If you just ask Bobby–
“Get stuffed, man.”
–he’ll help you with your hair.
You look like the dude from Coheed & Cambria.
“Oh, they’re great. I caught their show last week.”
Please stop using–
–the Time Sheath to check out bands from the future.
“You heard my answer, man.”
Were you trying to kill them?
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.
Is that plank of wood attached to anything?
“Attachment leads to suffering.”
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.
You look healthy.
“Fuck off, man. I don’t need your nonsense today.”
What happened today?
“Ah, you know: usual bullshit. Plus, I killed Natalie Wood.”
I always suspected Billy.
“He’d be the obvious choice, yeah. But, no: I did it. It was an accident and all, but still.”
“Well, me and Bobby and Chris–”
Robert Wagner and Christopher Walken.
“–had a real tense D&D game going below decks. And, man, she just wouldn’t quit with the yakking. Made me blow my initiative roll.”
What character were you playing?
“So we got annoyed and kinda maybe threw her overboard. As a joke.”
“It would have been had we been in a pool. Or maybe a smallish lake. But, you know: it was the middle of the night and she was shitfaced and we were ten miles offshore.”
Right. Like I said: not funny.
“Hindsight is 20/20.”
It is. You gonna be in any trouble?
“Nah. Hal Kant called a guy.”
You’re not gonna be in any trouble.
“Good to know important people.”
Not for Natalie.
Hey, Bobby. Nice potato salad.
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?
“You’re the weirdest Jehovah’s Witness who’s ever knocked, man.”
Sam Cutler looks like he should be on one of those cheap, weird BBC cop shows from the 70’s where the detective drove a Jensen-Healey and had an exceedingly British catch-phrase for when he caught the bad guy:”You’re well chuffed now, me lad,” or something like that.
I guarantee you that Phil pitched a fit upon being checked into this place.
Why did Keith’s piano move from one side of the stage to the other, depending on what show it was?
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.
These men got groupies.
Younger Enthusiast, this cannot be explained away by invoking “it was the fashion of the time.” When the Dead wore rainbow trousers and fringed jackets and frilled shirts: well, it was the 60’s. That was what hip young men wore to attract groovy young ladies. But this bullshit? This bullshit right here? This bullshit was not the fashion of the time. This bullshit was not the fashion of any time in human history.
It is rare, exceedingly so, that Bobby’s short shorts are the most acceptable pant on stage: if a bit risqué, they are still basic and classic jean shorts. Whereas Phil is wearing sky-blue velour and holy fucking shit there are cuffs on Garcia’s.
None of their shoes are helping, either.
If Phil sits down, his balls are escaping. That’s a fact.
Is Brent’s monitor on an end table?
“Coffee table was too low.”
“We need to join a better-looking band.”
“They’re in now. Very stylish. You should see how the light plays off my potato salad.”
“White jeans, man?”
“You look better with a beard.”
“Your bangs are crooked.”
“You shut up.”
“Don’t talk to me that way. You’re not in the Core Four.”
“On a technicality, man. I’m as core as they come.”
“Not legally 40 years in the future.”
“You got me there. Are they Jordache?”