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

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 87 of 1031)

The Link, No Longer Missing

I come not to bury the great Jesse Jarnow, but to praise him and simultaneously call the wrath of The Lord upon his bearded face.

As you know, Enthusiasts, there are certain maxims that apply to the Grateful Dead. We know that Life is Short, and therefore we must Listen to ’73. We recognize that the proper unit of the Grateful Dead is not the song, or album, but the show. If it’s ’71, then Garcia is out of tune. We hold these truths to be self-evident. And this: There is always a Dead connection. NASA, Whitney Houston, the Soviet Bloc: all hitched and roped to our dissolute heroes.

Even Elvis.

But there was no connection to Roy Head, that razzlin’, dazzlin’, pay-for-your-vajazzlin’ superstar from Cascabel, Texas. Roy didn’t travel in the same circles as the Dead; they both knew Doug Sahm, but Roy kicked Doug Sahm’s ass every St. Patrick’s Day from 1963-82, and so they weren’t really what you’d call friends. All roads dead-ended, all tethers withered, all paths turned grassy and vague.

Until now. The great Jesse Jarnow reveals that Sarah Fulcher sang with both Roy Head’s back up band, the Traits, and the ’73 version of Garcia’s Jerry Band. Everyone here at Fillmore South thanks Mr. Jarnow for this tip. However, he must also be indicted in the harshest of terms. Why was I not notified immediately of this news? Why was the interview not paused so he could text me, and allow me to process the information in a civilized fashion, instead of having to read it along with the rest of the world like a rando?

I will not be treated like a goddamned rando. I await rectification of the insult.

This is why you don’t have friends.

I HAVE STANDARDS.

Non-sequitur. Let the nice people hear Ms. Fulcher sing.

Whatever. Here’s her with Garcia, Merl Saunders, a bass-playing drug dealer, and an uninspiring drummer:

And here she is with Roy Head:

Mrs. Dancing Jean Godchaux

Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?

“Ah’m jus’ beboppin’ mah day away, sugah.”

You look good in burnt ochre.

“It’s 1974, darlin’. Th’ whole world was this color. Least, most livin’ rooms were.”

Did you ever break out any high-energy dance moves with the Dead?

“It ain’t high-steppin’ music, sugah. Grateful Dead’s f’r swayin’ to.”

“And then swayin’ fro. Y’gonna sway both ways, but there’s gonna be a itty-bitty pause in ‘tween there.”

Sure

“‘Occasionally, Ah’ll do some hand stuff. Flutterin’ and all.”

You ever think about pulling out a Stevie Nicks twirl once in a while?

“Bless your heart, honeypop. Ah’ve had too much Sambuca t’do any twirlin’. Liable t’make me violently un-ladylike.”

You keep on being you, Mrs. Donna Jean.

“All Ah c’n do is try, sugah, but Ah’ll do jus’ that.”

Fear Of A Black Terrapin Station

Enthusiasts, it’s rough being the World’s Leading Grateful Dead Authority. My opinion is sought out–demanded even–from hither and yon. More yon than hither. Honestly, I can’t even recall hearing from hither since the incident with the blowtorch and his nipples; he’s holding a grudge, apparently.

Stop being dumbfucky.

The question is brought before us: Which Grateful Dead is each of these famous comics? The obvious man says, “Obviously, Eddie is Garcia, obviously,” but the obvious man is oblivious. Chapelle is Garcia. There is no act more Garcia-ish than being unable to go 30 seconds without a cigarette. The man’s Garcia reborn, plus he disappeared at the height of his fame, which is an incredibly Garcia thing to do.

Eddie is Bobby: charismatic, handsome, spent the 00’s not doing too much of note.

Chris Rock has enormous teeth and an even enormouser need to be thought of as intelligent; he’s Phil.

Kenan is clearly Billy. Y’don’t wanna see him solo, but he holds the performance together. In addition, both men enjoy white women.

Tracy Morgan is Mickey. He does one thing really well, but that’s it.

Sinbad (not pictured) is Mrs. Donna Jean, and I will not explain my reasoning behind that.

Philactery

Hey, Phil. Whatcha doing?

“Well, goddammit, if anyone should know what this is, it’s you.”

Very aggressive.

“I’m not the one who won’t shut up about being a Jew.”

You’re not a Jew.

“I am Jew-ish.”

True. The Grateful Dead were Righteous among Nations.

“No idea what that means.”

What genre of music is Jewiest?

“Hmm. Jam bands or whatever they’re called, that’s probably first. Wait, no. What’s that crap with the clarinet?”

Klezmer.

“Very Jew-y.”

True. Did the Grateful Dead ever celebrate Hanukkah?

“Well, we all tried to ball chicks named Stacy Rosenberg around this time of year. And the Road Crew used to spin the Dreidel.”

Really?

“Only when they lost their deck of cards, but it happened.”

Happy Hanukkah, Phil.

“It won’t be that happy if I can’t sell these vegan latkes. There’s, like, no margin.”

A Preemptive Review Of Star Wars: The Rise Of Skywalker

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker was (a rousing end to a triumphant trilogy/the cinematic equivalent of a doody-covered needle in the eyeball). There were so many spaceships and laser swords and spooky aliens that I shat myself (out of joy/from boredom). We got to find out how the new characters (who were so memorable/whose names I cannot recall) fared, and see the returning cast (get their moments in the sun/literally decay before your eyes). I was most excited to see (Artoo/the spectre of death superimposed over every frame of the film).

Director J.J. Abrams has hit (a home run/me in the dick) with this movie! He had a lot of work to do after the Rian Johnson-directed The Last Jedi, which was (mildly controversial in some corners/just like 9/11 in every way), but he manages to (tie up all the loose ends/further shame and horrify anyone stupid enough to love Star Wars in the first place). My favorite part was (the return of Emperor Palpatine/the popcorn-shit I took when I got home). I hope Disney has (1000 more of these movies in the pipeline/assassins they can send to just fucking kill me)!

Vive le (Star Wars/guillotine)!

 

Furthur On Down The Road

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Dreaming of the West.”

That’s some good Dead-shirt-wearin’ on all of your parts.

“Men were men back then.”

You’re not listening to me, are you?

“Women were women. The cattle were, uh, cattle. The doggies were also cattle, though. When you punched them doggies, you were actually talking about cattle. And you weren’t actually punching them. I can draw you a diagram, if you’d like.”

I’m fine.

“Destiny was around every corner back then. Course, there weren’t many corners, as the infrastructure wasn’t there yet. Let’s just say that destiny was over every hill. Just a short hike away.”

Okay.

“If you had a horse, you wouldn’t even need to pack a lunch. You could be there and back in a morning.”

What the hell are you talking about?

“America.”

What’s the dog’s name?

“Triscuits.”

Cool.

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