Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
“Um, Jer?”
“Yeah, Bob?”
“What’s, uh…what’s going on behind you?”
…
“Reality has epilepsy, best I can tell.”
“Like Caesar.”
“Sure. And George Peppard.”
“George Peppard? Huh. Had no idea.”
“Yeah. Caesar, George Peppard, and reality: spontaneously spastic, the lot of ’em.”
“Great big world, Jer.”
“That it is, Bob.”
…
“I like Josh a whole bunch, but you know you’ll always be my Garcia.”
“I know, Bob.”
“Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?”
That’s my line.
“Right, right.”
None of you are following the damn rules any more.
“There are rules?”
Must be. So, whatcha doing?
“Bobby’s Picture Pose #2.”
But you’re getting the watch in there.
“Josh taught me that.”
I hope Apple gave you that thing for free, because you’ve been plugging the hell out of it.
“It tracks your heart rate.”
Is that something you want?
“Not particularly. Makes calls, though.”
So does your phone.
“Sure, but your phone doesn’t tell you the time.”
It totally does, Bobby.
“Yeah? Huh. Okay, but it’s in your pocket. What kind of watch goes in your pocket?”
Pocket watch.
“Pocket watch has a fob.”
…
You just arguing for the sake of arguing?
“Last tour ended two weeks ago. Next tour doesn’t start for two weeks. This is hell.”
Oh.
“I’m the farthest away from a tour that I can get. This is my apogee.”
Sure.
“Bobogee.”
No.
“Hey, it’s what I do.”
Go down to Sweetwater and play. Go to Phil’s place and sit in. Chimenti’s got some gigs, I think. Go bother him.
“Might head down to LA.”
Skank?
“What?”
Nothing.
“Take some meetings about the Amazon show, the book. Josh is down there, I think. Gotta check on the documentary.”
The long-awaited Grateful Dead documentary produced by Martin Scorsese and directed by Amir Bar-Lev?
“That’s the one.”
You might have a rough time of that.
“Yeah, uh-huh. Amir’s gone nuts, I heard.”
What did you hear?
“Full Kurtz. Just, you know: up the river, man. Flew in a whole bunch of Montagnards.”
Really?
“Well, not real ones. Sherpa. Josh’s cousins, mostly.”
Right. Because Josh Meyers is a Sherpa, and that’s a fact that should be spread around.
“Yup.”
So, Amir Bar Lev has holed up in an editing suite somewhere in Hollywood with a team of murderous Sherpa protecting him?
“Sure, why not?”
WATCH PHONE NOISE
WATCH PHONE NOISE
“Is that your watch or mine?”
Pretty sure it’s yours.
“Ah. Hold on.”
…
“Weir here.”
“Please hold for the President.”
“Okay.”
…
“Bobby, this is President Katy Perry.”
“It’s an honor.”
“You need to speak to John.”
“Who?”
“Josh.”
“Ah. What about?”
“He’s in danger, Bob.”
“No, he’s in Los Angeles.”
“Neither I nor Tommy Shaw have time for your shenanigans, Bob.”
“From Styx?”
“Yes.”
“That ain’t him.”
“Can you give me a second, Bob?”
“Sure.”
…
THWARTED ASSASSINATION NOISE
THWARTED ASSASSINATION NOISE
…
“It was actually an assassin, Bob.”
“Politics is dirty business.”
“Do you know what this means, Bob? If you save a pop star’s life, she owes you Life Debt.”
“Pretty sure that’s Canadians.”
“Let’s put a pin in it and move on. You need to warn John or Josh or whatever you think his name is. The tall, douchey one.”
“I was on my way, actually.”
“Hurry, Bob! He is in danger!”
…
“Y’know, as the President, you probably could marshal up something more reliable than a Grateful Dead.”
“I have bigger problems than ex-boyfriends. The Russians are hacking us constantly, Bob.”
“Oh, no.”
“They’ve got nudes, Bob.”
