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

Tag: 1970 (Page 1 of 9)

Hooterollin’ And Rockin’ And Researchin’

New Hooterollin’! Is my body breaking down in new and exciting ways? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’. Are some of the emergent nightmares far too disgusting to even mention in mixed company? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’. Am I living through the second act of a David Cronenberg film? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’.

Did you know that Bobby–in addition to being a guitarist, singer, and cowboy–was a record producer? I did not, and I know a lot of stuff about Bobby. Luckily, Corry has abandoned the tenets of Without Research to, you know, look shit up and thus enlighten all with this ribald* tale of a Grateful Dead and one of the guys who wrote Mississippi Queen. Why are you still here? Go read something that makes sense.

And if you need something to listen to…

Here’s the Dead’s set from 4/9/70 at the Fillmore West.

And here’s Mr. Davis and the Lost Quintet (featuring Chick Corea on the Fender Rhodes):



*There is no ribaldry whatsoever in this tale. Everyone keeps it in his or her pants at all times.


Goddammit, Phil–

“Fuck off, wretch.”

–are you using the Time Sheath to avoid quarantine again?

“Missed my mustache.”

It’s a beaut.

“Tough shaving it off. Sucker fought back. Remember my beard?”

Glorious thatch.

“Oh, yeah. Took a team of three professionals to get it off my face.”

You got some tenacious follicles.

“Once they get a grip, man.”

What are you and Cutler talking about?

“No idea. Between you and me, I’ve never understood a single word out of the man’s mouth. But, you know, he worked for the Stones.”

Sure. Don’t give 1970 coronavirus, please.

“Get off my back. I just needed a minute without that fucking mask.”

I get it.

It Was Fifty Years Ago Today…

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Losing a wrestling match, seems like.”

That is an enormous guitar.

“You need a permit for it in Mendocino County.”


“So, uh, you still got Covid?”


“I knew it started with a C. But I know you’re a bather, so it probably wasn’t crotchrot.”

Crotch is fine.

“Common cold. That’s two C’s right there. Although, cancer and crotchrot both have two C’s, too.”

I do not have the common cold. In fact, what I have is rare and I currently have a fever.

“Lemme ask you a question: how much spirulina are you ingesting daily?”


“Good. Stay the hell away from that crap. Superfood, my ass. Spent a long weekend on a Taos toilet after I tried that garbage.”

Avoid spirulina. Gotcha.

“Lemme ask you another question: Are you positive that you didn’t piss off a gypsy woman a few months ago?”

No such thing as a gypsy curse, Bobby.

“Sure there is. We’re discussing it right now. You even know how to spell it.”

I didn’t anger any gypsy women.

“Gotta be polite to ’em. I mean, you should be well-mannered with everyone you meet in your travels, but y’gotta give those ladies a wide berth. Deer, too.”


“Deer’ll kick your ass. Bambi was a lie.”

I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore.

“Well, uh, whose fault is that?”



Bitchin’ Brew

On 4/9/70, Miles and his electric band opened for the Dead at the world-famous Fillmore West in San Francisco. I am gonna sit here, get poisoned, and listen to the evening’s presentation. Join me! (Not for the poisoning. You don’t want that. Just listen to Miles and the Dead with me.)

Here (along with the newly-deceased Stevie Grossman on soprano sax, Chick Corea on the electric piano, Dave Holland on the Fender bass, Jack DeJohnette on drums, and Friend of the Dead Airto Moreira on assorted percussion) is Mr. Davis:

And here’s everybody’s favorite semi-defunct choogly-type band:


Swine, Flu

“What the hell is happenin’ out there? You been layin’ with unclean foxes?”

Nope. Plague time.

“You tried singin’ th’ blues at th’ pestilence?”

I don’t know.

“Can’t hurt!”

You’re right about that.

“All them doctors, they jus’ wanna go t’ war with viruses and all them! Ain’t how you gonna win! Gotta sing th’ blues at th’ bug! Make it unnerstand that you got bigger problems t’ deal with, an’ that now ain’t th’ perfect time t’ be comin’ around! Maybe that virus got th’ same worries you do! Maybe its woman ain’t treating it right!”

That’s more of a poetic response than a scientific one.

“The ol’ Pig did a lot better in English class than biology.”

I didn’t say you were wrong.

“I very rarely am, and only about exceedingly minor matters!”

Pig, I wish you were here, but I’m a little glad you’re not.

“Much appreciationfulness.”

And Then There Was That Time Phil Was In CCR

“Petey Pumphouse.”


“My mustache. If I had one, that is. I’d name him ‘Petey Pumphouse.’ It’s informal, yet harkens back to a more masculine era. Lotta hark in that name.”

“I don’t give a shit, Weir.”

“What’s your’s name?”

“I didn’t name my goddamned mustache, man.”

“What if it wanders away?”

“I’m gonna go stand behind the drums for a while.”

“Okay. I’ll, uh, see the two of you soon.”

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