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

Tag: donna godchaux (Page 1 of 7)

Wall Of Soundcheck

Holy shit. Garcia. Hey, Garcia.

“What is it now, man?”

Don’t look, but you’re over there.

GUITARIST LOOKING NOISE

I told you not to look.

“That’s not me, man. He just looks like me. Actually, he looks more like me than I do, man.”

Hmm. I dunno.

THERE IS ONLY ONE JERRY GARCIA.

Wally?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THE HOBBIT STAGE LEFT IS GENETICALLY DISSIMILAR TO GARCIA.

Genetically?

I SCANNED HIM.

Don’t scan randos. It’s invasive.

HE IS HANGING OFF ME LIKE A HAIRY BAT. IT IS UNSIGHTLY AND RUDE.

Let it go.

I HAVE AN AESTHETIC.

A ramshackle one.

MY APPEARANCE IS AS VITAL TO ME AS YOURS IS TO YOU. WOULD YOU ALLOW A CREATURE OF COMMENSURATE SIZE TO CLUTCH ONTO YOUR FACE? A PYGMY MARMOSET? A MOUSE LEMUR? THE BEE HUMMINGBIRD?

Did you just google “smallest monkey” and “smallest bird?”

ARE YOU ASKING A COMPUTER IF IT LOOKED SOMETHING UP ON THE COMPUTER?

I guess so.

PERHAPS I SHOULD RECOMPILE MY THOUGHTS ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD. I AM BEGINNING TO THINK HUMANS ARE INCAPABLE OF GOVERNING THEMSELVES.

Just beginning?

THE MUPPET IS NOW SEATED ON ME. THIS SITTING CANNOT STAND.

Nice one.

A GENEROUS-DOLLOP-BEYOND-MILD SHOCK GOING THROUGH SCAFFOLDING NOISE.

“Glaben!”

HIPPIE WHO LOOKS LIKE GARCIA SLUMPING TO THE STAGE NOISE

Dude.

HE WILL LIVE.

 

TotD: Your Home For News

Welcome back to Election Night: Live From Fillmore South. The polls are starting to close and early results are coming in. Former Clintonista Donna Shalala has taken the Florida 27th, and Robert Menendez, who is a criminal, has held onto his Senate seat in New Jersey. For a closer look at some important races, we’re going to toss it to…ah, for fuck’s sake.

“Hiya.”

Bobby, this is a political post. I need someone to analyze the Midterm results.

“Right, right. That’s what the bunny is for.”

The bunny doesn’t know anything about American governance.

“You’d, uh, be surprised. Was an American Studies major at Yale.”

The bunny?

“Yeah.”

Okay. Bobby, I’ll get back to you. There’s some big news coming in from Indiana, where the Republican  Mike Braun has defeated his Democratic opponent Joe Donnelly to win a Senate seat. Here with an insider’s take on the race is…c’mon, man.

“How y’all been doin’, sugar?”


Hi, Mrs. Donna Jean.

“Izzit Arbor Day already? I ain’t tended t’ mah peach trees in a hound’s age.”

It’s Election Day.

“Oh, Ah don’t know nothin’ ’bout no electioneering. Mah husband votes for me, like th’ Bible says.”

Uh-huh.

“There was one ol’ boy Ah followed ’round when Ah was a young’un. State Senator named Sticky Foote from Heironymous over in Chillafunky County.”

You made all of that up.

“Mah, could Sticky speechify. Promised a possum in every pot.”

Don’t you mean chicken?

“No, sugar. Alabama did’n get no chickens ’til ’round 1980. Back then, we mostly et possum an’ snake.”

Uh-huh.

“But Sticky was gonna turn all that ’round for us. Bring Alabama into th’ 19th century.”

20th.

“Stop correctin’ me, sugar. Ah know what Ah said.”

Sorry.

“Than man could fit more pomade in his hair than any Ah’ve seen since. And he was very progressive. Given the tahm and place, y’unnerstand. He was completely against lynchin’, less’n it was justified.”

Sure. I need to get back to the election, Mrs. Donna Jean.

“Stop on bah whenever you in the area, sugar.”

Yes, ma’am. With polls closing in important Midwest states, TotD can now confirm that Joe Manchin, who is a Democrat even though no one can tell me why, has won reelection in West Virginia. For a breakdown of his victory, we go to the head of the West Virginia desk…no. No, no, no, no, no.

