Reports of a teenaged girl up in the rigging turned out to be false, but Jay Blakesburg got a good shot while he was up there, anyway.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: lockn festival (Page 1 of 2)
Oh, God, what is this?
“I am, uh, hipping and hopping.”
Please don’t.
“Rap-rock. Next big thing.”
It’s not.
“Well, my well-worn copy of the Demolition Man soundtrack begs to differ.”
Bobby.
“Call me Big Yachty.”
Absolutely not.
“But I love it when they call me Big Yachty.”
Still not gonna happen.
“Y’know, Billy used to have a human beatbox routine.”
Really?
“Oh, sure. He would beat a human with a box.”
I walked into that one.
“I actually am far more familiar with the hip-hop scene than you would think. Josh is teaching me about it. Kept introducing me to a rapper during the last tour.”
What did the rapper look like?
“Shoeless, mohawk. Big fan of the Dead, too.”
Bobby, that was Oteil. He’s your bass player.
“Ah. That would explain him playing bass.”
Right. Please no rap-rock, Bobby.
“Step off, bissh.”
Jesus.
“My daughter taught me that one.”
Jesus.
You found your sandals.
“I did, yeah. Turns out Red Metal Stool had stolen ’em to sell on Ebay.”
Oh, no.
“Terrible breach of trust.”
Sad what happens to people.
“Or stools.”
Them, too. What is all this?
“This is, uh, the Super VIP tent. People pay a little more and they get to hear Phil sing Bird Song in a tent.”
How much more?
…
Fuck, man. Two grand?
“Hey, if people wanna waste their money, I’ll take it.”
Good point. You gotta meet everybody?
“Nope. Say hi, play Samson too slow, and pick up the check.”
I should’ve been a rock star.
“There are worse gigs.”
What’s on your iPads?
“Gonna keep an eye on the fight.”
Who you got?
“Hagler in six.”
Good call.
Hey, Phil. Rando?
“Obviously.”
He looks friendly.
“He actually smells friendly, too.”
What does friendly smell like?
“Stew simmering on a pot, maybe a little essence of vanilla.”
If you say so. Hey, you see Fogerty?
“I’ve been successfully avoiding John Fogerty since 1970. Got it down to a science by now. No one avoids John Fogerty like me.”
Not a fan?
“You ever hear him get interviewed?”
Yeah.
“Well, that’s when he’s on his best behavior. Just the most miserable son of a bitch you’ll ever meet. Only thing worse than him was that band of his.”
Creedence was bad?
“Imagine the Three Stooges, but malevolent. I think the bass player was only partly human. Looked like something that escaped from Dulce Base. Used to rub up on foreign cars. Unpleasant in every way.”
Run Through The Jungle’s still a pretty kick-ass tune.
“Whatever.”
You should dye your hair like his.
“Pass. I think he uses house paint.”
I’d think about it. You go chestnut, it could take five years off.
“So I’d only look 72? Fuck off.”
I love our give-and-take.
“No, seriously: fuck off.”
Okay.
We have, Enthusiasts, hit Peak Festival; after this comes the crash. Wise investors are shorting Bonnaroo as we speak.
OR
“Umphrey’s Season!”
“String Cheese Season!”
“Umphrey’s Season!”
“String Cheese Season!”
OR
What’s the over/under on renditions of Soulshine? 12.5? I’m setting the line at 12.5.
OR
“Ve haff vays of making you listen to Tauk, Mr. Bond.”
OR
Phil, just because someone asks you to play with them doesn’t mean you have to. You’re allowed to pass on Moe. (I’m not playing along with their anti-capitalization bullshit, and I deliberately put them at the end of the sentence so I wouldn’t have to play along with their punctuation bullshit.)
OR
Fogerty should be headlining, shouldn’t he? Fogerty wrote Travelin’ Band and Lodi; hell, he wrote Proud fucking Mary. Widespread Panic has written songs, I suppose, but I couldn’t name any. Football analogy: Fogerty is to Manning brothers as Widespread is to Hasselbeck brothers.
OR
Brandi Carlile is awesome and should be a much bigger star. No jokes or sarcasm: she’s kickass in every way.
OR
Is that a typo? Is it supposed to be “His Golden Messenger” and they added an extra S? Or is the band named after Snake Jesus?
“If sssomone ssstrikesss you, turn the other cheek.”
“We don’t have cheeksss, Sssnake Jesssusss. We’re sssnakesss.”
“It wasss a metaphor.”
“We are alssso incapable of underssstanding metaphorsss.”
“Sssaint Patrick’sss coming! Run!”
OR
There’s not enough money or blowjobs in the world to get me to sit through that Thursday. I could’ve sworn the Geneva Conventions specifically mention an Umphrey’s/String Cheese double-shot.
OR
Twitter has fucked up the replies, so I don’t know whose joke I am stealing here, but: how can Gov’t Mule have a special guest when Woody Hayes is the special guest?
OR
One of the Pigeons Playing Ping Pong is Rebecca Pidgeon.
This uncapitalized missive is from Dean Ween, who is either the fat one or the ugly one; he is scrappy and ready for a brawl. He will fight for his rock and roll, as he must, for he is the only one who understands it. He is a survivor (like Claude) and he makes it equally brown for each and every show.
“How brown should we make it, Dean?”
“As brown as we can! We’re Ween, dammit. People came for brownness.”
Dean remembers laughter, and so does Claude, and therefore knows that–no matter how cool it would look on paper–a 40-minute Poopship Destroyer is not going to fly for a festival crowd. And make no mistake: a 40-minute Poopship Destroyer looks AWESOME on paper. Not since Communism has something looked this good on paper.
Thanks for weighing in go out to Dean Ween, who is either the fat one or the ugly one.
Did you wear your Phish shirt on Friday and Sunday?
“Don’t bust my balls, jackass.”
Great show this weekend.
“All the bands were great, weren’t they?”
God, no. Several stinkers. I was talking about the production side of it. Looked good, everyone sounded happy, big crowds.
“Shitload of VIPs.”
Sure.
“Fewer skunk ape attacks than ever.”
That’s good.
“Only two kids eaten by Shenandoah Howlers.”
Okay.
“The Snallygaster invasion was repulsed.”
How many cryptid species are involved with Lockn’?
“There’s also the Lockn’ Ness Monster.”
Walked into that one.
“Honestly, the place is rife with monsters. It’s how I got the land so cheap.”
This makes perfect sense, actually.
…
Pete?
“Yeah?”
I can’t tell you’re stoned.
“Oh, good. I was worried.”
- Non-portable potties.
- Mute button for Chris Robinson.
- On Couch Tour, climate is controlled by me, whereas in the field in Virginia, God is allowed to fuck with the thermostat.
- WiFi. (I think there’s WiFi at Lockn’, so let me be more specific: WiFi that I don’t have to share with 20,000 other people.)
- At Bonnaroo this year, seven people were eaten by cheetahs.
- I think I’m going to mention the toilet situation again just to make sure everyone got it.
- Actually, let’s just rank bathrooms right now;
- Home, personal. Gold standard: even if it’s dirty, it’s your dirt.
- Home, shared. If you’re married and not rich enough to have separate bathrooms, or the one in the hallway off the kitchen. Still pretty good, in that you have a clear idea of exactly who’s pooped in there.
- Almost everywhere else. Once you leave your house, you enter the food chain. The fanciest hotel bathroom on the planet might have been occupied the day before by Big John Studd, who now makes his living taking dumps online for wrestling fans. The toilet at The Ritz is just as unspeakably filthy as the one at Chevron.
- Against a tree or whatnot. This can be pleasant, but there are severe limitations: pissing off your porch in the morning is a gift from the Lord, but if you are pooping in a field, something has gone horribly awry.
- In your pants.
- Port-a-pottie at a music festival.
Also nice about Couch Tour is that heckling is permitted. If one heckles at a show, then one should be set on fire in front of one’s children, but the children not restrained in any way, so that they attempt to help, and one is like, “NO, CHILDREN! DADDY’S ON FIRE!” but they love one so much and then every one is dead. Do not fucking heckle at shows.
But on Couch Tour, you are rewarded for clever heckling; you might even spawn a hashtag.
Finally, because I am not at Lockn’, I will not end my evening in jail for murdering the person who brought the thousand-foot tall American flag to the show.
Couch Tour wins.
Hey, Trey. Whatcha doing?
“Watching Ween.”
Why?
“I’m polite. And bored.”
You guys were great tonight.
“Thanks. Nice of you.”
Have you guys been practicing since the summer tour?
…
Did you have a meeting or something, and decide to play well?
…
Was it the internet? You should never go on there: it’s mean.
“Y’know, I’m not in the Grateful Dead any more, and I don’t have to put up with you.”
Yeah, no: you leave the Grateful Dead when I say you do.
“What? No. That’s not how it works.”
Sure it does. I slapped the Franchise tag on you in Chicago, Trance.
“You’re worse than the Phish Phans.”
Dude.
…
“Yeah, okay: no one’s worse than Phish Phans.”
No.
“Listen, just between you and me? This Ween guy is making intolerable faces. I make fucked-up faces, but this guy is putting me off my feed. ”
The fat one or the ugly one?
“The ugly one.”
This face?
“Yeah. He won’t stop making it. I think someone slapped him on the back years ago while he was doing it.”
Mom was right.
“It froze like that.”
Norm MacDonald having an allergic reaction to scallops.
“If there was a corpse in an elevator, and the corpse farted, and then you got on the elevator? That would be the face you made.”
Sure.
If you’re interested, Lockn’ is livestreaming their day’s shows. Phish is up soon, and Ween has left the stage, so it’s safe to check it out. If you’ve got Apple TV, then you can go to the Qello app; otherwise, check it out in about five other places.
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