Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: truckin’ (Page 2 of 2)

Perhaps They’re Better Left Unsung

It wasn’t like roulette, you see. The casinos have made fortunes since they installed those immaculately legible tote boards listing the numbers that have landed previously in red with big ol’ tempting empty spaces in between and they’ve been raking cash in because your dumb ass has evolved to think 15 is gonna hit because it’s due. It makes sense to believe that present events are based upon past observation: that’s why people instinctively shielded their crotches whenever Billy came around, for al the good it would do them. Billy was like Gretzky: he could always find your five-hole.

But just as it is a logical fallacy to think that the rules of real life apply in the casino, it is also a mistake to think that Hoyle has any say over the world. (It’s called the Ludic fallacy, which I know because it is one of those facts that gets lodged in my brain instead of, say, how to find love.)  So, why do we forget that about the Dead? Why do we lionize certain shows only to ignore the rest of the week? These men were, appearances to the contrary, human. They had good runs. But the forest is invisible but for the trees, especially when some trees are, y’know, Barton Hall or Red Rocks. They suck up all the light.

Talking about the Dead is to talk about overshadowing. Garcia overshadowed the rest of the band, Mickey’s overkill overshadowed Billy’s light touch, ’77 and ’73 overshadowed all the other years, and Vince’s playing overshadowed the charitable work he did as a participant in the saddest Make-A-Wish event ever. Even Vince knew enough to be embarrassed.

We let ourselves think the greatness appeared as weird happening, crepuscular beams from a murky sea. Not so. 5/19/74 is rightfully well-regarded, especially the raging Truckin’>Mind Left Body jam. but listen to the very next show, 5/21/74 at UCLA the University of Washington* where they proceed to pull out a GODDAM 45 MINUTE PLAYIN’. Give the kids some Robotussin, shoot the dog and LISTEN to this thing, to the peaks and valleys that spring like Zeus out of inchoate spaciness one after another. (And, since it’s a GREAT matrix mix, listen to the appreciative audience cheer every twist and turn. Listen to ’em ROAR for Donna in Playin’. hell, listen to Donna!

Yeah, 2/14/70 is historic, but 2/11 is better. Yes, 1977 was THE year, but y’know: ’78 kicks more ass than an avowed lover of kicking ass who had spent his last dime to enter an ass-kicking contest in an attempt to win enough money to open his own business, a high-end Ass-Kickery.

 

*Thanks to a comment by an Esteemed Enthusiast, the location of the 5/21 show has been amended to note the actual location. For his Sherlockian abilities, he will receive a lifetime supply of Bobby Weir’s Shorts Shorteners. Shorts too long? Shorten ’em with Shorts Shortener!

Horn Of Plenty

So, that’s what Eyes of the World has been missing: noodly jazz horns. I’ve always felt that the song most prone to endless jamming would be improved by adding two more guys playing.

Apparently, the Dead took a horn section out with them in Fall of ’73 for ten shows or so. They did this because the Wall of Sound wasn’t finished yet, so the drugs said they had to spend money on something else absurd. Except it wasn’t absurd: the horns were great. Listen to the Weather Report Suite from the same show: after the lyrics end, they all–all SEVEN of them–split instantly in different musical directions, like kids scattering after the baseball breaks a window, but it holds together, still (Thanks, Billy!) and turns into the jazz that the Dead used to lie to themselves about being able to play. Hell, forget about what the actual horn players are doing, and just listen to the rest of the guys, who seem to be more excited than a dog in one of those Soldier Returns Home videos.

So there you go: September 15th, 1973. That’s your Rick’s Pick volume 1: a weird show of a forgotten tour featuring an experiment that all involved say didn’t work out. How am I not employed by this band?

PS: If you want actual information and, you know, facts about these shows, check out this article from the AWESOME website Lost Live Dead.

PPS: This show also contains one of only a handful of performances of Let Me Sing Your Blues Away. After you hear it, you will be wondering, “Why a handful? How could they ever do this again?” LMSYBA (never thought you’d see that acronym, did you?) should have been treated like an accidentally-killed hobo: you bury him, you have a longish talk with yourself about going back to work for your father, and you never go back to Dallas again. You don’t do it the next weekend at the College of William & Mary.

PPPS: Actually, check out the Truckin’ from 9/17 from Onondaga in upstate NY. They’ve had some time to work on the new horn arrangement and they’re just blasting ass, just blasting ass all over the assy plains, man. It’s not a totally new song, though: Bobby still fucks up at least half of the lines.

How Does The Song Go?

There are few Dead related pleasures more piquant than the moment when Bobby just totally gives up on remembering the words and starts singing, “yuh duh DUH yuh DUH.” Actually, Bobby’s constant memory lapses led to the classic stage configuration: Bobby had to be in the middle so everyone had an equal opportunity to yell at him when he sings Truckin‘ like this:

It’s hilarious. You can almost see Garcia contemplating the whole Mickey and the Hartbeats thing again.

Garcia knew the words, Bobby. Brent and Donna knew the words. Pigpen knew the words even when they weren’t technically words at all. (I refer you to “Box back nitties, Crayfish and mormon mice. Workin undercollar onda mall all night.”) Phil did not know the words.

New contest: has there EVER been a show where Bobby made it through without forgetting where he was? Identify it in the comments and win a year’s supply of Forearm Sweatbands by Mr. Phil of Palo Alto.

You Know Our Love Will

Listen to Not Fade Away, all the way through. Please. I promise you it’s worth your time.

LISTEN TO THE WHOLE THING! LISTEN TO THE WHOLE THING, FUCKER (Sorry for the “fucker,” pal.) NO, I’M NOT! DON’T BE A FUCKER: LISTEN TO THE THING I WANT YOU TO LISTEN TO!

Did you listen to it?

Got something in your eye, buddy?  It’s okay, I got misty, too. Not full-on The Green Mile weeping, the memory of which is still a bit humiliating, but still a suggestion of a tear upon the eye. If you didn’t get a little choked up, then you’re not an Enthusiast, full stop.

This, my fellow obsessives, is what redeems the silliness and utter lack of discipline. The solo albums and the 1972 drum solos with just Billy for six or seven minutes and the fact that, while yes Truckin’ does have tough lyrics, 25 years is enough time to have figured them out–all of these former problems reveal themselves in the true scale of the thing as mere piffle.

Moments that made you remember that, for around 30 years, the Dead were the best house band in the world, no matter how big the house.

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