Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 4 of 164)

Have A Safe Trip



Were you trying to kill them?


The band.


I can’t even begin to count the safety violations in this picture.

“Ah, they’ll be fine. Big babies. I wrapped the cable around the mic stand.”

You honestly think that counts.

“I do.”

Is that plank of wood attached to anything?

“Attachment leads to suffering.”


I Said “No Pictures”

This is in Toronto, during the shit-dumb Festival Express that bankrupted a few hippies, enriched a few liquor store owners, and excreted a half-decent movie worth it if only for the scene of an unfathomably drunk-and-stoned Rick Danko, Marmaduke Dawson, Janis Joplin, and Garcia and Bobby wobbily circling through No More Cane on the Brazos. You’ve seen it, or you haven’t.

There. Now you have.

Anyway, this was 1970–long before the invention of security–and that doofus with the Nikon must have gotten up into Garcia’s face, unleashing the rarest Garcia of all: Scary Bear.

Legend has it that Garcia mauled and devoured the photog, but you can’t trust John Legend.

Everyweir And Everywhen

You still can’t get out of the gifting suite?

“I made it to the red carpet.”


“The paparazzi are made of infinity.”

That’s no good.

“Not at all.”

What’s with that ring? It’s not your wedding ring.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Is it a Bohemian Grove thing?

“I said not to worry about it.”

Bohemian Grove thing. Got it.



“My soul is doing something.”


Hey, you found Kenny Aronoff again.

“His vest was like a beacon in the timestream.”

Sure. He really wants everyone to know he’s not an accountant.

“Kenny dresses with flair. Also, I think he just got divorced.”

That is absolutely a “drummer who just got divorced” outfit.



“I’m having a transmigratory kind of weekend.”

Sorry, Bobby.

“Hey, you know: it happens.”

“I think I’m back at the gifting suite.”

You are.

“This guy keeps calling me Daniel-san.”

Keep that to yourself.

“Sure, sure. Wonder what comes next.”

Oh, you can leave now.

“How do you know?”

I’m out of pictures.


The Bobbit: There And Back Again

“Is the bar over there?”

“No, sir.”

“Where I’m pointing.”

“I see where you’re pointing, sir.”

“I could point with both hands.”

“That would make no appreciable difference, sir.”

“Huh. Tell me, why does your beard do that?”

“Do what, sir?”

“It all stops growing at a regular length.”

“Because I trim it, sir.”

“Wow. 2018.”



Are you stuck in the gifting suite?

“I tried leaving, but I’m apparently in some sort of ‘Hotel California’ situation right now.”

You wanna go to the Grammys now?

“Yeah, why not?”

There ya go, buddy.

“This is great.”

And you found a friend.

“Paul Shaffer’s been working out.”

I think that’s legendary drummer Kenny Aronoff. Or maybe Stanley Tucci.

“Could be the Tooch.”

Are you wearing a scarf? I can’t see in this picture.

“Hold on.”

“That better?”

Much. You’re a scarf guy now?

“Josh has really been selling me on the virtue of unnecessary clothing.”



His name is Juanes, and he is a singer.

“Thank you. I feel kinda weird.”




“Dammit, I’m back.”

What happened?

“Some, uh, realities are more magnetic than others.”

That makes no sense.

“And yet I’m not wearing my scarf anymore.”


Weather Report Gifting Suite

“When did he have time to do the mining? What with being king of the jungle and all?”

Not Tarzan, Bobby.

“Does this have anything to do with Black Panther?”

No. It’s Tanzanite. It’s just a pretty rock from Tanzania.

“What does it do?”

Catches the light in a way pleasing to the human eye.

“I used to do that.”


“Can I be honest with you?”

Don’t eat it, Bobby.

“It looks like a delicious hard candy.”

It is not.

“The lady took the rock back.”

We’re you–

“I was putting it in my mouth.”

–putting it in your mouth?

“I understand those kids and their Tide Pods now. Are you sure it’s not lozengial?”


