“Yes…YESSS…Cheer for Phil. Sing and dance to praise his sexy. Proclaim him the King of Pillow Talk because of the dirty things he whispers in your ear at night and the boners he pokes you in the back with in the morning.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: phil lesh (Page 61 of 105)
Another pic from 1970–in fact, from the show I recommended from January–at the old Fillmore East. Of note, Mickey’s goofy grin and Bobby in the back fixing his guitar.
TotD makes it a point to never repost a photo, except for the times when I have, either accidentally or on purpose. Some rule, though, are meant to be broken. Almost all the rest of the rules are meant to be enforced selectively based on your race and position in society. Same thing.
I asked for the worst thing in this photo of Phil and hundreds of thousands–
They can read how many comments each post has.
–MILLIONS of people responded. After filtering out the comments written in all caps, the ones that called Vice-President Biden the n-word, numerous demands for the release of a show from ’83, a few calls for ethics in gaming journalism, and a denial from Mr. Cosby’s lawyers that he ever met the Grateful Dead, a consensus seems to have been reached, with bass and haircut in the lead, shirt and glasses to place, and sweatband for the bronze.
As you know, TotD is for the people. I love my readers and would stand up for them in a court of law if they were ever accused of anything and they gave me money to lie for them: that’s how much I care. All of you–each and every one–are my precious oysters and Big Daddy gon’ do some shuckin’. Slurp y’all up, wash y’all down with a mojito. Refreshing, yes, but still got enough juice in it. Get me all loose for the things she always makes me do.
That got weird. And barely made sense.
MY LOVE FOR THEM MAKES NO SENSE. But it remains. Did you know that before I write one word, I sit and think about what my wonderful Enthusiasts want to hear about? Like, really think: legal pad, list of pros and cons, whole nine.
Really?
Sure. Then, I say “fuck ’em” and write 3000 words on KISS or some bullshit but, still: love.
Did you have a point?
Yes: anyone who reads this nonsense regularly is a good person, smart and brave. I would never speak badly of them.
That being said, if you thought the sweatband was the worst thing in the picture, then you are a crazy person. This is not a value judgment: some crazy people are lovely and generous and go on to lead succesful lives and enrich the community, right up until the moment they take their clothes off and run into traffic claiming to be the fourth Kardashian sister, Kanada.
Saying the sweatband is the worst thing about the pic is like saying you don’t like Phil’s head: it’s essential. Part and parcel. It makes its first appearance–this is off the top of my head–in ’76 with any regularity. Deciding to add the sweatband to his stage gear may have been the only thing Phil did during the hiatus.
Phil’s first real fight with Jill was whether the sweatband was permitted during lovemaking. Before his transplant, Phil lobbied hard with the surgeon to be allowed to wear his sweatband during the procedure. The surgeon, who had little patience for rock stars or their shenanigans, countered by volunteering to just take a shit in the incision which, the surgeon explained, would possibly be less lethally pathogenic than the garment designed for the express purpose of sopping up the body fluids of a Grateful Dead. Phil reluctantly agreed, but he wore it long after he had taken off the rest of his clothes.
So, the ‘band is out.
The glasses are, some of you correctly noted, dreadful, but they’re the same massive, frameless Aunt Lillian glasses he wore since he chucked those heavy black-rimmed specs everyone wore in the 50’s.
The problem of the shirt is context: had Phil donned it to, say, putter about in the garden (in addition to the restaurant and touring, Phil is very active in the giant pumpkin-growing community) then that tie-dye would be fine. If Phil were laid up with a stomach bug and had thrown up on all of his other shirts, then that is the perfect shirt. Earthquake? And you grabbed the absolute closest thing at hand in a sheer panic? Then that thing can be forgiven.
But not onstage, man. Plus, the collar is losing all tensile integrity and expanding into what is dangerously close to being a mock turtleneck.
The problem with Phil’s haircut is that he has two of them. There is a clear line of demarcation running horizontally on Phil’s skull. My theory is this: there was a second barber. Hear me out.
As we all know, most of the Dead get their hair cut at the exclusive salon of the transexual tripod tonsorialist, Big-Dicked Sheila. This particular appointment, though, saw Big-Dicked Sheila get called away from the salon (Bobby had gotten gum in his hair again) and her bitter rival in hair, Nick Nameless, finished up the coiffure and botched it to bring shame upon Sheila. (Bobby’s hair was fine.)
It’s not quite a hairstyle. It is, in fact, not quite a bunch of things. It’s not quite a mullet, not quite the Han Solo, not quite a spiky deal.
It’s a mess.
This brings us to the bass guitar. Six string bassists are played by guys who call songs they write “pieces.” Six-string bassists all did magic as kids and can draw really well. They draw a shitload of dragons. Six-string bassists are particular about their cars and have rules about riding in it. Six-string bassists have food allergies.
