Wait, it’s vuh-NEE-tuh? I always thought it was vuh-NEH-tuh.
The statements “I am pleased by the high level of viscosity” and “WHEEEEEE it’s slippy” transmit the same thought.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: veneta (Page 1 of 2)
Loyal readers will know that TotD features show recommendations only rarely, and virtually never engages in any of that “on this date in Grateful Deadery” business, but I will now recommend a show that happened on this date. I am unpredictabel. (Not a typo. Just showing you the depths of my unpredictability.)
The Champion of Cascadia, Mr. Completely, described 8/24/72 at the Berkeley Community Theater as “pretty much the same show as Veneta, but the guitars are in tune;” this is an accurate observation, but I shall go him one better: this show is better than Veneta.
I will now prove my argument:
- No Ken Babbs. The delight of not having to listen to Chatty Crappy in between every damned song ordering people around and fingering himself to the sound of his voice real loud is a palpable and sensuous delight. Not hearing Ken Babbs gives me a boner.
- As I mentioned, the guitars are in tune. Or, you know, the Grateful Dead definition of “in tune.” And, obviously, Garcia still ends Playing with three strings sharp and three strings flat, but for the most part? In tune.
- There’s no such thing as the best Dead show, but if there were, it would have an intro by Bill Graham.
- Naked Pole Guy and his terrifying penis are in no way affiliated with 8/24/72.
Counter-argument:
- Veneta’s got that Dark Star>El Paso>Sing Me Back Home sequence. 8/24/72 has a massive Dark Star, but it goes straight into Morning Dew and loses a bit of rustic psychosis that the Veneta pairing had. (Fun fact: you can hear Garcia try to steer DS into Dew at Veneta two or three times, but Bobby pretends not to hear him and plays his cowboy song.)
Risible-argument
- Oh, so everyone you disagree with is a Nazi?
What a specific rando you were that day,
Naked Pole Guy.
No pants.
Pole dance.
Fame has been earned with far less coin.
Were you with friends?
Did you go it alone?
An isolated incident,
Or were you known for nudity?
(Every group has one.)
Did you get a splinter in your dick?
The guy
With the umbrella in Dealey Plaza,
Kissing the nurse in Times Square,
Who never said his name was D.B. Cooper,
And you.
There are levels to mitzvah–
(Jews enjoy lists)
–the highest form leaves no signature.
To forfeit the naming rights,
Naked Pole Guy:
That is the highest form of mitzvah, and
Naked Pole Guy,
On that day your form was the highest.
I heard you were still in Oregon;
You owned a borax mine,
And many head of cattle.
The internet says you’re abroad:
Ibiza,
Goa,
Warsaw.
Scuttlebutt has you in Florida;
That sounds right.
May the sun only stroke you,
And gravity not bother.
May your dick not get splintered,
And don’t ever come down.
Now we know how he got up there.
Hey, kids! What day is it?
Prince Spaghetti Day?
No.
Rex Manning Day?
Also no.
Feast of the Fools?
Wha?
Buffet of the Buffoons?
That’s a fun and evocative phrase, but it’s not a thing. It’s Veneta Day!
Velveeta Day!?
Stop it.
Vagina Day!
No!
Valentine Dimsdale!
That’s not a thing, either.
Reverend Dimsdale from Scarlet Letter‘s fancy, well-dressed brother.
…
You’re ruining Veneta Day.
Ken Babbs did that years ago.
I’ve been listening to 8/27/72 for God knows how many years, and I keep thinking I’m going to stop hating the sound of his voice and the content of his announcements.
Nope.
Fucker liked that microphone.
Someone had to be in charge.
Isn’t it weird how people who think that someone needs to be in charge always think that the person in charge should be them?
Downright peculiar.
Let’s stop screwing around and let the nice people listen to the Veneta show.
Sure. What if they want to look at a fat guy with his ding-dong hanging out of his jeans?
16:50.
…
Yup. Ding-dong.
You think it’s for Harambe?
Yes. Yes, I do.
FELICIDAE IV, THRONEWORLD TO THE FELIS EMPIRE
“Jenkins! Get in here!”
“Yes, Space President?”