“Having the properties of a lozenge.”

Don’t do that to words. Monet looks interested.

“She is, uh, having a very different childhood than I did.”

Yes. But she’s 20 or something like that. You were in the Dead at her age.

“Sure, sure. But we were not allowed in gifting suites at the time. First off, you know, because they didn’t exist.”

Right. And?

“That’s it. Something not existing at the time is one of the best reasons to not have done something.”

You guys would have loved the gifting suite, though.

“Oh, yeah. The drummers would’ve shown up with shopping carts.”

Is there anything there for you?

“They have a sign for me to hold.”

Oh, Bobby.

“I better be getting some serious good-dad points for this, man.”

You are absolutely right.

“And, uh, I need to go on tour right fucking now.”

You absolutely do.

“Maybe I could do that thing Josh does. Kinda jam around with an up-and-coming African-American comic.”

I guess.

“What’s Franklin Ajaye doing now?”

It’s really not your best idea, Bobby. You have the Mexican thing coming up, and the mini-tour with Phil. Oh, who’s gonna be doing those shows with you two?

“Well, now I wanna work with Franklin Ajaye.”

Forget about Franklin Ajaye, Bobby.

“You think Jimmy J.J. Walker would be a better fit?”

I do not.

“Y’know, towns used to pass laws to keep me and my friends from playing there. We used to scare the straights.”

Everything changes; nothing lasts.


The top half of Monet’s face is your wife, and the bottom half is you.

“I told you to look at me, pal.”


“Pain enough trying to keep her away from Josh. You know he wrote her a song?”

No. That’s terrible.

“Yeah. Writing a song for a chick? You do it right, and there’s no defense. It’s like the crane kick.”

What’d you do?

“I learned the song and sang it around the house all the time.”

That must have killed the romance of it.

“Oh, yeah.”

You ever do that?

“Write a girl a song? No. I would write ’em a little part of a song and promise to finish it, but it would take me five years.”


Oh, God, Bobby.

“Help me. I’ve never asked you for help before, but I want you to help me. Send Precarious. Or Elvis or Katy Perry or Billy. Send Benjy.”

You look like a rancher watching his last cattle die.

“Goddammit, you help me.”

I’m sorry, but you have to ride this out. It’s gonna be over soon. Besides: it can’t get worse.

It got worse.

“They’re called Fingerlings.”

Oh, Bobby.

You Be Me For A While, And I’ll Be You

Hey, Bobby. Nice potato salad.

“Thank you.”


Okay, Enthusiasts: Nerd Time! This is 5/25/72 from the Strand Lyceum in London, and they’re playing Good Lovin’. How do we know this? Because Garcia is not, contrary to your first instinct, hunched over his pedal steel guitar, but covering the organ for Pig while he sings. Go listen: there’s only one guitar for the first five minutes of the tune, and the guy playing the B3 doesn’t quite know what he’s doing.

We also know that Garcia played the piano on 9/20/70 at the Fillmore East for what would turn out to be the last performance of To Lay Me Down for three years:

So: was that it or did Garcia ever play keyboards onstage other than these two times?

Bob Weir: Grammy Attendee



What are you doing at the Grammy Awards?

“I was gonna ask you.”

I have no idea, man.

“It’s, uh, some show. You know that fellow Bonobo?”


“He’s done nine numbers. What, uh, part of America is he from with that accent?”

The part that’s Ireland.

“Huh. That’s a misplaced, but strenuous, patriotism he has, then.”

Well put.

“And what is this right here? Chubby Charlie.”

His name is James Cordon.

“I don’t care for his antics.”

Bobby, you sound like you’re in a mood.

“Well, you know: this really isn’t my scene.”

I know that. I totally know that. That’s why I began by asking you why you were there.


“Eyes on me, mister.”

Yes, sir.

“Monet wanted to go to the Grammys, so I took her.”

And she wanted to go to the gifting suite, too?

“She and her mother–”

Natasha Monster.

“–were quite vociferous.”

