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.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: brent mydland (Page 2 of 14)
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.”
Oh, what in the name of Jonathan Frakes is this?
“I’m taking the Sex & the City tour. Remember how the girls got cupcakes here?”
I didn’t watch the show.
“Remember how big cupcakes were?”
A little.
“We were so innocent then.”
Brent, stop wandering around New York City. Especially in those shoes.
“Why won’t you support my transition?”
Into a mascot or a woman?
“Either.”
Dude, make your outsides match your insides. I don’t care. Good for you. Just saying that sparkly silver flats aren’t the right choice for that outfit.
“You’re commenting on my shoes?”
Yes.
“Please tell everyone about the last pair of shoes you bought, and then tell them the reason.
Bright red Adidas, and I purchased them because I saw Billy wearing them and I thought they looked cool.
“Can I close my case?”
Yeah, probably. Hey, Brent?
“Uh-huh?”
There’s a tourist couple coming up the street behind you and to your left. They look European. Jump out and scare the shit out of them.
“Done.”
Brent?
“Hey, buddy.”
Um, hi.
“Haven’t been in a story in a while.”
Well, it’s shit like this, Brent.
“This is my truth.”
Are you wearing women’s shoes?
“That’s my truth, too.”
Stop it.
“I’m a transvestite now.”
We don’t use that word anymore, I don’t think.
“I died in 1990. You’re lucky I didn’t use one of the other common terms.”
There’s just so much going on with you, buddy.
“Do I get to go to Singapore and hang out with Kim Jong-Un?”
No.
“Aw.”
This is too many keyboards.
“Nah, just right. I’m playing the Rhodes. It goes kuhCHONK if you play hard, or shwoo if you play soft.”
Okay.
“On top of that is the Mini Moog. It goes WEEEEEEOOOOOweeeeeeoooooWEEEEEEE. I can freak fuckers out, man.”
Sounds like it.
“To the right is the Chichester Sparkle-Phantom XR6.”
That instrument is not named that.
“Oh, sure it is. It goes like this: Myah! Myaaaah!”
The keyboard sounds like Edward G. Robinson?
“Well, one of the settings does. It also has a drum machine built-in, so I could play a samba. And, of course, to my left is Adrian Zmed.”
That’s not Adrian Zmed; it’s a Hammond organ.
“No, Zmed.”
This is why you don’t appear that much.
These men got groupies.
OR
Younger Enthusiast, this cannot be explained away by invoking “it was the fashion of the time.” When the Dead wore rainbow trousers and fringed jackets and frilled shirts: well, it was the 60’s. That was what hip young men wore to attract groovy young ladies. But this bullshit? This bullshit right here? This bullshit was not the fashion of the time. This bullshit was not the fashion of any time in human history.
OR
It is rare, exceedingly so, that Bobby’s short shorts are the most acceptable pant on stage: if a bit risqué, they are still basic and classic jean shorts. Whereas Phil is wearing sky-blue velour and holy fucking shit there are cuffs on Garcia’s.
OR
None of their shoes are helping, either.
OR
If Phil sits down, his balls are escaping. That’s a fact.
OR
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Is Brent’s monitor on an end table?
“Yup.”
Why?
“Coffee table was too low.”
Sure.
You spray that shit on the strings?
“Oh, yeah. Finger-Ease. Love it. It’s, uh, pretty much my longest relationship.”
What does it do?
“It makes fingering easier.”
Could’ve answered my own question, I guess.
“Only for guitars, though. Not the other kind of fingering.”
Billy tried?
“Oh, yeah. That was a hospital trip.”
Really? It’s just a silicon-based oil.
“Yeah, yeah. But, uh, he shoved the can up a meter maid’s ass.”
That’ll do it.
“And, you know, every time she hiccupped, the nozzle would depress. She was starting to get full.”
No good for anyone.
“Well, Billy got free parking after that.”
Oh.
Mickey: actively masturbating.
OR
“Hi, there.”
“Yeah, uh, hi.”
Who is speaking right now?
“Bobby’s thighs.”
“Howdy.”
Noooooooope. Not happening.
OR
Everyone looks like they’re sucking up to Garcia to get a promotion.
OR
Billy’s shirt by Wyatt Koch. (Click at your own risk, but I’ll tell you upfront: you’re gonna want to murder the next rich fucker you see.)
OR
Amir Bar-Lev is directing a documentary about Phil entitled Tucker: A Man And His Shirts.
OR
Seriously, how was Bobby in a band with these mutants? He’s like an Eloi among Morlocks.
