Nobel Prize? I don’t belieeeeeve you. Yer a liiiiar.
Nobel Prize? I don’t belieeeeeve you. Yer a liiiiar.
Well, I kinda had to post this, didn’t I?
Let’s be honest about the subtext of Desert Trip, Enthusiasts, also known as Oldchella: See ’em before they die! These are some creaky-ass white men with guitars, and there are malignancies growing within them; the elasticity has dripped from their skin, and their forearms hang and sway. 2016 is outside with a machete and a hard-on, and literally any rock star could be taken at any moment.
This way to the egress, suckers.
I’m sure I’ll talk about it some more, especially if it’s streamed. (My guess is that, like Coachella or Lockn’, they’ll announce a stream two days before.) I have very little personal or musical interest: as I mentioned, I saw the Stones and Floyd two decades ago, and they’re still doing the exact same shows; the interesting musicians in The Who are dead; I’m allergic to Paul McCartney. Neil Young will be performing, and I get yelled at when I discuss my feelings about him, so I’ll just note that Neil Young is performing. Bob Dylan will also be making that noise he makes.
Or singing torch songs, or maybe he’s rearranged all his old tunes for an oompah band: something irritating like that.
But the bullshit, Enthusiasts? Oh, will I be paying attention to the bullshit and there is so much; you can luxuriate in it. Now, Oldchella is out in Indio, CA, which is on the edge of the desert, halfway to Barstow. It’s not near anything, so you have to travel there and stay there for the weekend, and the amenities being offered are varied in price and comfort.
TotD has spies everywhere, though, and one of the Haight Street Irregulars has passed along this information about the ultra-high end lodging package, which is not available to the public due to the clientele’s need for discretion. I mean, you could stay in this shitty place…
…if you were some sort of scum person, or C.H.U.D., or Dickensian orphan; people of means–decent people–need something a little more upscale, which is why Desert Trip offers the Praetor’s Suite Experience®.
Have your social secretary call for pricing about the package, which includes:
For a small additional fee, guests can make Paul McCartney watch them eat a bacon cheeseburger.
I see you back there.
“I’m sneaky when I wanna be.”
Dylan tour, huh?
“Four shows to go.”
You been counting?
“Christ, the cat’s a pain in the ass. Buncha malcontents in the Dead, sure, but once we choose a key for a song, we stick to it.”
“He’s a pain in the ass.”
Is Bobby wearing a pink hoodie with the sleeves cut off and jean shorts?
“As long as he doesn’t disappear into the bathroom for hours at a time like the poet over there, he can go onstage naked for all I care.”
You hurt the ones that I love best…
I don’t know whose hair is better. Dylan’s eye makeup is better, I know that.
Like Queequeg says in Moby Dick, “Rock Nerds gonna Rock Nerd.” Though I explicitly mocked the Rock Nerd impulse to correct, to list, to append, to asterisk, it mattered not. Rock Nerds can’t help themselves, and who can blame them: what’s the point of a twenty-minute lecture on Bernard Purdie unless you can share it with someone?
All Enthusiasts are not Rock Nerds; I do not consider myself one, as I loathe vast swathes of the RN canon. (I can’t stand Captain Beefheart. There: I said it.) Conversely, all Rock Nerds are not Enthusiasts, though I suppose the Dead have by now become one of those bands you have to at least pretend to like. There’s a good bit of overlap though, as the Dead has everything a Rock Nerd loves: overwhelming amounts of details, and lineup changes to keep track of, and semi-apocryphal stories by the bookfull.
Rock Nerds love something so much they can’t keep it to themselves, and that is a thing to envy in this tepid world.
Now: that doesn’t mean you can’t fuck with them just a little bit. As I mentioned: Rock Nerds gonna Rock Nerd, and if you ever want to find out if there’s one in the room with you, just say one of the following words, phrases, or sentences out loud; a Rock Nerd will be speaking to you within moments:
Happy birthday, Bob. Many more.
“I like that bandana.”
Excuse me? Who was that?
“Don’t call me that.”
What are you doing?
“Long story short: another interview got away from me, and now I have to do this.”
“Ask Bob where he got his bandana.”
Its been hours, already: the body’s cold.
Eighteen disks, plus twenty other pounds of bullshit (excuse me: limited-edition collectible bullshit,) exclusively dedicated to 1965-66. Now, the tree albums Dylan put out in those two years (Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde) are indisputable masterpieces, but they barely total two hours of music: records were short back then.
The rest of the discs are filled with unreleased songs, alternate versions, outtakes, snippets, between-take chatter, and maybe a phone call or two to the pizza place. There’s flotsam and jetsam in this box set.
Deadheads have proven time and time again that they’ll buy nearly anything with a Stealie stamped on it, but this kind of collection might be the straw that broke the terrapin’s back:
“Hey, Deadheads! New box set!”
Wow! What’s in it?
“20 hours of unreleased studio tracks and alternate takes.”
Wow. You mean: the stuff that wasn’t good enough to make it onto Go To Heaven?