Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
PHIL’S WAR JOURNAL – ENTRY ONE
“I own the night. I am the night. Poopers are a cowardly and superstitious lot, and they shall fear me.”
“For I am the night.”
Wait, are you Punisher or Batman?
“I’m Phil. Phil Lesh. Of the Grateful Dead.”
Right.
“And I’m also the night.”
You can’t be the night. It’s a period of time. It’s like being Tuesday.
“If I identify as the night, then I can use any bathroom I want. Obama said so.”
Thanks, Obama.
“I’m gonna miss blaming that guy for things.”
Me, too.
Phil didn’t play this thing for long, but he should have: it’s gnarly. Do the red parts glow in the dark? I think we can assume so.
Also: TXR will be rocking for another of Phil and Phriend’s free shows (he does a lot, actually) in the Grate Room, and as usual, Radio Busterdog will be streaming.
(A quick aside: streaming used to be called simulcasting, and it took a truck and several technicians and cost thousands of dollars. We live in the future.)
All right, Enthusiasts: science time. Put on your lab coats and take off your pants. Do you have your eye protection? Cups?
Next one of you to even look at the eyewash or the emergency shower is getting suspended.
Here’s the dodge:
Get your phone and your computer, or tablet, or whatever. Two separate internet connections. Also, two sets of ear buds.
Put this Phil & Phriends Stream on your phone, and the left bud in your left ear.
Put this Phil & Phriends stream on your computer, and the right bud in your right ear.
Report back here if your head doesn’t start giving off Hawking radiation.
Let’s not let the innertubes see this, please. Every year, a few white people get yelled at for Cinco de Mayo-related bullshit, and I would prefer that one of them not be Phil. Mostly because Phil yells back at the innertubes, and he will give Twitter the finger, and then the Beyhive will get involved and someone will ‘shop a Crying Jordan onto Phil’s head; no one wants this to happen.
Also: why does the black lady not even get to be a Mexican? White guys get to be Mexicans, but not black ladies? Let Jay Lane be a floating head; he is a bad influence on Jeff Chimenti and does not deserve to be any sort of Mexican, let alone a Mariachi Mexican. (The Mariachi suit is the southern equivalent of a Mountie’s uniform: the single coolest piece of clothing allowed a man in that particular culture.)
The very definition of White privilege is denying black ladies the right to be Mexican guys.
Also, Phil is having the busboys do the Photoshopping for the Insta feed.
Let’s just put all this silliness away in the problem Attic, shall we, and instead enjoy Radio Busterdog streaming from the free–seriously!–show at TXR this evening. Phil and his Phriends are playing and maybe if you ask real nice, they’ll play the Creature Cantina song in honor of Star Wars Day.
“Hey, Brent.”
“Hey, Bobby. Been forever.”
“Well, you know: whose fault is that? We have a time machine. You’re always welcome to come by.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure, of course, yeah. Would you wear the outfit?”
“Can’t really just walk around in 2016. I died a million years ago.”
“What about once you’re in the house?”
“Well, in the house I would just prefer to wear the suit.”
“Uh-huh. Is it comfortable?”
“It’s the real me, Bob.”
“Ah.”
“It makes sense: I’m slow, and shy, and get arrested a lot. Just like a turtle. I’m a turtle, Bob.”
“I think you’ve been fucking around with the Time Sheath too much and you’re going a little nuts, buddy.”
“That’s absurd and offensive. I am not crazy.”
…
…
…
“I’m a turtle.”
“Dammit, Mydland, you’re not a turtle. It’s just a suit. You’re a dead keyboardist with inexplicable access to a time machine. And also, you know: you’re getting a bit gamey.”
“That’s my musk. It attracts lady turtles.”
“Turtle foxes?”
“Hey, man: turtle or not, I’m still a rock star.”
“Sure, sure. Brent, can I talk to Lesh for a minute?”
“Of course.”
SIDLE SIDLE SIDLE
“Phil, uh, did you know Brent had gone nuts?”
“He’s not crazy.”
…
…
…
“He’s a turtle.”
“Oh, not you, too.”
“If a fully-defunct choogly-type keyboardist identifies as a turtle, then who am I to deny him his truth?”
“What’s your angle?”
“I’d have to pay a kid to wear the suit. Brent just thinks he’s a turtle that lives in my backyard: he’s free.”
