For a short time in 1976. the Wall of Sound was replaced by the backdrop from a local junior high’s production of Sweeney Todd.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Month: February 2014 (Page 3 of 3)
How’s your day going? Back hurting? Folks on the train screaming and turning into sex-pterodactyls?
We’ve all been there. make your afternoon better with this overlooked gem from the that Wall of Sound summer of ’74: 7/27 in Roanoke, VA. Easily the equal of the Dillon Stadium show featured on Dave’s Pick 4, this dank nuggety dab of doobie-love also rivals it in sheer weirdness, although in a far sneakier way: Sure, the DaP show from Yale has the do-not-listen-to-while-operating-heavy-machinery sleight of hand that is the Playing>Supplication transition, but how about a “>Promised Land”?
They NEVER went into Promised Land; the song was an opener: the only things that preceded it were propping Keith up at the piano, flushing Garcia out of his dressing room, and several nerve-induced doodies. (Followed immediately and dramatically by nearly ten minutes of smoking, tuning, and smoking again.)
Singer not the song, as always: the US Blues>Promised Land on this fucker is a Hall of Fame thirteen minutes. Also, the 25-minute Playing contains a Tiger Jam that David Gans once referred to as “a Tiger Jam.”
p.s. After the show, the Taper’s Section was never to be seen again. Carved in a VW microbus nearby were the letters “KREUTZM”.
Imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light…
Shortly after this picture was taken, Garcia plugged up his nostrils, exhaled real hard and BOOM: beard.
Here’s a spectacular spectacle and bodacious creation from that magical year of 1977: 10/30 in Nap City. Overshadowed by the night before’s manic roar and stomp, as well as the first week of November’s streak of genius, this one deserves a listen.
Second set’s the juicy goodness here: Vice-Admiral of the Northern Fleet Mr. Completely pimps the weirdly placed Peggy-O for enbronzifcation, and he might be right: Check out Keith on the clavichord and LEAVE IT ON for the rest, a big Playing sandwich with a HoF Wharf Rat that threatens to tear the roof off the dump; then the downshift in the Reprise fading away to barely articulated string scrapings from Garcia until it wells up in no time at all and you remember just why they had two drummers, especially this year.
And then it’s Chuck Berry time: you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
And this is happening.
What did I tell you about getting a cat?
I didn’t get a cat! The little fucker met me at my car and just walked in the house with me. I threw him out an hour ago and he came back.
You can barely take care of yourself. You may not have a cat. Now get him out of here before the other one shows up.
IS THAT A KITTEH? LOVES THE KITTEH AND GIVE HIM NUM-NUMS ALL OVER HIS TUSHEEBUTT, YES I WILL.
…
Are you happy now?
So this is in my house now.
The reason the Dead didn’t use a lot of car metaphors is because every time they got anywhere near an automobile, they looked like complete muppets.
So many things unexplained, hinted at, alluded to, COVERED UP by the dread Machiavellian forces of Big Dead. TotD counts at lest three MAJOR-LEAGUE CONSPIRACIES represented in the above picture.
Why, David Lesiouxsieandthebanshees?* Why do you make me cyber-and-then-actually-stalk you to find out these secrets that are my INALIENABLE RIGHTS. By the way: your name, while a never-ending source of fun and whimsy, is relatively common in Montreal and I think I might have broken into the wrong house. Funny story: that thing about Canadian politeness? Not at three in the morning for looming strangers in ski masks. In my defense: it was cold out and I had a pimple, so the ski mask was necessary, in my eyes at least.
First off, that’s not Mickey: it’s Doug Henning, and second off: it’s not even Doug Henning; it’s a Doug Henning impersonator and the only trick he knows is pulling out his dick and going, “Ta-da.” Billy could be overheard giggling and you knew he was going to be doing it for the rest of the tour.
Also, Phil’s not just friendly, or drunk (frunk, Phil used to call the mood): he’s leaving his scent through specially evolved pheromone glands in his cheeks. Phil shares this trait with all of the Cat People of Felicidae IV, his home planet.
(Honestly, though: that’s obviously Mickey, and Phil’s just plastered; he closed his eyes for a bit and Mickey played tabla rhythms on his head for two hours. The album was never released.)
* Looking up that woman’s ridiculous fake name might honestly be the most research TotD has ever engaged in.
Preparations for the 50th anniversary shows are in full swing; TotD brings you there!
- Sammy Hagar never sang for us, Bobby.
- So just to be clear, Phil: Ned Lagin doesn’t need to be there.
- I agree with Mickey: there should be cheese fries backstage.
- Billy, please stop doing your magic trick.
- Who brought a lynx to a fucking business meeting? What the hell is wrong with you people?
- Let’s aim for no collapsing onstage, guys. Like, none at all. Sure, you’re right: one is the smallest number of times you can collapse onstage…unless you don’t do it at all. And that’s what we’re shooting for here.
- Phil, you’re gonna do the Donor Rap when?
- Billy, you’re not going to do the Boner Rap at all. It is not funny and it is insulting and it causes miscarriages and that’ll be the last we mention it.
- Yes, we will be announcing this on “the Facebook.” No, we cannot do the whole tour on “the Skype.”
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