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

Tag: vince (Page 2 of 2)

Got To Find A Number To Use

8 – Hallelujah hatracks (Really?)

4 – Dead keyboard players. Not 4 keyboardists for the Dead, 4 dead keyboardists. How is it possible that the mortality rate for musicians in an improvisational country-rock outfit is higher than that of those guys who parachute into forest fires? The family crest of the Dead keyboardist read Pertransiit sine me (Go on without me).

3 – Fancy little shoe racks for TC’s fancy little ankle boots.

210,000 – Number of dollars Lenny Hart stole from the band while “managing” them.

40,000 – Number of dollars Lenny Hart stole during the meeting to try to explain the financial irregularities when someone left the door to the safe open. They were trusting men, at first, our Dead.

88 – Keys on a piano.

176 – How many Keith usually saw.

1 – Number of times a crew member looked Phil directly in the eyes. Just that once.

95 – Live albums released, 110 if you count the Digital Download series (One of which I’m listening to now, the Donna-tacular 4/30/77 at the Palladium in NYC. (Audience copy, if you’re into that sort of thing. Harumph. But, seriously, it’s an AUD: think about whether that’s the person you want to be. AUD guys are to Enthusiasts what fat guys fluent in Klingon are to Trekkies)

13 – Studio albums

2 – That were any good at all.

0 – Number of times the question, “How many fingers does the Grateful Dead have?” can be answered with a whole number.

12,000 – Amount extra versus a standard P.A. it cost to tote the Wall of Sound around. Luckily, it was worth the price because it was “the righteous thing to do, man.” That is an exact quote from Blair Jackson, who was actually talking about something else entirely, but FUCK CONTEXT.

6 – Months it took the righteous thing to do to break the band’s back.

2 – Drummers.

1 – Drummer.

2 – Drummers.

12 – Teenage male hustlers found horribly mutilated throughout the 80’s in a pattern correlating to the Dead’s tour schedule. The culprit was never found, but was described as having luxuriously thick blond hair and singing the high harmony part. The pattern stopped briefly in 1989, but picked up again–far more rapidly now–in 1990, except this time it was females and there’s a weird theory that there were two guys based round this mystery man they call Suburban Lanky. Doesn’t make any sense at all, if you asked me.

40 – Milliseconds after Bobby asked, “Tonight, what if we open…wait for it…with the encore?” that his dick got punched.

300,000  – Dollars spent by Mickey in the winter of 1977 to create his most ambitious percussive masterpiece to date. Mickey planned and rehearsed diligently. He spent over a year writing the score and hired musicians from all over the world, building them a brand-new studio. Then he locked them in that brand-new studio, set it ablaze, and recorded their dying screams. Lou Reed is quoted as saying, “Why didn’t I think of that?” The album was never released, except in Norway where it reached #31 on the Billboard-flurgen charts.

14 – Bucks for the Oven-Roasted Shrimp and Sun-Dried Tomatoes at Phil’s new hotspot, Terrapin Crossroads. Come for the food, stay for the Phil!

Easy Answers

Okay, Grateful Dead cocktail party games. Annnnnnnnnnnd: go!

Dead as countries Phil is Germany, technical and peevish; Brent is Canada, adorable and drunk; Billy is Mozambique, because Mozambique’s flag has a fist holding an AK-47 on it. No secrets, there.

Dead as Wars, Ancient Phil is most certainly the Punic Wars, all of them: savage, righteous, salted. Mickey is the Warring States Period, just because I like the name. (I was thinking about reading about the history of China, so I looked at the shop and the smallest of the books was so heavy that the Dead lugged it around with them in ’78 “just because.” Plus, I know I should care about the place where a sixth of the world lives, but try reading that wikipedia page. I get three sentences in, tops.) Garcia is the Persian War.

Dead as animals(visual) Garcia is obviously a koala: just picture a koala, now add the glasses. (That image isn’t getting out of your head, sorry.) Brent is a hedgehog. Donna is a squirrel. Phil is halfway between an ostrich and a giraffe.

Dead as animals (metaphorical) Bobby: Springer spaniel. Garcia: silverback gorilla. Phil: halfway between an ostrich and a giraffe.

Dead as rivers: TC is the Danube; Vince is the CayuhogaCuyahoga; Billy is the Mississippi: mighty, proud, and difficult to spell.

Most appropriate Dead song for the funeral of a FTM transsexual He’s Gone. 

Least appropriate Dead song for the funeral of a MTF transsexual He’s Gone.

I Will Not Condemn You

There have been new visitors to the bloggings, mostly from the wonderful and masculine-smelling Reddit, which was exciting and sexual. Problem was, I think the last few postings on the bloggings have been kind of weird and insular and not really about the Dead as much as my wrestling with the Creeping Insanity and that fucker just having his way with me. No contest, just taking his sweet time.

