Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 2 of 76)

Dead & Company At Citi Field

When did Bobby dye his hair?

That’s Garcia.

No. Garcia’s dead. I had to explain this to Nephew, but I thought you knew. Oh, shit, I’m not breaking this to you, am I?

This attitude is why Pitchfork won’t hire you.

Fuck Pitchfork.

That attitude, too.

Dude, hop on the D & C train.

It’s not Dead & Company. That’s the actual Grateful Dead at Bickershaw.

Nonsense. It’s Citi Field. Look in the crowd to the left of the stage; you can see Mr. Met giving Oteil the finger.

That’s not Oteil.

He would totally wear that sweater.

Absolutely, yes. Still: no.

I don’t get you, man. What about this picture doesn’t scream “21st century corporate perfection” to you?

Every single thing.

Ah, I’m just funning with you.

It’s never fun when you fun.

What’s the most Precarious Lee part of this setup?

Ooh, good game. Let’s play. Hmm. Amateurs might say the oblique angle that the monitors are lined up at.

Amateurs.

A more seasoned vet would point out that Pig is literally behind the PA.

Well, it’s not like there was any room on the stage.

True. But the real Enthusiast sees Precarious’ handiwork in that super-taut wire leading to the speaker all the way up top on the right.

So many points of failure.

It’s amazing they’re all alive.

They aren’t.

I was funning with you.

Yeah, you’re right: funning isn’t fun.

I know.

Jack Straw

“This is new.”

“Is it, Bob?”

“Never seen it before. Doesn’t, you know, augur well for the evening.”

“What’s he got in there?”

“Nothing good, Josh.”

“What’s on your iPad?”

“Franken’s book. This guy really hates Tom Cruise.”

“I’ll check it out. Seriously, we should do something about this.”

“Good idea. You talk to him.”

“Why me? You’ve known him for 50 years.”

“That’s why I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Sure. Um, Billy?”

“Fuckface?”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Getting my swerve on, hamster-style.”

“Uh-huh. What is it that you’re drinking?’

“If you soak weed in Bacardi 151 for a month, it turns into…like…I don’t know what the fuck it turns into, but it kicks like a rented whore.”

“You’re not drinking it straight?”

“I threw in some ice.”

“Wow.”

“And whisky.”

“Okay. Bob, can I talk to you over there?”

“Where?”

“In the next picture.”

“Ah. Sure, yeah.”

“He’s drinking rocket fuel.”

“Literally?”

“No.”

“Because, you know, he’s done that before. Doctor once told us Billy had the stomach acid of a condor. Can’t be poisoned.”

“No, it’s some sort of concoction, and I’m sure he didn’t even tell me all the ingredients.”

“He’ll survive. And, uh, it can’t be worse than whatever’s going on next to him.”

“True.”

Bill Love

Billy, are you guys playing in an asbestos museum?

“No such luck. Salt Lake City.”

Yeesh.

“Gotta bring your own hooch. And skank! Went to a whorehouse here once, and they give you tuggers behind a Zion curtain.”

Why?

“Elders think if you look at your own dick too much, you’ll turn sissy.”

That’s not how it works.

“I know, right? I love looking at my dick, and I’m straight as shit. Hell, it’s my phone’s wallpaper.”

Why?

“Cheers me up. I see it and think, ‘I’m gonna stick that somewhere soon,’ and I smile.”

Awesome.

“You can get skank here, but it’s got all different rules. You can have as much skank as you can satisfy. They call it plural skank.”

Polygamy, Billy. You’re describing polygamy.

“I’m describing one chick in an ankle-length dress working my shaft, and another one working my fire exit.”

Ew.

“Sister-skank.”

Double ew. How’s the tour going?

“All the checks have cleared so far.”

A success.

“Yup.”

Wait. You went to a whorehouse in Salt Lake City? What was it called?

“Brigham Tongue’s.”

I’ll have to stop by.

“Bring money and your dick.”

Good advice.

The Tripps Spelling Bee

“Okay, if the crowd will just settle down then we can go on to our next round. Let’s have the first contestant up. From Atherton, California, Bobert Weir.”

“Bobby’s fine.’

“Hello, Bobby.”

“Hiya.”

“Bobby, your word is whirlicote.”

“I don’t need a coat.”

“Whirlicote.”

“No matter what it does.”

“No, Bobby. The word is whirlicote.”

“Ah. Can you, uh, use it a sentence?”

“Yes. The Duke and Duchess took a whirlicote to the opera.”

“Okay. Can you spell it?”

“I cannot.”

“Then how are you going to know if I get it right?”

“I meant that I can’t spell it for you. I know how it’s spelled.”

“Well, you know: only cuz you have it written down in front of you. Might wanna get off your high whirlicote.”

“Just spell the word, Bobby.”

“B-O-B-B-Y.”

