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

Month: September 2016 (Page 1 of 20)

In-Store

I linked to this while it was happening, but here’s the video: Bobby, aided by Josh Kaufman, playing tunes cowboy and otherwise at the legendary Amoeba Records in Los Angeles. Here’s the set list:

Intro 0:01
Walkin’ Blues 0:45
When I Paint My Masterpiece 7:35
Blue Mountain 14:40
Only a River* 20:20
Lay My Lily Down* 27:20
Peggy-O (traditional)* 33:30
Ki-Yi Bossie* 40:15

Go and watch it, or at least listen. I’ve mentioned this before, but–unlike just about every other rock star his age–Bobby can still sing like a shaggy angel. Check out Masterpiece: he nails the high(ish) notes with the strength of a 28-year-old, but the precision of a 68-year-old.

Plus–and this will sound like heresy–he does Peggy-O better than Garcia. There, I said it. Don’t argue with me until after you watch Bobby’s version.

More Brown

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This uncapitalized missive is from Dean Ween, who is either the fat one or the ugly one; he is scrappy and ready for a brawl. He will fight for his rock and roll, as he must, for he is the only one who understands it. He is a survivor (like Claude) and he makes it equally brown for each and every show.

“How brown should we make it, Dean?”

“As brown as we can! We’re Ween, dammit. People came for brownness.”

Dean remembers laughter, and so does Claude, and therefore knows that–no matter how cool it would look on paper–a 40-minute Poopship Destroyer is not going to fly for a festival crowd. And make no mistake: a 40-minute Poopship Destroyer looks AWESOME on paper. Not since Communism has something looked this good on paper.

Thanks for weighing in go out to Dean Ween, who is either the fat one or the ugly one.

Meet The Mayers

jm-family

“Have you met my family?”

I haven’t.

“My wife, Shelley.”

Uh-huh.

“The twins, Dakota and Fanning.”

Lovely children.

“Shelley’s homeschooling, of course.”

Of course.

“Private schools around here have no regulations at all about what the children’s clothes have to be washed in. All I could smell was Tide. It was disgraceful.”

Sure. There’s always public school.

“I would rather set my children on fire than send them to public school. You know why they call them ‘public’ schools, right?”

Because they’re open to the public.

“Right! And you know who’s in the public, right?”

Everybody.

“I don’t see it as ‘everybody.’ I see it as ‘just anyone at all.’ No standards. If you’re shaped like a human, then you can have a math book.”

That was what John Dewey died for.

“Ugh. Plus, the girls are special needs.”

Oh, I didn’t know. Ah. Okay. That’s a challenge, but good for you in working through it proactively.”

“They think they’re special, and they’re needy.”

There ya go.

“And, to be honest, a lot of schools don’t agree with our position on vaccines.”

No! Absolutely not! If you tell me you’re a goddamned anti-vax fuckhead, we’re having problems.

“Anti? Hell, no! Other way: we believe in over-vaccinating our children.”

Oh, come on.

“Three, four shots a day.”

Not healthy.

“The other day, we vaccinated them against the common cold.”

How’d that go?

“They both have colds.”

Are you confusing “vaccinating” with “exposing to disease?”

“Maybe.”

John, this is not your family. These are not your children.

“Is he right, Daddy?”

“Are we adopted?”

“No, Dakota! No, Fanning! You’re my children!”

“NO, WE’RE NOT!”

“WE’RE JUST RANDOS!”

“What did you do!?”

Wasn’t expecting that.

Caught In A Noodle Dance

bobby-rando-hottie-pink-hair

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Dreaming of the Hostility Suite.”

Sure.

“It was a fun time. Youthful exuberance, and kicky romps, and there would be a cold cut platter. It was actually a lot like one of those Deadhead networking parties for Wall Streeters.”

Really?

“Well, there was a lot of coke.”

Sure. So, did the guys each have a type they went for?

“Billy liked ’em skanky.”

Right.

“The skank thing is not new with him, y’know? He’s always been a skank man. Some guys like redheads, other guys like ’em curvy; God bless him, Billy likes ’em skanky. Guy plays drums, punches dick, and plows skank: there’s a purity to him.”

Okay.

“He’s kinda like Tarzan.”

How so?

“He runs around naked and yells a lot.”

Can we stop talking about Billy?

“Mickey liked his women female.”

That’s it?

“Present.”

Sure.

“The two of them would wait for me choose my three or four girls and leave. Then…wow. You ever see hyenas take down a wounded gazelle?”

So fast.

“From what I’ve been told, when I would leave the Hostility Suite, the mood would change like in From Dusk To Dawn when everyone in the bar turns into a vampire.”

The old days.

“Here’s to ’em.”

She’s gettin’ in there. Little boob-pressin’ going on.

“Knock it off.”

Dylan And Two Deads

bobby-dylan-sneaky-jerry

I see you back there.

“I’m sneaky when I wanna be.”

Dylan tour, huh?

“Four shows to go.”

You been counting?

“Christ, the cat’s a pain in the ass. Buncha malcontents in the Dead, sure, but once we choose a key for a song, we stick to it.”

He’s unpredictable.

“He’s a pain in the ass.”

Is Bobby wearing a pink hoodie with the sleeves cut off and jean shorts?

“As long as he doesn’t disappear into the bathroom for hours at a time like the poet over there, he can go onstage naked for all I care.”

Sure.

A Proverb About Someone Or Other

A troublemaker and a villain,
who goes about with a corrupt mouth,
who winks maliciously with his eye,
signals with his feet,
and motions with his fingers,
who plots evil with deceit in his heart:
he always stirs up conflict.

Therefore disaster will overtake him in an instant;
he will suddenly be destroyed,
without remedy.

