Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Bobby spent the entirety of the Europe ’72 tour looking like he was gonna ask you to help him put a couch in his van.
OR
In 1972, European buildings were either 1,000 years old, or 25 years old. Nothing in between.
OR
Sam Cutler and Don Quixote have the same shape skulls.
Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?
“Ah’m boogyin’, sugar. Most nobody don’ know what kinda moves Ah got.”
You mostly just swayed gently onstage.
“Ah was under strict instructions! Miz Donna Jean, we ain’t that kinda band. That’s what e’rybody would tell me. Otherwise, Ah woulda done a li’l hotsteppin’.”
I had no idea.
“Dancin’ Queen Donna Jean. That was mah nickname growin’ up in Alabama. Ah once had the honor of performin’ the tango with Governor Wallace.”
What was that like?
“He kept jammin’ his pecker into mah stomach.”
Sounds right.
OR
I see you back there, Ramrod.
OR
Full.
Fucking.
Muppet.
After Crazy Fingers, which Garcia sang correctly precisely three times, the most-pooched tune in the Big Man’s repertoire was Franklin’s; no other song can compete, and it is only the hilariously predictable mumblings and fumblings of CF that keep it from that number one slot. The magic of Franklin’s is that Garcia would lose his grip on both lines and verses. It was an As Above, So Below situation, lyrically speaking.
Maybe the part about the four winds comes first, and maybe the Let the music play line does. Which verse comes when? Who knows? Certainly not Garcia. He would sing ’em as they came to him, and not argue about petty bullshit. The man was too busy trying desperately to get through a couplet without stumbling and bumbling.
Sometimes–and the 80’s versions of the ditty feature this more than those of the ’70’s–Garcia’ll whack his head on the first word of a verse and never recover. I find that fun.
ANYWAY, 11/22/72 from the Austin Municipal Auditorium is from 1972, and therefore has no Franklin’s, but you should listen regardless. Brokedown and a Casey Jones, braj. Motherfuckers wanna play like they’re too good for Casey Jones, like they’re above Casey Jones, but fuck those motherfuckers.
Hey, Pig.
“You know…if the ol’ Pig was as pretty as that boy right there, there’d be no safe distance! That face and my rap? My behavior would scandalize th’ gentry! Chamber o’ Commerce’d have to do somethin’! Maybe put out an official statement, I dunno.”
You’re a handsome man, Pig.
“Pull th’ other one! It plays Jingle Bells!”
Stop that.
“The ol’ Pig knows what he’s workin’ with! My daddy used t’ say: Piglet, y’ got a face like Mussolini takin’ a shit! And he was right! Coulda said it a little nicer, but right!”
Piglet?
“I was little when he said that t’ me!”
Well, he was wrong. I think you’re beautiful, buddy.
“Hold up there now, Yojimbo! The ol’ Pig might live in San Francisco, but not that part o’ San Francisco!”
Oh, knock it off. Take a compliment.
“You’re right. I’m workin’ on that very ability! Should be good at it by, oh, ’bout 1980 or so.”
You just need a little more time.
“Thass all any of us needs! Pretty soon, we all gonna be as good as we can get ourselves!”
You said it.
Hey, Pig. Whatcha doing?
“Freezin’! Got t’ get back t’ California where the ol’ Pig c’n roast in the sunshine! You c’n put an apple in my mouth f’r all I care! Jus’ gimme some more fahrenheits, man.”
Is this Europe?
“Looks it.”
What did you think of Europe?
“Ain’t for me! Everything’s all wrong here. Can’t find a Mr. Pibb to save my life!”
I don’t think they had Mr. Pibb in Europe in 1972.
“Or ribs! The ol’ Pig had hisself a hankering for a rack o’ babybacks, but no can do. Didn’t matter which country we was in, I’d ask and the waiter’d look at me funny! Sometimes, they’d say somethin’ in European. Now, the ol’ Pig only speaks American like a good Christian, but I got the gist! These garcons was not being complimentary!”
Barbecue is kind of an American thing, Pig.
“Then fry a man up a chicken! Gimme somethin’ I can eat! Suckers kept tryin’ t’ get me t’ order organ meat. Whole continent o’ people thinkin’ a pancreas is lunch! No wonder they lost the Big One! Wasn’t fed right!”
You got a point.
“I could have all the points in th’ world. Still won’t get me a decent cheeseburger over here.”
True.
“Hey, Jer?”
“Yeah, Weir?”
“What if cars drove us?”
“I’m not having this conversation, man. Just play your guitar.”
“Or is my guitar playing me?”
“You’re playing it. You can’t just flip the subject and the object of a sentence around like that unless you’re Yakov Smirnoff, man.”
“In Grateful Dead, guitar plays you.”
“Yeah, right. And that makes no sense.”
“What if the guitar took lessons as a kid?”
“Just play the song.”
“Jer?”
“What, man?”
“I bet the first bullfight was accidental.”
…
“Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”
Happy birthday, Pig.
“Day came around again, dinnit?”
It did. How you celebrating?
“Oh, you know the ol’ Pig. Same as always. Got me a negress that likes to tussle. Couple packs of smokes. Gallon of wine spo-dee-o-do.”
What the hell does that mean?
“Ain’t got the foggiest! Heard a black guy say it an’ thought it sounded cool! Course, that’s the explanation f’r most of what I say.”
