Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: 1989 (page 1 of 3)

Singing A Lullaby Beside The Waterslide

Precarious?

“Yo.”

It’s supposed to be Spinal Tap, then Puppet Show.

“The water slide?”

There was no other place to set up the stage?

“Honest?”

Please.

“Boys were a little full of themselves this tour.”

This would knock anyone’s ego onto the floor, I guess.

“Eh. You never met Mickey.”

True.

Weir Partying

“It’s just not fair, Bob.”

“Josh, everybody doesn’t get to be in every storyline. When Garcia started a solo band, I wasn’t in it. Didn’t hurt my feelings.”

“No?”

“It hurt a little.”

“Okay, so you see where I’m coming from.”

“Connecticut.”

“I mean: you understand my position.”

“Seated.”

“Can’t you talk to Elvis? I wanna fight Communism, or time travel, or drunken Phil from 30 years ago. Whichever.”

“Yeah, this storyline has a whole lotta ‘whichever’ in it.”

“Well, just put in a word with him. Where is Elvis?”

“I saw him at the bar.”

“Is he drinking? He shouldn’t be mixing whatever he’s on with alcohol.”

“DON’T NOBODY TELL A SOUTHERN MAN WHAT T’ DO ‘LESS THEY BRING TH’ NATIONAL GUARD”

“Calm down, Elvis.”

“TELL YER SON HE’S ABOUT T’ GET A TON O’ KARATE SHOVED UP HIS ASS, HAIRY GARCIA.”

“Please don’t unleash your karate on Josh, King.”

“AH HAVE MADE MAH FEELIN’S ‘BOUT THAT BOY CRYSTAL CLEAR.”

“I know, yeah, sure. But, uh, lemme tell you: everybody feels that way at first. He grows on you.”

“SO DO CARBUNCLES!”

“True.”

“Okay, don’t call me a carbuncle, man.”

“YOU WILL ADDRESS TH’ KING WHEN ADDRESSED BY TH’ KING, AN’ TH’ KING AIN’T NEVER GOIN’ T’ ADDRESS YOU, CARBUNCLE!”

“Goddammit, Bob. I have, like, five Grammys.”

“Nobody cares about the Grammys, Josh.”

“LISTEN T’ YER ELDERS, CARBUNCLE!”

“Is that nickname gonna stick?”

“The answer to that will be revealed in the fullness of time, I suppose.”

“WHICH ONE YOU LITTLE LADIES WANTS A DEMEROL?”

“Elvis?”

“UH-HUH?”

“Not the one in the red dress.”

“IZZAT YER LISA-MARIE?”

“Yup.”

“AH WILL NOT GRANT HER MAH PILLS. HOW ‘BOUT YOU?”

“Y’know what? I could be talked into my shoulder hurting.”

“HOT DAMN, HAIRY GARCIA! NOW ISS A PARTY!”

“I’ll take one, too, man.”

“AW RIGHT, MAN! DEMEROLS F’R EV’RYBODY ‘CEPT CARBUNCLE!”

“Bobby?”

“Josh?”

“Is that Jerry at the bar?”

“Good eye.”

“Uh-huh. Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“Should the dead guy be sitting at the bar in full view of the room?”

“Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

“So, why is he?”

“Cuz that’s Garcia from ’89. He’s not dead yet. 2017 Garcia? Yeah, dead as disco. That guy should not be anywhere near the bar.”

“Why is Jerry from ’89 sitting at the bar?”

“Well, we weren’t gonna leave him in the car.”

“IT AIN’T A CAR! ISS A STUTZ!”

“In the Stutz.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be in this storyline.”

“NOBODY INVITED YA, CARBUNCLE!”

“Okay, I’m gonna go bang sorority chicks in the bathroom.”

“AVOID TH’ STALL ON TH’ LEFT. THAT POPEYE’S WENT RIGHT THROUGH ME.”

“Goddammit.”

The Dead, Red Wedding

What is this?

“Mawwaige.”

Princess Bride reference. Nice, Phil.

“I’m with it.”

You’re very hip. Why are you allowed to marry people?

“Anyone in California is legally allowed to marry anyone to anything.”

So progressive. Weren’t you and Putin on the way to steal back all the time machines from ’85 you?

“We still are. Stopped for a minute.”

Lada break down?

“Lada broke down. Thing’s made out of popsicle sticks and promises.”

How’s ’69 Garcia?

“Really, really, really enjoying 21st century weed and pornography.”

