Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: 1973 (Page 7 of 8)

Up To Buffalo

June 26, 2012 / / 0 Comments

3/31/73 at War Memorial Arena in Buffalo, NY.

Holy fuck, how broke were they that Buffalo in March was the remedy?

P.S. Except, HOLY SHIT Greatest Story is rampaging through Buffalo! The only thing more destructive was the shifting global economy.  Ha-cha-cha-cha. The weather might have been cold, but the band was HOT.

Okay, that’s your warning. That’s your warning right there.

What? What did I–

You know what you did. I know you know you know what you did. Acknowledge the warning.

I will not ack–

You will acknowledge the warning.

NO.

YOU WILL ACKNOWLEDGE THE–

GENTLEMEN, THAT’LL BE THE END OF THAT.

Sorry.

Sorry, boss.

Life is short: listen to ’73.

Kiss-ass.

P.P.S. I’ll come clean, I just picked this show to make the joke, but it’s really good. Someone–I’m not going to say who, but it was Bobby–remembered ALL of the words to Truckin’. Like a boss.

P.P.P.S. And then a China-less Rider? Just jammed straight into it? Dipping briefly into the beautiful descending 1973 chords that connected the two songs, harmonically, rhythmically, perfectly. BEST SHOW EVER

Dave’s Nix

June 21, 2012 / / 1 Comment

In honor of the new Dave’s Pick (chosen from a year that’s often overlooked and more often underrated), tonight we will be featuring some shows that, for one reason or another, will never be officially released:

  • The January ’78 double laryngitis shows, where Bobby loses his voice as well as Garcia, leaving the vocal duties up to Phil, Donna Jean, and dear sweet Christ, you get away from that microphone, Keith. The show consisted mostly of half-remembered Dylan covers, Jazz Odyssey, and ended with the drummers doing the My Little Buttercup routine to a smattering of sarcastic applause.
  • Any ’94 where you can musically hear Garcia coming out of a blackout to find himself halfway through Althea in front of 60,000 people. Again.
  • 6/13/66 (It’s a Friday, BOO. I just scared the SHIT out of you, yo.) They played at Miskatonic University. (SPOOOOOOOKY and Liiiiiiiterary.)
  • The Rabies Show. Billy just started fucking biting people and wouldn’t stop. I don’t want to talk about–HE’S COMING BACK FOR MORE!
  • The Radio City gig with the Rockettes. Acid and stiletto heels do not mix.
  • That other ’75 show where not only were Ned Lagin and Merl Saunders invited up, but also Rick Wakeman, Emerson, the guy from Deep Purple, Bernie Worrell (he came with Merl), Doctors John and Teeth, Elton John in the Donald Duck outfit, the blue elephant-muppet thing from Jabba’s Palace, and van Cliburn.
  • Any of my beloved, yet polarizing, horn shows. Scoff if you must, but love, she is blind. Or deaf. Or Lithuanian, whichever is worse.
  • And, last and most believable because it’s true: 5/8/77. Their most famous show, and they lost the tapes. Because it was the Grateful Dead thing to do.

Candyman

June 3, 2012 / / 7 Comments

You know the first of The Rules, don’t you? Life is short: listen to 1973. Now, you might substitute in 1977 or 1974 or certainly the hidden gem year of 1971. But you’d never throw in ’88, would you?

But then there’s this! (How am I treating this show like I discovered it? It’s fucking famous.) 6/28/85 at Hershey Park Stadium. Check it out, starting at the Brobdingnagian Music Never Stopped and it just gets better from there.

P.S. Except of course for Garcia losing his way through Terrapin, lyrically speaking. but aside from that, it gets better. For little gay kids and for a handful (at most) of weirdos listening to a specific musical performance given 18 billion years ago.

P.P.S. Holy shit, listen to Morning Dew and then realize that, had you been at this show, you would have been listening to this face-boiling Dew and not, like, 100 yards away is a rolly-coaster. God bless America and all her ships at sea.

P.P.P.S.  So, of course, after 6/28 ends, I throw on 6/30 and there are some audacious moments: the Shakedown is outstanding, parts of the Stella are great, but my overall opinion is not swayed–Life is short: listen to ’73.

Just Like Frankenstein

May 22, 2012 / / 1 Comment

Wanna laugh? Go listen to Ramble On Rose from the famous RFK show in 1973. Gentlemen, I know it’s impossible to always be playing the same song, but can we not at least play in the same key?

P.S. Wanna keep laughing? Keep playing the show until you get to Box of Rain, where you will learn that no one informed Phil’s larynx about the whole “perfect pitch” thing.