“Being a business owner has changed you.”
“It’s all about the margins, man.”
“Are you feeding him?”
“I assume so. He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“Where’s he going to the bathroom?”
…
SIDLE SIDLE SIDLE
“Mydland, I got a question for you.”
“Sure, Phil.”
“And don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not a liar.”
…
…
…
“I’m a turtle.”
“Fine, whatever: I want you to look me in the eye.”
“Okay, but my actual eyes are in the turtle’s neck.”
“Noted. Have you been pooping on the bocce courts?”
“Absolutely.”
“MOTHERFUCKER! Why!?”
…
…
“Enough with the fucking ellipses! You’re not a turtle, or you are a turtle, or I don’t give a shit! Stop shitting on my lawn! Use the toilet!”
“Toilets are for people, Phil.”
“YOU’RE A PEOPLE!”
…
…
…
“I’m a–”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“–turtle.”
“Thanks for coming, Bob.”
“Hey, you know: couldn’t miss this. Hell of a day.”
“Sure is.”
“Who’d have thought Grahame would coach the Lakers?”
“No, Bob.”
“I didn’t even know he was involved with the sport.”
“Walton’s kid. Walton’s kid is gonna coach the Lakers.”
“Ah.”
“Luke.”
“That makes much more sense. What’s Grahame doing?”
“Hanging around the house, playing guitar.”
“Sounds like mine. Heard you got a new place.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Few posts back.”
“Right. Oh, hey: Brent’s here.”
“Should he be?”
“He’s disguised.”
“Ah.”
…
“You see what’s going on behind you?”
“Weir, I saw her before you got here. I saw her before you got up this morning. ‘Do I see what’s going on behind me?’ C’mon, man.”
“I used to have shorts like that.”
“You did.”
“You just like drinking out of green bottles, don’t you?”
“A little bit, yeah. How you liking the Apple Watch?”
“It’s a thing. Nifty little gadget. It monitors stuff.”
“Do you have any idea how it works, Bob?”
“Well, it hasn’t fallen off my wrist, so I got that part down pat.”
“Here: press the button.”
“This button?”
APPLE NOISE
“No, Bob. You just sent me a picture of your dick.”
“Oh, that’s not mine.”
…
“Whose is it?”
“That’s–
“Billy’s dick.”
“–Billy’s dick, yeah.”
“I understand that he sends you pictures of his cock, but why do you have them saved on your watch?”
“If you don’t save them, he gets insulted and threatens to cancel the tour again.”
“I keep telling you, Weir: put some more money into Sweetwater. Turn it into your place like I did here. If you show up two or three nights a week, the Deadheads show up seven nights a week. Stay home.”
“Lesh, God love ya: that sounds like a living hell.”
“Okay.”
“I go on tour, man. Maybe I’ll stop one day, but not now. Figure if I’m going to be doing shows anyway, might as well play the biggest rooms and get the biggest check. This requires, you know: putting up with the drummers. So be it.”
“Sounds fair.”
“Besides: you go and buy a place, take the time to make it nice–you know, a classy establishment–and somebody’s just gonna poop on your bocce courts. If you stay in a hotel, you don’t have to worry about your bocce courts because you don’t have any. You don’t miss the road?”
“Fuck, no. I miss being a kid, and when I was a kid I was always on the road, but: no, I do not miss traveling and strange beds and soundchecks in freezing hockey arenas. It was fun when we were 25, and a job after that, and out of the question now.”
“You don’t miss rocking Cleveland?”
“Nope. Truly, truly, truly do not. Or riding in vans. You know what I don’t miss and never liked in the first place? That cold some jackass would bring along on tour that everyone would pass around from nose to nose. I wanna be home.”
“You go to Vegas.”
“I own a home in Vegas. What part of ‘I sleep in my own bed’ are you not getting, Weir?”
“All right, all right.”
“Plus, I wouldn’t have busboys on the road. I don’t know if I could live without them at this point. Another reason for you to reconsider the restaurant: they’re invaluable.”
“They just clean the tables and bring water, don’t they?”
“Fuck, no: they do everything. It’s like if the road crew were expendable.”
“Where do you get them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
Hey, who’s that shaggy guitarist standing next to Phil? He looks so familiar.
