The road crew had a very simple solution to the problem of Billy running into the amplifiers potato salad-first.
Also: this is about what the Farewell Shoes are going to look like, right? Shirtless rhythm section?
Plus: Billy’s ‘burns.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: phil lesh (Page 49 of 105)
In honor of Jeb “You think I’m dumb, you should meet Neil” Bush officially declaring that he won’t be president, TotD remembers this little piece of weirdness: Phil showing off the acting skills that have made him such a powerful Hollywood player in Lil’ Bush, a sitcom from the South Park guys that was hilarious until you realized what you were laughing at.
I want you to look at the picture, Enthusiasts, and listen to the song Warren wrote.
Someone in your life needs to be told that they are loved: go find that fucker now, hunt him down in his sadness and isolation, tell him it’s all gonna be okay.
We all need to be lied to when we’re feeling down.
In a sad, see-through, and destined-to-go-sideways attempt to be helpful, TotD presents a one-time feature: What’s Everybody Bitching About Now? This shall be prefaced by another singular event entitled And Where They At?
Here’s what we know at around 7 PM, June 8th, 2015:
Everyone’s played their last gig, or in the case of Billy, had anal sex with his last bookstore employee. Bobby and Phil played last night at their* respective restaurants. Bobby had custody of Jeff Chimenti for the evening and Steve Kimock showed up; Phil was surrounded by mammals, as well. There were webcasts of both shows, but you had to shell out seven bucks for Phil’s and that’s all I have to say about that.
Billy has come off the road, washed the skank off his potato salad, and sent Benjy down to Little Aleppo for the most Hawaiian shirts ever made. (In what was a lovely gesture, Benjy offered Billy the use of his (Benjy’s) apartment, but Billy had specifically inserted into the contracts “I get to stay where the Pope stays,” so Billy’s got a place to crash.)
Mickey has posted yet another picture of this fucking thing:
Previously, we had seen the yams Mickey planned to bang on while everyone else sat down for a while, but we now learn that there are technicians for the yams.
The gourds have their own roadies; some things are still just exactly perfect.
Now: Who’s Got Beef?
Grateful Dean got beef. He says things! and stuff! and other things that, to be honest, I could not follow. There are shenanigans afoot, and trouble ahead – he’s been taken aback!
If you can’t expect straight-shooting from a concert promoter who used to own a bowling alley, then what’s this world coming to?
Washington Post got beef, or at least tries to explain various beefs and levels of beefery. Will there be litigation? A class-action suit on behalf of people who couldn’t get quite as close to the stage as they desired? Did folks want to smell the band?
Old balls and good pot. The Grateful Dead smells like old balls and good pot. Now suck it up and sit in the damn loge.
Bill Walton got beef, in that he is planning to kidnap the surviving members of the Dead and force them to play in his basement.
Bring no vegans: there is beef here.
* Does Bobby own Sweetwater or not? He has to own a piece of it, at least, just from his bar tab.
The wind is at our backs; the sun is in our eyes.
The rain threatens, but that’s all: it cowers in the face of determined men, we tell ourselves.
The way has never lain ahead.
It must be made.
Make your way, anyway you can.
During the cold and windy Bickershaw festival in the north of England, the Dead experimented with a new idea: “the crowd is wherever you think it is.”
Are they this way? That way? On the ground behind Billy?
Yes.
As commentor Correy342–proprietor of Lost Live Dead, the greatest Dead site ever–informs us, these 1965 shots are from the In Room in Belmont, CA, and as an actual nighttime performance would have been too dark, these shots were from the afternoon of the show, probably.
Of note: the sad “The Warlocks” sign taped to Billy’s drums, Bobby’s necklace that makes him the rightful heir to the throne of Wakanda, and Pig’s ugliness.
Pigpen looks like he lives in a bell tower and kidnaps sopranos.
“Treyvon, sit up straight.”
“He’s right, Trouble: gingers shouldn’t slouch.”
“Well, can I have a chair with a back?”
“No. Those are for paying customers.”
“It’s nice of Phil to let us use the restaurant, Triple. Thank your Phil.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
“You’re welcome, but I don’t know why we can’t charge people a hundred a head to watch us practice.”
“Because in the past hour, we haven’t managed to figure out what key Brown-Eyed Women was in. And you forgot your bass. Also, Bobby bought some pills from your bartender in plain sight a half hour ago.”
“Not that bad.”
