Happy birthday to the best piano player the Dead ever had.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: gd (Page 3 of 18)
4/16/78, West Virginia. Holy shit, they must have been broke, although it seems like WV would be pretty in the spring. Check out Garcia’s solo in Peggy-O, the way he leads the chord changes. Just listen to Peggy-O: this version is astonishing.
In fact, Garcia has been on fire the entire show and for most of the tour, but sweet Sally in the alley, would someone take that slide from Bobby. For the children, if nothing else.
And then listen real careful to Ship of Fools, where Garcia implores us to “Looky here,” before he tells us how late it was when he got around to believing.
P.S. in the New Orleans tradition, when the body is brought to the church, the Second Line follows, playing traditional funeral dirges. IKO IKO IS NOT ONE OF THEM, GENTLEMEN. Hop to it, guys: you’re killing me.
And how about 4/14/78 at the Cassell Coliseum at Virginia Polytechnic University? Most of the show is a complete mess, but like the rest of this tour, its sheer energy pulls it through, and then LISTEN TO GARCIA do his George Benson thing and start singing along with his guitar during Black Peter.
Next up, West Virginia.
Rage on, you cataracts and hurricanoes, rage on. We take a break from our tour in progress to match the show to the day: thick and rainy and hot and weird and that can only mean one thing: the Wharf Rat>Sugar Mags from 6/20/83 at the Merriweather Post Pavilion.
The lightning was hitting the struts and buttresses of the sound system and Phil was answering God right the fuck back with his own thunder and the crowd was swimming in mud and Bobby was dosed out of his head and starts babbling about Aborigines.
So, a Grateful Dead show.
Hey! This is not Fleetwood Mac: knock it off or I get the hose!
This photo is obviously not telling you the whole story: Mrs. Donna Jean liked to fight as much as the guys, but she was a fairly petite woman and Billy’s program of punches and kicks were meant to be performed by a guy who made his living beating on things. So, Mrs. Donna Jean clawed and scratched and bit. In this pic, she is washing about two fl. oz. of Keith’s plasma out of her teeth.
So now you know.
Now, as you know, Blair Jackson and the rest of Big Dead are keeping things from you, important things: the keys to the Vault, the fact that “Mickey Hart” was played by different actors before and after the hiatus, etc. Why is this? Why does Blair Jackson hate the Dead?
No. You’re not going to do this.
Is it because he’s from Kenya?
Please: not again.
Is it because a mere TEASPOON of his liver, eaten, would produce TREMULOUS LUBICOSITIES OF THE UTMOST in the recipient?
Are you going mad or insane? There is a difference, and I can live with mad for now.
Ah, right: Blair Jackson is Yog Soggoth, the Ancient Anus with many Eyes!
Good, just mad.
Anyway, Blair Jackson is doing this thing over on Dead.net about listening to ten shows in a row so I’m going to beat him by doing the entire Spring ’78 tour because god help me, I need a girlfriend. We join in progress with 4/10/78 from the Fox Theater in Atlanta, GA.
Listen to the way Garcia snaaaaarls Los Angeles? Gimme Norfolk, Virginia. Tidewater 4-10-0-9…
And then stick around for the off-kilter BEW. Both drummers have been exploding with goodness and syncopation and tomfoolery this tour. And Keith is fucking killing it, but then, on a dime, his playing turns awkward and overpowering and there is a reason they rarely played It’s All Over Now.
And then check back in for Music Never Stopped which is such a train wreck that Harrison Ford is leaping in front of it.
P.S. After full listening, I give this show 3/2 thumbs up and a pat on its ass: “Good job,” I would say to it, were it here, even though it was goofy and sloppy and all over the place–they rocked the Fox with a crackling, coked-up energy. Proud of you!
When Billy played, he turned beautiful.
The guy holding the paper is Clive Davis and that’s actually the Arista contract.
Oooooh. OOOOOooooooOOOOOOooooh. (What’s weird is that if you use two ‘h’s, it’s no longer spooky. Well, yeah, it’s spooky, but in an unclean way: Ooooooohh. Right? Just got fifty shades of creepy in here.) It’s Friday the Thirteenth. Oogie-woogie.
The origin of our dreadful fascination with the date arose when Jesus was 13 and Joseph came in from a hard day of being a fictional character offscreen and said “Thank God it’s Friday,” and Jesus leapt up and screamed “You’re not my real dad, I hate you.” and stormed–well, I was going to say into the other room, but the Christs* probably had more of a loft thing, right? The open floor plan was big in Judea in, well, I guess it would have been 13, wouldn’t it have been?
So, then Jesus opened his religion and after that there were Knights Templar, who liked to roam around Europe building hospitals and having gay orgies. That got the Pope mad so he killed them all and, even though none of this really happened, it took place on Friday the 13th which is why on this date, we kill black cats on sight with impunity.
(There is a good possibility that none of that is true.)
So, tonight is filled with horror and foreboding (totally out of context, check out Bobby’s slide solo in Werewolves of London). Jason would have cut a swath through the Dead like Mrs. Donna Jean through a Holiday Inn, as would Michael Myers, mostly because Jason is a blatant rip-off of said Mr. Myers.
Freddie Krueger would have had no luck with the boys; there was nothing he could conjure up in their dreams that was scarier than things they had seen while awake.
Draculas of all sorts were known to avoid the Dead for fear of catching something. Or, more likely, catching everything. The weird, quickly evolving bacterium and viruses that followed each tour did some wonderful things (from a science point of view). There was one pathogen that caused a nearly 80% result for an incurable disorder called Total Nipple Refraction. TNR, man! So, like pretty much anyone with three or four brain cells, the draculas stayed away from the tour blood.
Werewoofs also would have been no sweat. A guy who turns into a raging beast once every 28 days? So, like, half-a-Billy?
It doesn’t matter anyway: Bobby still demands his nightlight to sleep.
* Until the age of 25, I thought that Christ was his last name. Like, “Hi, we’re the Christs. I’m Joseph, and this is my wife Mary.”
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