Thoughts On The Dead

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

Does Anybody Have Any Questions?

Enthusiasts, I must admit a failing, a deep and off-putting one: TotD is an irredeemable snob. When the sad news about Bernie Worrell came across the wire this afternoon, I immediately dove into the weird murk of YouTube, hoping to find an obscure gem from the Wizard of Woo. Surely, I assumed, everyone has seen Stop Making Sense. It is, after all, the greatest concert film ever made, and perhaps the only one that rises to the level of art

But someone hasn’t. And instead of being a sarcastic turd and a Rock Nerd, I should instead reach out to these poor, benighted souls.

Watch this. And then watch the rest of the movie; it’s all on YouTube, just cut up into chunks. Trust me: there’s nothing better you could do with 90 minutes.


  1. Plenty of yoo toobz of Bernie with Kimock.

  2. It’s lonely being a genius.

  3. Saw it when it came out in one of those movie theaters where they served beer (fairly rare at the time). Me and my posse started dancing in the aisles (literally) and being raucous, and other folks started getting into it too. Theater management smartly recognized that if they kept the few ringleaders going, it would keep the other folks drinking, so they told us we had endless pitcher privileges as long as we kept the place whipped up. And we did. Somewhere during the film, I kicked off my shows (literally) and was dancing barefoot, because I am from South Carolina, and consider shoes to be an affront. Toward the end of the flick, I started to feel really, really woozy . . . like the beer was drugged or something. But, dammit, I kept dancing, because I am a South Carolina Cracker of my Word, the final ones of which will someday be “Hey y’all, watch this . . . ” Eventually, film ended, lights came on, and I was wobbling around, about to hit the floor, so light-headed was I. At which point another member of my posse (now Mrs JES) noticed that the aisle in which I was dancing was a bloody mess . . . I had apparently stepped on a pop-top (not literally) and opened a big, deep, arterial slice in my foot that eventually required medical attention after I didn’t take care of it, and I was bleeding out all over the theater, while dancing. And I never even noticed the pain, because of Bernie. And those other white people, too. But mainly Bernie. Woo!

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