Tag: phil lesh (Page 13 of 105)

Yes, Enthusiasts, the tour you’ve all been waiting for is here, for a certain value of “all.” (The value is 0. I’m not saying no one is now looking forward to the shows, just that no one was anticipating them. This morning’s announcement was as much of a surprise as this morning’s announcement that Mario Batali was a pussygrabber wasn’t.) (We should call it that. Let’s just call all the media and business and political assholes that get fired for sexual harassment/assault pussygrabbers. That way, every time you say it you remember, “Oh, right. The president bragged about doing that.)(I feel we’ve forgotten about that part of the Access Hollywood tape: Basketball Head was trying to impress Billy Bush. Donald Trump needed Billy Bush’s approval. That alone should have disqualified him from owning a Taco Bell in Schenectady, forget about being the president.) (Speaking of Taco Bell–

STOP STRINGING PARENTHETICALS TOGETHER.

None of those thoughts were germane to the main point.

Do you have a point?

I have a collection of jokes and a distinctive voice.

Just do whatever it is you do here.

Anyway, Bobby and Phil are going on tour: six shows in three cities at a moderate pace. According to Jambase–and fuck my life for having to start a sentence like that–they’ll be playing two sets, one acrostic and one eclectic, and there may be guests. The guests will not be the drummers.

But, TotD, you’re asking: is there a VIP package available?

Ah, I would answer. I did not realize I was speaking to someone who was Very Important. Of course there is, sir and/or ma’am but most likely sir.  Follow me, won’t you?

And you’d purse your lips slightly, as if you were looking at a poor person.

To which I’d respond, My thoughts exactly, sir. I was just showing you that so that you’ll know what the new money is getting. For you, sir, we have another class of accommodation. For you, sir, we have the Praetor’s Suite. Allow me to list your amenities.

• One (1) seat wherever the fuck you want to sit. Upfront, behind the soundboard, in Bobby’s lap: wherever. And if someone’s in the seat already, your exclusive Executive Goon will move them as violently as you’d prefer.
• Invitation to attend Bobby’s daughter’s next sorority function.
• The openest bar you’ve ever fucking seen. And the good stuff, too. Not the swill those assholes who buy the Enhanced Experience get. You may also direct your Executive Goon to take drinks from other patrons and give them to you.
• One (1) exclusive poster produced on-site by that evening’s artist while you watch and heckle.
• One (1) Bitcoin.
• Private time with Bobby OR Phil (Private time will contain, but is not limited to: Garcia stories, discussion of why blue fin is such a trash fish, watching Baby Levon while Phil takes a piss, thumb wrestling.)
• One (1) song request, plus you get to specify the tempo.
• If Jeff Chimenti is one of the guests, then you will be allowed to brush his hair.
• Private merch fashion booth.

You approve? I hoped that you would. Shall we have your people handle the financial matters? Of course, sir. Talking about money is for poor people. We’ll see you at the show.

“Phil, hear me out.”

“No.”

“We call it Dead & Family. You, me, Josh, New Brent, and that kid from the cover band who plays too fast on drums.”

“No.”

“Fine, Grahame can be in the band.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Short tour.”

“Bob, I don’t wanna tour anymore. I’ve told you this a million times.”

“Short. Real short. 14 cities in 18 nights. Northeast in March.”

“That sounds like a sentence. A judge would literally have to force me to do that.”

“March is a lot warmer than it used to be up there.”

“Hard pass, Bob.”

“Ten shows, ten night, ten cities.”

“I would die, Bobby. That would kill me.”

“You’re healthy as a horse.”

“No, I mean I’d fucking kill myself rather than do that.”

“Four cities, spaced out over a week-and-a-half, really nice hotels.”

“Which cities?”

“New York, Boston, DC, and Chicago.”

“I don’t wanna go anywhere near DC.”

“Done. It’s out.”

“Three cities?”

“Just three.”

“No Josh. We get someone else.”

“He’s, uh, come a long way. Really played his way into the music.”

“Yeah, I know. I listened to a couple of shows from your last tour. It’s just that we’d just have to pay him too much.”

“Ah.”

“I got a restaurant full of Fake Jerrys that’ll do it for a grand a night.”

“Keeping money is better than giving it to someone else.”

“There you go, Bob.”

“All right.”

“Weir, I want you to look me in the eyes and promise me you’re not gonna call me in a couple days trying to work the drummers into the mix.”

“No drummers.”

“No BIlly, No Mickey, none of Mickey’s weird little foreign friends and their weird little foreign drums.”

“Nope.”

“I don’t even wanna hear their names. If a Disney cartoon comes on, you say, ‘Hey, there’s Minnie Mouse’s husband.”

“Gotcha.”

“When you’re singing Ramble On Rose, you change the line to ‘Just like Kiddy Fun Day.'”

“Sure. What is, uh, Kiddy Fun Day?”

“We do it out back by the bocce courts every weekend. Weather permitting.”

“Everything depends on the weather.”

“Sure does. We clear? No drummers.”

“Okee-dokee. But that means we can’t call it Dead & Family.”

“Who gives a shit?”

“Can’t use the Stealie.”

“Who told you that? That thing’s public domain by now. Every asshole on the internet slapped it on a bumper sticker and we never sent ’em any threatening letters. That sucker belongs to the people now, comrade.”

“Yeah, maybe. You in?”

“I gotta talk to Jill.”

“Make sure you mention that Radio City has a capacity of 6,000 with a per-seat estimated average of $211.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Lead with it.”