Tag: trey anastasio (Page 6 of 9)

“Trey, how many tickets you get a night?”

“I don’t think we need tickets, Bruce. We’re the band.”

“No, no: when you made your deal, how many tickets a night did you get?”

“None. You got tickets? How many?”

“Ten a night.”

“Why?”

“You see what they’re going for? Ten tickets a night for three nights is around a hundred grand.”

“It’s a little shady, isn’t it?”

“Shit, at least I’m actually selling the tickets, and not just advertising them on Craigslist and robbing the potential buyers.”

…

“Billy?”

“Well, duh.”

“So, Mickey sent you a book about telepathic ants?”

“Bruce. Dude. You…have…ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING IDEA what is going on with these hoopleheads and their books.”

“A lot?”

“Three UPS guys have had nervous breakdowns. Alone, Phil has sent me half-a-ton of literature.”

“Really?”

“And it’s all the same book.”

“That bullshit about aliens building the pyramids?”

“Bingo. Me and the kids built forts out of them and had Nerf battles.”

“So, you should thank Phil for that family moment, then.”

“Yeah. They grow up so fast.”

“Mickey send you anything else?”

“Y”know at the end of Oprah or Dr. Phil, when they ask if you want a printed transcript? And you wonder who would ever want such a thing?”

“Mickey?”

“Old episodes of Donahue. Like, ten years worth.”

“Bound?”

“Well-bound. Mickey had loved these things.”

“Look through ’em?”

“Little bit.”

“Learn anything?”

“The Cold War was much weirder than we remember it being.”

…

“Trey?”

“Yeah, Bruce?”

“Did Billy send anything?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Was it pornography? It was pornography. Pornography?”

“What he sent me was to pornography what pornography is to children’s cartoons. If you were aroused by it, you would have to immediately change your entire lifestyle and buy new clothes, one’s that didn’t stain easily. It was basically terrorporn. It was porn as a terroristic act: in a metaphorical sense, what Billy sent me was a collection of planes flying into boners and the boners collapsing and then a tribute concert to the boners that ended with Paul McCartney leading a super-jam.”

“So, more than triple-X.”

“At least 14 or 15 X’s. Plus, he sent me a few boxes of shit from his garage: broken leafblower, opened cans of paint, that kind of shit.”

“You could fix the leafblower, Trey.”

“We kinda hire a guy to do that, y’know? I really don’t need a leafblower. That weirdo fucking drummer of mine probably start taking twenty-minute solos on it, anyway.”

“Drummers.”

“Drummers.”

“Bobby send you any books?”

“He did not.”

“Yeah.”

…

“Bruce?”

“Yeah, Trey?”

“They send you any inspirational books?”

“No, they’re not worried about me.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey, Bruce?”

“Yeah, Trey?”

“Where’s Mrs. Donna Jean? I know her vocals could lead to differing opinions, but she was an important part of the band’s sound.”

“It’s complicated, Trey.”

“They don’t want to pay her?”

…

“Maybe it’s not that complicated.”

“You think we’re allowed to suggest covers?”

“I don’t know, man. We only got so much time and so many shows, y’know?”

“Yeah, sure, right.”

…

“Aw, fuck, man: did you teach Bobby how Tweezer goes?”

“Well, they played Stander on the Mountain when you were in the band.”

“Poorly. They played it poorly. And that was 1992 in Wisconsin. Stakes were a bit lower.”

“You think maybe there’s a more appropriate Phish song to cover?”

“Uh, sure. Yeah. Yes.”

…

“You don’t know any of our songs.”

“I most certainly do.”

“Name one.”

“Well, there’s the one that’s all “boing-y” sounding.”

“That’s all of them. Name one Phish song, Bruce.”

…

“The werewolf song.”

“I’m gonna take a little break.”

“Which one of ’em is the deafest, y’think?”

“Mickey.”

“Yeah?”

“Read my lips, Treyvon: Mickey is deaf as hell. Actually, reading lips is pretty much how he’s communicating nowadays.”

“C’mon, now. That bad?”

“He could be the starting fullback for the Gallaudet Bisons.”

“Stop it.”

“Mickey’s deafness is so profound that one can neither reason nor study one’s way there; it can only be accepted in full through a revelation, or satori.”

“Now, you’re being ridiculous.”

“So, what do they call you?”

“Bobby thinks I’m named Brett. Mickey and Phil mostly get it right on the second or third time.”

“Ha.”

“They’re like dads with a lot of kids: ‘Keith, Vince, Merl, which one are you? Bruce!’ It’s kind of adorable.”

“And Billy?”

“Billy’s called me Big Fella for 25 years now. I would bet good money he has never actually known my name.”

“I would not take that bet.”

“Smart.”

…

“What have they been calling you?”

“Well, Bobby calls me Trey, but needs to be re-introduced to me every time we meet.”

“Yeah, if you didn’t make it into Bob’s memory banks before a certain year, you’re just not getting in. I snuck in under the wire, I think.”

“Billy knows it’s Trey, but he’s got it in his head that Trey is short for Tremendous.”

“What is it short for?”

“Treyvon.”

“Huh.

“We’re really in the band, right?”

“Yeah, Trey. Remember: Phil sent us those nice letters asking us to join the band?”

“I just wanted to be sure this isn’t some Bobby bullshit. He asked everyone at his book club yesterday”

“Hey, who taught you about ‘Bobby bullshit?'”

“Heard some of the crew say it. What exactly is Bobby bullshit, besides the random and unauthorized invitations to join the Grateful Dead?”

“That time that Bobby impersonated a doctor to get into the maternity ward so that he would be the first thing the babies would see and imprint on him and boom: cult leader. And then someone had to explain to him that humans aren’t ducks and that made Bobby sad.”

“Bobby bullshit?”

“Bobby bullshit.”

“So, you don’t block the punch?”

“Oh, fuck, no. If you block the punch, then Billy hasn’t punched your dick. And he will: that’s a given. If you make him have to come back around, you throw him off his schedule and he starts to take an interest.”

“I don’t want that?”

“For all that’s holy, don’t let Billy take an interest in you.”

“I’m gonna get punched in the dick. Bottom line is: I get punched in the dick. That’s what you’re saying?”

“Well, I dunno, Trey: you can angle it off a bit or roll with it or cup up. Or, you can stop being a bitch and take your dickpunching like a man.”

“Jeez, Bruce: okay.”

“You know how many guitarists wanted this gig, and the inevitable punch and/or punches in the dick that came with it? You think that crazy old fuck hasn’t swatted my petunia?”

“All right! Sorry I asked!”

“Plus, you know: I’m nine feet tall, so my dick is proportionately gargantuan. It’s a lot of dick to punch.”

“Let’s just jam, Bruce.”

…

“It looks like a tube sock with a clementine orange in it.”

“Let’s just jam, Bruce.”