If the photo extended just a bit lower, you could see that Bobby’s wearing his patent leather sandals.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: phil lesh (Page 57 of 105)
Hey, guys. Casual Friday?
“Yup.”
Cool. Oh, hey: Vince. Haven’t seen you in a while. Whatcha up to?
“I’m dead now.”
…
Always bringing a lot to the party, Vince.
My Immortal Beloved,
Hi, Phil. This is Thoughts on the Dead. How are you? I’m fine.
Since I am assuming the get-up was for a fancy event, and that you are not planning to come out dressed like a Chippendale for the Farewell Shows, I’ll get to the heart of the matter.
Please don’t bring that thing: the death swan. It looks like Karl Lagerfeld’s favorite dildo. Or a tiny, perverted Loch Ness Monster. If you dipped that terrible device into a reservoir, children would develop testicles on their foreheads. That tragedy is to regular basses what Hitler is to regular art students. (Are you happy, Phil? You made me bring Hitler into this.)
I would rather shove the Hope Diamond up my ass than look at that thing. It’s like the abortion of an angel.
Your hair looks good.
Sincerely,
TotD
“Folks, I can’t thank you enough for coming out to Terrapin Crossroads. We’re glad to have to have you.”
“Oh, Phil: we had a great time. Thanks for taking a picture with us.”
“No worries at all. One small question: that confused-looking bearded man–”
“You mean Bobby?”
“–who just left your table? Did he ask you to join the Grateful Dead?”
“He did, yes.”
“I see. Would you excuse me one moment?”
…
“BOBERT HERBERT WALKER WEIR, GET OVER HERE!”
- Did a gypsy steal Phil’s shoes?
- Speaking of which, why is Bobby wearing Marty McFly’s future sneakers?
- How long has Mickey been a lesbian park ranger?
- Trey’s driving?
- Really?
- Couldn’t resist those fucking bears, couldja?
- Would anyone really want to be rained on by Cloud Garcia?
- Speaking of which, why is Billy a cloud?
- How is he gonna play drums? Someone’s gotta play the drums while Mickey fucks around with his tar, don’t they?
- Why not just put all of them on the hot dog?
- Do you think that’s not going to cause jealousy?
- “Why does Billy get to be a cloud?”
- “Well, why wasn’t I even asked if I wanted to be a cloud?”
- Won’t that giant hot dog smother all the people in Soldier Field to death?
- Why a hot dog, anyway?
- Is that some dopey Phish bullshit, the hotdog nonsense?
- Do we need to have a talk about keeping one’s toys in one’s own side of the sandbox?
- I mean: the first motherfucker that WOO’s during the Farewell Shows knows he’s getting punched, right?
TotD has also managed to obtain the letter written to Jeff Chimenti.
FROM THE DESK OF PHILBERT J. LESH
Chimenti:
Rehearsals begin at noon. Bring donuts and don’t make eye contact with your betters.
Hornsby has been given permission to strike you in a sexual fashion.
Phil
Having previously brought you Phil’s letter to Trey, TotD has also acquired the personal and private letter Phil wrote to Bruce Hornsby entreating him to join the Dead this summer.
FROM THE DESK OF PHILBERT J. LESH
My Friend Bruce,
Hi, Bruce. It’s Phil. Phil Lesh. Of the Grateful Dead. How are you? I am fine.
Are you dead? You played keyboards for us. Statistically, you are deceased. If you are dead, let me ask you two things: totally dead? Because we did an entire European tour with Pig when he was mostly dead: we can work with mostly dead. If you are 100% dead, though: tell Garcia I need my lawnmower back; he’ll know how to get it to me.
Continuing under the assumption that you are still alive, I come to my point. The Grateful Dead will be reuniting for three shows this summer at Soldier Field; we’d like you to be there with us.
We had such good times during the too-brief period when you were with us, Bruce. Musically and socially: do you remember the time Mickey dosed you and Bill Walton, dressed you in Godzilla costumes, and pointed you at those Japanese tourists? I’m sure they remember it! (Bill Walton remembers it: he shredded his Achilles tendon tackling that tiny little Hello Kitty of a woman and missed the playoffs.)
