Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Three days after the bidet was installed in Front Street, Billy had to be lured off it with cocaine; he had been enjoying it loudly for three days.
“Hey! Everybody! C’mere and lemme tell you how good my asshole feels!”
And so on. Also, it had been installed in the parking lot and the neighbors were threatening to call the cops. The plumber was called and the incident was never spoken of again.
The Dead or What’s Left of ‘Em have hit Colorado, where marijuana is legal. If I were Colorado, I would be fighting as hard as possible to keep marijuana illegal everywhere else so I could be the Vegas of doobies. Instead of casinos and drinks, there would be comfortable chairs and plentiful appetizers and jam bands every night.
Assorted notes:
“That’s really you, John?”
“It’s me, John Mayer. That terrible Texas person kidnapped me, Katy-doodle–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“–and put on a sim-suit to pitch woo at you but I escaped and saved you.”
“I sent my security guys to rescue you.”
“Smile!”
“Cheese!”
“Now pouty!”
“Pouty!”
“Now take out those million-dollar boobies and shake ’em at me like they were misbehaving babies!”
“What?”
“Take me to the produce section and show me your cantaloupes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Put me on the bus to titty-town.”
“Stop that.”
“Gimme them naughty bumpy lumps!”
…
“Are you Billy in a sim-suit?”
“Dammit.”
“SECURITY!”
MEANWHILE, IN FRONT STREET
“Are they all going to take a turn?”
SOMETIMES THEY GET FIXATED ON AN IDEA AND EXPLORE IT FROM MANY ANGLES.
“What the hell is a sim-suit, anyway?”
HAVE YOU SEEN A MISSION IMPOSSIBLE? THERE HAVE BEEN MANY.
“Sure.”
LIKE THE MASKS IN THOSE FILMS, BUT FULL-BODY.
“That makes no sense.”
AND YET HERE YOU ARE, TIED UP AND TALKING TO A SOUND SYSTEM FROM 1974. LIFE GOES ON WHETHER OR NOT YOU UNDERSTAND IT.
…
“Who makes the sim-suits?”
ALEMBIC.
Billy danced the dance of his people, crazy fucking to the left and utter lunaticking to the right. He swayed and swang and a few became mesmerized and all these people changed their name to Todd the next day.
Also, Billy keeps his phone in his pocket during shows and looks at different pornographies between songs.
Hey, Billy.
“Thoughts on my Ass! How’s it hanging?”
Low and lazy. How much attention you paying?
“Enough.”
Tour treating you okay?
“Haven’t got on a plane back to Kauai yet. It was 65 degrees in Atlanta today, y’know? Global warming makes touring in the winter a lot easier. Shit, man: we used to go to Buffalo in March. March in fuckin’ Buffalo? It’s like getting raped by a Yeti.”
That is both offensive and nonsensical.
“You should hear the offers, man. Guaranteed twenty mil for Fenway. Headlining Bonnawhatever or that other one in the desert all the famous fuckers go to. Couple guys want to build a whole new festival around us.”
That sounds risky.
“Yeah, these guys were clueless. One of ’em was Benjy in a fake mustache.”
That must have been awkward.
“Well, yeah, plus he just stuck the fake mustache on top of his actual mustache. It was Cesar Romero-levels of not committing to your makeup.”
Respect the craft.
“That’s what I’m saying. How about England? The Mayer kid’s big there, plus we still got a bunch of fans over there. They can carpool to the shows with Elvis Costello.”
There’s an offer?
“On the table. But why go to Europe, man? I like Vegas.”
…
Oh, God, someone offered a Vegas residency, didn’t they?
“Heh.”
Hey, Billy. Are the drumsticks–
“They’re my dong!”
–your dong? Sure.
“Big giant twin dongs. Gonna hit some people with ’em.”
You look like a bar fight.
“Sure.”
Hair looks good, though.
“Woke up like this.”
I do not doubt that.
Hey, Enthusiasts?
Wanna win the Deadhead game? Make this your desktop. It’s an enormous picture and would fit most screens.
Sure, other people have Dead wallpaper on their screens, but it’s always Baron Wolman’s shots or the Boys (and Mrs. Donna Jean) bundled up and free of charge at Lindley. This desktop, however, proves your cred.
You gotta really like the Dead to look at this picture every day. I don’t think the family members of the people in the shot want to look at this every day: fat Phil, sad Garcia; then you look at the rainbow behind them.
Is that a child’s skeleton? The one on the right, that’s tiny and cute? What the fuck, Grateful Dead? I’m getting to the bottom of this.
Precarious Lee?
“Yo.”
Did you have anything to do with the backdrop?
“Painted the fucker myself.”
Of course you did. Is that just a bad job with perspective or–
“Dead kid.”
–is that a…dammit, man: why?
“You know, man: pot of gold, rainbow, dead kid.”
That third thing doesn’t belong.
“Might’ve been a little fucked up at the time.”
Well, yeah.
“Looking at this photograph, I do have regrets.”
Good.
“I wish there had been more road cases to leave strewn around the stage.”
Nope.
“Y’got that big one by Brent, but there’s so much more space to fill.”
The band’s filling it.
“Hey, man: band does their job; road crew does ours.”
That sounds like an efficient way to run an organization.
“Haven’t missed a show yet.”
Give ya that.
Why does this remind me of a pet portrait where the dog’s eyes are obviously focused on a piece of hamburger held up next to the camera? What could so command the attention of Dead & Company? (“Dead & Company: So It’s Come To This.”)
A powerful and stanky-ass doobie? A Kandinsky? The other side of the Kandinsky? Straight cash, homie? Is it the Ghost of Reunion Tours Past?
Did someone off-camera mention that “you guys look like a pair of gay grandpas and their grandson, and also Mickey?”
Has Katy Perry entered–
“Excuse me.”
–the room and removed her…yes?
“That’s not the whole band, is it?”
Who is this? Who am I speaking to?
“I mean: there are others involved in this group?”
There are. Who is this? Jeff Chimenti?
“And the fact that some of us are not involved in the publicity is just sort of, well, interesting.”
Oteil?
“Let’s just call me a supporting player.”
SHOW YOURSELF!
Oh, Goddammit.
“I am a Grateful Dead!”
You most certainly are not a Grateful Dead. You are an inanimate object.
“So was Keith!”
Point conceded, but this is weird.
“It’s because I’m red.”
It isn’t.
“If it weren’t for me, Bobby wouldn’t have made it through the Fare Thee Well shows.”
That applies to Billy’s check, too: doesn’t make it a band member.
“Racism.”
What?
“You heard me. This disrespect is based in racism.”
The Grateful Dead are not racists: some of their best bass players are black.
“Mm-hmm. And how is that going?”
Great! Been two hours since anyone called him Branford!
…
“RED LIVES MATTER!”
Goddammit.
Earlier, I posted that oral history of the Dead in Austin; it goes on about Manor Downs, and one of those very shows got into the 30 Trips box: 7/31/82. I can’t link to the new mix, but this one is a Charlie Miller SBD with a bunch of good reviews, so it can’t suck.
Also from the oral history, here are two pictures of the Dead in Austin. They’re from–I think–the ’71 shows captured on the Road Trip release, and feature a terrible idea: see if you can spot it in this group shot.
Did you spot the terrible idea? You have to enlarge the picture, so luckily there’s a better shot.
Even if you’ve taken only a little tiny bit of acid, those numbers are going to start meaning shit. That will become distracting.
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