So, you just stopped in on the way to the show?

“No. No, didn’t just stop in. Spent a while.”


Narrate this picture for me, Bobby.

“I’m making sure there’s no bar. That’s what I’m saying to the fellow. ‘No bar? At all? Even a cash one?’ And he is informing me that there is not.”

That’s a shame.

“Verging on a crime. You should see this place. It’s like Samuel Delaney designed a mall.”


“Agriculture and cities may have been a mistake.”


“I’m two seconds away from my shoulder hurting.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

I feel you. Do you still have Garcia’s stash on you?

“Natasha Monster wouldn’t let me wear my fanny pack.”

That harpy.

“I know, right? It was my formal fanny pack, too.”

Hey, you’re at the Grammys, right?


Do you see Lil Pump?

“I don’t.”

Lil Yachty?

“We’re nowhere near the river.”

Lil Uzi Vert?

“Now you’re just making noises.”

Okay, just look for a tiny teenager with tattoos on his face and hair that looks like a neon tarantula is fucking his skull.

“Yeah, there’s like four of those.”

One of them will have something for your shoulder.

“Talk to you later.”

Stay frosty.

Looking Back, Looking Forward

Your monitor is swastika-adjacent.

“Beat it.”

Just pointing it out.

“You’ve pointed. Now go.”

Your hair looks nice.

“I stole Bobby’s conditioner.”

That sounds tough.

“You got no idea. He put an alarm on the bottle. I had to slide in a bag full of sand as I was taking it.”

Why will you motherfuckers not stop using that goddamned Time Sheath for silly bullshit?

“Wow, was that sentence syntactically fucked.”

Dude, Raiders doesn’t come out for eight years when you are. Knock it off.

“I will not. Me and Garcia are going to see Aliens again after the show.”

Could you at least try not to let people see you?


Dammit, Phil.

Keith’s Left, Keith’s Right, He’s Gone



Why did Keith’s piano move from one side of the stage to the other, depending on what show it was?

“Two reasons.”

Were they shits and giggles?

“Little bit, yeah.”

Why would you do that?

“Gotta find your fun somewhere. We’d put his piano stage left for a few shows, then shift it to the other side, and he’d get so confused. One time, he just sat on a road case and started playing a monitor.”

That is kinda funny.

“Yup. He kept tweaking Bobby’s nipples trying to turn himself up.”

That’s damn funny.

“Certainly was.”

Amir, A Mirror


Bobby, that’s not a rando. That’s Amir Bar-Lev, director of the acclaimed Grateful Dead documentary Long Strange Trip.

“Ah. I’m looking forward to watching it”

It came out several months ago, Bobby.

“I know. I’ve been, uh, binge-watching Friends. There’s like a million seasons.”

True. Friends? You like that crap?

“Great stuff. Y’know what that show’s really about?”



Uh-huh. A certain kind of relationship, to be specific.

“When I watch, sometimes I like to wonder who in the Dead was who. For example, Phil is a Chandler.”

Could Phil be more Chandler?

“He couldn’t. And, uh, I’m a cross between Phoebe and Joey.”

Accurate. Garcia?

“100% Rachel.”

I can see it.

“Oh, and–and I don’t know if anyone else has noticed this–that Rachel girl always has her headlights on.”

Like Garcia?

“No. Jer was famously soft-nippled.”

This conversation has gone in a strange direction.

“Conversations often do.”


“Wait. I know why I’m here.”

It always comes to you eventually.


Right. What’d you have?

“Vegan charcuterie.”

How was that?

“They just brought me an empty plate.”


“And this is the director fellow.”


“Amyl Ben-Nitrate.”


“Amy And-Steve. No, that’s a couple me and my wife–”

Natasha Monster.

“–play parcheesi with. Was I close?”

Close enough.

“He seems like a decent sort. You sure he’s in show biz?”

Positive. Why?

“He didn’t molest me at all.”

He’s an ally, Bobby.

“Good to know.”

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