Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: dead & company (page 1 of 30)

I See The Gulf Of Mexico

Summer’s here, Enthusiasts, but winter is coming and that can mean only one thing: time for Bobby to get Montezuma’s Revenge again. Mexico! Our hermano to the south; Bizarro Canada; the neighbor no one threatened to move to if Trump got elected. Oh, beautiful Mexico with your proud history that I know absolutely nothing of, and your tacos, which I enjoy, and your music, which if I’m honest I could live without. Who told you a trumpet went with an accordion, Mexico? Did Germany tell you that? What else did Germany tell you, Mexico? Have you and Germany been passing notes again?

Stop being–

Mexican’s not a race.

incoherent and weird. And racist.

I’ll give you the first two, but hating a foreign culture’s traditional music is natural. I don’t like Canadian traditional music, either.

What is Canadian traditional music?

Triumph.

Just tell everyone about the Mexico shows.

We should crowd-fund a ticket for Sam Cutler and he could do broadcasts from the resort about how awful everything was.

I would chip in a couple bucks for that.

We should get Steve Wozniak to give us a half-million dollars.

Totally. Tell the nice people about Mexico.

Several years ago, a rock band looked out into the audience and thought, “I bet a bunch of these fuckers are rich.” Thus was born the Mexican Resort Run. The Phishes have been doing it for a while, and the legacy acts team to play Classic Rock weekends, and Bobby and Billy went down there last year with Widespread String Cheese or whoever.

Now it’s Dead & Company’s turn to rock the Mayan Riviera at a cautious, stately pace; there are several tiers of accommodations available, but I know that Enthusiasts are only the best kind of people and that demand a certain quality in their surroundings. I would wager that most of you are in tuxedos while you read this. I wouldn’t disgust you by telling you where the poor will be sleeping; I will share with you the specs of the ultra-luxury, super-elite, supposed-to-be-secret package known as the Praetor’s Suite.

In the Mayan language, Makayano means “Of course we’ll dispose of the dead prostitute” and the Makayano Sunkisser Hotel lives up the name with a standard of service unparalleled throughout the world, or at least better than that shithole Hard Rock across the bay.

Packages include:

  • Four days and nights at the Mayakano Sunkisser.
  • Hand-crafted, carbon-neutral tickets to all three Dead & Company shows.
  • Private transportation to and from the shows in literally whatever car you prefer. Just ask. Bentley? Lambo? ’92 Mazda RX7? We’ll make it happen.
  • Private jet to and from your local airport.
  • Private helicopter to take you from your house to the airport.
  • If you like a bellhop, you can take him home.
  • Four dinners at our 5-star restaurant, Guy Fieri’s Villa de Flav√≥r.
  • All the fucking shrimp you can eat.
  • Seriously: if you ask us to, we will feed you shrimp as you sleep.
  • Personal security for the shows. (Available: large trained man, or tiny crazy fucker who will tackle strangers to make you laugh.)
  • Backstage access.
  • Backdoor access (to the bellhops).

Ask about our trips into town to run over locals!

Steal Your Base

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Backman flies out to left.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Hernandez flies out to center.”

“Please don’t tell your Game 6 story, sir.”

“I had 30,000 on the Mets, and I was smoking a lot of crack. This was when I was a cop.”

“No, sir. This is the plot to Bad Lieutenant, sort of.”

“I was going to murder Mookie.”

“None of this happened, sir.”

“Make it look like an accident. Maybe a tiger would eat him, I don’t know. Luckily, he won the game for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you here?”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s not do a poster, Jenkins. Rude to the blind. Let’s do a smell for this show.”

“A what, sir?”

“A signature smell. One-time only. That’s how we’ll advertise the show.”

“Sir, posters aren’t for advertising any more. We just sell them for $60 a pop.”

“Then we’ll make it a very fancy smell. Money mixed with not being afraid of the cops.”

“Maybe for next year, sir. I think we should stick with the sense of sight for this one.”

