Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: 1975 (page 1 of 3)

The Shock Of Genius

My God. It’s beautiful. Precarious?

“Yo.”

Did you do that?

“The inverted pyramid of gear?”

Yes.

“Yeah.”

It’s your masterpiece.

“Sometime, ya gotta challenge yourself.”

Magnificent.

Play It, Fats

Everyone who thought Fats Domino died years ago raise your hand in the Comment Section.

She’s Safe, Everyone

Are you okay, Mrs. Donna Jean?

“I’m better’n okay, sugar. Momma got her load on.”

Wonderful. Glad you got away from Harvey.

“Harvey. Yeah. Okay. Sugar, I got a l’il secret for you.”

What?

“Harvey wasn’t so special. They was all like that. Every. Single. One.”

Oh.

“‘Oh?’ That’s all you got?”

Your hair looks nice.

“Bless your heart.”

OR

The trunk. Jesus, the trunk. There is neither floor nor ceiling to the Bush League that the Grateful Dead occupied.

Dances Onstage While I Sing For You

Who’s that lady?

“Some lady, man.”

The professionalism of your security staff is nonpareil.

“Oh, I’m sure they patted her down thoroughly.”

True. This Lindley Meadows?

“I told you I didn’t know her name, man.”

Lindley Meadows. The park.

“Yeah, huh, good question.”

Lemme ask you something.

“Sure.”

Is the entire band tripping balls?

“Well, Donna isn’t.”

Is the entire band on acid?

“Seems that way.”

Is someone having a baby as you’re soloing?

“Think so.”

It’s Lindley Meadows.

“Learn something new every day.”

Hey, Slim

’75 Garcia could give Bobby a run for his sexy. There, I said it. Look at him, all skinny and clean and happy. I bet Bobby was leaving candy bars in Garcia’s dressing room.

There’s A Jerry Band Out On The Highway

The only Grateful Dead who wasn’t in Jerry Band at one point was Bobby.

OR

Ronnie Tutt is sitting there thinking, “He’s not gonna do any karate?”

OR

Is that a long-sleeved guayabera?

Meadow; Tenor, Baritone, Alto

We now know what Billy did during the Hiatus: eat away the sadness.

When I Stack My Masterpiece

The word “masterpiece” is more literal than you might have realized. The guilds of the past–which became the unions of the present–worked on a tiered system: you entered the trade as an apprentice, and then became a craftsman, and a journeyman. To earn the rank of master required that you produce a piece that respected members of the guild would judge.

And this, Enthusiasts, is Precarious Lee’s masterpiece. Notice the lack of symmetry along any plane whatsoever; the waggish nonchalance towards gravity; the duck is upside down. It might be the upside-down duck that pushes this tableaux into the realm of Art.

Those are geese.

Ducks are geese. Multiple names for the same animal. Like puma and cougar and panther and mountain lion all means the same cat, or buffalo and bison, or octopus and squid.

Stop typing.

A Momentary Lapse Of Hiatus

A show, Enthusiasts, a show for you; I haven’t done a recommendation in a while; they vex me so. Nothing new to say, all the superlative adjectives rubbed raw and bloodied by overuse: titanic, face-melting, lumbago-inducing. We get it: the Morning Dew was well-played.

There is no Morning Dew on 6/17/75 from Winterland, but if there had been, it would have shattered your pelvis and then touched your grandma. There is the first EVAR Help>Slip>Frank, and I enjoy that sequence of songs more than almost anything else. If a strange human and Help>Slip>Frank were both drowning in a lake, I would save H>S>F.

There is also one of only four performances of Blues For Allah, which they may or may not have played because they hadn’t relearned enough of the old songs yet.

Jerry Garcia: Sex Symbol

deadlindleyjerrypumas

TotD pays tribute to the ancients, and follows the laws they have handed down in his celebration of the Days Between. Since time immemorial, we have observed the birth and death of Jerome H. Garcia. For thousands of years, the holiday made no sense at all, but then Garcia was born and soloed and died, and everyone was all, “Oh, now I get it.”

This is either the fourth, sixth, or twenty-first day of the Days (I have stopped counting) and as custom dictates, today we remember Garcia’s fuckability. Not the loophole fuckability he retained as a rich and famous rock star until his death, but the objective fuckability of (parts of) his youth. Garcia’s Window of Fuckability* was from the regrowth of his beard in ’70 or ’71 until 1978; the window was briefly closed in ’73 when he shaved. (Garcia without his beard is like Superman without his cape.)

So on this Day Between, please join me in giving praise to Fuckable Garcia.

Do you even hear yourself any more?

Yeah, this one was creepy, huh?

Little bit.

Am I saving by being self-aware about it?

Not at all.

No, huh?

No.

Look at Garcia’s hair, though.

He looks cool as shit.

Right?

Notice how I didn’t say “fuckable” like that was an appropriate thing to say about another human.

I noticed, sure.

*Everyone has a sliver of their lives when their appearance and attitude intersect favorably, and cause one to become fuckable. For some, this window might last decades; for others, it may be limited to the hour spent walking around the parking lot of a Judas Priest concert in a zebra outfit.

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