the guitar player.
Second, if a Deadhead did rush the stage…wait: a Deadhead would never “rush” the stage. Accidentally stumble out on? Yes. Happen upon? Totally: a Deadhead could absolutely happen upon the stage. (“Hey, guys: look what I found!”)
Third, none of the three guitar-wielding members of the Dead would ever use their instruments as weapon, as each one of them cost as much as a Honda, but featured none of the reliability that Civics and Accords are known for.
Fourth, the Dead’s crew was a little more proactive than the Stones’, apparently. Parish would have given the guy a forearm shiver before he had hit the stairs.
We are done with the Rolling Stones, I promise you that.
But: have you ever wondered if there were things that you might overhear at BOTH Stones and Dead shows? Like, sentences, phrase, or questions that you could say at either place and they would make sense?
I think they understand the premise.
Hope so.
Keith has passed out again.
The Hells Angels are here.
Which Chuck Berry song should we open with tonight?
Where are my opiates?
I cannot solo interminably without my opiates.
Why did you spend the bail money on drugs?
I’m sorry, Mick: they didn’t have grape Fresca at the store.
I don’t even know if it’s a thing.
If you want, I could mix 7-Up and Welch’s together.
Did you want grape Fanta?
That’s a thing; I got that; done deal on the Fanta.
Help me quench your thirst, Mick.
If we see the judge’s daughters, we’ll be sure to let you know, officer.
Please put the knife away.
Sam Cutler dosed you? Sam Cutler dosed me! Jesus, how many people did Sam Cutler dose? We should go kick his ass.
I wonder if the clothing the band is wearing is available for purchase? (Later Stones tours/Fare Thee Well only)
No, it’s not “the drink for the common man,” Mick.
It’s just something you made up because you, Mick, are a legendarily difficult human being.
The people in this room are responsible for what happened at Altamont.
Do you smell a couch on fire?
Maybe a stuffed chair or love seat: anything that can smolder?
Are you in the band or are you a drug dealer?
Or are you one of those mysterious types with neither visible means of support nor purpose that managed to affix himself to the group?
No, Mick, you cannot have a Diet Tab.
Tab is already a diet beverage; it cannot be dieted any further without resorting to mad science.
…
No, I don’t know any mad scientists, Mick.
*Listen to this: it’s all wobbly, but the energy is stupid high and Bobby does the band introductions in extemporaneous rhyme and instead of being too cool for the old gag, everyone leaps in and starts soloing when their name gets called, especially Garcia, who has far more gusto than you would expect from a man who would be in a coma that weekend.
All I wanted were your artistic interpretations of Veneta. Drawings of Ken Babbs telling everyone they were about to be sprayed with shitwater. Watercolors of Billy’s posture. A novelization of the Dark Star. Whatever: I just thought it was something we could do together.
If you’ll recall, I made one for you, seen here:
I received nothing in return. Were you intimidated by my artistic skills? I mean, you can’t even see the brush strokes.
No matter: intent is nothing. I got no art.
Wait.
THE TRUTH HAS WAITED LONG ENOUGH.
It’s been, like, two days.
That’s two generations to a fruit fly.
No one sent you crude drawings of a concert from 43 years ago, so you loosed a barrage of Rolling Stones-based shaky premises, links, and blatant homoeroticism at them?
What possible other option was there?
…
I didn’t think of it that way.
One does what one must.
Right. So: the nigh-on-infinite parade of virtually-identical concerts and bottomless well of pictures of coked-up limeys?
Yes.
You know I love the Stones, right?
Yes, I do.
Bro?
Bro?
Two Thousand Light From Brome?
Sure?
Ebrotional Rescue?
Uh-huh?
…
The Stones are about their albums.
They are, yeah.
There’s nothing deeper than Mick and Keith and Charlie playing the songs the way they’re supposed to go, but a little faster.
Nope.
Just find the best show from ’72 and the best one from ’78 and listen to those. All the other shows are exactly the same, but not as good.
It turns out that this is the case, yes.
…
What about the art?
Oh, Swaggie Maggie sent me this:
The dog eating the baby’s food?
It’s good, isn’t it?
No.
You knew what it was.
That is not the metric by which art is measured.
I don’t know, man: I like it when stuff looks like the stuff that it is.
You’re a moderd-day Robert Hughes.
I have no idea who that is. Anyway: Maggie solved the puzzle and said the magic words and clicked her ruby Tuesdays and that’s it: GARCIA AND THE PALO ALTO PLAYMAKERS, MOTHERFUCKER.
Whatcha got in the tape deck?
Can’t go wrong with ’73
Chileans would disagree with that statement.
Fuck ’em.
Yeah. Yeah, y’know what: God Bless the Grateful Dead and God Damn Chile, May The Entire Country Get Ass-Measles.
The question comes over the transom: Did the Stones jam?
To form any kind of answer, we must first define our terms. What does it mean to jam?
My definition is this: to (intentionally) get to a point in a musical performance where you can’t get back to the original song. Not without some doing: you can meander and solo your way back there, or find your way back into another song, or start throwing drumsticks at musical guests and start an intra-band fracas, but you’re no longer playing the song you started.
The Stones do not do this. The Stones vamp while Mick points his potato salad at the cheap seats; Keith might signal the band to keep playing for a few more bars under a solo; they might even improvise a twelve-bar. There is no possibility of a Mind Left Body Jam breaking out.
The Stones don’t jam, because the pyro goes off on this beat, and the giant inflatable hookers sway during this song, and so on.
Mainly, tho, the Stones don’t jam because of one simple fact: Stones’ songs go a certain way. People want to hear Brown Sugar, not this year’s weird re-arranging of it. Mick gives the people what they want.
Billy’s not the only Grateful Dead to have a run-in with The World’s Greatest Rock Band™ – here we see Young John Mayer having a old-fashioned Guitar Face-off with Ronnie Wood. Ronnie is wearing a cardigan that you can just tell cost $1,200 and JM is dressed as Temple Grandin, for some reason.
“Listen: common wisdom is that Altamont was 100% the Stones’ and the Angels’ fault.”
The Dead could’ve stopped it.
“Who are we: the fun police?”
Altamont was fun?
“Was for me. Helicopter rides.”
Great. You a Stones fan, Bill?
“I’m a heterosexual white American baby boomer?”
Yes.
“Then you know the answer to that. The Stones were the last band that everybody loved. Zeppelin was for the meat heads, we were for the drugfaces, The Eagles were for people with shitty taste in music, you know what I mean. Things got fractious.”
Yeah. Bill?
“Sure?”
How come they’re still touring and you guys could barely keep it together for a fortnight?
No, not a vague and lumpy potato salad: the raised and distinct outline of your penis?
Then those pants aren’t tight enough, are they?
Go put on some more accessories.
I don’t care how many you have on now: put on more.
Headbands are acceptable.
As are do-rags and piratical scarves.
You may also tie aforementioned scarves around your arm or leg or whatever.
“Certain colors don’t go together” is a lie.
The single coolest piece of clothing a man can wear is a duster.
The single coolest thing a man can do with his duster is remove it during the bridge of the song, twirl it overhead, and throw it in the vicinity of a roadie.
If you’re wearing a suit, it should be obviously expensive.
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