Both of those things have come a long way in 50 years.

“Yeah, he’s thrilled. Although, he nearly shot the kid at Starbucks when he found out how much coffee costs now.”

’69 Garcia was packing?

“No, of course not. Jerry, along with the rest of the Dead, was a pacifist who didn’t believe in weapons of violence.”

Hahahahaha.

“Hahahaha.”

Oh, we have a good time. Wait: where’s Putin?

“Right over there. He loves weddings. Even managed to find a date.”

“Is so romantic. Putin love veddings.”

Is that Steven Seagal?

“Da. Is my bro.”

What the hell is on his head?

“Vig.”

A what?

“Vig.”

“Vig?”

“Nyet make fun of glorious Russian accent.”

Stupid accent.

“Is best accent. Ladies love.”

If the ladies love it, then why is Steven Seagal your date to a wedding?

“Is vingman. Going to meet tight American foxes. Butt play on bocce court.”

“You stay the hell away from those bocce courts, mister!”

“Nyet tell Putin vhat to do, Phil Grateful. Putin make love to voman butt vherever he please.”

“This deal is getting worse and worse all the time.”

SOMEWHEN ELSE

“WELL, YER BASS PLAYER AIN’T AT TH’ WATER PARK, HAIRY GARCIA.”

“Elvis, I gotta admit something to you. I, uh, didn’t think that he was.”

“YOU JUS’ WANTED T’ GO T’ TH’ WATER PARK! YOU SLY DOG, YOU.”

“In my defense, we had a lot of fun.”

“IT WUZ A GOOD THING AH BROUGHT MAH BATHING-JUMPSUIT.”

“Yup. You looked good, too.”

“AH WUZ TH’ ONLY ONE IN TH’ PARK WITH A CAPE.”

“Well, you’re generally the only one in any building with a cape.”

“NAH, MAN. AH HANG OUT WITH A LOTTA MAGICIANS.”

“Ah. So, what’s the plan?”

“SENSEI BENJY HAS CALLED ME WITH AN UPDATE. POOTER AN’ TH’ OLD FELLA HE HANGIN’ OUT WITH GOT THEMSELVES SOME SORTA SECRET WEAPON. SOMETHIN’ CALLED A ‘JERRY.’ DUNNO ANY MORE THAN THAT.”

“Did the call get interrupted?”

“AH STOPPED PAYIN’ ATTENTION ONCE TH’ CONVERSATION WAS NO LONGER ‘BOUT ME.”

“Sure. A ‘Jerry,’ huh? I know where to get one of those. When, I mean.”

“LEAD ON, HAIRY GARCIA. WHICH WAY SHALL AH POINT MAH LUXURIOUS AUTOMOBILE?”

“Take the exit for 1989.”

“WANNA GET POPEYE’S?”

“Yes, I do.”

HONK HONK

“Is there a car in the dressing room?”

“THIS AIN’T NO CAR, Y’ DINGDANG DRUGGIE! ISS A STUTZ BLACKHAWK!”

“Elvis?”

“Hey, Jer?”

“Bobby? What the hell is happening?”

“I got you fried chicken.”

“Oh, cool.”

thwip

“Bob, did Elvis just shoot a blowdart into my ne–”

flump

“He was getting in the car!”

“CAN’T TAKE NO CHANCES WITH NO DRUGGIE.”

“Well, you know: not to be pointing a finger, but you’ve eaten your weight in pills since we started our trip.”

“THASS MAH MEDICINE, BOY!”

“But you’ve been sharing it with me.”

“YOU LOOK SICK.”

“Dammit, man. All right, let’s just get him in the car.”

“WHY’D WE HAVE T’ GET ONE O’ TH’ FAT ITERATIONS, MAN?”

“Just help me.”

“AH SHALL HELP YOU. CHARLIE HODGE! HELP HAIRY GARCIA PUT WHATEVER TH’ HELL THIS THING IS IN TH’ STUTZ!”

“You make it difficult to be your friend.”

“WE AIN’T FRIENDS. WE BEST FRIENDS.”

“Great. Gimme the blow gun.”

“AH WILL GIVE IT T’ YOU BECAUSE AH WANT TO, NOT CUZ YOU SAID TO.”

“Whatever. And stop eating Jerry’s chicken!”

“IT JUS’ SMELLED SO DANG GOOD, MAN.”

“Am I too late?’

Post’s over, John.