Until I yearned for it.

That is the kind of shit we had the meeting about.

Right, right. Sorry. So: who is this for? If you fit any one of the following descriptions, you should dive into the archives.(Actually, physically dive into them. Running start right into the computer: I swear it will work. It is an app.)

  • You love the Weather Report Suite, yet realize the lyrics are so dumb they ought to be quarantined. Black dirt live again, my ass. (But here’s an awesome WRS from the Curtis Hixon Convention Center in Tampa on 12/18/73. This is one of my favorite names for a 70’s arena. I just wish it had merged with the nearby building in Pembroke Pines to become the Curtis Hixon Sportatorium, which is the most 70’s you can get in three words. You can almost picture the enormous tie knots and boxing still being relevant.
  • You’ve ever idly wondered whether, after building the Wall of Sound, they considered building a Wall of Sight. Or maybe a Wall of Taste. (Warning: do not taste the Wall of Taste.)
  • You like the parts that are in between the songs better than the songs.
  • Occasionally–not always, but certainly not never–Jack Straw gets on your last nerve.
  • You have forgiven Vince, but still choose not to listen to his dinky tinklings.
  • Your ongoing argument with yourself regarding The Greatest ___ Ever! has resorted to factionalism, dirty-fighting, and–since Billy is involved–crotchpunching.In my head, it feels as though each year has achieved sentience and is now throwing evidence around when I’m trying to do other things like eat or cry or eat while I’m crying. It’s like the Italian parliament up there, but with nary a spicy meatball.
  • You want Sugaree to be longer. No matter how long it is, you believe it could stand to gain another 8 minutes or so.
  • You’ll put up with Bobby’s cowboy bullshit, but not his first set turn as Silly Dixon.
  • You got here by googling “rule 34 grateful dead.” You are sick, though constantly recurring, blips on my analytics and I welcome you to a place where you’ll be accepted. (Warning: there will be NONE of that “slash” fan fiction stuff where you take other people’s characters and hump them together like they were your childhood toys. However, we may dip our toes into that shiver-inducing pond by figuring out the most horrifying match-up: my money’s on Phil/Billy, because in the whisper of time before Billy started punching dicks, it would be awkward.)
  • Now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Even if you don’t want to, your brain’s just going “Brent/Mickey? Hornsby/Phil?” Tell me what the worst of the terrible, terrible images your brain is rifling through right now against your will in the comments. Best one wins a lifetime supply of Beard! for men with beards. Have a beard? Use Beard!

Take Me To The Leader Of The Band

The real problem with late-period Dead is the Uncanny Valley: it no longer sounds like physical music anymore. They were just playing with their toys (not including Billy’s Drawers of Sensual Toys which the band is not paying for, Billy! The tour pays for drumsticks, not dildos, Billy. It is NOT a tour-related expense: you get up to that weird shit at home. You get up to that weird shit in MY LIVING ROOM, BILLY. You’re a horrible sexual Boojum, Billy. Fuck this, I quit and by the way, I stole all of your money again. Yoinks!) 

And I’m not even talking about the late-period hobby of rhythmically floating somewhere around the beat, which was the one thing that had absolutely nothing to do with Vince, that Ren Faire extra. Bands have leaders because bands are, at their essence, just groups of men, and groups of men have leaders in every culture in the entire world. For all of Garcia’s talk about “when Phil is on, we’re on,” he was the leader of the band. If the aliens landed outside a Dead show, only to make the usual clichéd demand (leaders, taking), you wouldn’t take them to fucking Phil. It was always Garcia’s band: to speak of anything else is to invite madness to stalk you and invade your fine homes and shave your fine servants. So, when the leader started wandering around the musical wilderness without a map and dressed like a salmon, the rest of them had to follow.

No, what I speak of is the molecular sound of the beast.It was raw and growly which made the sweetness that much more hard-won. (Please provide 350 words on why a show cannot be truly great unless it has earned its Jerry ballad. Begin.) Bobby’s guitar always sounded sprightly until he turned tinkly and shiny. Bobby was, sadly the worst of them at it. Phil generally sounded like himself except for space and other weirdo jams, when he liked to pretend he was a flute player with a wall of amplifiers. Garcia liked to pretend he was a trumpet player, but he would do those little triplet rolls down to the note thing and it would be okay, but Bobby? Bobby wanted to play the marimbas. Bobby loved that marimba setting so much, one speculates about the endearingly creepy  island based dreams Bobby might have lurking below his placid exterior. he could be Mustache Bob, player of marimbas and layer of tourists. He works in the hotel bar at night, and in the hotel rooms during the day. He’s got it pretty sweet, to be honest about the whole thing.

You have come to my beautiful suite.

You let yourself into my room while I was showering.

 My mustache is long, but my shorts are short: you have never seen a black man like me.

You are not a black man.