This particular instrument is a Modulus and it is headless. It is made out of carbon fiber, titanium, vibranium, dark matter, and Brazilian Applewood, which is an endangered hardwood that only grows in the heart of the rainforest, which means a road had to be built (killing god knows how many other, less useful, trees) and a camp for the loggers had to be erected and a shocking number of natives needed to be relocated. (The loggers also went out of their way to slap the natives around for no reason.)
Why any decent man would build a guitar with no head is a mystery: nothing is better without a head. You die without your head. Everyone enjoys getting head. In a sticky situation, you’re advised not to lose your head. It’s important.
Was the head of these guitars removed for the worst reason to do anything: because it was possible? Like creating super-smart sharks or committing war crimes in the name of science, the removal of the headstock from its rightful place and the end of a guitar’s neck was an ultimately nihilistic act. It signifies nothing and has the very same nothingness at its essence. The sign over the door reads ‘No Exit.’
Phil had them inlay a little Stealie in case he forgot what band he was in.
The contest from my previous post is ending presently! Get your votes in while TotD reminds you that Phil had more than one moment of awesome awesomeness, shows where he brought his sexy and enough for the rest of the class, haircuts that didn’t look he chose his barber based on price.
For the life of me, I cannot determine what the worst thing in this picture is: the shirt, the bass, the fact that Phil’s singing? TotD turns to you, the loyal Enthusiast, to judge.
Argue your choice in the comments.
Winner receives a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat. Losers will receive an actual San Francisco treat: being priced out of your home while naked homeless people throw used syringes at you during a transit strike.
Mrs. Donna Jean knew that most lady rockers liked to sex it up a bit or, failing that, at least wear their hippest clothes to the show, but she was chilly and figured if Johnny Bravo back there was going to rock the ‘dana, then she could wear a light sweater.
Man, she could cross the shit out of her arms.
Your fetishes are becoming rather random.
The boner wants what it wants.
Also, everyone’s favorite roadie Precarious Lee was in charge of the setup today. Who stacks anything like that? I’ve seen children’s blanket forts with more structural integrity.
To the crowd, it was a normal show: Bobby forgot the words to Truckin’, Mickey hurled drumsticks at a guest, Garcia was technically present. There were smiles on the stage, though. While this hockey arena still resonated with the last of our rocking power, we’ll be getting the Full Rock Star, the band thought. Like the Stones, or Zep, or The Who: we’re every bit as big as those bands, except in sales and popularity, so we deserve the same treatment!
They raced through Johnny B. Goode for an encore and exited: stage left. The cheers followed them past the drum riser, to the real show.
There is, of course, no recording of what happened that night and multiple eyewitnesses have multiple stories, but they all follow a similar timeline, except for one which mentions terror-dactyls, but that account did come from Lying Jimmy, so we’re discounting it. This is what we know:
The structural failure of the zip-line was both complete and immediate. Billy was the first to go because he pushed everyone else out of the way; he grabbed the handle and ZWANGCHWEEE the cable flew free in a deadly and unpredictable arc, sending Billy tarzanning around the room kicking bystanders in the heads. The line ran out of energy quickly and Billy wasn’t swinging around anymore, but he was still kicking anyone who came close to him in the head. His drunken, violent flailing is a metaphor for this whole incident.
With the destruction of the zip-line, there was now no way to exit the back of the stage. No stairs had been built, as everyone was positive the new protocols would work flawlessly. It was a good twelve feet. Phil tried first, edging his legs backwards, but gets frightened. He attempts to clamber back up, but lacks the upper-body strength; he hangs there like the bad guy in the last reel of an action movie. A Teamster gets beneath Phil, except his feet are doing this bicycle thing and whichever way you want to look at it, two members of the Grateful Dead are kicking people in the head.
Luckily, there was still some audience left in the arena. Luckier still is that they were a team of Chinese acrobats. They came backstage and, using only their bodies and incredible strength, created a human ladder from the stage to the ground. It was beautiful in a way and as Keith made his way down their bodies’ limber gossamer, he was careful not to touch their bits. Mrs. Donna Jean, for reasons that have still not been fathomed, straight-up stuck her finger up an acrobat’s butt. It was intentional: she had to get through clothing and eye contact was maintained the entire time.
This might have weakened the human ladder made of small Chinese nationals, but Garcia cannonballing into it was what broke it. It also broke most of the young women, some of whom will never acrobat again. Garcia was fine, as he went limp before the impact.
Leaving aside the reasoning behind the cannonball, we now find ourselves with all of the Dead on the floor of the arena, waiting to be be-robed, then taken to their fancy limos.
The valets have all been robbed and thrown out of the arena by the road crew. They have put on the musicians’ fine robes and prancing around like pretty, pretty ladies. A beauty pageant has spontaneously erupted: Ramrod won; Kidd was pissed.
