What the fuck, Bobby and/or (probably or) Bobby’s social media intern? Is this all it takes to get enblurbinated? The great David Browne, whose wonderful So Many Roads is available as a trade paperback and makes a great Christmas present, quoted me. I have been mentioned in The New Yorker, though not lately. (Not that I pay attention to things like that.) I’m hurt, Bob.
Is this what you wanted? Some purple prairie-prose about a sky as grey as Zane, and rivers both bravo and grande? I can do that. I can do that in my sleep.
“Bob Weir’s new album Blue Mountain sounds like an ash tree in winter, with a Choctaw nailed to it.”
“And as the fieldhands fumbled with their coats, hot and scared breaths mingling and vaporating in the Wyoming dawn, their nipples pinged from not the cold but from forbidden lust, and also the cold. Bob Weir’s new album, Blue Mountain, played in the background.”
“See the Bob. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged snake t-shirt. He stokes the scullery fire. Outside lie dark turned fields with rags of snow and darker woods beyond that harbor yet a few last wolves. His folk are known for hewers of wood and drawers of water but in truth his father has been a schoolmaster. He lies in drink, he quotes from poets whose names are now lost. Josh Kaufman crouches by the fire and watches him.”
“Blue Mountain, Bob Weir’s first new album in ten years, evokes the sound of stinky balls slapping on saddles, crinoline bustles with faded blood stains, and Joseph Glidden sucking chili out of his beard. The songs are Texastophelean in their scope, and submarinic in their periscope; during the title track, my horse starved to death.”
“You have died of dysentery.”
SEE? I am blurb-worthy. Put my shit on Instagram, yo.