It’s Bobby! (And Ross James playing an utterly gorgeous what-looks-to-a-Gibson ES-150, but Ross James is at Terrapin Crossroads all the time, so he does not get an exclamation point.) Phil is to the right, and the three of them played an acoustic set; Deadheadland provides us with pictures and a set list, and if you’re not following Deadheadland on your social media platform of choice, then you don’t know what’s going on in Deadhead Land. It’s that simple. (Plus, he’s got videos of the afternoon’s music over there. Go, watch, enjoy. I’ll be here when you’re done. I won’t be lonely. Abandon me. I’ll lie down and die like an animal. I’m fine.)
This was for a ceremony honoring something. The backyard of TXR and the city of San Rafael are now partners, or maybe one bought the other. Has Terrapin Crossroads been named a national park? I have no idea: the point I am trying to get across is that something happened. People were happy, and proud; a representative from the city may or may not have made a statement.
Another shot of some hippies playing in the park in the middle of the afternoon.
Of note: the trio played for 35 minutes, which means each of Phil’s bass pedals got seven minutes to itself; Phil has fully committed to his Apple Watch; Red Metal Stool did not make the gig.
Another shot in which we learn that the three played Monkey and the Engineer and On the Road Again, which Bobby sang; and Ripple and Friend of the Devil, which Bobby and Phil shared vocals on. We also learn that Bobby and Phil get bottles of water, but Ross James receives no water. Sorry, Ross James: water is for Grateful Deads. We learn further that the roof of Phil’s outdoor stage has been built in a way to enhance hallucinogens. We finally learn that the stage is well-protected by those metal stanchions with the nylon straps stretched between them. (The nylon is of Italian import.)
This was the cover to the TXR Haggadah, and I was going to make fun of it like a jackass, and then I saw Baby Levon with his Baby Earmuffs and I was all “aww” and felt like a dick.
I’ll overlook the bears.
In what’s become an annual tradition over at Terrapin Crossroads, Phil led a Passover Seder, and then played a set; it is with regret I inform you that the band was not retitled “Phil and Mishpuchah;” nor was there a Hava Negila jam.
Phil did, however, play Hide the Afikomen (which is a completely different game than Hide the Salami) and led the Haggadah>Rider>Donor Rap.
As always, one of the Haight Street Irregulars comes through with a recording: it’s an AUD, but it’s a FOB Haggadah. If there’s a SBD around, a matrix would be nice; for now, I’ll just transcribe Phil’s words:
“My friends, my guests, my family, Baby Levon: shalom. We are all here tonight to observe Passover. Not celebrate, observe. Jews have a lot of holidays you don’t celebrate. This is one of ’em, I suppose. Just a lotta days where you gotta suffer a little bit.
“Anyway, we’re changing the whole thing up a bit and going with a real liberal-type Haggadah here: it’s not in Hebrew and there’s a bit about domestic violence and we all know it’s going to end with the Donor Rap, so if you’re serious about your Jewishness, you should be aware that this Seder might not count. God might not count it: we are freelancing.
“As we look at our plates, let us take notice of food’s symbolism. I mean, let’s be honest: this food isn’t particularly good for eating, so it better be symbolic as hell.
“There are bitter herbs, which represent the time the Jews spent in bondage in Egypt. I spent some time in bondage in Egypt, but I was free to go at any time. It was a voluntary bondage kind of thing. Not so much for the Jews. Pharaoh was harsh and made them build the pyramids, and also a couple of cubes, and one rectangular solid.
“Next is charoset, which is a word I am not pronouncing correctly. It’s nuts and apples and some other stuff chopped up and mixed together; the apples are organic and there is a vegan alternative available. Charoset is the mortar Jews used to build the Great Wall of China when they were enslaved there, also.
“Then, karpas. It’s literally just a piece of celery dipped in salt water. Salt water. You kidding me? Christians get a ham at Easter, you guys went with ‘celery dipped in sea water?’ Fascinating. Oh yeah: these are tears. Salty tears, Jewish tears. Your ancestors were miserable, and you must be reminded of the fact constantly.