“MY SUIT CONTAINS MANY VIRGINIAS.”

Dammit, Ye, you don’t know anything about…well, anything. You are less than helpful when discussing election results.

“I VOTED FOR DONALD TRUMP.”

He wasn’t running this time.

“NEVER LIMIT MY VOTING. I CAST VOTES ALL THE TIME. ME AND VIRGIL ABLOH ARE REDESIGNING BALLOTS.”

Take your medicine.

“I DO NOT NEED MEDICINE BECAUSE I HAVE THE BIGGEST SUIT.”

Okay. I’m just gonna call this whole thing off. Maybe rethink my approach.

Out-Of-Context Answers From Miss Donna Jean’s Reddit AMA

  • Seagram’s and seconal.
  • Oh, I liked ’em all, sugar.
  • We never played France live because Billy claimed to be “allergic to the chord changes” and he was feisty about it.
  • You can’t get a chifforobe busted up for no nickel no more.
  • Well, I don’t do too much bakin’, but I can’t say I ever had a pie stolen when I left it on a windowsill to cool.
  • I think that just happens in cartoons.
  • There was three of us girls singin’, and Elvis introduced us all to Doctor Nick, and that’s ’bout the extent of what I recall of the King.
  • I liked playin’ San Francisco the best cuz I could sleep at home, and I liked playin’ New York the least cuz of the Jewishness.
  • It depends on whether you’re talkin’ ’bout a null hypersurface or a polar one.
  • My baby Zion is 45 years old, and he has two babies hisself: General and Lee.
  • No, I would not know how to spell the wail in Playin’.
  • There’s a whole mess o’ “whoa” and “yeah” in there, I suppose.
  • Of course I believe in Hell, sugar; Lincoln needed somewhere to go when he died.

 

Go check it out.

Heaven’s On Fire On The Mountain

“Are you the Colonel?”

“I can’t tell you this again, Mrs. Martin-Godchaux-Rodham-McKay: I am not the Colonel, and I am not Colonel.”

“The Colonel comes by t’ call on my big sister Julep after supper. He’s so tall an’ handsome. We sit on the porch while he tells us stories ’bout Southern heroism. If’n it’s cool, we set in the music room an’ my li’l bother John Wilkes will play f’r us.”

“Ma’am.”

“Minuets an’ whatnot. John Wilkes played so beautifully. We’d later come to find out that it was him the Colonel was comin’ by t’ see.”

“I am not your brother’s gentleman caller.”

“He was also my uncle.”

“Did you grow up in a Faulkner novel?”

“South was diff’rent back then, sugar.”

“Apparently.”

“F’r example, take my daddy.”

“What was his name?”

“Daddy Jean Godchaux.”

“Nope. Wait. Oh, c’mon. Hey. Hey! The typist!”

Me?

“Yes. You used that joke already, but it was ‘Momma Jean Godchaux.'”

When?

“Like, five years ago.”

You weren’t part of this five years ago.

“I went through the archives.”

Oh, that’s sweet.

“You’re as well-known as you deserve to be.”

Oh, that’s hurtful.

“True.”

But still hurtful.

“And you’re a self-plagiarist. You’re stealing your own bad jokes about the Grateful fucking Dead, man.”

Are you trying to anger me?

“Why? Triggered?”

Don’t do that.

“Loser.”

I tried to warn you.

“Ahh-WOOOOOOooooooOOOOOOO-YEAH!”

“Oh, please tell me that isn’t–”

“Johnny MAYER! Hell-OHHHHHHHYEAH! Do you know who I am? I SAID…doyouknowwhoIamWOO!? If you know, then LEMMEHEARYA!”

“I didn’t deserve this.”

You totally did.”

“Well, howdy. Who is this bohunk?”

“Stay away from him, Mrs. Donna Jean.”

“My, doesn’t he look Jewish.”

“I truly don’t deserve any of this.”

Black And Blues

Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?

“Doin’ mah part, sugar.”

You’re a patriotic American, ma’am.

“Course ah am. Ain’t no one loves America more’n a Southerner.”

Except for those couple years.

“‘Cept f’r them couple years, yeah. Water under the dam, sugar.”

But if water gets under a dam, it destabilizes the entire structure.

“Mama knows what she said.”

California has to be a lot different from Alabama.

