Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: 1988 (Page 1 of 2)

Every Silver Jerry’s Got A Coat Of Grey

November 16, 2019 / / 3 Comments

Pre–

“Yo.”

–carious Lee? Oh, hey. I have more questions about this.

“Figures. Shoot.”

What the fuck, man?

“The speakers?”

Obviously. Among other things, but obviously the speakers and their configuration is our primary focus. Are they being held up by the power of suggestion?

“Among other things.”

Like rope?

“Could be. I personally don’t recall tying anything down, but someone definitely could have.”

Wow. My further line of inquiry concerns the overall jankiness.

“Lotta jank with the Dead, yeah.”

This picture has been placed at Silver Stadium in Rochester, New York, and dated to 6/30/88.

“If you say so.”

This was a show at Silver Stadium in June of 1986:

“Okay.”

Professionalism could be achieved in 1986. It wasn’t ’72 anymore.

“And yet the kids came.”

Every other band was right to work their crews like dogs.

“Good thing I don’t work for one of them. We ran into those guys a couple times.”

Who?

“Those Van Halen jagoffs. Mike’s okay, but the brothers like getting drunk and biting people. They’re vicious little fuckers. And Bobby’s terrified of David Lee Roth.”

Why?

“Instinct. For most of the people he meets, David Lee Roth inspires a fight-or-flight response.”

I can see that. Precarious, could you look at one last photo, please?

“Do it to it, chief.”

This is, once again, the Grateful Dead at Silver Stadium in Rochester, New York, on the 30th of June, 1988.

“Need a little zoom-and-enhance on that one.”

No, I like the long view that shows just how bush a league could be. That, sir, is the limit of bush. No league can contain more bush than that. That picture represents the exterior of infinity.

“What you need to remember about our audience–”

Don’t use the drug excuse.

“–is that they were on drugs. It’s true. Most of ’em spent the show staring at a stranger’s neck.”

Stop it. A couple of tie-dye banners. Some curtains to hide the exposed machinery. A proscenium. Something. Anything. You could have done anything and it would have been an improvement, as this is the bare minimum. You stacked heavy shit up, plugged it in, and cracked a beer.

“We were drinking beer while stacking shit up and plugging it in.”

I expect more out of the Grateful Dead’s road crew.

“Why?”

Lee’s Tower

November 13, 2019 / / 8 Comments

…

“Yo.”

I didn’t call for you, Precarious.

“You were gonna.”

Yeah. I was just stunned into silence. Dude, what the fuck?

“Be more specific.”

I cannot. The lack of aesthetics and basic safety requirements is all-pervasive. The stage looks like a Radio Shack, but not a good one; the Radio Shack in the bad mall, where the knife fights break out every so often. The bad mall wasn’t always the bad mall, but the economy and demographics and all that. Used to be a place that sold fancy popcorn. Flavored, seasoned, nice packaging. Now there’s nine stores that sell baseball caps. Time will do her marching, Precarious.

…

“You got a question?”

I asked it: What the fuck?

“Their choice of apparel and instrument is on them.”

Granted. Do you remember why Garcia was wearing his going-to-court jacket on stage?

“I do not.”

Did the road crew make fun of Bobby’s pink guitar?

“Obviously.”

Was there any thought whatsoever given towards purchasing a tie-dyed scrim to hide some of the more unattractive geegaws and wedged monitors?

“Obviously not.”

Why not?

“This way is easiest for us.”

A performance stage shouldn’t be set according to the laziness of the road crew.

“Not lazy. Efficient.”

What about the tower of speakers behind band?

“Yeah, maybe that was a little lazy. We probably should have set up the rigging.”

Wooden palettes and a forklift, right?

“How else would you do that?”

Holy shit, those cabinets at the top aren’t even strapped down, are they?

“I don’t recall anyone dying, so we must have done it right.”

That’s not how that works.

Bob Weir and His Daughters Talk About His Iconic Grateful Dead Looks

May 31, 2019 / / 4 Comments

TotD: Okay, this is somewhere in the late ’80’s. What do we think, girls?

Monet: This was before we were born. I feel like I would have put a stop to it. Tried to, at least.

Chloe: Are those Bobby Shorts?

Monet: I don’t think so. I think Bobby Shorts are strictly jean shorts.

Chloe: So what are those?

Monet: They’re just shorts.

