Hey, Phil.
“That was a nice talk with Pig you had.”
Yeah. Do you want to have a nice talk?
“No, I’m going to eat your soul.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: phil lesh (Page 52 of 105)
Though some supposedly reputable and well-researched Dead source (looking at you, Lost Live Dead) deny his existence, forgotten member of the road crew Precarious Lee worked with the band well into the 1980’s.
In this rare photo, we see one of Precarious’ favorite engineering solutions: unsecured wooden chocks. Screwing things in was “dark-sided” according to Precarious, plus he had “lost the battery to the drill,” and also, it “looked fine, so get off my back, man.”
In addition to the unsecured wooden chocks, we must make note of another of Precarious’ signatures: putting the biggest thing on top. Most people familiar with gravity would balk at that route, but that’s what makes him special.
(Also–and this is a fun little touch–the little speaker wobbling on top of the monitor that’s balanced on the road case? That speaker is the heaviest thing of the three. Made out of tungsten. True fact.)
Other signs that Precarious Lee has helped include the exposed wiring just draped over things and Phil’s choice of sweater.
TotD calls your attention to Phil’s dolphin t-shirt. And then calls your attention to Bill’s tattoo in the previous post.
“Get out of the way, fuckstains! Get out of the way, fuckstains!”
“Billy, it’s a drum parade. People can hear us coming without the vulgarity.”
Also, Jill is over it.
Featuring, zombie Dauber from Coach.
With, Terrible Dead (Skin) Art.
Co-starring, Phil’s tight tuck.
Did the Dead tape a TV show in ’76? Those are film lights, not stage lights.
Also, this photo brings up a possibility so terrifying even TotD never had any thoughts on it until this moment: what if there were three drummers?
Also also, Mickey is once again fully immersed in his persona of Sniffles, the God of Cocaine.
Okay, new contest: “Just how many Stealies did those mutants plaster on that poor piano?”
Look: everyone’s ignoring Mrs. Donna Jean.
Press conferences were rough. Everyone had his own way of getting through the ordeal. Garcia would tell jokes, or not show up. Mickey would initiate drum circles and give lectures on the psychohistory of the tambourine.
Bobby and Phil were different. They both retreated from the squawking gawpers, into their unique heads.
Phil has become death, the destroyer of reporters. If he had a flamethrower, it would already have been emptied, and then thrown at the smoldering, but still alive, husks of men that lay before him. These peasants–these fools–who ask questions about music, man. How can you talk about music, man? And then put it in the paper, man? Phil would give every man in that room a Wet Willie with an icepick, if he could.
Bobby’s playing with a cup.
OR
“My glasses are bigger than yours.”
“They’re just not, Phil.”
“In both surface area and volume: yes. I measured.”
“How’d you measure my glasses? They’ve been on my face.”
“Eyeballed it.”
“And, anyway, my glasses are enormous and they’re sunglasses and I’m wearing them indoors, so I win.”
“None of that stuff matters!”
“And, yet.”
“Ah, go play with your cup.”
Hey, Phil. What’s goingHOLY SHIT, WHO’S THAT GUY?
“The internet says he’s named Charlie Sexton. I am assuming he is a gigolo or a polo player or something.”
Guy’s got quite the face.
“Right? First you look at the chin and think, ‘That’s the highlight.’ But then there’s the eyes: they peer into your soul and tell you it’s going to be all right.”
Great hair.
“Spectacular hair.”
He is losing points for the sunglasses on the chain. The whole open shirt thing is a major blow to his credibility, to be honest.
“Granted. Now look at his cheekbones.”
I FORGIVE HIM.
Hey, Phil. What’s with the iPad?
“Candy Crush.”
Cool. What’s with the bass?
“It’s expensive.”
You can tell.
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