Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: phi

This One Got Away From Me

May 27, 2013 / / 3 Comments

One of the running themes of these bloggings is this: the Dead weren’t as special as we think. They did precisely the same trend-following as every other big rock and roll combo of the time, it’s just that they were incompetent at it. They discovered reggae at the same time every other with-it white dude in LA did, but their reggae song was in 7/4. Plus, Phil wasn’t exactly Family Man Barrett.

They did cheesy music videos, but instead of hitting the gym and hair stylist like their peers, they chose to look like this: bobby phil NASA phil unshaven

(Hand on my heart, I only meant to post one picture of Phil looking completely unpresentable. The two-fer was just a happy accident.)

(Okay, last parenthetical, but it has to be said: our boy’s looking rough in that second one there. Like he’s a stranger in a bar who keeps moving through the room getting closer and closer to you, but you never notice him actually moving , and then all of a sudden HE’S ON THE STOOL NEXT TO YOU and he asks you if you want to hear a secret? Because, mister, I’ve got a secret and…I’d like ta tell it to ya.

What the hell, man?

You disagree?

It’s not that I disagree or not: it’s just unseemly. First of all, close your parenthesis.

Sorry.)

Second, I’d really prefer you didn’t even imply that the ground-breaking bassist from our favorite improvisational combo was some sort of lumberjack rapist.

I would never imply that Phil raped lumberjacks. That’s–

–Wait, that is not what–

—on YOU, FUCKIN’ WEIRDO THAT YOU ARE.

–I said. I meant that he was a lumberjack who raped. 

… Oh: A lumberjack-rapist?!

Yes!

Well, it’s kinda on you for being so fast and loose with the typography, Mr. “Close your parenthetical.”

SHUT THE FUCK UP, BOTH OF YOU.

COMING SOON: The much-promised, never-delivered return of Elvis! Also, check out this rightfully well-regarded show from 9/20/87 and pay special attention to the Desolation Row, Garcia’s solos in particular. They’re a matched pair: the first, sadness; the second, release. He only takes one verse each and makes every bar both a logical continuation of the bars before it AND a complete surprise. Plus, Bobby just kills it.

Tonight Weir Gonna Rock You (Tonight)

January 30, 2012 / / 0 Comments

We don’t talk about ’71 a lot, you and I? In the transitive nightfall of diamonds?

(I need to get this off my chest: the lyrics to Dark Star–well, all of the early, yell-y songs, but Dark Star in extremis–are nothing but a freshman year way of saying, “I took the big blue pill.” In fact, the phrase “dark star” is almost identical to the phrase “midnight sun,” which is universal shorthand for “shitty lyrics.” Seriously, go check how many songs have “midnight sun” in them: it seems like a lot, but I’m going to have to go ahead and absolutely refuse to do even the tiniest iota of research for this. Nor will I provide links to examples.)

Because for a while there, in between TC and Keith, it was just the five of them. Pig did the backing vocals on Not Fade Away. Billy wouldn’t transform into Swingin’ Billy the Jazzbo Cat for three years. Bobby was in that sweet spot between learning how to play electric guitar and learning how to play slide guitar. Garcia still had the nasty sound of the Primal stuff, but he was playing these long, lyrical lines and PHIL WAS PLAYING EVERY NOTE HE COULD THINK OF AS LOUD AND AS OFTEN AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE.

And it worked, it really worked. They were loud and nasty and occasionally funky. They actually were the dance band they’d always bullshitted about being. And the shows they have left us are a little bit of magic in this used-up world.

We haven’t talked about Pigpen; we’re gonna talk about Pigpen.

Shit Grateful Deads Say

January 28, 2012 / / 1 Comment
  • I spent a million dollars on this thing.
  • Hey, Healy? Could you turn me up a bit? I can’t hear myself over Lesh and Weir.
  • You smell like Heineken; let me have your liver.
  • Fuckin’ Weir.
  • Fuckin’ drummers.
  • FUCKIN’ DONNA!
  • Healy, if I still can’t hear my bass 60 seconds from now, I’m going to stab you. I will physically stab you with an actual knife. You need to bring it up at 800 cycles…that’s it: Ramrod, bring me my knife.
  • No, Ramrod: to ME my blade.
  • Bring everyone their knives, Ramrod!
  • Would someone pull Mickey off that cop? Just grab him, but be careful…OOH, I should have told you that Billy was probably gonna punch you in the dick. He does that and other human beings seem to just accept it.
  • Jerry, get out of the bathroom.
  • No, not “I need a million dollars.” I told you that I have already spent a million dollars and now the million dollars is gone forever and we will almost certainly never get one cent of it back. What did I do with it? Stop hassling me, man.
  • Yes, of course  it seems perfectly logical that we allow the crew to have a full vote on everything we do. How can that be anything but a sound business practice that will, in no way, end in numerous deaths. Why do you ask?
  • Who the fuck bought a harpsichord?
  • Yeah, they call me Captain Billy; I’m kinda the captain. Would you like to touch the captain in a sensual way? Come! Let Captain Billy practice his sensuality all over you, my zaftig nightchild!
  • Soooo…you should just assume that every single thing you see  is just absolutely drenched with acid. All of it, even on the insides of things in defiance of all laws of nature. We encourage a culture in which is acceptable to drug one another at any time with any amount of any drug. Some workplaces have fantasy football; we have chosen to amuse ourselves through poisoning one another. We have almost definitely poisoned you already.  Enjoy your backstage passes, Congressmen.
  • Healy, can you–
  • –Healy, you turn him up and I’m gonna buy, raise, and train attack dogs–like Michael Vick-type shit–and then I will set them on you and fucking LAUGH.
  • –you’re just, like, mean.

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