Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Is that Cipollina?
“Yup.”
Why is Keith in the middle?
“Pizzazz.”
Seriously.
“One of the casters locked up while we were moving the piano. Just left it where it was.”
But Keith should not be in the middle. Especially not in 1978.
“We had to wheel him to the stage, too.”
I’m not shocked. Is that a skull?
“Where?”
Under the Perlstein.
“I think so.”
Why is it there?
“Sounds like a Mickey thing.”
Yeah.
Holy fuck. Precarious?
“Yo.”
Explain the aesthetic choices.
“None were made.”
That sounds right. Is there a window behind those drapes? Nothing about this photo makes sense.
“Uh-huh. Can I go? I’m in the middle of a Los Angeles noir-pastiche.”
Sure.
A keen-eyed Commentator points out Loomin’ Billy in one of the new Garcia interview clips from Long Strange Trip. Christ, he’s like the Billadook.
Hey, guys. I had an idea. Why don’t you cover an album by a fictitious band? Like, you write a whole record’s worth of new material and pretend it came from another band. Maybe a comically foreign band, I don’t know. And then you seed the internet with information about the fictitious band to further the ruse. How about that?
“That sounds like a lotta work, man.”
“What are we, fuckin’ nerds?”
“Hmm. Interesting.”
“Tell me more about the drums.”
“I’m happy with whatever the decision is.”
“Look how handsome I am.”
You do look handsome, Bobby, but what do you think about the idea?
“Of being handsome? Thought quite a bit of it. Then, uh, I ran with it.”
From 2/18/71, when Mickey left the band, to 10/19/71, when Keith made his debut, there were not enough Grateful Deads. I mean, really: this is absurd. We need at least two or three more musician, not to mention the fact that this is nowhere near the proper amount of amps. We have here a normal, human amount of amps; that’s not the Dead’s way of doing things. There are also no random naked children wandering around the stage.
It’s just a mess.
Maximum effort, Billy.
“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass!”
Hey, Billy. Who you think you’re kidding?
“I know. I haven’t voted since ’72. And that was by accident.”
How do you vote by accident?
“Ballot skank.”
Not a thing.
“There’s a subsection of skank that goes nuts for democracy. Get ’em within a mile of a polling place and you can pole their place.”
This doesn’t sound right.
“It wasn’t right! It was wrooooooong. That’s what makes it skank, Ass! And that’s what makes it America.”
Weird.
“Chick loved politics, man. She taught me all about backdoor diplomacy.”
Gotcha.
“Pressing the flesh.”
Sure.
“Whipping the caucus.”
We get the joke, Billy.
“I was caning her like she was Charles Sumner!”
Obscure. Who’d you end up voting for?
“Nixon.”
What!? You didn’t vote for McGovern?
“Ass, here’s something you gotta know about me: I love a shitshow.”
True.
My father said he was at Woodstock, but he also said he was at Game 5 of the ’69 World Series where the Mets beat the Orioles; my dad said a lot of things.
OR
This is one of not-very-many photos of the Dead playing Ol’ Man Yazgur’s farm on this date 49 years ago, and holy shit is next year’s 50th anniversary gonna be annoying. Get ready for a lot of interviews with Country Joe and/or the Fish.
OR
Woodstock wasn’t Curveball. There was no glamping section, as the portmanteau had not yet been invented, nor was there a free-form radio station broadcasting from the site over multiple media. No webcast, ATMs, sculpture gardens, or pop-up general stores. Also, there was no water, food, or medical staff. It was just a fucking field and no one was in charge and it’s astonishing that everyone didn’t die of cholera. The past was terrible.
OR
“Billy.”
OR
The problems began with the stage. The production crew had built a circular contraption; instead of having to strike and reset the gear in between each band, one could play out front with the roadies set up the next group backstage. When it came time to switch acts, the stage would rotate 180 degrees. Repeat until Jimi Hendrix.
Except, of course, the Grateful Dead brought every amplifier in the world and the back half of the round stage sunk two feet into the mud. Which meant the production crew had to strike and reset the gear. This resulted in a delay of around an hour.
Then came the rain, which wouldn’t have been such a hassle had most of the band not had electrical equipment strapped to their chests. Or literally anything been grounded properly.
And the wind, which–again–wouldn’t have been a big deal had the Dead not strung up a giant sheet behind them for the light show. A giant sheet, Enthusiasts will realize, is also called a “sail.” The stage threatened to tip over before Parish and Ramrod clambered up, Captain Blood-like, to shred the canvas with their knives.
Also, their sound man was the Most Famous Drug Dealer In America, so they were way too fucking high.
OR
Speaking of knives: What the fuck, Mickey?
OR
I’d link their set, but they played Lovelight for 45 minutes and I’m not rewarding that behavior. 45-minute Dark Star? Yes, please. 45-minute Other One? This gives the Deadhead a boner. 45-minute Lovelight? Why do you hate America?