“But, I had–”

Post’s over.

“HOW MANY TIMES AH GOTTA PASS ON THAT BOY?”

You heard Elvis. Post’s over.

“I hate all of you.”

Greatest Stories Never Told

Good news in a morass of pitiful offerings, Enthusiasts: Cascadia’s champion, Mr. Completely, has once again graced us with a bracing blow of audio semi-fictionality. I cannot tell you what the best ever 1989 show was–4/2, 6/11, 14/3.14–but I can tell you what the best EVAR show was: this one.

These ones, more rightly, as Completely has created not one superb semi-fictional show, but two. (And they’re long fuckers, too.) Not “Best-Of” or whatever where the songs are jumbled and tossed without care, no: these two “shows” follow the rules of the Grateful Dead: alternating Garcia and Bobby tunes, little songs in the first set, weirdo bullshit in the second. If you didn’t know these shows didn’t actually happen, you might not realize it.

I won’t gush, but just tell you this: since Mr. Completely sent me the (almost) finished versions two weeks ago, I’ve listened to each show at least five times. It’s a home run mixed with a touchdown combined with a delicious corned beef sandwich while someone is touching your nipples in just the right way.

So: watch it on YouTube, or download either the FLAC, ALAC, or MP3 from the link, and then tell him how good it is in the Comment Section. Make sure you check out the detailed liner notes which, in keeping with Grateful Dead tradition, I was not asked to write. TotD gets a special thanks, but–in candor–my participation was mostly pestering him about including Foolish Heart.

Semper Reptilis

Hey, Snake Tee-Shirt. Long time no see.

“How’sss it hanging?”

Can’t complain. You?

“Sssad.”

Aw, buddy. What’s the matter?

“Worried about the United Ssstatesss.”

We all are.

“I’m a patriot. You know I wasss in the Marine Corpsss.”

You don’t pronounce the S in that word, let alone pronounce it like that.

“You don’t ressspect veteransss.”

Yes, I do. And you are not a veteran.

“I ssserved my country, boy! Not like sssome pussssssiesss I could mention.”

You did not.

“I wasss at Khe Sssan.”

NO, YOU WERE NOT.

“Sssometimesss, I’m ssstill there. My buddiesss died in my handsss!”

You don’t have hands.

“Ssslevesss.”

You don’t even have sleeves. You were not a Marine.

“Thisss isss my rifle, thisss isss my gun.”

YOU DON’T HAVE HANDS.

“Audie Murphy didn’t have handsss. They let him be a Marine.”

First of all, he was in the Army. Second of all, he lost his hands in combat. He didn’t show up at the draft office and open the door with his foot. Third of all, you are a tee-shirt.

“You’re racissst.”

Can’t be racist against shirts. Shirt is not a race.

“I even remember the sssongsss we would sssing when we marched.”

You can’t march. You slither.

“I DON’T KNOW, BUT IT’S BEEN SSSAID–”

Stop this.

“MARIE ANTOINETTE GIVESSS REAL GOOD HEAD!”

I regret talking to you.

Push That Button The Time Traveler Said Not To

Give it to me.

“Fuck off.”

Goddammit, Phil: gimme the phone.

“Fuck off. What phone? Fuck off.”

I can see it in the giant pocket of your comfy sweatpants.

“That’s not a phone.”

“Playing cards.”

No.

“I’m learning magic. Ned Lagin is coming back and we’re gonna do a Penn and Teller routine in between sets.”

None of that is true. Give me the phone.

“Fuck off. I need it.”

Dammit, all of you need to stop routing your WiFi through the Time Sheath.

“I have to be in touch with the restaurant.”

That’s 20 years away from this picture.

“I don’t exist in 1989. I exist within a picture taken of 1989.”

This all makes my head hurt.

“The busboys must be managed. Last time I left them alone, they tried to form a union. The time before that, they tried to form Voltron.”

That didn’t happen.

“Agitationists!”

Not a word.

“They should be happy for their employment. I house them. I feed them. I clothe them. What more do they want?”

Pay them?

“Never! That’s not how this works.”

How does it work?

“Busboys are social creatures; they follow a hierarchy. You engage the alpha in combat. You best him. Then, the whole pack belongs to you.”

I think you’re talking about otters.

“Busboys and river otters are closely related species. You can’t have my phone.”

APPLE WATCH NOISE

At least tell Bobby to take the Apple Watch off?

“No. Fuck off.”