“Okay, you got a…zorro? Zatanna? Zoomzoom? Something with a ‘Z.’ It’s the only meat on your plate, and it symbolizes a lamb that was sacrificed at the First Temple. We had some great grass-fed, locally-sourced lamb shanks; long story short, Bobby’s sister-in-law released the shanks into the wild. So, we sent a busboy to the Buffalo Wild Wings down the street and got chicken wings. You’ll notice that they are the spiciest wings they sell: this is to remind us of the heat of Egypt.
“Beitzah. Beitzah? Baitzah. It’s an egg.
“We now take the first sip of wine, which is a 2012 Altamura available for purchase at the bar, and break the matzot. Most breads are broken metaphorically, but matzoh snaps like a cracker. Because it’s a cracker. I mean no disrespect; you know this; Phil Lesh loves the Jews. But calling matzoh “bread” is just false. It’s not even a lie: it’s simply incorrect. Matzoh lacks almost all bread-like qualities: it is not delicious; it does not look good sticking out of a grocery sack in the basket of a French woman’s bicycle; if you tried to toast it, you’d burn your house down. Not bread.
“And as we take our second sip of wine, I will reward the child who found the Afikomen with one drink ticket, good for well drinks only. I will also chastise the grown men who pushed the children aside trying to get the Afikomen. It’s bad enough you guys ride the rail when we play music for the kids in the backyard, but this was out of line.
“Our third sip of wine reminds us of the flight from Egypt. You had a bad flight from Egypt? Try doing it with the Grateful Dead. Billy hijacked a stewardess. They may have let Walton fly the plane for a bit. Road crew pried open the luggage hatch and went rummaging through bags, and then they started wearing people’s stuff: it got confrontational.
“The last of the wine brings us to the end of our service, and the Four Questions. In keeping with our progressive Seder, we have foregone the traditional Four Questions, and chosen new ones that were sent to us on Twitter.
“The first question is ‘Isn’t there another way to commemorate one’s heritage without symbolic food? Matzoh stops me right up.’ Good question. Something to think about.
“The second question is ‘Why did people stop breakdancing?’ Another good question; I don’t know.
“The third question is ‘Will TXR begin offering a larger dessert selection?’ Now that I can answer. We’re hiring a dessert chef, plus we’ve contracted with a local Girl Scout troop that’s going to sell cookies in the bar.
“The fourth question is ‘Have you caught the person who was pooping on the bocce courts?’ Vigilance is being maintained. Let’s say that. You know how Israel isn’t at war right now, but they’re not exactly relaxed? I’m like that. In this situation, I’m the Jews and you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to outlast that pooping sonuvabitch. You know who he is? He’s Pharaoh. He’s Arafat. He’s Hitler.
“Now, I know I promised not to bring up Hitler at the Seder again, but I think this year I’m justified.
“Pss pss pss.”
“I have been told to wrap it up. Happy Passover, everyone. The bar’s open.”
TotD can now reveal the reason the Internet Archive lags, or freezes, or goes down for an hour here and there: this is where they keep it. The Internet Archive is kept in a panel van in Palo Alto. The last major outage was because the Archive had been impounded due to unpaid parking tickets. Sometimes on the high–
“Hey, man? I’m sleeping, man. Shh.”
Soup?
“Heeeey, man.”
Goddammit, are you living in the Internet Archive?
“I’m in between places, man.”
This can’t be good.
“Oh, I’m cool, man.”
I’m not talking about you, Soup. I meant for the Archive.
“Cant be optimal, probably. I try not to have too many guests, though, man.”
Great. Is there a bathroom in there?
“No way, man. It’s a panel truck, not an Earthroamer, man.”
Then where have you been pooping?
…
DAMMIT, SOUP!
“They’re like big litterboxes, man.”
Stop pooping on Phil’s bocce courts, please. You’ve driven the man around the bend.
“Oh no, man. Phil’s upset? No way, man.”
You pooped on his lawn. Of course he’s upset.
“I love Phil, man! I should go say sorry, man.”
No! Don’t do that!
“Why not, man? I’ve wronged Phil, man.”
Because he’ll have the busboys murder you. Or he might do it himself. He’d do it himself.
“Y’know, I’ve had people poop on my lawn and I just called ’em a dick, man.”
We’re so far beyond that point. Just stop doing it.
“Oh, yeah. No problem, man. Tour season starts pretty soon anyway, man.”
Who you touring with?
“Doesn’t matter, man.”
Good attitude.
“I’m Soup, man.”
Sure.
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