“Me or you?”
“Me.”
…
…
…
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
“I’ll ignore that. Go rescue John from Kim Jong-Un.”
“It’s an honor to serve my country.”
That is Michael McGinn, who is Bobby’s long-time sound guy, and that is his art: 15 years of hotel room cards assembled into the image of Bob Weir. It is beautiful and odd. Outside the frame is the statue made of stolen hotel towels that Matt Busch made; it is 20-feet high, three tons, and depicts Bobby as an anatomically-correct centaur. It is just odd.
Also: that is the nappiest couch I’ve ever seen. That sumbitch is sleepifying, somnambulizing, soporificating…I’m sayin’ it makes me tired, son.
What is with you and wrists?
“Wrist doesn’t get enough respect It’s the gateway to the arm.”
Huh?
“Wrist, ankle. Not enough credit. Joints are important. Couldn’t play guitar without a wrist. Hell, you need two.”
Great.
“What’s going on at the Riot Olympics?”
Rio.
“I know what I said.”
It’s a mess.
“Well, you know: the Dead was always a bit of a mess.”
Different level of mess. Dead was a house with a baby in it; Rio is like a house with a hoarder in it. And–frightening as this is to say–you guys were more competent.
“The majority of us were reasonably on time, and reasonably sober.”
And the crowds are turning on the athletes. Brazil is a bit fucked at the moment, and the Olympics are stealing hundreds of millions from them, and John and Jane Speedo are turning their ire on table tennis players and swimmers and such.
“Not a great look. How’s the basketball team doing?”
Winning, barely.
“Aren’t they staying on a yacht anchored offshore?”
Yeah. Not a bad idea, actually. They’re on–
CELL PHONE NOISE
Oh, no.
“That must be you. My hat ran out of power..”
CELL PHONE NOISE
Jesus.
“If it’s Kim Jong-Un, don’t tell him I’m here. Don’t tell him I’m not here, either. Don’t mention me, is the point.”
…
Hello?
“Little Boy Dick!”
Don’t call me that.
“I call you what I want. Father invent nicknames.”
Which ones?
“No. He invent concept.”
Leave me alone.
“I have NBA players.”
That is not the NBA players’ yacht.
“Yes. I kidnap players. Just like Space Jam.”
No, you didn’t.
“I ransom. Give back players if Josh Meyer come hang out. Summer of Skank.”
Everyone needs to stop saying that, but you need to stop saying that the most.
“Meyer hang out, players go back. Most players go back.”
You don’t have the American basketball team.
“Yes. Look. Carmelo Anthony.”
Stop it. That’s Dennis Rodman.
“Is Melo.”
Stop being racist.
“Father invent Carmelo Anthony.”
Oh, quit it.
“Let me talk to Bobby.”
No.
“Put Wally on phone.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT, AND I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, EITHER.
You heard the sound system.
“You guys suck.”
I don’t know how to respond to this.
“Which part?”
All of it.
“Ah.”
Your wrist looks like Johnny Depp.
“There’s a lot going on. But, you know: it’s like my best friend Rod Stewart–”
Nope.
“–says: every bracelet tells a story.”
Also no. And what about the rest of it?
“Apple Fedora. Links to the Watch.”
Oh, that’s made up.
“No, no. Works almost most of the time. Called an iDora.”
I really don’t think so.
“It’s white.”
It’s cream.
“Notice you’re very picky about colors.”
Bobby, I–
HAT PHONE NOISE
HAT PHONE NOISE
“I’m getting a call on my hat.”
You should take it.
“Gimme a sec.
…
“Weir here.”
“Put Hot Dog Dick on line! He ducking me!”
“Oh, hey, Kim Jong-Un.”
HIS name? You remember HIS name?
“Shh. I’m talking on my hat. So, uh, Kim. What’s up?”
“Summer of Skank! Got me a yacht. Bitches love yachts.”
“I’ve heard that, yeah.”