“Plus, every time someone mentions Billy–”
“FUCK BILLY!”
“FUCK BILLY!”
“–you and Jill start screaming and it’s just not good for unit cohesion.”
…
“Who died and made you Garcia?”
“Garcia did, kinda.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
SAN RAFAEL, CALIFORNIA
“Billy, why did we fly from Phil’s house to Front Street?”
“Y’know, Mick: ya bitch about flying the plane, ya bitch about not flying the plane.”
“Jeez, man.”
The Dead’s storage/rehearsal/hangout/pop-up Korean restaurant had been configured in a life-size replica of the Donley Auctions warehouse. Grateful Deads and semi-Grateful Deads wandered around. As always, there were dogs and naked children underfoot. (The Grateful Dead’s children are now mostly middle-aged themselves, but they like to keep to tradition and do the tushee dance three feet away from speakers. Mostly Justin.)
“Harrumph.”
Everyone came to the conference table and sat down except Keith, who was curled up in the corner clutching a bottle of Boone’s Farm (strawberry) that he had attempted to vomit in, but failed miserably and so now was covered in his own sick, which Otis was licking off.
Everyone was fine with Keith not being at the table.
“Gentlemen, Mrs. Donna Jean, Ned Lagin,” Billy said. “This is the plan.”
He told them the plan.
The Grateful Deads at the table erupted into 18 different arguments, questions, ejaculations, interrogatives, accusations, paranoid ramblings, harmonica solos (Pig), racist jokes (Billy), and demands for more money (everyone.)
“How do we get past the dogs?”
“Can I shimmy through the laser defenses in a seductive and buttock-highlighting fashion?”
“I’m assuming there will be a musical number or two, right?”
“Can we all wear tactical gear?”
“Can I just wear a black t-shirt and sweatpants?”
“Can someone separate those two?”
That was in reference to Otis and Keith. Keith had puked up a semi-intact pill up–a little gooey, but good–and Otis started to eat it. Keith tried to grab the sucker out of Otis’ mouth, but Siberian Huskies generally don’t but up with that sort of thing from people they like, so Otis bit Keith and Keith sloppily swung at Otis; it was getting stupid.
“This is the plan, folks. You don’t like it? You can walk, but if you’re in, then you’re in. There might be danger. People may die, but I guarantee one thing: you–
HHGBNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR
The loading bay’s big garage door opened and a dirty van backed in. Ramrod and Parish got out.
“Hey, guys: terrible timing.”
The roadies opened the van doors and removed a large painting, some smaller prints; about $75 grand worth of memorabilia.
“We got that shit for you.”
“What the fuck, assholes?”
“What? You said you wanted this shit.”
“I said,” Billy said, “that I wanted to heist it. I had a plan, and we were all back together, and Mickey had some purpose.”
“I fly the plane.”
“You guys ruined it.”
“Billy, you’re a pain-in-the-ass. What if we put it all back, and you could steal it then?”
“No. It’s ruined. It was gonna be fun and now it sucks.”
“I’m still having fun.”
“Mickey, I am this close with you, buddy.”
MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
“Oh, fuck you,” Phil said, and slammed the door. “Jill! It’s here!”
“At the door?”
“Yes!”
“Release the hounds,” Jill yelled down the stairs.
“We have an arthritic sheepdog, honey.”
“Then release Peter Shapiro.”
“I already did. Billy’s got one of his own, now. They fought and they’re both dead.”
…
“Isn’t that just like him? You write a book; he writes a book. You get a Jew; he gets a Jew. Fuck him.”
“Okay, honey.”
Outside the door, Billy had taken the rejection well, allowing the other members of the Dead to tackle him before shooting at the door with the pistol no one knew he was carrying.
“Gimme that,” Garcia said, and wandered away.
“C’mon, Bill,” Bobby said as he tried to hold the drummer–thrashing with rage–to the ground. This destroyed the Bougainvillea.
“Bill! Bill! Think of the music.”
“I’ll kill the motherfucker!”
“Think of your friendship.”
“He’s a dead man!”
“Bill: think of the money!”
The door opened.
“There’s money” Phil asked.
Jill poked her head out the door. “Did someone say money?”
FIVE MILES ABOVE MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
“Just a few more stops, Mick.”
“Am I going to get anything to do in this–”
“Dude, Mickey, Dude: shut the fuck up and fly the plane.”
…
“Jeez, man.”
“Well, sorry, man – but, this next part’s tricky.”
© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments