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

Tag: trey anastasio (Page 1 of 9)

Lawn Boy

Treyvon, what the fuck?

“Oh, hey. Can I jam for you, too?”

Oh, buddy.

“See, it’s summer.”

Right.

“And when it’s summer, I travel the country with my pals jamming for people.”

This year’s weird.

“It didn’t start well for me, and it’s gone downhill ever since.”

You got stuck in the rafters of MSG on New Year’s Eve.

“Yeah. My therapist says I might have gotten a touch of the PTSD from that.”

A touch?

“Full PTSD is for, like, soldiers. I don’t wanna be disrespectful.”

You’re very thoughtful. Can we get back to the fact that you’re accosting strangers in the park with your improvisatory boingy-type music?

“See, it’s summer. And when–”

Ah, dammit. You’ve lost your mind, too. Fuckin’ ronus.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I should take this. It might be the subconscious cue to wake up from this nightmare.”

Sure.

“Hey, it’s Trey.”

“WHO THIS, MAN? AH’M CALLIN’ F’R HAIRY GARCIA! PUT HIM ON TH’ LINE OR FACE SO MUCH KARATE YOU’LL END UP A LUMPY, BUMPY STUMP!”

“Elvis?”

“AN’ THE BANANA MAN!”

“Uh-huh.”

“DAMMIT, BOY: FETCH UP HAIRY GARCIA! WE GOT IMPORTANT MURDER HEIST-RELATED BIZNESS T’ DISCUSS!”

“Right, okay. Couple questions.”

“AH WILL PERMIT THIS, AS AH AM IN A FINE MOOD. ‘BOUT TEN MINUTES AGO, THE BANANA MAN KICKED JOE ESPOSITO IN TH’ NUTS. THAT BROUGHT JOY TO TH’ JUNGLE ROOM.”

“You’re in the Jungle Room?”

“IN MAH HEART, AH AM ALWAYS IN TH’ JUNGLE ROOM.”

“Great. I have three questions.”

“PRESENT THEM TO ME ALL AT ONCE, SO THAT AH MAY DECIDE WHICH TO IGNORE.”

“Okay: Who the heck is ‘Hairy Garcia?’; What the hell is a ‘Murder Heist?’; and How the fuck are you calling me?

“HAIRY GARCIA IS MAH FRIEND, WITH WHOM AH HAVE SHARED ADVENTURES AND SEAFOOD-INFUSED PASTA DISHES. THASS A MAN WHO DEMANDS SHRIMP IN HIS SCAMPI!”

“I’m already lost.”

“HE’S GOT A BEARD, AN’ HE’S IN CHARGE O’ TH’ GRATEFUL DEADS, AN’ AH ALSO THINK THERE’S TWO OF HIM AN’ ONE’S DEAD.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“YOU ARE A MAN O’ INTELLECT!”

“Thanks. And what is a Murder Heist?”

“FUN ‘TIL IT AIN’T!”

“That doesn’t help.”

“IT’S SOMETHIN’ T’ DO, MAN! CAN’T SPEND ALL DAY WATCHIN’ JOE ESPOSITO GET NUT-SHOTTED BAH A MONKEY! AH C’N SPEND ALL MORNIN’ LIKE THAT, BUT NOT ALL DAY. GOTTA MIX IT UP. LAST WEEK, AH RECORDED ‘NOTHER CHRISTMAS ALBUM. THIS WEEK, AH’M MURDER HEISTIN’.”

“That also doesn’t help.”

“WHERE ARE MAH MANNERS? WOULD YOU LIKE DR. NICK TO ATTEND T’YOU?”

“No. What? No.”

“Y’LOOK SICK, MAN. YOU PALER TH’N A BOILED HOG.”

“I’m fine.”

“YOU MAY BE FINE, BUT DR. NICK’LL SET YOU RIGHT. YOU SHOULD SEE HOW HE’S TENDIN’ T’ JOE ESPOSITO’S CASHEWS! TH’ MAN’S A HEALER!”

“Pass.”

“BOY, DON’T BE ACTIN’ TOUGH IN FRONT O’ TH’ KING. TH’ DOC GONNA GIVE YOU VARIOUS CURATIVES, AN’ THEN YOU AN’ ME AN’ THE BANANA MAN GONNA GET HUMPIN’ ON THIS MURDER HEIST.”