True.
“The ol’ Pig don’t tell no lies!”
Also true. What was your best birthday?
“Well, one year when I was just a l’il Piglet, my folks came through with a brand new bicycle. Bright red like Superman’s cape an’ called a Huffy Daytona. Had a headlight on the front fender and get this: the bike powered the light. L’il doohickey goes up against the wheel and that spins around like a dynamo. Make your own juice!”
That’s a good birthday.
“Wasn’t th’ best, though. ’67. That one was th’ best of all.”
What was so special about 1967?
“Only year we ever had a show that day. Better th’n a cake!”
Yes, it is. Happy birthday, Pig.
“Awful nice o’ ya, but the ol’ Pig got some candles t’ blow out, if y’know what I mean.”
I do.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Why is the pile of speakers on the left leaning?
“Gravity is both a bitch and a bastard.”
Well put.
“Yup.”
(This is 10/21/72 on the Alumni Lawn at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, and there’s only a partial recording, but you can read all about the day–and its proper context–over at every Enthusiast’s favorite site, Lost Live Dead.)
This is Wattstax. You’ve never heard of it. Watts? Sure. It’s in Los Angeles, and there’s a tower and black people there. Stax should also be familiar to you: it was the record label in Memphis that wasn’t Sun–the studios were in different parts of town, if you get me–that launched Otis Redding and Booker T. and the MG’s and Sam & Dave and Carla Thomas and the Bar-Kays and Wilson Pickett and a bunch of other acts. Stax was sort of the Southern Motown, except–unlike Motown–Stax never really had the money to send their stars out on tour. Very first one they ever did was in 1966, and it started in Watts. LA riots started the next day.
So in 1973, Stax went back to Los Angeles to commemorate the 7th anniversary of the riots. (Not Watts, though: the Coliseum is in Exposition Park about six miles north.) The plans started small. Set up a dinky stage in a park, do the funky chicken and/or penguin, hire a recording truck to pump out a cheapie soundtrack album, call it a day. And then a guy named Al Bell, who worked for Stax at the time, asked a good question.
“Why don’t we get to have a Woodstock?”
(This is not to say that there were no African-Americans at the big honking historical festivals of the Rock and Roll Era. Sly and Jimi played Woodstock, and Veronica accompanied Pigpen to the event. At least one black guy attended Altamont. But, on the whole, the festivals were white boy music for white boys and girls of a certain socioeconomic background. Most of the events were in the middle of nowhere, which required a car and also most black people do not like going to the middle of nowhere. The capital of white bullshit is the middle of nowhere.)
So the concert was upgraded from the park to the Coliseum, but ticket prices were kept ridiculously low–one dollar got you in the door–and 112,000 kids showed up. They made a movie and they made a record and everyone just forgot about it.
I wonder why?
ASSORTED AND RANDOM THOUGHTS ON WATTSTAX
Go and watch the movie. Or don’t and be a racist. Those are your only two options.
“We’re back on the Radio Randy Show, and it seems that both I and Radio Rhonda are decohering. Bobby, do you know anything about this?”
“Huh. Little bit. Are, uh, you two in the Grateful Dead?”
“No.”
“Well, there’s your problem. The Time Sheath kinda…how do I put this…plays favorites.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just because a door’s unlocked doesn’t mean you should walk through it.”
“That made even less sense, Bob.”
“Shouldn’t have come back to ’72, Randy. Or, at least, you shouldn’t have stayed this long. You two are like a black guy in a Mississippi town after sunset.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It should. You, uh, wanna talk some more about Dead & Company?”
“No. I want to stop becoming transparent.”
“Very popular nowadays. Mom turns into dad, dad turns into mom. It’s all the rage.”
“Not ‘trans parent,’ Bob. Transparent. See-through.”
“Ah. Have you tried bee pollen? I swear by the stuff.”
“Will that work?”
“No, but the smell is heavenly. How about we take a caller?”
“That’s my job.”
“Caller, you’re on the air with Bobby and Radios Randy and Rhonda for like five more minutes.”
“Bobby? Is John there? I need help.”
“I know that pleasant, yet limited, voice.”
“Bobby, it’s Katy Perry. I’m in terrible trouble.”
“What is it?”
“I need to make a boom-boom.”
“Ah.”
“I did not plan this outfit with all eventualities in mind. It’s really just good for being photographed in.”
“Doesn’t look too comfy.”
“The wings weigh 300 pound apiece. I needed to have a backup spine installed.”
“You can do that?”
“Doctor Gary can.”
“Oh, how’s he doing? Been a while since he made an appearance.”
“He’s very busy.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s the new White House physician.”
“Pretty sure we all saw that coming. So, uh, Katy: I can’t help you. I’m in a locker room in 1972.”
“Dammit.”
“Why don’t you call Josh? He’ll help you. He loves buttholes.”
“Not invited to the Met Gala. In fact, Anna Wintour told me specifically that he couldn’t come.”
“Those two got bad blood?”
“He jerked off on Andre Leon Talley.”
“Huh. Well, I dunno what to tell you.”
“Maybe I can get the poop to go straight into my giant boot.”
“I say that to myself once, maybe twice a day.”
“Should I tell Rhianna you say hi?”
“No.”
“Okee-doke!”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
“Radio Randy?”
…
“Rhonda?”
…
“This bit’s over, I guess.”
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