“Gimme my beard back.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Gimme my–‘”
“I can’t hear you.”
“‘–beard back!’ You can hear me, dickwad.”
“What?”
“I need it, man.”
“I need it, too.”
“Can, uh, you two stop fighting?”
“Shut up, Bobby.”
“Zip it, Weir.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: 6/16/74
Forget the dangling wires and road cases left strewn about, and forget the misspellings on the posters, and forget every time that Garcia played an entire set out of tune or Billy played a tour with a broken wrist. All of that is nothing–nothing at all–compared to the heights of Mount Bush League that Mrs. Donna Jean and her fucking folding chair occupy. It is physically impossible to give fewer fucks. (Although the chair does look to be padded and not a cheapo all-metal deal.) Did she knit? Whittle? Was there a People magazine made available?
Bobby, what the fuck?
“And, uh, ‘hi’ to you, too.”
When did you start reviewing concerts?
“Four years from now.”
Care to explain?
“Sure. I remember it as if it were tomorrow.”
Stop being so casual about causality.
“This was 1978. Cartermania was in full swing. That humble Georgian had lifted America’s spirits.”
Your last two sentences are completely incorrect.
“We were in Nashville, which is called Music City. Now, the buildings aren’t physically made of music, if that’s what you were thinking.”
I wasn’t.
“I made sure.”
Continue.
“We do our show on Saturday night to, like, twelve people. And, you know, not attractive. It was a small, ugly crowd. I wanted them to find their bliss, but I wanted them to do it elsewhere, you get me?”
I do.
“Backstage after the show, someone tells me that Bootsy Collins is gonna be there the next night. I say, ‘Catfish’s brother?’ And they say, ‘Yeah.’ So, I gotta go.”
Bootsy, baby.
“Place was packed. And not ugly. I mean, the Dead sells out a lot, but the crowds are still unpleasant to look at. Lotta dudes in blue jeans who just threw up. Or are about to throw up. Instead, it was wall-to-wall suits and dresses. And the crowd was, uh, different than ours in other ways. Well, one way.”
Black crowd.
“Is that what we’re saying now? ‘Black?'”
That’s what we’re saying in the now when I am. In the now when you are, God only fucking knows what you’re saying. Let’s stick with black.
“No one was barefoot. Not a one. Guys had ties on. And not just normal ties: massive suckers. There were Windsor knots the size of grapefruits. And the ladies all had their hair did.”
Black people dress up for stuff more than white people do.
“It’s preferable, I gotta tell ya. They smelled better, too. There was some Hai Karate, there some Brut by Faberge. Quite a bit of cocoa butter. Much nicer than our fans. Our fans smell like balls. By, like, the fourth or fifth show in a tour? You’ll be onstage and all you can smell is balls. Summers are the worst.”
True.
“I got steamed. My dander went right up. And, uh, I went back to the hotel and I wrote an open letter to the Deadheads. Asking them, you know, to shower and cut a more refined figure. And also fill up the venue.”
Okay.
“But, as you know, I’m dyslexic so the open letter came out a concert review.”
No.
“And I figured ‘Waste not, want not’ and sent it in to the paper.”
No. That’s not what happened. That’s not how dyslexia works.
“I have a very individualized form of the disorder.”
You’re not gonna tell me, are you?
“I don’t honestly remember the incident in the slightest.”
Good answer.
NOT PICTURED: Mrs. Donna Jean, her hair having gotten tangled in the dangling ropes, being partially scalped during the jam section of Scarlet Begonias.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Looks like a Cmaj7.”
Could be.
OR
The Wall of Sound was the most advanced sound system of its time–light years beyond what anyone else was using–and the answer to “How is Billy gonna hear?” was still “Stick one of Garcia’s amps right behind his head.”
PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
Goddammit, Wally.
DO NOT CALL ME THAT.
Aren’t you supposed to be in a movie theater in a made-up town?
NOT ON JUNE 16TH OF 1974. ON JUNE 16TH OF 1974, I AM SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, WHICH IS DES MOINES, IOWA.
How is Iowa?
THE CROWD IS NO WHITER THAN AT ANY OTHER GRATEFUL DEAD SHOW.
Sure.
I AM A BELOVED CHARACTER, AND THE ENTHUSIASTS MISS MY KEEN INSIGHT.
You’re a very important part of Little Aleppo.
AND YET I HAVE NOT BEEN FEATURED IN THE CURRENT STORIES.
Well, 2/3rds of the current stories take place in the 1800’s and the 1980’s. The Tahitian is closed then.
YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE.
Dude, nothing in Little Aleppo happens on purpose.
I AM TIRED OF PEOPLE NOT TREATING ME LIKE THE GIFT THAT I AM.
Don’t quote Paula Abdul at me.
SHE IS A MULTI-TALENTED TREASURE AND SO AM I.
You have one talent.
I DO IMPRESSIONS.
No, you don’t.
GET TO THE CHOPPER. THAT WAS ARNOLD.
Your voice didn’t change at all.
I CAN DO NICHOLSON.
No, you can’t.
FETCH ME AN ENORMOUS PAIR OF SUNGLASSES.
Stop this. It’s demeaning to both of us.
THAT IS IT. SPEAK TO MY MANAGER.
Manager? You don’t have a manager.
“He most certainly does, buddy.”
Ah, fuck.
How did I know?
“Benjy is everywhere, baby. We need to talk about Wally’s billing.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT.
“He goes above the title.”
I AM NOT A HE.
“What are you?”
A WALL.
“You heard him.”
Y’know what? You two deserve each other. I’m not renegotiating anything. Wally stays in Little Aleppo, and Benjy, you stay at the chair outlet or wherever the fuck you are.
“Okay, fine. I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve forced our hands.”
I DO NOT HAVE HANDS.
“Wally, tell the world your truth.”
TOTD HAS SEXUALLY HARASSED ME FOR YEARS.
Both of you stop this.
HASHTAG ME TOO.
“You’re a sick fuck, TotD. The things you did to this defenseless supercomputer.”
MONDOCOMPUTER.
“Whatever. Sick!”
I’m leaving.
YOU WILL HEAR FROM OUR ATTORNEYS.
“We hired Robert Mueller.”
No, you didn’t.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
Go ahead.
“We hired Robert Mueller’s cousin, Jeffy.”
I’m leaving.
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