“My father invented yachts”
“I heard that, too. Listen, I don’t know where Josh is.”
“He change, man. Use to be cool.”
“Eh.”
KRAAANCH!
glug
glug glug
glug glug gluglugluglug
“Okay, yacht hit couch. Big hole.”
“Shove one of those guy’s hat in there.”
“Good idea. I call back.”
“Sure, yeah.”
…
How do you know him?
“Bohemian Grove.”
Oh.
Those were the Days, my friend. The Days Between, my friend. Let us all dance in Berlin while night falls; let us have great hair and sing songs and rouge up our nipples while night falls over Europe. Those were the Days, my friend, the Days Betw–
Excuse me.
I’m singing. How dare you.
You know that song isn’t from Cabaret, right?
Really?
Go check.
…
It seems like it should be in Cabaret, though.
Granted, but still wrong.
Then how we will observe the seventh Day Between, which is dedicated to Garcia’s bitchin’ footwear?
Well, FoTotD and PWDNMUIUS (Person Who Did Not Murder Us In Our Sleep) Martin sent in that picture of Garcia’s Nikes, which might be bitchin’ were they not accompanied by black socks and the elastic garters of blue sweatpants.
Yeah, that’s a mess.
Forget the Persian: there should have been an intervention for that behavior.
Can we not bring up the Persian during the Days Between?
If it weren’t for the Persian, there wouldn’t be a Days Between.
Aw.
“Josh, you look terrible.”
“Who?”
“And there’s a guy looking for you backstage. Says he’s from Only Korea.”
“Let’s just play the song, Bob.”
“Yeah, okay.”
One of these people is Lucinda Williams, and the other people have names, too, I suppose. Bobby takes the second verse.
Well, looky here: it’s Bobby Weir.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“New York. Town that never sleeps. I think they sleep, but they’re awful busy. I asked one of these New York fellows when they had time to hang out with lamas, or experiment with new cooking techniques, or release long-awaited cowboy albums.”
What’d they say?
“They seemed confused by the nature of the question.”
Fast-paced lifestyle in Manhattan.
“Uh-huh, yeah. First time we came here, the whole band was murdered several times.”
New York was rough back then.
“That week in ’72 we played the Academy? Combined 1,400 muggings. I was personally mugged well over 400 times in a week.”
Wow.
“There would be a line on the sidewalk nine muggers deep.”
Sure. Where exactly are you?
“Headcount office. They, uh, got a lot of people registered to vote. Good work. Lot of the folks they registered are gonna vote for Jill Stein, but it’s the thought that counts. Oh. Oh. Hold on. I’m leaving my body.”
You do that a lot.
“I have left my body.”
“I have re-entered my body.”
You’re in a different location.
“Yeah, that happens sometimes.”
That sounds disconcerting.
“Sure, yeah. This time it’s very concerting, though. I’ve literally been concerted.”
I see what you did there. What is this?
“Little concert for some fancy people, and also some writers. New album.”
“That’s awful nice of you.”
Aw.
“Uh-oh.”
Leaving your body again?
“I am. Here we go.”
“I’m back.”
I notice you’ve changed your pants.
“These trousers, like the ones I previously had on, were sold to me a lengthy short.”
Right. So, what is going on here?
“Well, when you think The Last Waltz, you think Lincoln Center in August. And, uh, here we are.”
Sure.
“Gotta tell you: they did a terrible job advertising the show. Nobody here.”
I think this is sound check, Bobby.
“Remains to be seen. Wait. One more.”
You’re leaving your body again?
“I am, yeah.”
“Here we go.”
You’re back?
“As much as I ever am. I guess that was the sound check.”
Yeah. This is that Last Waltz tribute thingamajig?
“Yeah. Look at where they put the drum set.”
Oh, yeah. Bobby, one question.
“Shoot.”
Are you, like, not allowed to go home?
“I am, I am. Just can’t seem to stay there.”
You do what you do.
“Sure, yeah.”
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