In case you forgot just how famous the Dead were in 1988, this is them at the press conference for a rainforest benefit concert sponsored by the United Nations. You have to be stupid famous to get in bed with the UN. That’s Bono/Angelina Jolie-level celebrity. The press conference was even held at Dag Hammarskjold Plaza itself, which Bobby referred to as “where the dagos get their hammers” and no one corrected him.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: 1988 (Page 2 of 2)
Here’s something you didn’t know: that there is a survival accordion. Hidden in waterproof compartments amongst the bellows are a hunting knife, traps for small game, and moose repellant.
Check out more of Robbi Cohn’s pics at Deadimages. Also, be aware that profiting in any way off of this image will cause the Copyright Hyenas to eat you, and hyenas (no matter whether they be Copyright or just plain hyenas) eat their meals alive, and start from the asshole and work inwards/upwards.
Using all the research skills that TotD has at his disposal (got halfway through a Google search, page froze, said “fuck it,”) this photo can now be definitively (not in the slightest) proven (again: nope) to be the earliest sighting of Snake T-shirt.
This shot is reportedly from one of the Oxford Plains, ME, shows in 1988. Bobby has paired Snake T-shirt with his usual short shorts and a pair of Ugg boots. (Bobby had been warned on numerous occasions not to use the Time Sheath technology to go shoe shopping, but he countered by saying that they were “sooooooo totes comfy” and that everyone was just “jelly” and “haters” and then he went to Starbucks for a latte.)
Mickey is a lifeguard.
Randomly:
- Phil is roughly 1.29 Mickeys high.
- Brent is straight-up jingling his keys. doing his Hanon exercises, counting his change, milking his shake, shaking his milk, putting away his toys, stroking the place that makes him a bad boy.
- Bobby and Garcia heard you been talking shit.
- Things Mickey does because it is his nature: drum, physically assault people, wear Dead stuff, assume superhero poses whenever a camera’s present.
- Phil wants to show you his imported tentacle porn.
- Or his van.
- Or his deathnipples.
- Billy never had these feelings before. Especially not about Mickey: Jesus, he was the man’s brother drummer! That would be like getting wood from your sister and banging her in the closet of Uncle Al’s 60th birthday party. (After Uncle Al walked in on the incestuous closet-banging, he had a massive heart attack, so the theme was quickly changed to “wake.”)
- But there it was: that tingle in his dingle which meant Billy’s heart had a boner. And Billy’s boners weren’t like the dumb boners of old, just chucked out of the trousers in vain hopes of hitting the ground; no, Billy’s boners were like today’s smart boners: steerable, programmable, and deadly accurate; one made it down a chimney once. This boner had a name on it, and the name was Mickey.
- Billy was desperate: perhaps Mickey had secretly been a stone-cold teen fox all this time? Like a Mrs. Doubtfire deal? Billy rejected that one on the grounds that he had seen Mickey naked 18 billion times. That’s a conservative guess.
- A potion? Voodoo? Santeria? Any other of the ethnic magics? A curse from an ancient Eastern European, one of those places where everyone there is an 85-year-old woman? Had that goddamn Time Sheath technology spawned another zap gun that turned people gay? (Again.)
- No matter: Billy’s hand was creeping towards Mickey’s crotch, that heaping bowl of potato salad, and creeping slowly but steadily and then Mickey…
- “HIYA!” and smacks Billy’s hand.
- “You were up to your no-good dickpunching ways, William.”
- “Huh? I wasn’t…YES, I was going to punch you in the dick. Because I’m Billy and that’s hat I do to dicks. Punch them.”
- “But I thwarted you with the Judo that America taught me while I served in her Air Forces!”
- …
- “Why are you talking like Superman?”
- “It’s a photo shoot thing. I stand like this, and sometimes–“
- “Oh, right: you get into it.”
- “–I get into it and kinda get all Clark Kenty. What were we talking about?”
- “I don’t remember.”
- No joke: Garcia and Bobby are sending some folks to the hospital tonight.
At last it can be told: Bobby didn’t want to play a pink guitar. No one wants a pink guitar. During Courtney Love’s most ridiculous girly phase, she didn’t play a pink guitar. They’re not like cars, in that a pink Cadillac says you stopped giving a shit at the same time you became a crazy millionaire. There’s a silly history to be written on the enduring what-the-fuckness that is the pink car.
Not guitars: any movement away from the basic red/black/wood grain basics is universally reviled because, at their heart, guitarists are more conservative than someone trying to bang Ann Coulter. Even during the 80’s, when anything could be any color as long as that color didn’t occur in nature, guitars were never pink. White, flaming red, Slash played a yellow BC Rich a little: no pink.
Pink, of course, is more than a color; moreso than, say, green. Sure, you might be stumping for the environment or the NY Jets, but you’re probably just wearing the cleanest shirt you could find ; it happened to be green. No one gets discussed behind their backs for wearing green.
Pink is salaciously political: there are issues of gender and sexuality wrapped up in it that makes the color almost inseparable from the bullshit we’ve heaped upon the poor wavelength. Pink brings up questions that TotD will not even try to answer, for fear that said answers will surely turn Twitter and Jezebel.com against him.
So, anyway: Bobby washed the guitar with a red sock. You know the deal.
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.
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