One night, Garcia played the Close Encounters theme, and fuck me if aliens didn’t show up.
(Sincerely, though: I love everything about this picture.)
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: keith godchaux (Page 10 of 17)
A small shot from the Giants Stadium show in ’78; they would play the venue most summers thereafter. It’s no longer there, replaced by MetLife Stadium, but the whole complex does continue to be located in Secaucus, which is an Indian word meaning “swampy place full of traffic and Italian bakeries.”
The strap sliding down Mrs. Donna Jean’s shoulder is killing it.
Lonely, buddy?
…
Little bit.
TotD: not short of short shorts
From left to right:
- Billy, you’re kidding me. You look like the Zodiac Killer.
- There are three interns and the kid who gets the coffee hidden behind Keith and propping him up. The interns were all killed, but not the kid who gets the coffee, and since he’s pretty much the only person who actually does anything around here, no one was really upset.
- The reason for Bobby’s belt buckle is that he took some shrapnel in a covert-ops mission to the farmer’s market, and much like Iron Man, he was forced to invent technology to keep the deadly shards of metal from getting to his dong.
- Apparently, a fox has walked by and Garcia is sucking in his gut.
- Phil only stopped by the photo shoot on his way to the Mod Squad audition he had later that afternoon; he was up for the part of “Phil Lesh from the Grateful Dead” and he was beaten out for the role by Peter Tork.
- You can’t tell me 100% that Pig’s alive in this picture. He probably is, but it’s not a fact.
Keith didn’t wear those scarves, the road crew would drape them over him as a last-ditch attempt to keep him in the vicinity of upright.
PLUS the ultra-rare, post-hiatus Garcia pigtails.
From left to right:
- Billy’s clearly mid-fart.
- Garcia is gently cupping two imaginary sets of testicles: it was something he did that tour and you had to put up with it. On the next tour, however, he progressed to resolutely milking two imaginary wangshafts and a meeting was called.
- Bobby is staring at you like a gold digger eying gold, or a silver miner looking at silver, or a metaphor writer getting meta.
- Keith needs to give my Aunt Yetta her sunglasses back.
- Holy shit, Mickey. You look like the cashier at the supermarket whose line I don’t want to be in.
- Mrs. Donna Jean is fine of fettle; she has a well-turned calf; a dewy lip and loamy of loins. She is mysterious and smells like expensive shampoo and Seconals.
- Phil is going at himself two-handed over there.
Speaking of Hong Kong Phooey, the voice actor behind him, Scatman Crothers, was invited to audition for the keyboardist spot after Keith left. Plans fizzled when the band learned that Mr. Crothers not only did not play piano, but also did not actually possess any magical powers.
Having not realized these things until Mr. Crothers was on his way, the band feared it would be awkward, but as it turns out that Scatman Crothers was the only person who loved weed more than the Dead, the afternoon was still a success. (Seriously: Scatman was the black Willie Nelson.)
- No, Mr. Owsley, you cannot “soup up” the audio tour. Stop calling it the Walk of Sound.
- Parish, you’ve got to help me: I’ve accidentally invited TWO DATES to the fundraising ball!
- Gentlemen, I’m not going to point fingers and play the blame game and name names, but using the museum to stage a fake blood drive is going to stop immediately, Phil.
- There won’t be any dinosaurs, Bobby. It’s an art museum.
- Everyone needs to put on their trousers right damn now.
- Billy, that’s not performance art.
- There have been some great reviews for Keith’s sculpture of himself. Oh, that’s actually him? He’s been lying there motionless for, like, nine days. Perhaps we should call a docent.
- No, I don’t know what a docent is, either, but it’s the museum and something’s gone awry, so you call the docent. There is a chain of command here, Grateful Dead!
- But it doesn’t matter because you have dosed all of them.
- Yes, yes: doses, docent. Quite clever.
- Billy, stop doing performance art.
- No, Bobby: the eyes of that painting are not following you around the–oh, Mickey’s cut eyeholes in the art and is standing behind the canvas looking at people. Good call, Bobby.
- Come out from there, Mickey. Why are you naked?
- Garcia’ll be fine: I put him in the sculpture park. It’s just steel and gravel out there.
- I’ve told you this already, Mr. Mydland: museums don’t have mascots. Take off the costume.
- Why is Bill Graham haranguing schoolchildren in Yiddish?
- We don’t allow camping because it is a museum of art; there cannot be filthy teenagers taking doodies directly outside.
- I’m sorry, I don’t see a “Ned Lagin” on the Will Call list, possibly because there is no Will Call list, probably because it’s a museum. Why are the whole hairy lot so fuzzy on the concept of “museum?”
- Phil, you’re doing a great job running the food court, but I think charging $200 to eat sandwiches while you jam with your sons is a bit excessive.
- Vince, for the third time: your new character, down-home surrealist Salvador Golly is just not a hit. Please stop doing the routine. Also, buddy: pants.
- We’re just going to require that there be no more naked Grateful Deads in the museum, please. It’s not an unreasonable request.
- Attention museum patrons: we are going to need to evacuate the building immediately, please. All attempts to prevent Billy from doing performance art have failed. I repeat: Billy is doing performance art.
Bobby once got a hold of one of those trivia books at a truck-stop somewhere and quickly became fascinated with the flagpole-sitting fad of the early century, but he was scared of heights and just wandered into the Keith’s hotel room and perched atop Keith’s semi-conscious body. Bobby had set a world record for Keith-sitting (14 minutes, except for when he got up and wandered around looking for a match) when Mrs. Donna Jean came in and then there was humping.
Pretty nice afternoon.
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