Bobby turns out the lights.

What about now?

What? No. Of course–listen, this is enough of this. Get going, you scamp.

Aww, okay.


Good Lovin’

The Dead used to masturbate together. Not just in the old days, when Pig would whip out his thick, greasy hog and announce, “Let’s put our hands IN our pockets!” No, it was a constant throughout the years. Lineup changes, health problems, financial chaos? The music got them through, along with regular sessions of group masturbation. It was men being men together and, occasionally, all over each other. And what could be wrong with that?

Oh, hell, I can’t hold on to this horrible knowledge any longer: the Dead were gay. Very, very gay. And much like metal fans with Rob Halford and Ronnie James Dio, we had absolutely no idea. This the kind of thing that Dead.net won’t tell you, my friends! LOOK AT THE EVIDENCES!

Do I even have to make the joke about Garcia being a bear and Bobby being a twink and Phil being the guy at the orgy still wearing socks?

Ramrod. His name was Ramrod. No matter where on the planet you are, if you get into a taxi and say “Ramrod,” you will be taken to a gay bar.

Mustaches, mustaches, mustaches.

(Okay, this has to stop: I’m just taking out some frustration on you, Fellow Enthusiast. Sitting here listening to 2/23/93–Ornette Coleman sits in for the last half of the second set and they open up with a Mardi Gras-infused Iko Iko and IT’S AWESOME except I’m breaking rules all over the place: a Vince? Listening to a Vince, even with Ornette Coleman? PLUS, I’m listening to drums->space and IT’S AWESOME, TOO and now I’m worried that I’m turning into one of those drums->space people and the only step after that is quibbling about different recordings of the same show. That’s no life at all.)

(Oh, right: the Dead are, of course, not actually practicing homosexuals, which, of course, would be perfectly fine and would probably be real good for Mickey. He needs some masculine energy around. Not Billy, though. Let’s face it, Billy was gonna be punching anyone you placed in front of him. Also, I don’t think Dio’s gay: like always, I will be sticking to my ban on research of any sort. If Dio were gay, though, he’d be roaming around the fantasy world of Homoslavia with his giant penis sword, riding on top of a penis dragon, and penising everything around him with his penis. Penis.)

The Big Retcon

I am now retconning the Grateful Dead. All thirteen of you know that I have, up until this momentous occasion, unofficially declared everything post-Brent to be only dubiously existent. Yes, there’s scattered evidence here and there, but–and I say this impartially–doesn’t it just make more sense to believe that the band mysteriously disappeared in a 1979 plane crash? Well, their plane didn’t crash: a plane crashed into their tour bus. Six of one, half-dozen of another.

But as of now, I declare all of the Land of Welnickia barren and off-limits. Vince is no longer in continuity. He has ceased to be canon: Vince is the Dead’s version of the Expanded Star Wars Universe. (You know the Expanded Star Wars Universe, right?  The place where everybody had Jedi babies and the Emporer had hidden so many clones of himself in so many places that by the time they were four novels in, every 13th person on Coruscant was named Not Secretly Palpatine’s Clone. Then a moon fell on Chewbacca.)*

Isn’t life easier now? No more nonsense hype about the 91 Boston Garden shows, no more having to pretend that the oakland ’92 Dark Star was as good as a ’72.  ANY ’72. Five less years taking up space in your head.

You’re welcome.

*That really happened, the Chewbacca thing. These guys whose galaxy is even far, farther away than the one our heroes live in, attacked Luke and them and Luke and them fought back or something and then Chewie was helping to evacuate a planet –like  you do–and the bad guys threw a moon at him. So now, Chewie’s dead. Except he’s not really, because he was only ever just a pituitary case in a Space Monkey suit

Welcome To The Old Firm

When the Grateful Dead hired Vince Welnick, do you think they just openly said, “Please don’t die. Like, um, everyone else that’s done the  exact job you’re about to do. And whom you even physically resemble, to make it creeper-still. In fact, don’t even think of this as a keyboard gig, think of it as a not-dying gig where you also play keyboards. But keyboards really, with this kind of abysmal track record, should be at most secondary to your every single thought from the time you sign this contract until your untimely, yet entirely predictable death some time in the near next decade. Please at all times try not to be dying. Thank you, and put on a hat.”

You like Jerry Band?

I feel about the Dead the same way I feel about Star Wars: nothing outside the original is valid in any way, at all, ever. Leave me out of Further, the Jerry Garcia Band, and hundreds upon hundreds of clones of Emporer Palpatines lurking throughout the galaxy with an increasingly Wile E. Coyote-esque boomsticks. He replaced the Death Star with the Sun Crusher, and then went on to the Mom Licker, I believe. That book didn’t sell that well.  I just baaaarely accept anything Vince Welnick was involved with. Vince Welnick reminds me of a guy you wouldn’t rent a houseboat to.

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