Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Later christened “the stagefright show,” the evening saw Phil hide from the audience for most of the first set; he played the second from his hotel room under the covers. By the next day, everything was back to normal, and no one spoke of it ever again.
Also: Heineken.
Also also:
“Hey, Precarious: which way should these amps be facing?”
“All the ways.”
“Gotcha.”
If you asked the best production designer in the world, “Can you make it look like no one gave a shit?” the stage would still look a million times better than this. Any effort or eye towards aesthetics–even if it’s to deliberately fuck it up–would ruin the perfect middle finger that is this haphazardousness.
(Precarious Lee has a cousin named Harold “Hap” Hazard, but I don’t know if we’ll ever hear about him again.)
“Hey, Brent.”
“Hey, Bobby. Been forever.”
“Well, you know: whose fault is that? We have a time machine. You’re always welcome to come by.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure, of course, yeah. Would you wear the outfit?”
“Can’t really just walk around in 2016. I died a million years ago.”
“What about once you’re in the house?”
“Well, in the house I would just prefer to wear the suit.”
“Uh-huh. Is it comfortable?”
“It’s the real me, Bob.”
“Ah.”
“It makes sense: I’m slow, and shy, and get arrested a lot. Just like a turtle. I’m a turtle, Bob.”
“I think you’ve been fucking around with the Time Sheath too much and you’re going a little nuts, buddy.”
“That’s absurd and offensive. I am not crazy.”
…
…
…
“I’m a turtle.”
“Dammit, Mydland, you’re not a turtle. It’s just a suit. You’re a dead keyboardist with inexplicable access to a time machine. And also, you know: you’re getting a bit gamey.”
“That’s my musk. It attracts lady turtles.”
“Turtle foxes?”
“Hey, man: turtle or not, I’m still a rock star.”
“Sure, sure. Brent, can I talk to Lesh for a minute?”
“Of course.”
SIDLE SIDLE SIDLE
“Phil, uh, did you know Brent had gone nuts?”
“He’s not crazy.”
…
…
…
“He’s a turtle.”
“Oh, not you, too.”
“If a fully-defunct choogly-type keyboardist identifies as a turtle, then who am I to deny him his truth?”
“What’s your angle?”
“I’d have to pay a kid to wear the suit. Brent just thinks he’s a turtle that lives in my backyard: he’s free.”
“Being a business owner has changed you.”
“It’s all about the margins, man.”
“Are you feeding him?”
“I assume so. He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“Where’s he going to the bathroom?”
…
SIDLE SIDLE SIDLE
“Mydland, I got a question for you.”
“Sure, Phil.”
“And don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not a liar.”
…
…
…
“I’m a turtle.”
“Fine, whatever: I want you to look me in the eye.”
“Okay, but my actual eyes are in the turtle’s neck.”
“Noted. Have you been pooping on the bocce courts?”
“Absolutely.”
“MOTHERFUCKER! Why!?”
…
…
“Enough with the fucking ellipses! You’re not a turtle, or you are a turtle, or I don’t give a shit! Stop shitting on my lawn! Use the toilet!”
“Toilets are for people, Phil.”
“YOU’RE A PEOPLE!”
…
…
…
“I’m a–”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“–turtle.”
This is from Brent’s first show, 4/22/79, at UC San Jose State. (Go Banana Slugs.) It was so nice of the other Grateful Deads to dress up for the occasion.
Assorted thoughts:
Fun fact: while this show was taking place, political prisoners all over the world were being tortured.
The crowd had arrived by Uber, or in Teslas. The grills had been smoking for hours and the smell of Terrapin Sliders ($8, vegan alternative available) filled the air. To the left were white people in comfortable shoes, and to the right were whiter people in more comfortable shoes. Doobies were passed, strains discussed, pocket vapes compared. It was a Sunday in Marin County and clouds had been outlawed by Governor Brown.
But in the small office in the belfry of Terrapin Crossroads, all was not well. Phil slumped in his chair and stared at the wall of video monitors; they were the only light in the room. A busboy stands behind him. There may or may not be multiple jars of urine.