Here’s the only worthwhile performance from that muddy self-suck:
“Gimme!”
“Dad, I’m gonna hold her.”
“Gimme the baby!”
“Absolutely not, Dad. First of all, you’ve been drinking.”
“Hey, I’ve always been drinking.”
“And second: you teach her weird things.”
“I do not?”
“No? Then where did she learn the phrase ‘moneygrubbing Jews’ from?’
“Probably her mother. What’s her name again? Alpharetta?”
“That’s a town in Georgia.”
“Thor Two: The Dark World?”
“You think my wife’s name is Thor Two: The Dark World?”
“I’m just free associating at this point, Justy. Oh, shit! Cameras! Should I be hard?”
“Dad! This is an interview.”
“Yeah, I know how it works. You ask me a few questions, then the pizza shows up. Are you gonna be all right tag-teaming skank with your pop? Cuz I’m fine with it as long as our dicks don’t touch.”
“I literally have a baby on my lap.”
“She should go in the other room. You know, PC culture and all.”
“Can we please just do the interview?”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Yeah, but lemme take this first. It might be skank.”
“Cmon, Dad.”
…
“This is Billy, is this a filly?”
“Kinda. You’re definitely getting some right now.”
“This voice sounds familiar.”
“It’s me, you.”
“Hey! How you doing, you handsome motherfucker!?”
“Gay as shit.”
“Nah, I like innies. Oh, wait.”
“Remember? When we go forwards through time, we turn gay.”
“Right.”
“Dad, what the hell is going on?”
“Justy, you remember how I have access to a Time Sheath?”
“A what?”
“And, well, goofiest thing: when I go forwards? I go all nancy. Like the Hulk, but instead of turning into a giant green guy, I fuck dudes.”
…
…
…
“What?”
“Hey! 80’s me! Let’s do this.”
“Nice! Wait, is it possible that touching will unravel the universe?”
“Big possibility. It might even be a probability.”
“Fuck it, I’m horned up.”
“I want me inside me.”
SHVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
…
…
…
pop
…
“Hello?”
Justin?
“Something happened.”
Are you in an eternal void, a place without time or form?
“Yes.”
Okay, they unraveled the universe. I will put this back together, I promise.
“I didn’t ask to be a part of this.”
Me, either. But here we are and I can’t reconstruct reality if you’re going to be distracting.
“This is my fault now?”
Yes.
“How?”
Well, it’s not like I’m gonna accept the blame.
“Fix this.”
Hold your horses, Justy.
“Don’t call me that.”
Is that James Toback’s skinny brother?
“I don’t know.”
Has he asked you to let him jerk off on you?
“No.”
Probably no relation, then. That sort of thing runs in families.
“Uh-huh.”
I can almost smell you wanting to talk about your clothes.
“Oh, thanks for asking. God, I wish you could see my shoes.”
Ironically, I am thanking God that I cannot.
“Each sock was made by a separate artisan. One just does left socks, and the other only sews right socks. The specialism at that level is amazing.”
Truly.
“The pant is a Gordon Gartrell piece.”
Oh, is he still designing?
“Just small batch stuff. He keeps his hand in, and we’re all better for it. But you know what the piece de resistance is, right?”
The toppermost?
“Ha! I knew you would think that! This is not a toppermost. See how it only goes to the waist? It’s a toppermore”
Ah. Still made in Japan?
“Of course. This one was handcrafted by Wasabi Godzilla–”
Not an actual Japanese name.
“–on the sacred slopes of Mount Tempura–”
Not a real mountain.
“–using the famed Needle of Nakamura.”
That was the building from Die Hard. John, I think someone is pulling the incredibly expensive, sumptuously soft wool over your eyes.
“Oh, no. I do my research.”
Like with the watches?
“Better than that. I got a guy who does my research for me now. Trust me, this is a genuine toppermore.”
Okee dokee.
KUH-CHICK
“What was that?”
Dunno.
KUH-CHICK
“Take your fucking pants off!”
“That sounds like Billy from 40 years ago.”
“Hey, it’s Billy from 40 years ago! Take your pants off and lemme get a good snap of your nuts.”
“What? No. What? Billy, where did this come from?”
“When I travel forwards in time, I turn gay.”
…
…
…
“What?”
“It’s a long story. Guy from Stanford told me it was called TTH: Temporary Temporal Homosexuality. Doesn’t happen when I go backwards, though. Weird fucking world. Anyway, show me your dick.”
“No! Billy, knock this off.”
“Whip it out, Twink Martindale.”
“Billy, I am not going to…did you call me a twink?”
“I did. You look so young.”
“Well, I guess I could take the shirt off.”
“That’s a boy.”
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