Let’s have those good times again; look how little has changed: Trey Anastasio is playing guitar, so there will be a bearded reformed(?) junkie smiling at you; Jeff Chimenti will be stuck behind you playing a little dinky Casio, so you’ll have your contractually obligated “piano bitch;” and Bobby still thinks your name is Brian.
There is, of course, the small detail of the money, but I think we should–as Billy always says–“let the Jews take care of it.” (I’m not saying I agree with the sentiment: it’s a terrible thing to say. I’m just saying Billy says it all the time.)
In a financial nutshell: you won’t be getting the least amount of money, nor will you be getting the most. (Funny story: Bill Graham will be making the most money out of all of us. He inserted an iron-clad first-refusal for the 50th in some contract for a 1985 show at the Greek. Wily bastard, Uncle Bill.)
I have only three small things to ask of you:
One: If you see Mrs. Donna Jean, don’t say anything. Long story. Just dummy up.
Two: If you don’t have room in your suitcase for your accordion, that’s okay.
Three: Don’t hit Chimenti above the neck. May God help us all, he’s the closest thing we have to handsome nowadays. Shoulders down: that’s up to you.
We all hope to see you in Chicago and make some more music together.
Sincerely,
Phil
p.s. Bobby wants me to say “Hi, Brian.”
Randomly:
- Phil is roughly 1.29 Mickeys high.
- Brent is straight-up jingling his keys. doing his Hanon exercises, counting his change, milking his shake, shaking his milk, putting away his toys, stroking the place that makes him a bad boy.
- Bobby and Garcia heard you been talking shit.
- Things Mickey does because it is his nature: drum, physically assault people, wear Dead stuff, assume superhero poses whenever a camera’s present.
- Phil wants to show you his imported tentacle porn.
- Or his van.
- Or his deathnipples.
- Billy never had these feelings before. Especially not about Mickey: Jesus, he was the man’s brother drummer! That would be like getting wood from your sister and banging her in the closet of Uncle Al’s 60th birthday party. (After Uncle Al walked in on the incestuous closet-banging, he had a massive heart attack, so the theme was quickly changed to “wake.”)
- But there it was: that tingle in his dingle which meant Billy’s heart had a boner. And Billy’s boners weren’t like the dumb boners of old, just chucked out of the trousers in vain hopes of hitting the ground; no, Billy’s boners were like today’s smart boners: steerable, programmable, and deadly accurate; one made it down a chimney once. This boner had a name on it, and the name was Mickey.
- Billy was desperate: perhaps Mickey had secretly been a stone-cold teen fox all this time? Like a Mrs. Doubtfire deal? Billy rejected that one on the grounds that he had seen Mickey naked 18 billion times. That’s a conservative guess.
- A potion? Voodoo? Santeria? Any other of the ethnic magics? A curse from an ancient Eastern European, one of those places where everyone there is an 85-year-old woman? Had that goddamn Time Sheath technology spawned another zap gun that turned people gay? (Again.)
- No matter: Billy’s hand was creeping towards Mickey’s crotch, that heaping bowl of potato salad, and creeping slowly but steadily and then Mickey…
- “HIYA!” and smacks Billy’s hand.
- “You were up to your no-good dickpunching ways, William.”
- “Huh? I wasn’t…YES, I was going to punch you in the dick. Because I’m Billy and that’s hat I do to dicks. Punch them.”
- “But I thwarted you with the Judo that America taught me while I served in her Air Forces!”
- …
- “Why are you talking like Superman?”
- “It’s a photo shoot thing. I stand like this, and sometimes–“
- “Oh, right: you get into it.”
- “–I get into it and kinda get all Clark Kenty. What were we talking about?”
- “I don’t remember.”
- No joke: Garcia and Bobby are sending some folks to the hospital tonight.
Thoughts on the Dead is proud to present the actual, honest-to-God letter that Phil wrote to Trey to convince him to join the band this summer in Chicago.
