Why do you recommend these things to me? I’m looking at you, DeadBase and gratefuldeadprojects.com and archive.org commenters and the wonderful book, Dead to the Core? You entice me in with pithy reviews and spot-on analysis of shows I’d never heard of. You make me trust you, and I let you into my heart and then you KEEP TRYING TO SELL ME THE LIE THAT IS VINCE WELNICK. The only way I can sit through another one of that mammal’s Teeny Weeny Pipe Organ accompaniments is if I were literally immortal and had from this moment until the Sun expands to embrace us all to listen to shows. But, I don’t: we all have a finite amount of time left on this planet and I’m not wasting it on Samba in the Rain. WHY WOULD YOU RECOMMEND ANOTHER HUMAN BEING LISTEN TO SAMBA IN THE RAIN?
But, let’s be honest with each other: it’s not all Vince’s fault. Plus: at least he was paying attention. Yes, he was failing a great deal of the time, but unlike certain band members I will not name who were fat men with Santa beards and vascular edema, he was at least attempting to entertain the tens of thousands of people who, let’s not forget, had paid to be there. At a certain point, showing up high becomes less about being a tortured artist, and more about simple rudeness.
And the cleanliness of that later period, the pristine notes washed in the dulling waters of the most expensive computers they could buy, the synth-flute bass solos: listening to it is like watching someone else play a video game. They weren’t playing music–they were playing with toys.
But how could they play well? With Dead Man Walking on keyboards? They had buried three keyboardists already Even Bobby had figured out the joke at this point. Mickey was a dick about it, though. he kept asking if he could have Vince’s stuff when he died. Vince would pretend to laugh, but deep down, he would be hurt. Even deeper down, though, he was elated that Mickey had not only spoken to him, but remembered his name AND not punched him in the dick like that other horrible drummer KEEPS DOING.