Hey, slim.
“Why, thank you for noticing.”
Really?
“No, man. Don’t comment on other men’s bodies. It’s suspicious.”
What are the chairs for?
“Marina Abramovic is coming by in a bit. We’re gonna stare at each other.”
Cool.
“Art for art’s sake, man.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 111 of 1031)
This is the show from the previous post: 11/6/71 at the (West) Berlin Philharmonic. WARNING: Keith Jarrett’s face. Also, I don’t give a fuck what the video’s title says: Keith did not have billing above Miles.
Hey, Mr. Davis.
“Look at these motherfuckers costin’ me money.”
Because there are so many musicians?
“Shit, no. Because I gotta rent a second tour bus just for afro picks. You know the kind with the fist on the handle?”
Yes.
“My fuckin’ band goes through nine or ten dozen a show. And we play some cracker-ass places, too. Can’t depend on there being a proper barbershop around. Ever been to Delaware?”
A few times.
“Bullshit state. Like Maryland has a skin tag or some shit.”
Accurate assessment.
“Don’t tell me I’m fuckin’ right. I know I’m fuckin’ right, otherwise I wouldn’t have said shit.”
Sorry.
“Just shut the fuck up.”
Okay.
“We’re playin’ Wilmington and no one’s got a hair pick. Gary Bartz’ natural was floppy and pathetic. He got a face looks like an a fat bitch sat on an egg sandwich, so the n—-r gotta have good hair.”
As always, I formally protest your use of that word.
“Show’s gonna start soon and my band looks terrible. I can’t have that. Miles Davis is a clean motherfucker. Gotta have a handsome band. I had to call the only cat I knew in Wilmington.”
Please don’t say–
“N—-r named Corn Pop.”
–Corn Pop. You knew Corn Pop?
“We was tight.”
Wow.
“Corn Pop came through. Brought a whole case of picks by. That n—-r’s all right. Everybody love that boy. You gotta problem with Corn Pop, you some sort of rickety old ofay fuck.”
Accurate assessment.
BANG!
“The fuck did I tell you?”
Sorry, Mr. Davis.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Squeezing the last little bit of summer out of the tube.”
Sammy Hagar is a summer type of dude.
“Yeah, sure. You, uh, don’t think ‘autumn’ when you think of Sam. He’s a ‘drink in your hand, toes in the sand’ kind of guy.”
All he needs is a beautiful girl.
“There you go. And we each got one.”
What do you and Sammy talk about?
“Aliens.”
Aliens?
“Almost exclusively. We were gonna join in on storming Area 51, but our wives wouldn’t let us.”
Smart women. Did you make those shorts yourself?
“I make all my shorts myself.”
I should have guessed that.
“You can make pants into shorts, but you can’t turn shorts into pants. Time’s arrow only, uh, flies one way.”
That’s deep.
“Yeah, sure.”
OR
Potato salad.
“Um, Ric?”
“Yuh-huh?”
“I thought we were doing black outfits with black guitars?”
“Oh, is that what you thought? Cuz I thought I’d be awesome.”
He didn’t sing this one, but he had the hottest wife, so she starred in the video. Those are the rules.
Now that’s how you agitprop: with a brass section.
OR
Excellent choice staying away from a modern arrangement. National anthems should sound like Wagner.
OR
For the tears that we shed on this soil
For the anguish we had in this turmoil
We keep our heads up, our voices strong
May freedom root in Hong KongFor the fear that looms overhead
For the hope that moves us ahead
We march in blood, our martyrs along
May freedom glow in Hong KongDeepest night we shall not be in fright
In the mist, a new day breaks with chants and light
Stand with us, with virtuous minds and unbending spines
The pearl we hold will always shineCome children of our motherland
The time has come to wage a revolution
Freedom and liberty belong to this land
May glory be to Hong Kong
(This is just one of several translations I found, but it was the only one that included the phrase “We march in blood,” so it is the one I chose.)
OR
Macau next.
Hey, Mickey. You have any idea who these people are?
“I think the tall one is Phil’s kid.”
No.
“He could be!”
There’s a slight resemblance.
“And this is my daughter, Raylene.”
It is not. And your daughter’s name is Raya.
“Y’don’t say. Is she my niece?”
I don’t think so.
“Oh, good. I’m gonna make a run at her.”
Don’t.
“Gonna.”
Whatever.
“And the cue ball told me he was a deejay. Is he Scott Muni?”
Not that kind of deejay, Mickey.
“A dick jerker?”
Not that kind of deejay, either. That is Moby. You don’t listen to techno?
“Nobody listens to techno.”
True.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Just piled up the blankets and left ’em there, huh?
“Looks like it.”
Question.
“Shoot.”
What the fuck is that box?
“An ice dispenser shaped like W.C. Fields’ head.”
Obviously. Why?
“Why did we have it, or why is an ice dispenser shaped like W.C. Fields’ head?”
The first thing.
“Margaritas. We also had a blender shaped like Carmen Miranda.”
Sure.
OR
You fuckers thought I was kidding, didn’t you?
It’s not that I don’t know how to do research, it’s that I can’t usually be bothered.
*One would assume that this shot of Garcia is from Red Rocks; I am unaware of any other venues the Dead played where their backdrop was shale.
No, it isn’t.
It is. Big holiday. Schools are off, and tuggers are half-priced down at Slappy’s.
Stop it.
Check your calendar. And then get your ass down to Slappy’s.
You’re a liar, and everyone hates you.
Doesn’t change the facts on the ground, mojambo.
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