“I still don’t know what a Murder–”

“AH’M GONNA SEND SONNY OR RED T’ FETCH YOU UP! AH DUNNO WHICH ONE YET. IT’LL BE ONE O’ THEM GOOBERS.”

“–Heist is, and so–”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Excuse me?”

Treyvon?

“Can I opt out?”

You don’t wanna be a part of this?

“I don’t wanna be a part of any of this.”

No one does! Except Billy, I guess. And Elvis. And the intertrimensional sex pirates that ate Iron Maiden.

“The what now?”

You’ll meet them.

“I don’t want to.”

They’re fun.

Bouncing ‘Round The Room

Hey, Trey. Whatcha doing?

“Following the advice of doctors and scientists. Keeping my feet on the ground here.”

Good for you.

“I got my guitars, my computer, a little fridge with various yogurts and imported fruit juices.”

Trey, you don’t have to stay in your room. Just your house.

“Never be too careful. I’m gonna stay in here. Nice ceiling above me. Feet on the ground.”

This is about New Year’s, isn’t it?

“MY LIFE FLASHED BEFORE MY EYES, MAN!”

It was a fluky scene. You’re not self-quarantining because of corona, are you? You’ve been in there all year, right?

“But look how clean I’ve kept it! You’d expect the place to be much grodier, but I keep to a chore schedule.”

This is not healthy, buddy. I think you may have a touch of the post-traum.

“Joe doesn’t believe in PTSD.”

Joe?

“Since I locked myself in here, I have become a Joe Rogan podcast superfan.”

Okay, that’s it. You have to get out of there.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I have to take this. It might be Goose.”

You’re talking to Goose?

“I’m mentoring them. You know the Big Brother program?”

Sure.

“Like that, but with jam bands. Gimme a sec.”

“Say hey, it’s Trey.”

“Ginger Garcia! Is Kim Jong-Un. We never met but have many mutual friends.”

“The actual Kim Jong-Un?”

“One of kind, baby. You listen now. Long story short: Clone Jerry ate itself. Need someone to solo for whole song when Grateful Dead announce I cure coronavirus. You come Only Korea and play.”

“What?”

“I no do exposition again. Is beneath dignity of man with nukes.”

“Whatever it is, I pass. There’s no international travel now, anyway.”

“I want here, you get here. Is no problem.”

“Still gonna pass.”

“Kim Jong-Un sweeten deal. Send sex slave.”

“Holy shit, do not send me a sex slave.”

“You can pay her. That makes her no sex slave, just whore you own.”

“Not better!”

“She knows so many trick. Weird trick. Butthole has secret knowledge. Butthole very gnostic.”

“Don’t send me anyone.”

“Give her to you when you get here.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

Kiss Me On The Bus

“Because there’s no piping system. At home, you’re either hooked up to the mains or you got yourself a private tank, but the bus toilet isn’t like that. It’s just a seat on a bucket, basically. Nothing goes away. You literally take a dump. You take it with you down the highway.”

“We all know that, Bobby.’

“I literally grew up on a tour bus, Uncle Bobby.”

“We have a plane now, Bob.”

“Number one is fine. You’re more than welcome to make number one. But, uh, no loaf-pinching.”

“Please don’t call it that.”

“Seconded.”

“Aye.”

“All right, who’s’ ready for the tour?”

Fake Johnnies: A Definitive Ranking

Enthusiasts, we are not even close to Peak Rank. Oh, sure, the “Best Albums of the 70’s” gets a ranking, and so does each Seinfeld episode, but there’s so much more that freelancers could be underpaid to gradate. What about political assassinations? (#1: John Paul I, 1978.) Or toes? (#1: Wee-wee-wee all the way home.) Or concentration camps? (You’d think Auschwitz would be number one, but you’d be wrong. It’s Bergen-Belsen.) MORE RANKING! That’s why Jesus gave us thumbs, after all: so we could rank pop culture.

Even the Dead got roped into this make-work nonsense in the past couple weeks. Twice, as a matter of fact, and about the same pointless subject: Grateful Dead studio albums. (You don’t have to click on either offering, as neither author follows me on Twitter and therefore can’t possibly have anything to say about the Dead. I’m the Sidney Morgenbesser of the jam band scene.) TotD was not asked to submit his own article, as the full text of it would have been…

You can listen to American Beauty or Workingman’s Dead if you want, but there’s only so much fucking time, man. You’re gonna die. One day, maybe soon, you’re gonna die. Listen to the shows. The albums all suck, even the good ones. Just listen to the shows.