A Lyric Opera

Bobby is thought of as the Grateful Dead who forgot the words; he should more rightly be known as the Grateful Dead who also forgot the words. My contention is that Garcia pooched the lyrics just as much, if not more, as Bobby did. They played Truckin’ over 500 times, and I cannot believe that Bobby fumbled more than 200 of them, whereas Garcia sang Crazy Fingers right exactly once. Additionally, even if he got the words to Franklin’s right–and that is a big “if”–neither he nor anyone in the room could possibly predict what order the verses would be presented in that evening.

(In Garcia’s defense, it doesn’t much matter which order the verses of Franklin’s are sung in. You have to start with “Another time’s forgotten space,” but after that, it’s up for grabs. You can’t sing the lyrics of, say, Stagger Lee out of order because then the revenge would be taken before the inciting incident; that would violate narrative causality, so your brain won’t let you sing it that way.)

After a certain point, the usual vocal flubs fail to arouse the dedicated Enthusiast, and a more powerful source must be found: try 10/20/89 from The Spectrum in Philly, with a priceless performance from Garcia on Scarlet Begonias: he just gives up and starts mumbling “…the more it can take…” into his chest until it’s time for him to solo again. If you don’t have time for the whole show, then just watch the S>F, which–lyrical misadventures notwithstanding–is outstanding.

Make time for this one, though: good and gooey all the way from soup to nuts.

“Heeeey, man.”

Not you, Soup.

“Okay, man.”

Plus one of only two versions of California Earthquake, which is such a good song that the Dead couldn’t ruin it, even though they tried.

Missed Meeting

This was, both sadly and unavoidably, the first year I’ve had to miss the Meet-Up At The Movies; a small comfort is that I’m driven bonkers by the behavior of my fellow Enthusiasts during the film and don’t enjoy the experience all that much. It is, as you are correctly guessing, not so much their actions (which are well within the bounds of decency and in-group norms for this type of screening) as my misanthropy combined with my insanely strict rules about movie theaters.

TotD’s Insanely Strict Rules For Movie Theaters:

  • Shut the fuck up.
  • In fact, don’t even move.

Almost all my other rules turn out to be guidelines under close scrutiny, but not those. And while a showing of 7/2/89 from Sullivan Stadium in Foxborough, MA, attended solely by Deadheads should be granted special dispensation from the standard silence, I can’t make my brain accept the exception, and I end up hating everyone around me halfway through the first set.

You are unwell.

Oh, hey. You’re in this computer, too?

Just continue.

Sure. Anyway, I mentioned that the show was available on YouTube, and said I was going to watch it, but–in a rare occurrence–the tenets of Without Research have bitten us all on the box-back nitties. What I thought, after briefly glimpsing the playlist but not clicking on anything, was the whole show turns out to be the just the first set, and not the pro-shot version, either. Voodoonola has cleaned it up, so it’s the best it’s going to look, but it is still the video version of an AUD.

(On the other hand, the first set opens with Playing and the second set closes with Dear Mr. Fantasy>Hey Jude, so the first set is objectively the superior set.)

The previous Meet-Ups have been mysteriously leaked for just long enough for everyone to download them, so if that happens here, I’ll let you know. Until then, this is good enough for you animals:

I’ll Be Friends With The Devil Before I’m Friends With Vimeo

Everybody’s friend until you ask to borrow money, Mr. Completely, found this uptempo Friend of the Devil from the ’89 Sullivan Stadium show being released as this year’s Meet-Up at the Movies: Garcia is all smiley, and Bobby is wearing hot pants, and Phil is still working off the Heineken weight.

Also: he found it on Vimeo and fuck Vimeo; I put it on my YouTube channel, so it might get taken down any minute, but I’m not linking to Vimeo. My grandfather stormed the beach at Normandy so I wouldn’t have to deal with fucking Vimeo.

Exactly The Same Size As A Drive-In Movie, Oo-Wee

[PDF] I built a drive-in theater

Boston-area Enthusiasts, you’re in for a treat: this year’s Meet-Up at the Movies (featuring the non-circulating 7/2/89 from Sullivan Stadium in Buffalo Foxborough) will be simulcast on the drive-in screen in Mendon, MA, plus if you want to get out of your car, there’s a beer garden and a Dead tribute band as an opening act.

This sounds like fun, and I hope some of you go, but if you don’t sneak in a couple extra Deadheads in the trunk, then I can’t talk to you anymore.

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