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

Tag: 1970 (Page 2 of 9)

A Song Of Cold Rain And Snow

I see you there, George R.R. Martin.

“Zounds! My ruse is exposed!”

Stop talking like that.

“I like talking like that. Don’t hassle me, varlet.”

Why are you in 1970? Who gave you access to Time Sheath technology?

“Phil really wanted to know what happens in the next book.”

Dammit. Y’know, I’m starting to think it may have been a poor idea to give the Grateful Dead a time machine.

“Ah, that reminds me of some intrigue within House Winterdingus. The scion, Scabbard Fanix, had recently forced his eldest son, Bung, to eat himself. It was part of an enormous banquet, which I’ll now describe for twenty minutes.”

Stop it.

“There were porked bellies and platters of buttered finch–”

STOP IT.

“Ah, bite me, y’jealous loser.”

Not wrong. This photo is labeled 5/3/70* from Wesleyan University. Did you go there?

“No. Northwestern.”

Uh-huh. So, why did you go to a random show in the middle of Connecticut?

“When Phil gave me the Time Sheath, his instructions were less than precise. I was trying to go to the Battle of Agincourt.”

Sure. Last question.

“Shoot.”

Why aren’t you wearing your usual get-up? Where’s your hat? You love that hat.

“I’m in disguise. Otherwise, I get mobbed by fans.”

Sure. Hey, George?

“My liege?”

Try not to start a Time War.

“I can’t promise anything.”

 

*Just a partial tape.

If Only Holly Could…

The Hollywood Festival is mostly forgotten now. There was no great movie made–mostly because the Dead dosed the entire camera crew–and no one got stabbed by the Hells Angels; the poor concert plum forgot to affix itself to a great narrative, and it just floats in the Rock Nerd aether along with Bickershaw and various Texas/California Jams.

Which is what it deserves, really: the festival was an exceedingly minor one that today is primarily remembered for launching the career of Mungo Jerry.  Also, this shit:

Yes, that is a giant inflatable penis, which has never not been embarrassing. Shameful when Mick Jagger rode one around stage, debasing when the Beastie Boys blew one up on their first tour, and blushworthy here. There are also giant inflatable boobies; they are behind the scaffolding on the right side of the photograph.

Also on the right side of the pic: guy with access to a Time Sheath who has snuck an iPhone X back to 1970. At least be subtle about it, bro.

Here’s the poster:

First: “Leycett near Newcastle under Lyme-Staffordshire” is clearly a satirical town name made up by Monty Python or someone. Nothing could be that British.

Second: Shockingly enough, the poster made by stoned dimwits who declared bankruptcy immediately after the show, leaving all the contractors and technicians unpaid, features some inaccuracies. Neither the Flying Burrito Brothers nor the James Gang actually performed (or were in the country that weekend), but Screaming Lord Sutch and San Fran favorites the Flaming Groovies did. Whether or not Alice Cooper did is a matter of debate, as it was the past and no one wrote anything down.

Third: Dead played at 4:30 on Sunday afternoon. Didn’t headline. Makes sense, though: the band had never been to England before, and the fuddie-duddies at the BBC certainly weren’t wearing out their copies of Aoxomoxoa. The hip kids had heard of the Dead, but not heard the Dead. Maybe NME had written about them. When they returned in 1972, they’d sell out their shows without any support acts, but–in 1970–they were the support act.

(To Mungo Jerry. Honest. The Grateful fucking Dead opened for Mungo fucking Jerry. The neo-skiffle act went over so well on Saturday that the organizers gave them another set on Sunday right after the Dead. Crowd ate ’em up.)

Fourth: While I can’t find any first-hand accounts of Ginger Baker punching anyone, rest assured that Ginger Baker punched at least one person that weekend. This was right before everyone in London got so sick of him that he fled to Nigeria to be the second-best drummer in Fela Kuti’s band for a while, before everyone in Lagos got so sick of him that he had to flee back to London.

Fifth: Holy shit, the Hells Angels were there after all!


But, you know, not really. These were the British version of the Hells Angels that Mick Jagger had taken a liking to at the Stones’ Hyde Park show, leading to the disaster at Altamont, and they weren’t up to snuff. Look at that drawn-on swastika. That guy in the bear hat from Gimme Shelter could take these sissipated poseurs all by himself.

Here’s a better shot of the Dead’s set, featuring more giant inflatable boobies:

Titties and ding-dongs, Enthusiasts. When they ask you about the 70’s, just tell ’em it was nothing but titties and ding-dongs.

If you’d like to know more about the 1970 Hollywood Festival, then consult your local library. Then, after they tell you they have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about, go to this site.

TotD’s Two-In-One

THIS PART IS FOR ALL ENTHUSIASTS WHO ARE NOT AMIR BAR-LEV

The video clips I’ve been posting are, obviously, from the upcoming Long Strange Trip DVD/Blu-Ray release and–funny story–I’m not sure they’re supposed to be on YouTube. Apparently, Sam Cutler has been posting them on Facebook. So, um, download them immediately. (Especially the clip above: a hairy, snarly 1970 China Cat that also features a guest appearance by the giant white fascism bubble from The Prisoner, which the internet says is called a “Rover,” but I have always thought of as part of the Shmoo family.)

THIS PART IS FOR ALL ENTHUSIASTS WHO ARE AMIR BAR-LEV

Hey, buddy. How’s it hanging? Family good? Great. So…you might wanna call Cutler. Do you have the number for his van?

Power Moves: Let’s Count ‘Em

  1. Hunter’s ‘stache.
  2. Oddly-shaped luggage.
  3. Literally nothing in 1970 was ergonomic; I don’t even think the word existed.
  4. Smoking cigars in an airport.
  5. Mickey smoking a cigar while chewing gum and wearing the worst sunglasses the Northern Hemisphere.
  6. Ramrod’s pee-pee dance.
  7. And his serape.
  8. Going to England?
  9. Better bring a serape.
  10. Holy shit, Cutler was young once?
  11. Using the power of deduction, we can figure that Phil was the one who lost his passport.
  12. I bet he handled the situation with charm and understanding.
  13. That was what Young Phil was known for.

But Can The Joneses Keep Up With Us?

Listen to Bobby. Spark up a doobie the size of a hog’s dick and put on your headphones and lock the children in the root cellar and listen to Bobby: he’s on the left. Garcia’s over to the right, and he’s just a-choogling while he sings for most of the tune, but Bobby on the left is your Secret Hero. Stabbing and deedling and going MWOK all around under over and through the vocal line–the boy is counter-melodializing again, Pa!–and playing the riff and kinda playing the riff. That ain’t how we rhythm guitar in this house, Bobert. Go to your room and comb your hair.

But he plays the same solo every time, you say. I eat your face. Stop saying things because you’re bad at it. Yes, Bobby always played the same solo in Casey Jones. But so did fucking Garcia.

There were two great guitarists in the Grateful Dead.

(Video courtesy of Portland’s protector, Mr. Completely. Check out his YouTube page; there’s a bunch of nifty shit on there.)

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