…which is downright unprofessional.

But I got the ranking bug, Enthusiasts, and it’s gotta come out! I gotta RANK, baby! And then you fuckers are gonna argue about it. There’s two players in this game. So: as you know, Dead & Company have been through many iterations before landing on the classic contemporary lineup, and along the way plenty of axe-slingers have tried to fill our Johhny’s limited-edition, hand-painted shoes. Who sucked? Who was Best EVAR? Let’s go backwards down the number line and start with our worst Fake Johnny.

TREY ANASTASIO 

To paraphrase the Ghostbusters, “If you’re don’t see our movie, you’re a sexist.” To paraphrase the real Ghostbusters, Trey had the talent but not the tools. When he filled in for John Mayer at the Fare Thee Well shows, he was under-rehearsed AND dealing with a Fake Oteil. The cards just weren’t in the hand for Trey to succeed.

JOHN KADLECIK 

Better than Trey, but barely. Much more like Jerry Garcia than John Mayer, and so you wonder what Bobby and Fake Oteil were thinking hiring the guy.

JERRY GARCIA

No style. Did not hop up and down in place when happy. Rarely, if ever, fucked Jessica Simpson and then talked about it on the radio. No Instagram presence whatsoever. Did not even know Andy Cohen. Giant beard. Not one single ab.

JIMMY HERRING

Y’know what? I don’t even know enough about Jimmy Herring to make a joke. Was he the guy Fake Oteil’s wife threw off the bus in the middle of a tour? Christ, I don’t wanna rank anything any more.

WARREN HAYNES

Oh, no, not Woody Hayes.

WARREN BUFFET

That’s not even a guitarist.

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

He’s a made-up wizard. What’s happening here?

RANK ME, DADDY

This has degenerated into silliness, as usual.

AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN NUMBER THE RANKINGS.

It’s why I haven’t caught on with the respectable internet publications. I’m just gonna hit Publish and pretend this didn’t happen.

THAT’S WHAT MOST PEOPLE DO WITH YOUR WORK.

Can’t argue.

Why Are These Two Men Laughing?

“I’m not gonna tell you to slow it down again, Josh.”

“Was I going too fast?”

“Oh, yeah. You were, uh, not holding your horses at all. Free horses, man. I don’t know if you know this–”

“You spent a summer on a ranch.”

“–but I spent a summer on a ranch, so I know my horses. Gotta be held. Otherwise, you know, you got chaos.”

“We don’t have chaos, Bobby. We’re killing it.”

“The fans have grown used to Dead & Company tempos, and this sudden shift might discombobulate them.”

“I think they’ll be fine.”

“They’ll be relieved of their comboble.”

“‘Comboble’ is not the root word of discomb–”

“Don’t lecture me, Josh.”

“I let the first one go, but I have to correct you this time. I’m not Josh. In fact, there is no Josh.”

“There’s no Josh? Am I manifesting my imaginary friends again? That happens occasionally.”

“John. The man’s name is John. And I’m not him. I’m Trey.”

“Are you the one who plays basketball?”

“No, that’s Bill Walton. I’m Trey Anastasio. I played with you for the Dead’s 50th anniversary.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“How’d it go?”

“Eh.”

“Sounds right. Now, listen: whoever the hell you are, and however the hell you got on stage: slow the hell down or I’m gonna do attack yoga at you.”

“Gotcha.”

Phoreheads Are Better Than One

“What’s going on here?”

“Forehead time, boy.”

“Oh, okay. How long does it–”

“Rub. Back and forth. Get some friction going.”

“I don’t understand what’s–”

“Nogginate me, Treyvon.”

“That’s not even a–”

“Gimme the nog! Gotta have it!”

“Are you finished?”

“I’m just happy to be out of the restaurant.”

“Sure.”

“Now, remember: no matter how many times I tell you to slow down, keep playing fast.”

“Gotcha.”

Trey-o

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTt7QzIu2XU&t=728s

Enthusiasts, I was wrong–wrong as hell–about the Bobby & Phil Duo shows. I thought they would be goofy (they are, but in a good way), and sloppy (they are, but in a comforting way), and most of all I thought they would be boring.

I was not prepared for the jams, Enthusiasts. This is last night’s second set with Trim Arugula, and you should watch it.

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