“Sight. Pish-tosh. Overrated sense.”

“Be that as it may, sir.”

“Why don’t we go somewhere cold and cut the cables on a ski lift, Jenkins?”

“After the poster, sir.”

“Promise?”

“Sure.”

“I imagine it would sound like this: TWANG! AAAAAAaaaaaah! PLOOMPF!”

“Yes, sir.”

“The ‘PLOOMPF’ was them hitting the snow, Jenkins.”

“I figured that out from context clues, sir.”

“Don’t you get all high and mighty with me, Jenkins. Figuring things out like a smarty-pants.”

“No, sir.”

“In fact: give me your pants.”

“Poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, just put some bullshit on a piece of paper.”

“Same as always,. Yes, sir.”

“Wait, Jenkins. Let’s do something different.”

“I told you that we can’t do a poster made out of smells, sir.”

“No, not that. Let’s have the poster be…I don’t know the word for it.”

“Vaguely attractive?”

“That’s it.”

“So, not the same as always.”

“And put the bears in it.”

“Mostly the same as always. Yes, sir.”

“Not kidding about that ski lift plan.”

“I didn’t think you were, sir.”

Oh, Babe, It Ain’t No Lie

Hey, Nephew. Whatcha doing?

“Fuming. Fuming, bro”

What happened? You don’t like your onesie? That’s a custom Starhawk job.

“This is not about the onesie. Don’t make it about the onesie.”

What’s it about?

“WHERE THE FUCK IS JERRY?”

Garcia?

“No, Orbach. Of course Garcia.”

Dead.

“You’re shitting me.”

You are three days old, and I’m going to need you to stop cursing.

“No Garcia? I got born in a non-Garcia timeline?”

It’s been 20 years.

“Dude, not cool.”

Honestly, buddy? The lack of Garcia is, like, the least worst thing about 2017.

“Wow. Huh. No Garcia? Tough break.”

It is.

“At least we still have Bowie.”

“MotherFUCKer!”

I don’t know what to tell you, Nephew.

“What were my parents thinking?”

That they love each other and wanted to have a child?

“Selfish.”

Maybe.

“Just one more question.”

Shoot.

“Who’s the president?”

Barack Obama.

“Oh, thank God.”

The Bus Came By And I Threw Up

“Jenkins!”

“I’m sitting on your lap, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Why are you doing that?”

“You call it ‘Santa Practice,’ sir.”

“Ah. How am I doing?”

“You have an erection, sir.”

“Well you must have been naughty.”

“I’m going to stand up.”

“I’m not. I’ve got a boner.”

“Yes, sir. What did you want to discuss?”

“I had a dream last night, Jenkins. I dreamt that I ate an entire box of crayons and then projectile vomited onto some glossy paper. What do you think that means?”

“No idea, sir.”

“So many colors that nothing at all made sense. Have you heard of minimalism, Jenkins?”

“Of course, sir.”

“This was the opposite.”

“Maximilism.”

“Stop making up words, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there were bears and skeletons and buses and roses and flying eyeballs and you were there, Jenkins. And you two farmhands.”

“Who are you talking to, sir?”

“The farmhands.”

“Hello.”

“Howdy.”

BANG!

BANG!

“You shot the farmhands, sir.”

“Their existence was only required for that one joke, Jenkins. Let’s get back to the poster.”

“Is that what we were talking about?”

“Let’s see: first, I sexually harassed you, then I told you my dreams, and then I shot two farmhands. Yes, we’re talking about the poster.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“Bring me some paper, a box of crayons, and a bottle of Ipecac.”

“What if we just let an artist do it?”

“But then I wouldn’t get to vomit up rainbows.”

“Yes, sir.”

Help On The Fenway

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Boston, Jenkins.”

“Beantown, sir.”

“Oliver Wendell Holmes called it the Hub. Do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

“Terrible speech impediment. Couldn’t pronounce ‘Boston.'”

