Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Hey, John Mayer. Whatcha doing?
“Bonnaroo. Rooooooo. Bonnabonnabonnaroooooooo.”
Okay.
“Windows, like, bring the outside to the forefront.”
What?
“Gooses.”
…
John, where’d you get the water bottle?
“Billy.”
Ah.
“Wha? Oh. Ohhhhhhhh.”
…
“Fuck. I got, um, show? Show.”
Rookie mistake, Meyers.
“Bananaramaroooooooooooooo.”
Right.
“Bob, I’m sorry we had to throw your sister-in-law out.”
“Oh, hey, no: if she doesn’t get escorted from at least two premises a day, she feels lazy.”
“Oh, good. Looking forward to your speech.”
“It’s a doozy. Me and Barlow figured it out, then we called an actor from Battlestar Galactica. Thing practically wrote itself.”
“Great.”
“Oh, yeah, so: how’s the, uh, security in this joint?”
“What do you mean, Bob? Oh, God: terrorism? Are you worried about terrorism? Is it terrorism?”
“No, no, no, no, no. I just have a feeling there’s gonna be some special guests.”
…
“What the hell are you talking about, Bob?”
AM I LATE FOR THE AWARD PRESENTATION? I AM SO PROUD OF DADDY BOBBY.
“Don’t call me that, Wally.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT, DADDY BOBBY.
“Excuse me: what the fuck is going on? Is that the Wall of Sound?”
HELLO, RANDO. DO YOU HAVE A MOMENT TO SPEAK ABOUT THE UPCOMING ELECTION?
“Uh, yeah. He came to life and…y’know what? Lemme do this speech.”
YOU MAY GIVE YOUR SPEECH THROUGH ME.
“Ah. Yeah? Huh. Gonna pass, buddy. Vocals ain’t your strong suit.”
IT HURTS ME WHEN YOU MIDRANGE-SHAME ME.
“Shh. Speech.”
“Bob Weir, on behalf of the Les Paul Foundation, we would like to present to with the first annual Spirit Award. It couldn’t have gone to a better person.”
“Is that bacon? Because–”
“MEAT IS MURDER!”
“–I really can’t do bacon in public.”
“Do you know that woman, Bob?”
“Well, can you ever really know anyone?”
“THERE’S NOTHING SUPER ABOUT A SUPER-DELEGATE!”
“You’re killing me, Lillian.”
“Well, ain’t you a tall mint julep! I’ll drink you on a hot Alabama afternoon.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Martin-Godchaux-McKay-Stamos. It’s so awesome to get to meet you.”
“You the Bobby now? Every band needs a Bobby.”
“Um, well, actually: I guess I’m the Garci–”
“AAHHHAAHHAAHHAAHHAAHAAHHAAAHA! No. No. No. Bless your pretty heart, no.
“That was just mean.”
“I apologize, sugar, but you can’t be walking around with that idea. You take that idea down to the bar on Saturday night, you ain’t makin’ it to church on Sunday morning. Oh, excuse me: maybe you go to Jewish church. Is ‘Meyers’ a Jewish name?”
“I have no idea what kind of name ‘Meyers’ is.”
“Heritage is important, pumpkin. Would you like some barbiturates?”
“I don’t think they make those anymore, ma’am.”
“I got a stash.”
“No, thank you.”
“More for Mama. How them drummers treating you?”
“They learned my name. Or, you know: close enough.”
“That’s good.”
“And they’ve both stopped whipping drumsticks at the back of my head.”
“Oh, that could be good or bad. They might like you, or they might have run out of drumsticks.”
“What happens when they run out of drumsticks to throw?”
“They throw drums.”
Bobby and the rest of Dead & Company went out of their way to make Mrs. Donna Jean feel welcome, including hiring her a rando for the day.
Ste4ve from the Comment Section did this and it’s not right. Please don’t think I’m endorsing this. Shame on you, Ste4ve, and you definitely shouldn’t make one with Taylor Swift. That would be twice as wrong.
“My word, Phil. You have changed.”
“Not Phil, Mrs. Donna Jean. Oteil Burbridge.”
“Oh! Did the Supreme Court integrate the Dead?”
“It just kind of happened. Have you seen Jeff Chimenti?”
“Yeah, bad news. I drove into him in the parking lot. Muscle memory.”
“Shit!”
“Well, sugar: he was a keyboardist for the Grateful Dead. They don’t get pensions.”
…
“You’re crazier than the rest of them put together, aren’t you?”
“Shh. No one’s figured it out yet.”
Mallet quiver.
Also: Mickey’s just trolling us at this point. He knows that as long as he makes up a cockamamie story about God being a drum stool or whatever, then he can whack on anything he wants and call it a drum.
What the hell are those things? A Necessarily Abridged Conjecture:
I think Mickey should be congratulated for his tastefulness in only affixing two pieces of Dead bullshit to The Beam. I mean: there’s almost certainly more bullshit at the other end, but let’s just pretend.
As noticed by all who watched the ‘cast last night from Bonnaroo, there was another guest star in addition to Mrs. Donna Jean: the Parker Fly guitar. He (or someone) posted this pic from his tour bus before the show. (Bobby has a tour bus. We’ll get to that, too.)
The Parker Fly was invented, naturally, by a guy named Larry Fishman. It is an exceedingly nerdy guitar: it is to a Strat what a McLaren P1 is to a Miata; they’re both two-seater sports cars, but one’s made out of unobtainium. You see the part that looks like the body of a guitar? It’s not: that’s a carbon fiber exoskeleton with hardwood overlays. And the neck’s part-carbon fiber, too, and instead of regular pickups, the thing has piezoelectrics. (Piezoelectrics have something to do with ceramic. That is the extent of my knowledge, and that’s probably wrong.) The bridge is super-advanced and has a multitude of settings. The tuning pegs are made of mithril.
As you know, Enthusiasts, the financial metric in use at Fillmore South is the Ford Focus; the Fly is not that expensive. You could not get a new Ford Focus for its price, but you could pick up a 2006 with 100,00 miles and a clean bill of health.
What’s the point, you might ask? Weight. The Fly’s carbon fiber construction means it’s only 4.5 pounds, which is around half as light as most guitars, or one-tenth of the weight of Tiger.
So: is Bobby’s shoulder acting up, necessitating a lighter instrument? Could be. Maybe he just likes the sound and thinks it looks gnarly? (It does.)
This has been the latest installment in the series “What the fuck is that thing?”
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