“Dammit, kid: fix your antenna.”
“Sorry.”
“The other one.”
“Gotcha.”
“The other one.
“Ah. Better?”
“You look like a Sallarian. Listen: what is this signal that Alien NASA picked up?”
“It’s so odd we call our space agency that, sir.”
“Answer the questions, Jenkins.”
“There are competing theories on the signal, sir. The mathematicians think it’s an equation that proves five plus two is seven.”
“Five plus two is seven, Jenkins.”
“Yes, but this proves it.”
“Have math executed.”
“Right away, sir.”
“You said there were other interpretations?”
“Yes, sir. The generals think it’s a threat.”
“The generals think lunch is a threat.”
“The cloners fed the data into the chromosonometer.”
“Monster?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Casualties?”
“Many, sir.”
“Well, have the cloners executed, too.”
“We’ve tried that, sir. They just make more of themselves.”
“Anyone else weighing in?
“The artists think it’s crap.”
“What do the people think?”
“The people think it’s art.”
“Great.”
“There was one interesting idea, sir. Someone ran the data through a soundifier–”
“Is that really the machine’s name?”
“–and, well: it appears to some sort of rock band.”
“Like Space Bon Jovi?”
“Sort of, sir.”
“Are they any good, Jenkins?”
“That’s subjective, sir. In fact, this might be some of the most subjective music I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you dance to it?”
“Kind of.”
“I’ll need a full report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jenkins?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wasn’t joking: take math outside and shoot it in the head.”
“I didn’t think you were joking at all, sir.”
“Good man.”
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOjZz0HB7R8[/embedyt]
He’s back home.
Never sleep again.
All I wanted were your artistic interpretations of Veneta. Drawings of Ken Babbs telling everyone they were about to be sprayed with shitwater. Watercolors of Billy’s posture. A novelization of the Dark Star. Whatever: I just thought it was something we could do together.
If you’ll recall, I made one for you, seen here:
I received nothing in return. Were you intimidated by my artistic skills? I mean, you can’t even see the brush strokes.
No matter: intent is nothing. I got no art.
Wait.
THE TRUTH HAS WAITED LONG ENOUGH.
It’s been, like, two days.
That’s two generations to a fruit fly.
No one sent you crude drawings of a concert from 43 years ago, so you loosed a barrage of Rolling Stones-based shaky premises, links, and blatant homoeroticism at them?
What possible other option was there?
…
I didn’t think of it that way.
One does what one must.
Right. So: the nigh-on-infinite parade of virtually-identical concerts and bottomless well of pictures of coked-up limeys?
Yes.
You know I love the Stones, right?
Yes, I do.
Bro?
Bro?
Two Thousand Light From Brome?
Sure?
Ebrotional Rescue?
Uh-huh?
…
The Stones are about their albums.
They are, yeah.
There’s nothing deeper than Mick and Keith and Charlie playing the songs the way they’re supposed to go, but a little faster.
Nope.
Just find the best show from ’72 and the best one from ’78 and listen to those. All the other shows are exactly the same, but not as good.
It turns out that this is the case, yes.
…
What about the art?
Oh, Swaggie Maggie sent me this:
The dog eating the baby’s food?
It’s good, isn’t it?
No.
You knew what it was.
That is not the metric by which art is measured.
I don’t know, man: I like it when stuff looks like the stuff that it is.
You’re a moderd-day Robert Hughes.
I have no idea who that is. Anyway: Maggie solved the puzzle and said the magic words and clicked her ruby Tuesdays and that’s it: GARCIA AND THE PALO ALTO PLAYMAKERS, MOTHERFUCKER.
Whatcha got in the tape deck?
Can’t go wrong with ’73
Chileans would disagree with that statement.
Fuck ’em.
Yeah. Yeah, y’know what: God Bless the Grateful Dead and God Damn Chile, May The Entire Country Get Ass-Measles.
Everything’s back to normal.
YAAAAY.
43 years ago today was Veneta. I’ve written about it before: you can bathe in my glory and insight and dong observations here.
After you’ve read about it, you may watch it here:
Following which, you should do your best artistic interpretation of Veneta. You may use any medium you choose. Here’s mine:
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