Bobby: Now, uh, what you gals aren’t realizing is the amount of storage space those babies had. I could carry a dozen peoples’ stashes in ’em. A solid short. Obviated the need for a fanny pack.

TotD: Obviated?

Bobby: Yuh-huh.

TotD: Chloe, these are Bobby Shorts:

Chloe: Dad.

Monet: Dad.

Chloe: Dad.

Monet: Dad.

Chloe: Mom!

Monet: Moooooooom!

…

Natascha Monster: Oh, my God. Snake Tee-Shirt! He’s still around here someplace, isn’t he?

Bobby: I think he’s in the room where you wrap presents.

Natascha Monster: We don’t have one of those, hon. You’re thinking about the Spelling Mansion.

Bobby: You got a room just for wrapping presents, you live in some swanky digs. We live in a nice neighborhood, but that’s real high-end.

Monet: Dad, concentrate. This was before you married Mom, and way before we were born. So, like, we didn’t know this guy. Tell us about this guy. And help us understand his choices.

Bobby: So, uh, as you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s wife-beater, it’s pretty hot.

Chloe: Don’t say “wife-beater.” It’s a problematic term.

Bobby: Okee-doke. As you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s spouse-beater, it’s pretty hot. And I just wilt in the heat, man. Much prefer a temperate clime. And, uh, don’t gimme any of that “dry heat” horseshit. Humid heat is worse than dry heat, but any kind of hot is awful. That’s where the shorts came from.  Plus, you know: someone had to be the eye candy.

Monet: Daaaaaad.

Chloe: Ew. Did girls in the crowd ever, like, throw their underwear at you?

Bobby: Not that I recall. And that seems like something I would recall. And, uh, a lot of the women who came to our shows couldn’t throw their underwear cuz they weren’t wearing any.

Monet: The boots, Dad.

Chloe: Dad, the boots.

Bobby: You see the circumferential bulges? Those boots were an experimental temperature-regulation system called Podiatherm. They wick sweat away from your feet, distill the water from the sweat, then cool and circulate the water. They were based on the stillsuits from Dune. But, uh, just for your feet.

Monet: Did they work?

Bobby: Very well, very briefly. Then they heated up to an alarming degree. Which you’ll recognize as irony. Precarious had to cut me out of ’em right onstage. As you’d imagine, none of your uncles shut up about it for months.

Nixon: Dammit, boy, who taught you to dress yourself?

Nixon: This is how you wear shorts. Genie-style! Never let your enemies see your bellybutton. That’s not an option for men like us.

Chloe: Dad, where did Nixon come from?

Monet: WHAT THE FUCK?

Nixon: Silence your daughters, Bob. Join me in Puerto Rico. You don’t even have to change your money. They take the dollar here. By God, they take the dollar here. Other islands, tropical locales, they’ve gone straight Red. Terrible situation. But the, uh, Puerto Rican is by nature family-oriented. Familia is their word for family, I’m reliably informed.

Bobby: Girls–

Chloe: AHHHHHHHHH!

Monet: Where’s the gun!?

Bobby: –are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?

Possible Explanations For Whatever Phil Is Doing, Part Two

May 12, 2016 / / 6 Comments

phil 88 gloves

  • Trying out being a germaphobe, but not really committing.
  • The night before, Phil drunkenly got “LESH” and “HATE” tattooed on his knuckles.
  • They are sex gloves.
  • That afternoon, Phil’s hands converted to Islam, and also transitioned into women; they’re not gloves, they’re hand-burkas.
  • Picture taken on Halloween, and Phil’s costume was “Phil With Gloves.”
  • Something about harnessing ley lines.
  • Chilly, but only his palms; Phil tried regular gloves, but his fingertips were sweltering.
  • Somehow mime-related?
  • Right after the show, Phil is doing a very thorough inspection of the barracks
  • Sweatband got lonely.
  • After years of trying, Brent got Phil to attend a furry orgy with him; Phil wouldn’t put on the full costume, but he wore the gloves (and a tail we cannot see in this photo; trust me, it’s there) and got some tongue from a woman in an anteater outfit.

Stand, In The Place Where Phil Works

April 24, 2016 / / 8 Comments

Phil Lesh of the Grateful Dead Concert at Brendan Bryne Arena 1 April 1988

Every once in a while, Phil would challenge the rest of the Grateful Deads to a Standing Broad Jump contest; Phil had skinny legs, but he pumped his arms very well, and could get air.