“Ah.”

“I am excited, Jenkins! Let’s get in the Boston spirit.”

“How, sir?”

“Segregate the office.”

“No, sir.”

“Sell off Babe Ruth.”

“We can’t, sir.”

“Strangle someone.”

“Lots of towns have had stranglers, sir.”

“Yes, but the Tulsa Strangler didn’t get a Rolling Stones song written about him, did he?”

“No, sir.”

“Bring me your neck, Jenkins.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“They say it’s the most intimate way to murder someone.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Any ideas, sir?’

“What about a toothbrush for your asshole? That’d stick it to Big Toilet Paper.”

“Let’s table that, sir.”

“You don’t get to table anything, Jenkins. I’m the chair.”

“Perhaps I didn’t couch my statement properly.”

“Floor.”

“Yes, sir. Floor. Now, the poster?”

“Bear.”

“Bear, check.”

“One of those tank-lizards.”

“Turtles, sir. They’re called turtles.”

“They wear their ribs on the outside, Jenkins! Preposterous rib placement.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jenkins?”

“Do you want ribs for lunch, sir?”

“You read my mind.”

“Anything else for the poster?”

“Bucky Dent refusing to make way for ducklings.”

“No, sir.”

“Whitey Bulger running over Tom Brady in a duck boat.”

“No, sir. No duck-related trolling at all.”

“What? We can’t make fun of Boston? Next, you’ll tell me we can’t make fun of homosexuals or the poor!”

“I shouldn’t need to tell you that, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Just throw the bear and the turtle and some skulls and whatnot in there.”

“So, same as usual?”

“Precisely. Rib time?”

“Rack ’em up, sir.”

The Wrinkle Was Sold To Me As A Crease

This is from Rolling Stone back in May. The great Jesse Jarnow interviewed Bobby about Dead & Company, and the new ’77 box set, and bliss. I was not mentioned, even obliquely, and the article lacks for my absence. Bush league move, Jarnow.

Stop that.

People should talk about me more.

Okay, champ. Get to whatever stolen premise you’re gonna half-ass while you procrastinate doing your big-boy writing that you’re so proud of that no one will pay you for.

Ow.

Point out the lie.

It’s all true, but the tone was a bit much.

You deserve it, plus more.

That’s true, too, but it still hurts.

Get to it.

Anyway, Dead & Company’s summer tour is well underway and Enthusiasts everywhere are still a bit perplexed as to what this so-called “wrinkle” is. It must be subtle, whatever it is, so allow me to make some guesses and also steal some from the internet:

  • Entire band going commando for performances. (“It makes the jams freer,” Oteil says. “Makes it easier to take my dick out,” Billy adds.)
  • Jeff Chimenti changed conditioners.
  • Some video screen bullshit?
  • It can’t be Mickey’s clogs; though I have no evidence, I will state definitively that the wrinkle is not Mickey clip-clopping away back there.
  • And it can’t be Oteil singing lead, either, not from the sentences that follow the stuff about the wrinkle.
  • Bobby, what the fuck are you talking about?
  • I demand the great Jesse Jarnow get Bobby on the phone and make him explain himself.
  • Everyone go bother Jesse on Twitter about it.
  • Give him no respite until he answers our questions.
  • Call him names!
  • I’m not gonna tell you to stop again.
  • I was done.
  • Good.

I Wish I Was A Great Big Creepy Bear And Some Fucking Turtles And Whatnot On A Northbound Train

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?’

“It’s Ice Cube’s birthday.”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“I hope he has a good day.”

“Well done, sir.”

“Not his real name, you know. Ice Cube.”

“I did know that, sir.”

“He was born MC Fiddle Faddle.”

“No, sir.”

“He was born into this hip-hop game, Jenkins.”

“If you say so, sir. Can we get to the poster?”

“No.”

“We must, sir.”

“Oh, damn the poster. Damn it to Hell!”

