Neither Bill Graham nor Sam Cutler had any clue what the hell the other guy was saying, right until the moment it was time to talk about the money and everything was suddenly crystal-clear.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: bill graham (Page 4 of 6)
“You, putzledorf, get over here, put that camera down: for once in your life, give some nachus instead of schpilkis.
“Bill Graham has a story to tell: During my naval service, I was stationed on the USS Hiawatha, which was an Oklahoma-class theater ship: a big room, a lounge, and a small bar for jams late at night and other funky stuff, when people started feeling loose and getting groovy with each other. I once booked Lola Falana in there: it did not go well. Did much better with the Andrews Brothers, who were the Andrews Sisters’ cousins. They had a dog act.
“Anyway, this was in Korea during the whatnot with the boomboom and the Commies; the troops were screaming for entertainment. Also screaming for other reasons. The brass decided to turn the Hiawatha into a floating USO dance, with shows and bands and mishegos: they would bring the entertainment to the troops, rather than bring the troops to the entertainment. “Get out there and show ’em what they’re fighting for,” was the mandate.
“Bill Graham rose from ensign to stage manager to commander to producer. We had our own chain of command on the Hiawatha, which was originally a coal scupper named the Pittsburgh Sunset, but you hear that and you wanna slice your throat, nu?
“So, the original XO was a junkie sax player from Oxford, Mississippi, named Captain Fatback–cat could wail–and when he wanted to sneak off and get high, he would say, “I’m gonna go see my friend Hiawatha,” and the rest of us would make sure the boat didn’t sink and, you know: play craps, get laid, smoke a stick of grass, whatever.
“But, anyway: we called it the Hiawatha.
“So, we have the big room which the fire marshal–that hockin mein chinik–says holds 500: Bill Graham gets eight in there, easy. One time had a group, some little pishers, they ask, “Bill Graham, how many people are here? They’re packed in like sardines out there.” So I say, “You’re right: this place is full. Sign on the wall says that when there’s 500 people in here, it’s full. So: there’s 500 people in here.” Little goyische punims think they’re clever. Next week, there’s a different band, but Bill Graham’s name is still on the marquee!
“Then the lounge, which we called Bill Graham’s Mocambo Lounge: we did it in a New York/Latin/ballroom thing and it’s so classy, people feel guilty about using the bathroom. How do I know: I KNOCKED ON THE DOORS OF BATHROOM STALLS.
“This is before, whaddya call it: yelp. schmelp, google, shmoogle, whatever it is–you wanted feedback, you barged in on sailors using the head. Speaking of head, there was a near constant amount of seaman-on-seaman action in those bathroom. Our janitor went through two mops a week. It was like a warehouse full of Elmer’s glue exploded.
“Bill Graham experimented with homosexuality. I liked it, but I couldn’t stand writing all those thank-you notes.”
Things Bill Graham is thinking about:
- That schmuck Michael Lang.
- Those momzers in Led Zeppelin, limey cocksuckers.
- Limey cocksuckers in the Stones, those momzers.
- That gonif Lenny Hart.
- The shtarkers back in New York.
- Hell’s Angels, I gotta deal with?
- Been a mild Spring this year.
- Phil Lesh, I gotta deal with?
- And that Rock Scully schnorrer.
- Oy: goyim.
Little did Bill Graham know it, but the Dead had dosed his hoodie.
“Hey, Bobby,” Garcia said under his breath.
“I don’t wanna talk about it, man.”
“The hat’s cool and all…but, you know: the hat’s not all there is to the matter, is it?””
“I am not even looking at you. Please shut up.”
Bobby doodled on his guitar.
“I feel like I should ask him which side he served in Mr. Lincoln’s infernal war.”
“Listen, he’s my friend. Leave it alone. Your friends are terrible, too.
They walked around like that for a while. It was a San Francisco version of The Defiant Ones, except both of them were white (pretty much) and they enjoyed each other’s company in an argumentative sort of way.
Halfway down Embarcadero, Bill got one of his ideas and starting painting the dates for upcoming shows on homeless people; Garcia wandered off.
“You, Smacky: get Bill Graham off this fakakta thing. Bill Graham walked through Europe in the winter to escape the Nazis; Bill Graham made Miles Davis open up for Steve Miller; Bill Graham made sweet, sweet love to Linda Ronstadt; but Bill Graham doesn’t ride horses.”
Seriously, though: no one looks as out-of-place as a Jew on a horse.
Ladies and gentlemen: the fullest muppet.
Before descending into the Caves of N’st, where love stumbles and reason goes to lunch and doesn’t tell anyone in the office where it’s going, Bobby and Garcia and Bill Graham would bullshit for a little while.
p.s. Look at this photo: the guy taking it was a good hike away, but Bobby’s using his laser eyes on him. Bobby’s like a bird of prey when it comes to spotting cameras.
- No, Mr. Owsley, you cannot “soup up” the audio tour. Stop calling it the Walk of Sound.
- Parish, you’ve got to help me: I’ve accidentally invited TWO DATES to the fundraising ball!
- Gentlemen, I’m not going to point fingers and play the blame game and name names, but using the museum to stage a fake blood drive is going to stop immediately, Phil.
- There won’t be any dinosaurs, Bobby. It’s an art museum.
- Everyone needs to put on their trousers right damn now.
- Billy, that’s not performance art.
- There have been some great reviews for Keith’s sculpture of himself. Oh, that’s actually him? He’s been lying there motionless for, like, nine days. Perhaps we should call a docent.
- No, I don’t know what a docent is, either, but it’s the museum and something’s gone awry, so you call the docent. There is a chain of command here, Grateful Dead!
- But it doesn’t matter because you have dosed all of them.
- Yes, yes: doses, docent. Quite clever.
- Billy, stop doing performance art.
- No, Bobby: the eyes of that painting are not following you around the–oh, Mickey’s cut eyeholes in the art and is standing behind the canvas looking at people. Good call, Bobby.
- Come out from there, Mickey. Why are you naked?
- Garcia’ll be fine: I put him in the sculpture park. It’s just steel and gravel out there.
- I’ve told you this already, Mr. Mydland: museums don’t have mascots. Take off the costume.
- Why is Bill Graham haranguing schoolchildren in Yiddish?
- We don’t allow camping because it is a museum of art; there cannot be filthy teenagers taking doodies directly outside.
- I’m sorry, I don’t see a “Ned Lagin” on the Will Call list, possibly because there is no Will Call list, probably because it’s a museum. Why are the whole hairy lot so fuzzy on the concept of “museum?”
- Phil, you’re doing a great job running the food court, but I think charging $200 to eat sandwiches while you jam with your sons is a bit excessive.
- Vince, for the third time: your new character, down-home surrealist Salvador Golly is just not a hit. Please stop doing the routine. Also, buddy: pants.
- We’re just going to require that there be no more naked Grateful Deads in the museum, please. It’s not an unreasonable request.
- Attention museum patrons: we are going to need to evacuate the building immediately, please. All attempts to prevent Billy from doing performance art have failed. I repeat: Billy is doing performance art.
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