Also: those are the biggest glasses in the entire world. There’s more glass in the pyramid outside the Louvre, but just.

Also also: TotD is shocked to see the guitar-holder-stand-thing behind Phil. I would have figured on an elaborate, hand-made stand from Alembic that cost two grand.

Soundtrack

November 14, 2015 / / 11 Comments

So, before we got sidetracked–

Don’t say “we” like the nice people are complicit in your nonsense. They didn’t make you eat, like, a pound of xanthic gum and curds. And then they most certainly did not make you broadcast the state of your digestive system to folks who were already having–and you’ll pardon the pun–a shitty day. On this day of all fucking days, either endeavor to inject a little light and kindness and silliness into this world or shut the fuck up.

…

Then I shouldn’t describe the look on the face of the lady at Target who rang up my rye bread, grape jelly, and 55-gallon econo-drum of laxative?

I would imagine there would be a range of emotions on her face.

So many.

You were saying?

Spencer from the Comment Section, who is always nice enough to listen to my movie recommendations despite them all being pretty much the same movie, asked for a good show to go along with One-Armed Boxer, which is in the same series as Master of the Flying Guillotine, and stars all the same people and I think reuses a couple sets and costumes.

Shaw Brothers weren’t made out of money.

Here’s the best part: if you’re not a college football fan and you can’t bear the news, then you can multi-task with Boxer and a Dead show. First off, it is subtitled instead of cheesily dubbed; second, like most Kung-fu movies, it is not overburdened with plot; what is there is easy to discern from who is kicking whom in the face. Also: the good guys are attractive and Chinese and the bad guys are ugly and foreign.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3g4Su0sY5nw

Match it up with 3/24/88 from the Omni in Atlanta, site of so many triumphant Dead performances. The second set is one seamless piece of music, winding and wending from Mississippi Half-Step to Lovelight with a massive ’78-style Garcia Shred Space and what might be the BEST EVAR Miracle.

A STRONG CAVEAT!

Do not mute the movie and begin your Omni show until after the opening credits. I mentioned that the score to Master of the Flying Guillotine was from a Krautrock band (named NEU!) and it works perfectly: weird and clattering drums and fuzz guitars that couldn’t be further from Confucianism than any other sound. Now, did NEU! even know they had scored a Kung fu film? There it gets tricky.

The Chinese have always had the same relationship with Western copyright laws as British tourists do with tipping: they’re fully aware of it, but pretend not to be for financial reasons. Plus, this was 1971 and the world was a lot bigger: foreign cultures were a lot more foreign and I’ll bet the guy in charge of finding music for One-Armed Boxer was as clueless about America as the guy picking out the rock songs for Easy Rider was about China.

All this is to say that the score to One-Armed Boxer is the score to Shaft. Not a rip-off or something reminiscent of Shaft. They just stole it and put it on their movie and it is fucking HILARIOUS.

Box Of Rainforest #4

April 29, 2015 / / 0 Comments

jerry michelle shockedFor the completist, masochist, or wheezing fetishist, the show the Boys (the ones that could be bothered to show up for the press conference) were promoting with the United Nations was 9/24/88 at MSG.

It is not recommended that you listen to that show, honestly. The West LA Fadeaway with Mick Taylor from the Stones is good, but a few songs later, Garcia painfully whiffs the “Take me to the leader of the band” line in Ramble On, Rose and the entire band takes it like a gut punch and the rest of the night is mostly shitty.

In his (and everyone else’s) defense, this was the ninth show in eleven nights, which is a bit much. This was ’88: Garcia was probably still getting medical bills from his coma.

Pictured is Suzanne Vega, who sat in with the band for two songs, and whom Garcia porked. (He was clean at the time. When Garcia was clean, he porked like a rock star.)

Box Of Rainforest #3

April 29, 2015 / / 0 Comments

jerry bobby mickey un2

“…and it was getting in my eyes all the time. So, I said: what about a ponytail?”

“That’s what he said. He said it to all of us, y’know: numerous times.”

“But, now: how does one go about such a thing? I quickly hired a ponytail guru–”

“He got thrown out of the food court for bothering tween girls.”

“–and planned my strategy. Scrunchie? Was there a manly enough scrunchie, or would my natural manliness push the already-manly scrunchie into a parodic, macho sort of manliness that I like to stay away from?”

“Bobby thinks about his hair a lot.”

“I do, Jer.”

“Anything to add, Mickey?”

“Happy to be here.”

“Great.”

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