Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: dead & company (Page 10 of 38)

Basest Solos

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Taking a load off.”

I see that.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but the Grateful Dead rarely featured full-blown bass solos.”

No, they didn’t.

“For a reason.”

Uh-huh.

“But, you know, Branford loves doing ’em. Bless his heart.”

His name is Oteil.

“Agree to disagree.”

You don’t even want to comp behind him or anything?

“I’m not encouraging bass solos. Mickey used to toss used chewing gum into Phil’s hair when he did ’em. I’m not gonna go that far, but I won’t participate.”

You’re a man of principle.

“And I wanted to sit down.”

That, too.

Post-Minimalism

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you have the poster for the second night at the Hollywood Bowl?”

“I do, sir.”

“Oh, goody. Let’s see itJESUS, MY EYES!”

“There’s a lot going on.”

“It’s like a bar brawl raped a box of crayons.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.”

“Mrs. Woods! Mrs. Woods! Come in here and look at this poster!”

“Yes, sir. This poster? It’s rather–”

THLUMP

“See!? She’s dead Are you happy, Jenkins?”

“That could have been a coincidence.”

“Send in an intern!”

“Yes, sir? Can I help you OH IT’S IN MY HEAD MOMMYMOMMY–”

THLUMP

“How many of your colleagues does the poster have to murder, Jenkins?”

“I get it, sir.”

“It’s like staring into Satan’s asshole.”

“I don’t know about that, sir.”

“Unwashed! Dirty devil ass, Jenkins. That’s what we have here.”

“It’s too late to have a new one made.”

“The Hollywood Bowl is on the side of the Hills facing away from the sign. Ugly AND wrong. Is that why you like it, Jenkins? Makes you think of your family?”

“There’s no need for insults, sir.”

“No insult. Just fact: everyone you’re related to has a face like a foot.”

“Sir, we’re off the point.”

“Poster!”

“Poster, sir.”

“Dreadful thing. Like watching a rainbow masturbate to Riefenstahl films.”

“Wildly over-the-top, sir.”

“Most people only know her from the Nazi stuff, but the woman had a way with light comedy. Have you even seen Wessen Strudel Ist Das?”

“I haven’t, sir.”

“Delightful. Starred Uli Knoblauch, the Weimar Republic’s Clark Gable. He was later executed for war crimes, but the man could wear the scheiße out of a tux.”

“Please let’s discuss anything other than Nazi cinema, sir.”

“Do you think Pinochet played pinochle?”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. Can we release it?”

“Release it? Hell, kick it out! 86 it!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jenkins, there are shovels in the closet.”

“I’m not helping you bury Mrs. Woods and the intern, sir.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Good.”

“You’re doing it by yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Bear Was Yellow, And The Bear Was Blue

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“If I starred in homosexual pornography, I’d be named Rich Moisture.”

“Please stop masturbating to the weather report, sir.”

“Never! Now: the poster.”

“The poster.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking: everything.”

“Everything what, sir?”

“Every piece of Dead-related bullshit at once. Anything that’s ever been an album cover, or a lot shirt, or a tramp stamp. I knew a woman who had the entire first chapter of Gravity’s Rainbow tattooed on her lower back. Wasn’t that thoughtful?”

“Sir?’

“You could get educated and get off at the same time.”

“But you wouldn’t know how it ends.”

“It ends with stickiness, Jenkins.”

“Not the getting off. The book.”

“Ah. Post-modern nonsense. I’m a Hemingway man myself.”

“Ernest?”

“Mariel.”

“Sure. The poster, sir.”

“The poster! Everything, Jenkins. Like a bouillabaisse made out of intellectual properties.”

“Bears?”

“Bears.”

“Turtles?”

“Turtles.”

“Skeletons?”

“As many as you can fit on the page. Bone me up, Jenkins. Bone time. Gimme that bone, gotta have it.”

“I’m pretending to write this all down, sir.”

“Oh, and have one of the skeletons holding up Donald Trump’s bloody head.”

“Terrible idea, sir.”

“In what way?’

“Every way. Every single way.”

“Just for a goof.”

“It won’t end well, sir.”

“Well, whose bloody head should the skeleton hold up, then?”

“No one’s?”

“What about Garcia?”

“No, sir. The skeleton should not be holding up Jerry Garcia’s decapitated head on the poster for the Dead & Company show.”

“Bobby?”

“None of the Dead. Alive or deceased. No one, sir. No heads at all.”

“You just can’t have fun any more.”

“No, sir.”

“Thanks, Obama.”

Hey, That Guy Stole Josh Mayer’s Outfit

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Karate time.”

Oh, goddammit.

“He’s not here.”

Phew.

“Yet.”

Oh, sure. Can’t have a summer tour without Elvis showing up for some reason. Bobby?

“Uh-huh?”

Why does it look like you’re playing in a Sam Ash?

“The lack of presentation.”

I’m just saying that at this point, it’s almost a hassle to be this bush league.

“Well, you know: the fans expect a pretty high level of not-giving-a-fuck.”

True.

“Deadheads come to the show and there’s not road cases strewn all over the place lazily, then they feel cheated.”

Give the people what they want.

“Unless they want money.”

Yeah, sure.

“It works the other way. They give us the money.”

And then someone steals it from you.

“Right. It’s a system.”

If it never quite worked in the first place, don’t fix it.

“Exactly.”

Gotta Have A Plan

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Summertime, Jenkins.”

“Is that why you’re wearing the tank top, sir?”

“Good eye.”

“Thank you , sir.”

“Tour’s coming up, Jenkins. We need to get on the stick about this. So much to do! Webcasts to overcharge for, posters to half-ass. Skank to prime.”

“Sir?’

“Gotta prime the skank. Can’t just dive right in, unless your goal is chafing. Need to prime the skank. I invented that phrase.”

“Yeah, I think you actually did, sir.”

“I’m very creative. Jenkins, let’s talk posters.”

“Okay.”

“Can we get someone else to do it?”

“No, sir.”

“Are they completely necessary?”

“The Deadheads seem to enjoy them, sir.”

“Deadheads enjoy staring at their hands and not washing their anuses. We shouldn’t be listening to Deadheads.”

“But they’re the audience, sir.”

“Oh, can’t we get a new one? How about Republicans? They’ll buy anything.”

“We’re stuck with the Deadheads, sir.”

“We did nothing to deserve this, Jenkins. Well, I didn’t. You deserve everything you get.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ugh. Posters.”

“Posters.”

“Have we sent the turtle jpegs to all the artists?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bears?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, what else is there to do?”

“Quite a bit, sir. Themes need to be thought of.”

“Jenkins, do you remember when I said you had a good eye?”

“I do, sir.”

“Blast it. Blast that eye.”

“Just the one, sir?”

“For now.”

“Themes, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Just tell me the city and I’ll give you the theme.”

“Las Vegas.”

“Gambling bullshit, and the bears.”

“Phoenix.”

“The sun, and also the bears.”

“Los Angeles.”

“Fake tits.”

“What about the bears?”

“Just take the bears as a given from now on, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir. Salt Lake City.”

“Osmonds.”

“Can we do that, sir?’

“We’re semi-fictional, Jenkins: we can do whatever we want. Watch. Forrester! Forrester, come in here!”

“Yes, sir?”

BANG!

“You shot Forrester, sir.”

“And I won’t be punished for it. Look: his body’s gone.”

“Wow.”

“Like it never really happened.”

“Do his wife and kids still exist?”

“They’re my wife and kids now, Jenkins.”

“Osmonds?”

“Put the Osmonds on the Salt Lake City poster. All of them, too. Not just Donny and Marie. Jimmy, and Peanut, and Lil Yachty.”

“And the bears?”

BANG!

“Okay! Okay, the bears.”

“Good meeting, Jenkins.”

“Last thing, sir. Any idea for the font?”

“Find one that makes the word ‘Sunday’ look like ‘sundry.'”

“Yes, sir.”

“And send my new family in here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Separate, But Unequal

2017 and we’re still dealing with this kind of racism.

Excuse me?

The non-whites get segregated. That is the textbook definition of racism.

Jeff Chimenti is white.

Italians are white now? What next, the Irish?

You gonna be like this all night?

Yup.

Okay. Hold on.

Ahem: ERDOGAN CAN SUCK MY ASSHOLE.

RUNRUNRUN

WHOMP

WHOMP

WHOMP

WHOMPWHOMPWHOMP

Did you just deliberately get beaten to death by Turkish security goons?

Yes.

Okay.

Jealous Again

“Looky there, man. Little Josh suckin’ off the Dead nipple some more.”

Chris Robinson?

“Heeeey, brother.”

Don’t call me brother. I know how you treat your brother.

“It’s just shit, man. Legacy acts playing their old hits. Just sad, man.”

Sure. What are you doing this week?

“Playing a show from ’77 with Phil.”

Uh-huh.

“Where’s his beard?”

Who?

“Josh.”

Don’t call him that. Only me and Bobby and everybody else gets to call him that.

“Still: where’s his beard?”

I don’t think he has a girlfriend at the moment.

“You think this is what Jerry would have wanted?”

He’s dead. He doesn’t get a vote, except maybe in Chicago.

“Whatever, man. Just sad Play your own songs!”

You’re very hard to handle, Chris Robinson.

“You suck, too.”

Nice of you to stop by. Call first next time.

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