P.P.S And then, of course, keep listening to the way they take Stella Blue from train wreck to utter, tear-inducing revelation in less than two verses until, for the first time in the show, they’re in the groove and Garcia’s all, “I’m gonna fuck shit up now, fuck it up so very hard.” AND HE DOES. (The previous two sentences are to be known as Exhibit A in the case of Why Hasn’t UCSC Called Yet?

P.P.P.S Go listen to Billy on He’s Gone. Go back and listen to that man RIGHT NOW or we can’t be friends anymore. The only explanation for Billy’s prowess is that on days off, he secretly roamed the countryside cutting the heads off of other drummers and absorbing their skills through the Quickening.

I Will Not Condemn You

May 21, 2012 / / 2 Comments

There have been new visitors to the bloggings, mostly from the wonderful and masculine-smelling Reddit, which was exciting and sexual. Problem was, I think the last few postings on the bloggings have been kind of weird and insular and not really about the Dead as much as my wrestling with the Creeping Insanity and that fucker just having his way with me. No contest, just taking his sweet time.

Until I yearned for it.

That is the kind of shit we had the meeting about.

Right, right. Sorry. So: who is this for? If you fit any one of the following descriptions, you should dive into the archives.(Actually, physically dive into them. Running start right into the computer: I swear it will work. It is an app.)

  • You love the Weather Report Suite, yet realize the lyrics are so dumb they ought to be quarantined. Black dirt live again, my ass. (But here’s an awesome WRS from the Curtis Hixon Convention Center in Tampa on 12/18/73. This is one of my favorite names for a 70’s arena. I just wish it had merged with the nearby building in Pembroke Pines to become the Curtis Hixon Sportatorium, which is the most 70’s you can get in three words. You can almost picture the enormous tie knots and boxing still being relevant.
  • You’ve ever idly wondered whether, after building the Wall of Sound, they considered building a Wall of Sight. Or maybe a Wall of Taste. (Warning: do not taste the Wall of Taste.)
  • You like the parts that are in between the songs better than the songs.
  • Occasionally–not always, but certainly not never–Jack Straw gets on your last nerve.
  • You have forgiven Vince, but still choose not to listen to his dinky tinklings.
  • Your ongoing argument with yourself regarding The Greatest ___ Ever! has resorted to factionalism, dirty-fighting, and–since Billy is involved–crotchpunching.In my head, it feels as though each year has achieved sentience and is now throwing evidence around when I’m trying to do other things like eat or cry or eat while I’m crying. It’s like the Italian parliament up there, but with nary a spicy meatball.
  • You want Sugaree to be longer. No matter how long it is, you believe it could stand to gain another 8 minutes or so.
  • You’ll put up with Bobby’s cowboy bullshit, but not his first set turn as Silly Dixon.
  • You got here by googling “rule 34 grateful dead.” You are sick, though constantly recurring, blips on my analytics and I welcome you to a place where you’ll be accepted. (Warning: there will be NONE of that “slash” fan fiction stuff where you take other people’s characters and hump them together like they were your childhood toys. However, we may dip our toes into that shiver-inducing pond by figuring out the most horrifying match-up: my money’s on Phil/Billy, because in the whisper of time before Billy started punching dicks, it would be awkward.)
  • Now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Even if you don’t want to, your brain’s just going “Brent/Mickey? Hornsby/Phil?” Tell me what the worst of the terrible, terrible images your brain is rifling through right now against your will in the comments. Best one wins a lifetime supply of Beard! for men with beards. Have a beard? Use Beard!

Perhaps They’re Better Left Unsung

May 11, 2012 / / 2 Comments

It wasn’t like roulette, you see. The casinos have made fortunes since they installed those immaculately legible tote boards listing the numbers that have landed previously in red with big ol’ tempting empty spaces in between and they’ve been raking cash in because your dumb ass has evolved to think 15 is gonna hit because it’s due. It makes sense to believe that present events are based upon past observation: that’s why people instinctively shielded their crotches whenever Billy came around, for al the good it would do them. Billy was like Gretzky: he could always find your five-hole.

But just as it is a logical fallacy to think that the rules of real life apply in the casino, it is also a mistake to think that Hoyle has any say over the world. (It’s called the Ludic fallacy, which I know because it is one of those facts that gets lodged in my brain instead of, say, how to find love.)  So, why do we forget that about the Dead? Why do we lionize certain shows only to ignore the rest of the week? These men were, appearances to the contrary, human. They had good runs. But the forest is invisible but for the trees, especially when some trees are, y’know, Barton Hall or Red Rocks. They suck up all the light.