There are six things the Lord hates,
seven that are detestable to him:
Haughty eyes,
A lying tongue,
Hands that shed innocent blood,
A heart that devises wicked schemes,
Feet that are quick to rush into evil,

A false witness who pours out lies
And a person who stirs up conflict in the community.

You’ve Yet To Have Your Finest Hour

elvis-kim-jong-un-party-hats

Oh, goddammit.

“ONCE AGAIN, AH HAVE SNATCHED FUN FROM THE JAWS OF A KIDNAPPIN’!”

“This my guy. Right here? Is my guy.”

Why do parties keep breaking out during hostage situations?

“WHY DO HOSTAGE SITUATIONS KEEP HAPPENIN’ DURING PARTIES? THAT KATANA DONE CUTS BOTH WAYS.”

It doesn’t.

” A KATANA IS AN CHINESE SWORD FOR DOIN’ KARATE WITH.”

It’s not.

“He right. It not.”

Don’t help, you. Elvis? Where’s the nuke?

“FINE.”

“Is cool.”

Oh, God.

“NO WORRIES ‘BOUT NOTHIN’.”

“Is all good in hood.”

Did Doctor Gary–

“DOCTOR GARY DONE STOLE THE NUKE.”

–steal the…FUCK! How!?

“IT’S A PARTY, MAN. STUFF GOES MISSIN’!”

Records! Silverware! Knick-knacks! Not fission devices!

“Had party once. Picture go missing. Had guests strip-searched, found picture. Execute. Make party continue, make guests dance.  Later execute thief family.”

“THASS A FUCKED-UP STORY, UNAGI.”

Don’t give him a nickname. Where is Doctor Gary and the nuke, Elvis?

“AH DUNNO.”

“Got me.”

“NOT FAR, THOUGH.”

Excuse me if “not far” doesn’t make me feel better right now. Just to make clear: the nuclear weapon Kim Jong-Un brought with him to the King Tut suite of the Luxor hotel is now in the possession of a treasonous Nobel Laureate wanted in several states for bigamy? And–AND–we do not know where said possession is taking place?

“SOUNDS ‘BOUT RIGHT!”

“Good exposition.”

You’re both idiots. Wait there.

Katy?

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Oh, you look just as insane as those two.

“Casino ownership is not for everyone.”

Oh, no. No. You promised you wouldn’t–

“I’ve started peeing in jars.”

–start peeing in jars. Dammit, Katy: I don’t wanna do the Howard Hughes bit.

“The stress is not good. Just the signatures! Do you know how many things a casino owner has to sign every day?”

Many?

“More than that.”

Too many?

“That many, yes. I hired someone for a couple days to sign everything, but then I had to have all these long discussions with lawyers. One of them was cute.”

Katy, have you given up?

“Not on purpose, but I think I’m having a bit of a breakdown. No one’s helping me! I call John, and call, and he screws around in LA and goes to parties and leaves me here, and all this was his fault! And where’s the new one? In Europe, naked. I’m just guessing, but I’m probably right.”

Sounds right.

“Men. Men started this whole nonsense, and men made it worse, and then men refused to clean up their mess. Men, always men. I’m all alone, and I’m giving up.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Hello.”

“Katy Perry, I heard what you said and you’re right. Women have to stick together, and not expect some prince to come along and us. I’m coming to help you!”

“Who is this?”

lady-gaga-gd-magazine

“It is I, the Lady Gaga.”

“OMG! Love you!”

“No, you.”

“Gaga! I own the Luxor Hotel and Kim Jong-Un checked–”

“Stop! The Lady Gaga requires no exposition. I have been briefed.”

“Wow.”

“I am choosing outfits that I will pack into the Gagamobile, so I’m not leaving immediately, but I’m on my way.”

“Gaga, I’m in Vegas. Shouldn’t you fly?”

“I know a shortcut. For I am the Lady Gaga.”

Plan Panned

There’s this, which is a sterling example of Content, which differs from content in that it contains nothing: listicles, and How-To articles on ad-laced sites, and meme aggregation, and the Daily Tweet Roundup. The innertubes needs to have things thrown into it constantly–it likes to feel refreshed–and it’s not going to sit around waiting for you to have something so pedestrian as a thought.

And it’s not a Hot Take, either. A Hot Take has more to it than this collection of sequential words: there’s an opinion in a Hot Take, or at least a strongly-stated position. A side is taken, even if it’s deliberately the dumbest side so that the passions of dummies will be inflamed, dumbly.

Whereas this is Content: it occupies three or four scroll-downs on the mouse, and evinces a familiarity with the subject. All the tropes are covered: the dating, the fashion, the fashion bandanas. The article is written in a comedic style, and doesn’t get bogged down in jokes or ideas.

The only reason I’m annoyed (actually doubly-annoyed: fuck you for making me defend John Mayer, Sam Donsky) is that the entire conceit of the Content is wrong. It’s structured as “advice to Josh about how to get his career back on track” so that he could, you know, play stadiums or something like that, and there’s not one mention of what Johnny Checkers did on his summer vacation. The writer forces a Trump joke, so I’ll force a Trump analogy: it’s like writing an article about Donald and ignoring the past year.

In closing, fuck you again for making me defend John Mayer.

Also: fuck you, John Mayer, for becoming a Grateful Dead and forcing me to defend you. I do not want to be defending you, John Mayer; not when you do bullshit like this:

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Are you happy, San Donsky? You made me defend this. I don’t even know what the fuck this is. I mean: it’s not just plain ol’ beads on a string; George Frost used his signature design methods; there’s a deer involved in this somehow. And the beads? Special beads. African beads, and those are the most soulful and authentic beads in all the beading world.

O, Lord, how far we’ve all sunk.

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