Bobby’s “surprise” comes into play at this point. If one guy with a flashlight pointing the way was good, then one each would be better. The seven flashlight holders, however, had been dosed and were predictably wandering about the building at random. This was unfortunate in that big-time rock stars had been conditioned to follow without question the guy with the flashlight after the show. They are much like cats with laser pointers.
For far too long, the Dead followed various beams of light around the darkened back of the arena. Billy followed his light until it disappeared into the darkness; he wasn’t seen for two days, and when he came back, he claimed to have had adventures being a bounty hunter in space, but everyone was sure he just went to the track.
Mickey finally attacked the fellow holding the flashlight he was following and over time, got the rest of the band to follow him except Bobby, who had also wandered off after remembering that this was all his fault and he didn’t want to be in the room when everyone else remembered that fact.
Finally, Garcia, Mickey, Keith, Mrs. Donna Jean, Phil, and Brent got to the cars, where they made Brent go right back to the time he came from. (He said he was lonely.) It is here where the fatal flaw of beginning the Full Rock Star in Fresno became apparent. There weren’t seven limos waiting because there weren’t seven limos in Fresno.
There were two according-to-Hoyle limos, even though one was white and the other wouldn’t start. A couple guys had brought their old man’s Buicks which, to their credit, were hella-spacious. A Toyota. Van with dragon painted on the side. Beyond that, it was a total clusterfuck: asshole in a dune buggy, fucker in a motorcycle with a sidecar, shithead with a shopping cart.
Keith and Mrs. Donna Jean, who had been punching one another in the head since the moment the concert ended, commandeered the Buicks and began ramming them into one another. Everyone else looked at the white limo and got in the van.
Things were quiet on the way back to the hotel, until the kid driving got lost and everyone started yelling at him and Mickey took the wheel and immediately drove them onto a highway going the wrong direction.
When the group assembled that night, there were serious questions on the table: Whose fault was the failure of the zip-line? How could the robe issue be so bungled? What happened to the driver guy, Avi? It seemed like he was going to be a big part of this and he didn’t show up at all. What’s the deal with that?
All good questions, but ones only Bobby can answer, and he has wisely fled the scene.
The Dead would grow into the Full Rock Star–it’s impossible in just a logistic sense to play a football stadium casually–but not for a few years more. What did they learn? Almost definitely nothing. What have we learned?
What have we learned?
The Dead tried to exit a gig in high fashion just once. In both concept and execution, the plan was flawed.
“Has anyone seen how Led Zeppelin does it?” Bobby said to the others as they stood outside Front Street. It was Spring, so the Dead were having their charity car wash to benefit Ronnie the Sickest Boy in the World. (Ronnie’s existence was limited to a picture of child actor Ron Howard that Mickey had cut out of a magazine: the money was going towards Billy’s gambling debts.)
Garcia stopped soaping up a Camaro.
“Like, musically?” Garcia said.
Billy, who instead of helping was just hucking rocks at people and cars, which–according to Wikipedia–is the mathematical opposite of helping.
“Sexually?”
“No, guys: exitaciously.”
“That’s not a word, Bobby,” Phil said. He had just returned, having crawled into the back of a station wagon getting washed, falling asleep, waking up in San Luis Obispo, scaring the shit out of the lady owner, finding out she was a Deadhead, receiving a beej, falling asleep again, getting the shit scared out of himself by the lady, eating a roast beef sandwich she had prepared, disliking the roast beef sandwich, wondering what the proper percentage to eat as not to be rude, deciding on 60%, hitting 50%, calling it a day, asking for another beej, settling for a tugger, catching a ride back, inserting himself into a conversation as if nothing had happened, correcting Bobby’s grammar.
“I have asked you time and time again not to correct my grammar or my syntax. One more time and I’m going to HR.”
“Didn’t we make Otis the head of HR?”
“Then he’ll definitely be on my side, won’t he?” Bobby said. Proud of his latest win in a game of office politics that only he was playing, Bobby went back to the cars, bending over every so often to give the neighborhood dads a peek at the goods. Such pervs, Bobby thought. Gross.
The next car to pull in snapped Bobby out of his Lolita-inspired reverie. It was blasting Zep: the song they stole from a black guy and slapped some doofus bullshit lyrics about elves on.
“Our exit!” Bobby cried.
FADE TO BLACK
The thing about rock star poses is that they work. If you look like a rock star.
Also: look at those lights! They look like Queen!
Like the hermaphrodite said at the genital store, why not both?
BOOM.
TotD promised you Shirtless Phil Day, but what does he bring you? FUCKIN’ CHESTY THE RHYTHM MACHINE up there.
Also, Phil is wearing his trousers in a hip-hop fashion and, from the pallor of his skin, appears to be a dracula of some sort.
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