“You missed the comma in between ‘word’ and ‘Bobby.'”

“Huh. Yeah, looks like I did. Do-over?”

“No. You’re out.”

“All right, then.”

“Let’s have the next contestant. This will be Mr. Billiam Kreutzmann from…Mymother? Is that a town? Billiam, where is Mymother?”

“Probably at the bus station with a cock in her mouth.”

“I see what you did.”

“Got you, fucker.”

“Great. Are you prepared to spell your word?’

“Hit me.”

“Skeumorph.”

“Nation of origin?”

“Greek.”

“Is it about butt-fucking?”

“No.”

“Big butt-fuckers, the Greeks.”

“It is an ornament or design representing a utensil or implement.”

“You sure this bullshit’s a word?”

“Yes.”

“S-U-C-K–”

“Wrong! No. You’re done.”

“Blow me.”

“Thank you, wonderful. Next contestant, please.”

“This is one of the most exciting night s of my life, being here with all these wonderful people and enjoying knowledge and learning and celebrating everything good in the world.”

“Please put your arms down, Mr. Walton.”

“Hands up on defense.”

“This is a spelling bee, sir.”

“You play your way, and I’ll play the right way. Now hit me.”

“Choucroute. Would you like me to use it in a sentence?”

“No need. U-C-L-A.”

“Get off the stage.”

“Which way did Billy got?”

“Follow the screams.”

“Usually the best way to find him, yeah.”

“Let’s just get through the rest of this. Next contestant?”

“Set me up one o’ them fancy words, Professor! The ol’ Pig’s ready to do some spellin’!”

“Didn’t you die in 1973?”

“This a spellin’ bee or a damn trivia quiz!? Don’t you worry ’bout who’s dead and who’s not!”

“Fine. Your word is boxbacknitties.”

“That ain’t no word.”

“Yes.”

“Then lay a little bit o’ context on me!”

“Here is the sentence: She’s got boxbacknitties, and great big ennobled thighs.”

“That’s just gibberish. You drinkin’? And if you is, why haven’t you offered the ol’ Pig some?”

“The word is boxbacknitties.”

“Pig! It starts with a B!”

“Mr. Weir, you’ve been eliminated. Please don’t help. Mr. McKernan?”

“B. Um, uh.”

“Mr. Weir, I can see you making an ‘O’ with your arms.”

“Just stretching.”

“Thanks, Bobby!”

“You got it, Pig.”

“I quit.”

Billy’s Back, And There’s Gonna Be Trouble

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy.

“Summer!”

You look happy.

“Course. Looking at the kid.”

Oh, that’s nice. You two have developed a friendship.

“Nah, fuck that. Every time I see him, I get an enormous check.”

Right.

“And usually a tugger. Not from him, but once from him. Didn’t like it. Kid’s got some paws on him. Made my drumstick look like a chopstick.”

I’m so glad tour has started.

“Here’s some advice: if you wanna think your cock is huge, get a midget to stroke you off.”

Can we talk about anything else?

“We’ve talked about money and skank. What else is there?”

Music?

“Hold on.”

THUMP-THWACK

“Okay. What?”

What was that?

“We’re in the middle of a song.”

I don’t get it.

“Tempos are so slow that I only have to hit my drums, like, once every 20 seconds.”

Ah.

“Sometimes I run down to the casino between beats and make a bet or two.”

What game do you play?

“No game. The bet is how long I can wander around with my dick out before security tosses me.”

Do you win?

“Of course. Everyone has to look at my dick. That’s a solid victory.”

Nice to have you back, Billy.

“Yeah, I’m the shit.”

The Return Of Josh Meyers

Ah, Christ.

“Heeeey, buddy.”

Summer kinda snuck up on me. Thought I had at least another Mayer-free month.

“Nah. I’m in the house. Summer of Douche!”

Fuck.

“You have no idea how many celebrity friends I’m gonna take selfies with, and the ridiculous interviews I’m gonna do, and OH MY GOD am I gonna Snapchat the fuck out of this tour. Got my outfits lined up. You and me, buddy.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I hate you.”

Yeah, yeah.

“John Mayer here.”

“I got celebrity friend, too, Hot Dog Dick.”

“Fuck.”

“Obama.”

“That is not President Obama.”

“You no recognize because he wear sunglasses. Is Obama.”

“I don’t want to go through another summer of this, and quite frankly I don’t think the readers want to, either.”

“Why you not in Jewish propaganda?”

“What?”

“Movie. Very long. Band plays song for hours and do drugs and die. You in band. Why you not in Jewish movie?”

“I think you’re talking about Long Strange Trip, and I also think I’m just going to ignore this entire line of inquiry.”

“Was good movie for Jewish movie.”

“Please stop.”

“Hot Dog Dick getting wrinkles in forehead.”

“I could pass for 36.”

“Oh, nooooo. White people show age. Is like white car. See dirt faster.”

