Thoughts On The Dead

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

Frost: The Show, Man

Digressions and distractions, they buzz around me and lick me like the patch of carpet that Keith thought “smelled like dope.” I intended–honestly, with no agenda–to make a full and sweeping, perhaps even academic overview of the Dead’s various visits to Chicago. It was to be multi-paragraphed and sourced and impartial: it was gonna be my Lost Live Dead: I was gonna hit the big time, Pop!

And barely 36 hours (or maybe three days–I have been binging on Storage Wars and time and space seem to have, I don’t know, maybe switched places a little bit?) after undertaking this feat of literary endurance that would make Samuel Johnson soil his trousers, I get sidetracked.

By the way, Samuel Johnson soiled his trousers a lot. More than you would accept in most men, but fuck it–it was Samuel Johnson: if you write a dictionary all by yourself, you get to shit yourself. The fucked-up thing was that every time it happened (and remember: it happened quite a bit), he would–even before attending to his pressing hygienic needs–white-knuckle his walking stick and start whaling the daylights out of Boswell, who hadn’t done anything: fucking Johnson was the one who made the doody in his pants, HE should be the one getting hit! But, no: Johnson would sock the poor fucker, like, six or seven times, hard, and start screeching, “Not for the book!” SHWAKATHOOM “Not for the book!” HAGGADAH “Not for the book!”…

Stop it. Stop it now. You are a mutant who will never know love and you need to stop it and get back to the point.

Fine.

So: I’m fully immersed in The Chicago Project. I was gonna put it on Kickstarter just as soon as I figure out what that means. And then a certain Mr. Completely (yes, Enthusiasts, the same Siren who lured me onto the rocks of Fucking Jerry Band for a while) mentions a bunch of ’80’s shows on Reddit and everything’s gone pear-shaped.

So check out this exquisite ’82 from Frost Amphitheater: not the more famous 10/10, but the day before. Brent is playing scads of piano–real piano, not the Fender–in this one and it just might be the show to fully convince me of his Motherfucker status. He’s clearly listening to Garcia and is fast and responsive and dynamic: everything Keith wasn’t at the end. PLUS, early Touch and Throwing Stones AND a rare On The Road Again! Listen to this, or I’m getting the Time Sheath, loading Samuel Johnson up with Mexican food, and coming to your house.

3 Comments

  1. Do you need a friend, or something? There seems to be some inner turmoil, maybe some inexorable demon, that you are needing to rid yourself of?

  2. oh, yeah, thanks for the show suggestion 😉

  3. I went to the Frost show on 10/10/82, which I thought at the time was mediocre, but it sounds better on the replay. What I really remember, though, was this girl dancing near me. She was the same girl who danced topless at a Greek Theatre show in May, and let’s just say she had the body to be noticed from the other side of the bowl.

    At Frost, she was unencumbered underneath a peasant blouse, and she looked gooood. I wonder where she is now. She had a rather seductive smile, but I was there with my wife, so I had to pretend not to notice.

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