FROM THE DESK OF PHILBERT J. LESH
My Dearest Tray,
Hello. This is your friend, Phil, Phil Lesh. Of the Grateful Dead. I am fine. How are you?
Do you remember when I bounced with you and the other fellows, Trent? Up and down: it was so exciting. And then there was that run of shows back in 1999 with you and your keyboardist friend. Has he died yet? In my experience, keyboardists are like large-breed dogs as far as lifespans go. You played the music of the Grateful Dead–and lived up to its spirit–so well that it left an impression on me.
How did Miami go? I haven’t been there in a while. Last time, a local musician came up to jam with us and his name was Pitbull and it did not go well at all. Is it true that The Phishes will be taking a break for most of 2015? I hope you use this time to recharge and rest and explore new musical ventures.
One such exciting journey might be to play with us this year for our 50th anniversary celebration.
As you might be aware, 2015 marks fifty years since the Grateful Dead’s first show at Magoo’s Pizza Parlor and what a long, strange trip it’s been, Trig. From the Acid Tests to Egypt to Radio City, we’ve always gone forth boldly to seek new sounds and examine obscure rhythms, picking up fans and admirers and sexually-transmitted diseases along the way.
The time has come for the trip to end: we’ve been there, and now it’s time to go back again. Our brother Jerry can’t play with us, but you can. Troy Abracadabra, will you join the Grateful Dead?
Your lifetime of musical innovation and improvisational mastery makes you the perfect, only, and first choice for this role. Also, you have a beard. Plus, you are the only guitarist whom someone does not violently object to. And, you are not Warren Hayes.
The full commitment is for a week’s rehearsal here at Bobby’s studio, then three shows at Soldier Field in Chicago. Per diem is $55 a day.
Which brings us to a delicate subject: we would, if possible, prefer not to pay you. I would wager that, if you choose to take the gig, you will say “I would have done it for free,” in one of the interviews leading up to the shows. Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, Travis?
Failing that, we would like to pay you very little. Certainly less than Mickey, even though in any sane and just universe that should be impossible.
As far as our playing styles, you have played with the four of us many times; as far as the repertoire goes, you know it or could fake it. (El Paso’s only two chords, really.) Some time in the woodshed will surely get us up to speed, although I would like to mention in advance that–and there has been a meeting about this specific subject–we in the Grateful Dead prefer sinuous, slowly-evolving transitions between songs. Not that shit you do where you get bored and just start playing a new tune.
In closing, I with the best for the new year for you, your lovely wife Chewbacca, and your daughters Kevin, Purple, and Gwyneth Paltrow.
Gratefully yours,
Phil
- Lock’n.
- Bonnaroo.
- Month-long residences at the Warfield and Radio City.
- A KOA site outside Indianapolis well-known for its meth labs.
- MSG. Not Madison Square Garden: Monosodium Glutamate. Not even Bobby could make any sense out of that one, and it was his idea.
- Egypt, until it was explained how unbelievably bad an idea this was nowadays. (At least one SMWINMDJ* had not heard about Sadat’s death.)
- Garcia’s grAAAAAAve! OOOOOOooooh! SPOOOOoooooOOOky!
- The untidy home of a weird, sickly Florida resident.
- Wherever this fuckin’ Mt. Gox place is and get back all that money I lost in those fuckin’ Bitcoins. (Mickey’s suggestion.)
- Vegas for six months, shows every night and twice on weekends. (Jill’s idea.)
- Bobby suggested hitting the Houston Astrodome, Giants Stadium, Shea Stadium, and close at Winterland. Phil pulled him aside and talked to him, quietly, and then Bobby started to rage against the dying the light.
- “My YOUTH! Bring it BACK, MOTHERFUCKER!”
- It was not clear whom Bobby was addressing, but Phil got him under control after a moment and led him back to the table, where he shnuffed and whurfed and blew his nose and dried his eyes and asked,
- “How about a free show in that plaza by the Twin Towers?”
- …
- “Why is everyone looking at me like that?”
*Surviving Member Who Is Not Mrs. Donna Jean
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