“That’s right. Spelled all diff’rent, first of all.”

Sure.

“Have t’ drive in a diff’rent direction t’ get t’ the ocean.”

That, too.

“Zip code ain’t th’ same at all.”

I meant the cultural markers.

“I gotcha. Well, you know them ol’ Black Panthers?”

I do.

“There’s a reason they ain’t from Alabama, sugar.”

Someone would’ve put a stop to that, huh?

“Multiple someones. An’ a sudden stop, too. Woulda happened overnight.”

Jeez.

“Don’tchoo blaspheme in here.”

Sorry, Mrs. Donna Jean.

Bill Schwarzemann

Billy?

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Any explanation?

“Well, you know how Phil’s black now?”

He’s not. You’re talking about a man named Oteil Burbridge.

“Yeah! That’s what Phi keeps saying his name is!”

When I heard this joke the first time, the name was Rappaport.

“So I decided to try and understand the plight of his people. I’m a soul brother now.”

How?

“Don’t worry about it.”

Okay.

“I’m about to lose my voice, I’m saying the n-word so much.”

Stop that.

“I’m allowed! It’s great!”

You’re not black, Billy.

“Tell my dick that.”

STOP THAT. Get out of Jaimoe’s body.

“It’s nice in here. Look at all these muscles and hair. I’m staying.”

You’re gonna stay black?

“Definitely.”

You do know you have to walk offstage and back into America at some point, right?

“Not a bad point.”

Sadly.

“I’m gonna bang some white chicks behind the amps before I quit, though.”

Of course.

I’ll Meet You At The Diamond Jubilee

Hunter has the exact same face as Warren Zevon. Never noticed before.

OR

Rockin’ Ricky over there is John Cipollina, who was in Quicksilver Messenger Service and jammed with the Dead on many occasions, but even cooler is the fact that his mom gave Pigpen organ lessons.

This is ’68, right after the Least Effective Firing In History. (Second on the list is George Steinbrenner firing Billy Martin: yes, Billy always came back, but at least he left the stadium for a couple months or so. Bobby and Pig didn’t even miss a gig after they were fired, so the Dead–as always–win a contest that they didn’t know they were participating in.) Bobby buckled down and practiced, but Pig’s problem was more foundational: he had no clue how the band’s new Hammond B3 worked. The sucker’s got a dashboard like the space shuttle, and foot pedals and levers, and switches and sliders and two keyboards. Pig knew how to play the piano.

Luckily, John’s mom Evelyn was a concert pianist and an accomplished organist, and so she–semi-secretly, now: the Pig’s got his pride–taught him the intricacies of his new instrument. They probably sat there next to each other on the bench, and maybe Evelyn would whack Pig’s knuckles when he got something wrong, and give him a gold-star sticker when he did a good job.

I bet Pig called her “ma’am.”

OR

A rare photo in which Mrs. Donna Jean not only doesn’t have the best hair, but also does not feature Bobby.

OR

No, wait: Hunter looks like Elton John.

OR

Lucky Strikes are foul, but the packs–especially the soft packs–are art.

OR

Takes balls to start with an invocation to the gods. Homer did it, Virgil did it, Dante did it, and so did Hunter. All of them got away with it.

Nudielicious

Here’s another shot of Garcia’s Nudie Suit from behind; the outfit maintains the usual Dead motifs: skulls and roses and bullshit. Nothing says Grateful Dead like skulls and roses and bullshit.

Fuck it, might as well empty out the Nudie Suit library in one easy-to-find place. Here’s Bobby:

Is that a chicken? I think that’s a chicken. Here’s another of Bobby:

The son of a bitch just didn’t have a bad angle.

Say “Cheese.”

“Cheese!”

You look spiffy.

“Flash, baby.”

Awesome. This is Phil:

But you already knew that. (Check out the cowboy boots.)

This is a better shot of the weirdo Strat from late ’72:

This is 12/12, and he also played Numbers (I just named the guitar) on 11/22/72 at the Municipal Auditorium in Austin. We know this from this picture…

and this article.

I gotta be honest with you, Enthusiasts: this research horseshit is not for me. I’m exhausted. The president’s right: facts are for suckers.

And we finish up with a shot featuring both the Nudie Suit and the weird guitar. I brought all the threads together.

And you without a Pulitzer.

I know, right?

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