“The poster’s already for Pittsburgh, sir. Hell’s not much of a drop-off.”

“Pittsburgh. Ugh. Nothing but rivers you can’t spell and improperly-placed french fries.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They don’t go in the sandwich. Fries go next to the sandwich.”

“I agree, sir.”

“Are they still flashdancing in Pittsburgh?”

“Not since the 80’s, sir.”

“A fine dance, Jenkins. My favorite, at least since the lambada got itself forbidden.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lambada with me, Jenkins!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Let’s dance dirtily!”

“No.”

“I’ll put my baby in your corner.”

“Pass, sir.”

“When I said ‘baby,’ I meant ‘penis.'”

“Yes, sir.”

“And by ‘corner,’ I meant–”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. We need to concentrate.”

“We should get a famous artist. Is Chuck Close available?”

“Yes, but our office is on the second floor.”

“Ah. How about that fellow who draws those flattering cartoons of the president?”

“Ben Garrison? No, sir. He’d draw a bear and then write BEAR on it.

“That’s not a necessarily bad thing, Jenkins. Many Deadheads are utter morons.”

“True, sir, but it’s just not the aesthetic we go for.”

“You’re right, you’re right. Okay, here’s what we do: put the happiest bullshit we have on the poster, but make it somehow ominous.”

“Yes, sir. Color scheme?’

“Imagine you just vomited up a peach cobbler.”

“I’m on it, sir.”

“Watch out for that Goodyear blimp, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

Staredown Street

“Who the hell is that?’

Which one?

“White.”

John Mayer.

“Who?”

Josh Meyers.

“Still nothing.”

You okay, Bobby?

“I was bored before the show, so my shoulder started hurting.”

Stay away from those goddamned pills, Weir.

“Not pills.”

Good.

“I crushed ’em up.”

Dammit.

Fire, Fire On The Metaphor

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?’

“Is Taco Tuesday cultural appropriation of Mexicans or the Norse?”

“The Norse, sir?”

“Tiw, Jenkins. He’s who Tuesday’s named after. Norse god of law and justice and table manners.”

“The Norse had table manners?”

“Of course. They stole them from the Angles in 842. It’s like you don’t know history.”

“Just like that, sir.”

“We’ll deal with the taco conundrum later. Let’s get on this poster, Jenkins.”

“The show was yesterday, sir.”

“It’s Colorado, Jenkins. There’s no oxygen and everyone’s on dope. Yesterday, tomorrow, next week. Makes no difference to those people.”

“‘Those people,’ sir?”

“Yes, I’m racist against Coloradans.”

“Wow. New one.”

“I like to be on the vanguard of bigotry. Blaze new trails of irrational hatreds.”

“Yes, sir. Who’s next?”

“People who live on the fourth floor. Violent monsters. Not even human.”

“Which fourth floor?”

“All of them. Anyone who puts their head down to sleep in between floors three and five. Fuck ’em.”

“Yes, sir.

“Lefties.”

“Lefties, sir? What did lefties ever do to you?’

“‘Do to me?’ What does that have to with racism, Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now: the poster.”

“If we must.”

“You know how Colorado burns down every summer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put that on the poster.”

“People die in those fires, sir.”

“No, just Coloradans.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And add some drowning children. Everything’s on fire and there are dead, wet children everywhere.”

“No drowning children, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Child. Put a drowning child in the poster.”

“No amount of children, sir.”

“Well, what would Colorado love more than an out-of-control fire? Ah!”

“Please don’t say–”

“Columbine High!”

“–Columbine…sir, no.”

“Mindy stabbing Mork.”

“No.”

“Elway getting sodomized.”

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“Elway getting sodomized by a can of Coors Banquet beer in Joker makeup.”

“I’m leaving, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Just make the door slamming noise so everyone knows the bit’s over.”

“Yes, sir.”

SLAM!

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.”

Older posts
%d bloggers like this: