It is not sacrilegious to say that Jimmy Cliff sings Fire on the Mountain better than Garcia did; Jimmy Cliff sings everything better than everyone.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: dear jerry
Look at this thing. It is available for purchase.
This has been another installment of Look At This Thing.
Hey, Garcia. Why you sitting on the floor?
“Couch and the bed are wet.”
Why are the couch and the bed wet?
“Had to throw water on ’em.”
And why did you have to throw water on them?
“Y’know, I must have missed the part where I was on trial, man. Perhaps my muse demands sacrifice? How ’bout that?”
Of love seats?
“Muses are not to be questioned, man.”
…
You see the VMAs last night?
“Get out.”
ps Can there be a more efficient shorthand for “hotel” than those drapes?
Hey, Bobby.
“Oh, hey.”
Nice watch.
“John Mayer bought it for me.”
Interesting. Not surprising, but interesting.
“I think he wants to be my Benjy Eisen.”
No. He wants to be your Garcia.
…
“That ain’t happening.”
Duh.
“Garcia was a lot of things, but he was never a douche. He could be a prick. Occasionally, he was a real turd. Sometimes, he was just an asshole, y’know? Never a douchebag, no.”
…
What’s Mickey doing back there?
“I’ll answer that question the same way I’ve been answering it for half-a-century: not a fucking clue, man.”
Hey, Los Lobos.
“Hola.”
Stop it. Apologize.
Sorry. But they are awful.
Fucking dreadful, yeah. Still, no excuse for the nonsense.
Aw.
“Godammit, Don Was: we don’t have enough musicians onstage to summon the Beast of Al’StA’Jmm – um, I mean, uh, really rock. That’s what I meant. Said. That’s what I said.”
…
“Bob, is all of this rigamarole just a ploy to command a demon to do your bidding?
“No.”
“No?”
“Not a demon. Demigod.”
“For Christ’s sake, Bob.”
“Hey, it’s not too late to get Paul Shaffer to lead the band. He owes me a favor.”
…
“I’ll get some more drummers.”
“Plus around five more backup singers. And, Don: it would totally be racist to say ‘Get big fat black ladies,’ so I won’t say it.”
“Gotcha.”
“I’ll text it to you.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
Okay, fine: Jimmy Cliff singing Fire on the Mountain is okay, but my general position on this sort of thing stands.
If you’re a person who might want to listen to tonight’s Dear Jerry show, then that doesn’t make you a criminal.
Still, though: we never met.
“Do we have enough guitar players?”
“How many do we have?”
“Eleven.”
“Get two more.”
“Okay. There’s gonna be at least three people playing keyboards at all times, right?”
“Dude: All. Star. Super. Jam.”
“You don’t have to be a dick.”
“I wouldn’t if you would do your homework..”
…
“Is that Peter Frampton?”
“You mean ‘noted Deadhead and interpreter of the Garcia/Hunter songbook’ Peter Frampton.”
“I do not, no.”
…
“Well, it’s still Peter Frampton.”
Something is going on tonight. There will be All-Star Jamming like you wouldn’t believe. The sky will most likely be pointed at several times, because he’s looking down on us. Younger artists will choose exceedingly obscure Garcia tunes, because they are authentic. Don Was will wear flip-flops, because he is a dick.
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