Talking about the Dead is to talk about overshadowing. Garcia overshadowed the rest of the band, Mickey’s overkill overshadowed Billy’s light touch, ’77 and ’73 overshadowed all the other years, and Vince’s playing overshadowed the charitable work he did as a participant in the saddest Make-A-Wish event ever. Even Vince knew enough to be embarrassed.

We let ourselves think the greatness appeared as weird happening, crepuscular beams from a murky sea. Not so. 5/19/74 is rightfully well-regarded, especially the raging Truckin’>Mind Left Body jam. but listen to the very next show, 5/21/74 at UCLA the University of Washington* where they proceed to pull out a GODDAM 45 MINUTE PLAYIN’. Give the kids some Robotussin, shoot the dog and LISTEN to this thing, to the peaks and valleys that spring like Zeus out of inchoate spaciness one after another. (And, since it’s a GREAT matrix mix, listen to the appreciative audience cheer every twist and turn. Listen to ’em ROAR for Donna in Playin’. hell, listen to Donna!

Yeah, 2/14/70 is historic, but 2/11 is better. Yes, 1977 was THE year, but y’know: ’78 kicks more ass than an avowed lover of kicking ass who had spent his last dime to enter an ass-kicking contest in an attempt to win enough money to open his own business, a high-end Ass-Kickery.

 

*Thanks to a comment by an Esteemed Enthusiast, the location of the 5/21 show has been amended to note the actual location. For his Sherlockian abilities, he will receive a lifetime supply of Bobby Weir’s Shorts Shorteners. Shorts too long? Shorten ’em with Shorts Shortener!

Horn Of Plenty

March 26, 2012 / / 1 Comment

So, that’s what Eyes of the World has been missing: noodly jazz horns. I’ve always felt that the song most prone to endless jamming would be improved by adding two more guys playing.

Apparently, the Dead took a horn section out with them in Fall of ’73 for ten shows or so. They did this because the Wall of Sound wasn’t finished yet, so the drugs said they had to spend money on something else absurd. Except it wasn’t absurd: the horns were great. Listen to the Weather Report Suite from the same show: after the lyrics end, they all–all SEVEN of them–split instantly in different musical directions, like kids scattering after the baseball breaks a window, but it holds together, still (Thanks, Billy!) and turns into the jazz that the Dead used to lie to themselves about being able to play. Hell, forget about what the actual horn players are doing, and just listen to the rest of the guys, who seem to be more excited than a dog in one of those Soldier Returns Home videos.

So there you go: September 15th, 1973. That’s your Rick’s Pick volume 1: a weird show of a forgotten tour featuring an experiment that all involved say didn’t work out. How am I not employed by this band?

PS: If you want actual information and, you know, facts about these shows, check out this article from the AWESOME website Lost Live Dead.

PPS: This show also contains one of only a handful of performances of Let Me Sing Your Blues Away. After you hear it, you will be wondering, “Why a handful? How could they ever do this again?” LMSYBA (never thought you’d see that acronym, did you?) should have been treated like an accidentally-killed hobo: you bury him, you have a longish talk with yourself about going back to work for your father, and you never go back to Dallas again. You don’t do it the next weekend at the College of William & Mary.

PPPS: Actually, check out the Truckin’ from 9/17 from Onondaga in upstate NY. They’ve had some time to work on the new horn arrangement and they’re just blasting ass, just blasting ass all over the assy plains, man. It’s not a totally new song, though: Bobby still fucks up at least half of the lines.

Is Very Bad When Drumming Stop…

February 1, 2012 / / 1 Comment

Billy was the engine, even though he has never been seen in the same room as Brian Doyle-Murray. In between tours, Billy would yell and yell at those damn caddies to make something of themselves but they never listened. Billy had a Hawaiian shirt thing going on, and he spread it like a virus to successive keyboardists. Billy looks like he might have enjoyed starting fights. Billy is an Uncle: the ‘stache, the smirk.

But listen to ’73. No Mickey forcing everyone to sit there while he learns to play the kshdbviyus, the new percussion instrument he discovered in the village of extraordinarily foreign people, people so foreign that you secretly hate them because you sense they’re intentionally trying to be so foreign but whom Mickey will invariably refer to as “my brothers in drums.” Mickey was always saying shit like that when he wasn’t flying into rages and tackling business associates in restaurants. Mickey sounded like a lot of fun.

Now, when the two of them were on, they were unbelievable–this churning graceful giant. But, listen to 1973 when it’s just Billy out there. That motherfucker earns his mustache night in and night out.

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