“I’m gonna hang up on you.”

“Is okay. I got Obama now.”

“Not Obama.”

“We have all summer.”

“Motherfucker.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“What did I ever do to you?”

Besides the video with the pandas?

“Besides that.”

I’ll think of something. We got all summer, pretty boy.

“Fuuuuuuck.”

Billy’s Tour Memo*

Good afternoon, everyone. Another summer of this bullshit.

I’d like everyone to read this memo, and for someone to read it to Bobby. These are my new rules, and they must be adhered to if you wish your dicks to remain unpunched.

Yes, I’m talking to you, Black Phil.

There will be no entering my dressing room, tour bus, hotel suite, or isolation pod. NO ONE can come in, unless they have skank and/or cocaine. DO NOT bring me skank and/or cocaine unless invited or it is EXCEPTIONALLY good skank and/or cocaine. I’m talking that Merck shit.

I have rehired Benjy as my security team, and bought him nunchucks. BENJY WILL NUNCHUCK YOU if you enter my personal space without being invited.

This goes for EVERYONE, no matter how pretty they are and how many movie stars they have stuck it in!

You must schedule an appointment. If you schedule an appointment and cancel, then you will be charged for the visit.

I have had my kind and generous nature taken advantage of for TOO LONG. Do not approach me when I am in my tugger chair. Do not compliment me on my favorite red baseball cap. Even if your intent is to say mean things about Phil, YOU MUST HAVE AN APPOINTMENT.

Anyone walking by my dressing room will have a couch thrown at their family.

Do not wait for me in the hallway, or I will have Benjy set you on fire. The nunchucks have flame-throwing capability. If you attempt to walk with me, I will karate chop you in the throat.

YOU MAY NOT TAKE OFFENSE AT THESE RULES. It is for the good of the music, and also I’m just completely fucking sick of all of you people.

All of this goes double for Mickey.

May Allah’s Blessings be upon you,
Billy

*After Steve Harvey’s memo.

Happy Birthday, Billy

“Thoughts on my Ass! Look! I’m in a psychedelic butthole!”

Ew?

“I had a psychedelic butthole once. Went to visit Bear at Lompoc. Keistered in some shit for him, but I sat down too hard. Don’t remember much of the next month.”

What do you remember?

“Skank.”

Sure. Happy birthday, Billy.

“Thanks, man.”

Get any presents?

“Skank.”

Sure.

“I’m tough to shop for. It’s a ‘What do you get the guy who’s plowed everything?’ situation.”

How’d you spend it?

“With my family, of course. Real nice. Quiet dinner at home.”

That’s sweet.

“And later on, I got high and stole a firetruck.”

Not as sweet.

“Chicks dig firemen. Picked up this blonde with a black eye and a purse full of scratchers at the liquor store. Made her puke in the hat and wear it.”

Why?

“It was my birthday.”

That’s just weird.

“Hey, I’ve been banging forever, man. Gotta throw in something new every once in a while to get the juices flowing.”

That makes sense, actually.

“I cycle through fetishes. Every tour is a new thing. Quiz me. Name a tour and I’ll tell you what I was into.”

Okay, uh…The Dead in 2003.

“Orgies.”

Summer, ’92.

“Feet.”

Europe, ’81.

“Deaf chicks.”

Deaf chicks?

“You gotta hear the noises they make.”

Jesus, Billy.

“Mickey taped a bunch of ’em. But, you know, I was very respectful of Deaf culture.”

I’m sure.

“I learned how to sign ‘I’m transitioning to anal.'”

Nice of you.

“Of course, I was usually behind them when I signed it.”

Happy birthday, buddy.

“Here’s to 69 more!”

You’re 70.

“No, I meant–”

We got it.

M.I.T As Well

When dunces give you that “Jerry didn’t want it to be about politics, maaaaaaan,” jive, just remind them the Dead were literally the house band of a student riot. This is 5/6/70 on the Kresge Plaza at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The band was scheduled to play the next night in the gym, but when the kids took the campus in protest of the National Guard murdering four Kent State students, the Dead agreed to provide the soundtrack; they were hidden in the back of a bread truck and smuggled onto the site. (It looks like they didn’t bring Pig’s organ.) It was cold–May in Boston can get wicked chilly–and they had more trouble keeping their guitars in tune than normal, but the set’s got a crackly and wired energy; Dancin’ in the Street is the highlight, which makes sense given the context.

Garcia didn’t do politics because he was terminally passive-aggressive, but the Grateful Dead always chose sides, and it was always the side you’d expect.

Nudie, Nudie Minglewood Blues

Last shot of the Nudie Suits. (Is this Winterland?)

OR

Everybody’s favorite fun game: Spot Precarious Lee’s Work. Here’s a hint: it’s the monitors.

Older posts Newer posts
%d bloggers like this: