The tickets were free, and the crowd was exclusively Enthusiasts who wanted to be on Bobby’s side, but after the fifteenth minute of Bobby’s Invisible Piano routine, a bad mood had descended upon the audience.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: weir here
On the intershow tonight, Bobby sang Ripple, and it was odd not to hear Garcia’s tenor sing Hunter’s shoulder-shrug of a prayer, but Bobby sang it well and he looked good and perhaps the collapsing-in-public won’t become a running joke and we can all hear it for a little while longer.
All good things should last just a little while longer.
I don’t keep up with the Post-Dead, except faintly: through the post titles on Reddit, or from @’s on Twitter. I knew of someone ostensibly named Jeff Chiamenti, but I knew neither his form nor his function.
It turns out he’s a motherfucker. Like, he showed up for the audition and someone said, “I hear you play the piano.” And he said,
“No, I motherfuck the piano. This is both my form and my function: it is what I do because it is who I am. And it is who I am because it is what I do. My name is Jeff Chappaquiddick and I motherfuck pianos.”
Not his name.
Irregardless–
Not a word.
–I’m watching Weir Here, which is a homophonic joke that someone who wanted cocaine laughed at once which Bobby has used as the title for everything he’s done since then, live on the interweb. It is in high quality video, and again: live. The sound is as good as any official live release from the Dead.
Live, wireless, just exactly perfect.
This internet thing? Very soon, it’s going to become miraculous. Very soon, it’s going to get deeply strange and we might have to start making choices.
Also, Bobby, we need to talk about the manpris.
Bobby’s greatest hits album was called Weir Here!?
Why does Bobby make this so easy?
And this is the cover?
So, that was some other werewoof doing handstands on the roof of Styles' Woofmobile?
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