“It stops here, you hear me? I win. Phil wins! This is a classy establishment and there won’t be any pooping on the bocce courts.”
“Phil, don’t you think you should say hi to people now?”
“Say hi? To them? One of them did it! Filthmonsters, all of them! Besides, if I go down there, I can’t watch the cameras. Hey! What’s that?”
“There! Right there! Do you see that?”
“What? Where? There’s nothing there.”
“My balls, there’s nothing wrong. Enhance!”
“WE GOT A CODE BROWN!
“Phil, that’s a leaf.”
“Tell Jill to grab the shotgun and meet me in the bar!”
“It’s a leaf.”
…
“It’s a leaf?”
“It’s a leaf, Phil.”
“Then tell one of the busboys to get a rake.”
“Sure.”
“Wait, something’s not right. I see something happening by the stage.”
“The stage is nowhere near the bocce courts.”
“Maybe that’s where they plan the pooping. Who knows with these sickos? Nah, I can’t see it on here. We need more cameras. I’m using Plan B. Come in, Eyes of the World. Come in, Eyes of the World. This is Reddy Kilowatt of the Grateful Dead. Over.”
“Eyes of the World here. Over.”
“I need you over by the stage. Over”
“What am I looking for? Over.”
“There’s something going down over there. Over.”
“Where over there? Over.”
“Over there! They’re over there! Over.”
“Where? Over.”
…
“Brent, if you’re going to be a pain in the ass, I’ll just throw a busboy in the outfit.”
“Aw.”
Many tales have been told of the Grateful Dead: they’ve been examined from angles musical, financial, sociological, historical, chemical, metaphysical, biographical, academic, and there was a coloring book once. Never, though, has the Dead’s relationship with exercise been detailed, and certainly not with the scholastic rigor I intend to apply to the following bullshit I’m about to make up.
Bobby was the most physical-minded of the group; he cared about the parts of his body that were not his dick or stomach, and engaged in strenuous and joyful fits of exercise, plus many soothing and barefoot yoga sessions. Bobby enjoyed running almost as much as he enjoyed running shorts. In the 70’s, he took up mountain biking, and in the 80’s got into hill biking; the 90’s saw Bobby become interested in riding his bike on flat terrain, and in the 00’s, Ebay was founded, which is where Bobby sold his bike.
Mickey gave Bobby a run for his money, though, and sometimes literally: Mickey liked to combine his athletics with gambling and would often make more money off his impromptu wagering than from a tour. Like Bobby, Mickey took up bicycling for a while, but always preferred his horses, as it was impossible to dose a bicycle.
And here lies a sheer and fatal drop-off in both athletic ability and exercisial enthusiasm. Except for Bobby and Mickey, every Grateful Dead would be picked last and sent to right field. (There are pictures of Bobby playing softball; there are pictures of Garcia watching softball.) You might pick Billy a little higher up if you were playing hockey and wanted to start a fight.
Billy’s exercise came primarily from running amok. Smoothie in the morning, throw a mailbox at a cop around lunch, run through a hospital with a chainsaw before the show, and then finish up the day with cardio (Billy calls anal “cardio”).
The ocean also provides Billy with a chance to stretch, strengthen, and shape up; he has invented something he calls “sharkour,” but is actually just swimming slowly and looking at fish. (You cannot do parkour underwater as there are no benches to vault over, and even if there were, you can’t vault over anything underwater.)
Phil’s idea of exercise was standing up during a blowjob.
The keyboardists were all over the place, as should be expected: Pig did Tai Chi once, by accident; TC did some fancy bullshit, I’m sure; Keith, along with Mrs. Donna Jean, trained in mixed-martial arts and practiced on each other constantly; Brent was the Marin county free-diving champ three years in a row until he was beaten; Bruce beat him; Vince owed his taut tush to ballroom dance.
Garcia always carried his own briefcase, though sometimes it was heavy.
Never Garcia, Bobby, Mrs. Donna Jean, all the keyboardists.
Sometimes Billy.
Always (onstage) Phil.
Always (always) Mickey.
The other Grateful Deads went out of their way to make Brent feel welcome, and like he wasn’t the new guy.
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