Bobby, what the fuck?

“And, uh, ‘hi’ to you, too.”

When did you start reviewing concerts?

“Four years from now.”

Care to explain?

“Sure. I remember it as if it were tomorrow.”

Stop being so casual about causality.

“This was 1978. Cartermania was in full swing. That humble Georgian had lifted America’s spirits.”

Your last two sentences are completely incorrect.

“We were in Nashville, which is called Music City. Now, the buildings aren’t physically made of music, if that’s what you were thinking.”

I wasn’t.

“I made sure.”

Continue.

“We do our show on Saturday night to, like, twelve people. And, you know, not attractive. It was a small, ugly crowd. I wanted them to find their bliss, but I wanted them to do it elsewhere, you get me?”

I do.

“Backstage after the show, someone tells me that Bootsy Collins is gonna be there the next night. I say, ‘Catfish’s brother?’ And they say, ‘Yeah.’ So, I gotta go.”

Bootsy, baby.

“Place was packed. And not ugly. I mean, the Dead sells out a lot, but the crowds are still unpleasant to look at. Lotta dudes in blue jeans who just threw up. Or are about to throw up. Instead, it was wall-to-wall suits and dresses. And the crowd was, uh, different than ours in other ways. Well, one way.”

Black crowd.

“Is that what we’re saying now? ‘Black?'”

That’s what we’re saying in the now when I am. In the now when you are, God only fucking knows what you’re saying. Let’s stick with black.

“No one was barefoot. Not a one. Guys had ties on. And not just normal ties: massive suckers. There were Windsor knots the size of grapefruits. And the ladies all had their hair did.”

Black people dress up for stuff more than white people do.

“It’s preferable, I gotta tell ya. They smelled better, too. There was some Hai Karate, there some Brut by Faberge. Quite a bit of cocoa butter. Much nicer than our fans. Our fans smell like balls. By, like, the fourth or fifth show in a tour? You’ll be onstage and all you can smell is balls. Summers are the worst.”

True.

“I got steamed. My dander went right up. And, uh, I went back to the hotel and I wrote an open letter to the Deadheads. Asking them, you know, to shower and cut a more refined figure. And also fill up the venue.”

Okay.

“But, as you know, I’m dyslexic so the open letter came out a concert review.”

No.

“And I figured ‘Waste not, want not’ and sent it in to the paper.”

No. That’s not what happened. That’s not how dyslexia works.

“I have a very individualized form of the disorder.”

You’re not gonna tell me, are you?

“I don’t honestly remember the incident in the slightest.”

Good answer.