Hey, Bill Walton. Is that–
“It’s Brent.”
–Brent in the…yeah, I figured.
“Sporting events are his jam. That and theme parks. Very easy for a 27-years-dead guy to walk around in those venues.”
Sure.
“Nudist colonies, not so much.”
Do you frequent nudist colonies, Bill Walton?
“Oh, yeah. I love to dangle.”
Ew.
“Many people don’t know that the testicles absorb vitamin D more efficiently than any other part of the body. Couple hours of sun on your balls, and you feel like a new man.”
Let’s move on. Are you in Utah? The background does not look like Utah.
“The Beehive State is fascinatingly diverse. And by that, I mean the landscape and climate. Not the people.”
It’s a homogeneous place.
“I thought I saw a black guy yesterday, but it was a Mormon’s shadow. Incredible history, the Mormons. Do you know they believe that Jesus was resurrected in Missouri?”
Yes, I’ve heard that.
“I nearly resurrected in Missouri. Almost signed with the St. Louis Spirit of ’76.”
The ABA team?
“Yeah. They wanted me, man. Sent Marvin ‘Bad News’ Barnes up to Portland to talk to me. At least, they tried to: Marvin missed five straight planes and then punched a police horse.”
Sounds like him.
“Uh-oh.”
What?
“Lost track of Brent. Darn.”
Is that bad?
“He tends to affect the attributes of the animal he’s wearing.”
Oh, no.
“Yeah, he’s been leaping at sunbathers from second-floor windows.”
You should find him.
“Conference of Champions!”
When did Phil stop drinking? Because this is from before that. I think it’s ’85; that shirt combination was one of Garcia’s favorites in ’85.
OR
“So it’s me and Mydland and Jer. and we’re singing or something.”
“Okay.”
“But then the camera pulls to out reveal we were on a monitor.”
“I don’t think there’s a special effects budget.”
“We’ll figure it out. Anyway, now we’re in the studio and you read the copy or whatever and Billy sits there and dicks around.”
“Right.”
“But then the camera zooms out…”
“I’m listening.”
“And I’m sitting there, too!”
“I don’t get it.”
“I was in the teevee monitor.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then I’m sitting next to you.”
“You can always sit next to me, buddy.”
“Weir, I just fucking can’t with you today.”
OR
There are (at least) three schools of thought about the Grateful Dead’s business acumen, two of which are wrong and believed by others, and one of which is correct and obviously belongs to me. The first is that the organization was made up of apple dumplings with scrota full of glitter and hugs; men and women who cared nothing for the material and did it all for the fans, and for the music. Maaaaan.
The second take, the revanchist take, the contrarian take, is that the Grateful Dead were visionaries of commerce and communication. That their early-adopter stance towards technology advanced the industry as a whole, and that their intuitive use of branding led to memetic penetration of the teenage mind via ballpoint drawings of Stealies on desks and backpacks, and then you’re gonna hear a rap about how tapers either built the internet or were the internet. Run from these types.
The truth is that the Dead did all the same bullshit the other big bands did, but–due to congenital bushiness of their collective league–they almost always fucked it up. They tried hard to be big stars, and they worked diligently at pushing merch; they played Lovelight for 45 minutes at the biggest gig of their life, and they made commercials like this.
Go watch that bullshit again. I demand it. You must. I’ll wait.
…
CASUAL WHISTLING
…
Did you see that bullshit?
Did Precarious Lee write this script? What is for sale? “Projects and products.” What is that, Grateful Dead? You literally could not be less specific. “Projects and products” encompasses actions and objects. You’re basically saying “We have nouns and verbs for sale.”
Also: calling back? Younger Enthusiasts, before the internet there were far fewer ways to buy stuff. You went to the store. Other than that, you had catalogues. You wrote the company, usually longhand, having been taught both the proper format for a business letter, and enclosed a check or money order in the envelope. Mailed it off and then waited. There was no app to obsessively check the status of your package, so there was joy in the surprise when it arrived.
After a while, you could call an operator and order out of the catalogue.
By ’85, you could also shop on teeevee. Call the number on the screen, give ’em your credit card number, and they’ll send out your Ab Weasel. (The Ab Weasel was an actual weasel that bit you if you stopped doing sit-ups.)
And that was it. There was no “call you back.”
So: the customers had no idea what they was buying, and–even if they wanted to put their money down on sight-unseen merch–needed to wait for you to get back to them?
Good work, Grateful Dead. Proud of ya.
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