Game time, Enthusiasts: let’s play Spot The Heineken.
…
Yeah, there it is.
OR
Sadly, Keith died before he could reap the publicity benefits of the “panorama” setting on phone cameras.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: phil lesh (Page 25 of 105)
Hey, kid.
“Me?”
Yeah. Little towhead.
“I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.”
I’m not a stranger. I’m from the internet.
“Okay.”
See all those colorful buttons on the floor?
“Yeah.”
Go play with them.
“Mommy said not to.”
Your mother has an agenda. Trust me.
“Who is the skinny guy?”
His name is Phil.
“My name is Solarsystem.”
So, you’re local to Marin County?
“Wha?”
Nothing.
“Does he have kids?”
Who?
“The guy you told me his name.”
Phil.
“Okay.”
Yeah. And he has a grand kid a little younger than you, I guess.
“He is sooooooo old.”
Happens to the best of us. Actually, it doesn’t. It happens to some of us.
“I’m gonna stay a kid.”
Good decision.
“I know. What’s your favorite dinosaur?”
Ankylosaur.
“HE IS AWESOME! They have armored shells and tails.”
And they were like twenty feet long.
“I would have one for a pet and ride him to school. I would pick up my friends.”
How would you steer an ankylosaur?
“He would know where to go.”
Okay.
Phil and Jackie Greene and Nikki Bluhm are back at TXR playing for children–actual ones, not grown-ups in tie-dyes and New Balance sneakers acting like children–and you can listen here.
This is from the Warfield last night, and since the Warfield is in San Francisco, I don’t think that’s a window.
Later on in the show, Phil showed up, too.
See?
Where? I don’t see Bobby or Phil.
There they are.
Ah.
Hey, remember the Dead? (This is a blog about the Dead.) Well, they were from a city called St. Francisco, and their bass player was named Phistfucker McGee. He’s sitting in tonight at the O’Farrell Theater (in the main room) with Jackie Gleason; they’ll be going bleep and blop and maybe the occasional FLORP. They’ll also probably play Eyes of the World, and Bobby might be there, so it might be too slow.
“What is it, Jer?”
…
“C’mon, guess.”
…
“Jeeeer, guess.”
“It’s a duck, Weir. Stop making shadow puppets and play your guitar.”
“ZzzWHANGggg!”
“Phil.”
“BahkaDOOOOM”
“Phil.”
“NONGANONGANONG!”
“Just play your bass, man. Stop making the noises.”
“Bite me, Garcia. SHWURM!”
“What’s this one Jer?”
“It’s also a duck, Bob. You only know one shadow puppet.”
flump
…
“Did Keith just pass out again, Jer?”
“Just keep playing, Weir.”
The other way, Garcia.
“Which way?”
Rotate to your left about 140 degrees.
“Wouldn’t that make it way too hot in here?”
Bobby, don’t help.
“This way, Jer!”
No, no. Don’t listen to Phil. Turn towards the crowd. The way Bobby is facing.
“Are you talking to me?”
DON’T TURN AROUNDoh goddammit.
Penduluminescent super troopers wrestle feedback gremlins in the balcony, while the ushers and the kids have ongoing discussions about the propriety of sitting on stairs, and the road crew barters for blowjobs backstage. The bathrooms need to be cleaned, cleansed, purified, all. In the concourse run round the loge, there is dynamism and torque, spooky action at such a far distance from the stage, where the next chord is a B minor.
So, there’s Doug Sahm singing on the left; all the way in back with the Strat is Leon Russell, and there’s our man Reddy Kilowatt standing behind the drummer because otherwise he would be able to hear the bass drum. I wanna say Buddy Cage is on drums, but I’m guessing, and also Buddy Cage might be black, but I also could be thinking about Buddy Miles. (I know Buddy Holly was white and Buddy Guy is black, but besides those two I cannot tell one Buddy from another.) You know the shaggy fellow on the pedal steel.
The violinists are Abigail and Zachariah Mumphree, twin virtuosos from Galveston who need to be separated lest they start fencing with their bows again.
The woman in the center of the picture thought the event was called Day on the Great Gatsby, and came as Daisy.
OR
In a lot of ways, I can really relate to Phil: he didn’t deal with the Hiatus well, and I think it fucked with him for a long time afterwards. All the other Grateful Deads started side bands or new projects, but Phil got drunk and hung out at softball games; that’s exactly what I would have done, too.
(And the stark reality of it was that Phil didn’t have the options the other guys did had the band truly broken up: Garcia was playing with Jerry Band the next day, and Bobby would have the record company putting his face on solo albums, and good drummers can always find work. In the reality up the stairs and third door on the left, the Dead were done in ’74 and Phil kept making noises with Ned for a while, then became composer-in-residence at the College of the Redlands or some place like that.)
OR
“Deb?”
“Yeah, Jer?”
“You a rock star?”
“No.”
“Then why you wearing sunglasses inside?”
OR
If you can immediately picture the photo that guy is taking, and know that Deborah Koons has a plate of food on her lap that is hidden by Pete Townshend, then you have seen too many photos of the Dead.
OR
Heineken.
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