Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jerry garcia (page 2 of 120)

Jam Night With The Grateful Dead

The Grateful Dead were hanging out at Front Street one day when Bobby said,

“Fellas?”

“What, Weir?” Phil said.

“Blow me, Weir,” Billy said.

“Look at my new drum,” Mickey said if he was in the band when this scene take place.

Garcia said nothing, because he was in the bathroom. SUDDEN TWIST: Garcia is clean, and he is there for legitimate reasons related to the 7-11 hot dogs he ate on the way in. REVERSE TWIST: he lights a shitload of matches to cover up the stank, drops them in the waste bin, and sets the bathroom on fire despite his (relative) sobriety. COUNTER-CLOCKWISE TWIST: he feels so bad about it that he goes back to using Persian.

Are there keyboardists there? Yes, no, maybe, who gives a shit, possibly. If one shows up, he shows up.

“Why don’t we, uh, have a Jam Show?”

“Why are you capitalizing that?” Phil asked.

“Free country,” Bobby said.

All the Grateful Deads in the room were intrigued by this idea, and displayed their interest by ignoring Bobby and playing grabass.

Garcia emerged from the bathroom as Parish ran in with a fire extinguisher.

“I agree with Weir. Let’s do one show and just lose it, man. Just go out as far as we can on everything. Throw caution to wherever caution gets thrown nowadays.”

Garcia was not the Grateful Dead’s leader; it was a coincidence that everyone always did what he wanted.

“Good idea, Jer,” Phil said.

“Jazzbo Billy’s making a comeback!” Billy added.

No one else in the band said anything because I don’t feel like writing dialogue for them.

And so the Grateful Dead announced their very first Jam Show at Madison Square Garden. Since there was no internet, they informed Dick Latvala of the news and told him to keep it a secret; every Deadhead in the world knew within 48 hours. There was even a theme: Skeleton Jam. (They did not work hard on the theme at all.) Tickets sold out immediately.

The morning of the show, no one had seen whichever keyboardist was alive for two days. If the keyboardist who was alive had a wife who was also a Grateful Dead, then no one had seen her, either. The entire hotel was not on fire, but only because it was a very large hotel. Nearly most of the band piled into the van around one o’clock.

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

The van was in Yonkers and Billy had punched the driver’s dick to death.

Phil took the wheel.

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

“Monticello?” Garcia asked. “How’d we get to Virginia?”

“There’s one in New York,” Phil said.

“Didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty up here.”

“God’s country.”

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

“Weir’s asleep,” Garcia said.

“Little angel,” Phil said.

“We should tell him we’re proud of him more.”

“Good idea.”

“Where are we?”

“The last few road signs I saw had Cyrillic writing on them.”

“Not optimal.”

With ten minutes until showtime, Phil got the van to MSG. The giant inflatable gorilla in the tie-dye leapt from the building and began making bulbous love to the vehicle. Billy was aroused, and joined in.

“Come get a piece of this!” Billy cried.

“A piece of what?”

“I got no idea, but I’m fucking it!”

Extricating themselves from the penetrations of King Kong’s dong, our heroes went directly to the stage, stopping only to smoke, chat, grab ass, enjoy cocaine, receive tuggers and/or beejers, tune, bicker with each other, bicker with the crew, smoke another cigarette, throw paella at the promoter, ignore the fact that there were naked fucking children everywhere, and re-tune.

Earlier, Bobby had proposed that they play The Other One for the first set, and Dark Star for the second set. This was a reasonable plan, so of course it was ignored in favor of “finding jams where we didn’t know there were jams.” Garcia and Phil were very big on this plan, but neither was fond of rehearsal, so the plan never got further than “we should jam shit out.”

The first song was Promised Land. The jam was not found, even though they looked for it for a quarter-hour. The evening deteriorated from there.

Turtle, Horse, Cat

Billy?

“Ass?”

You’re white again?

“Had to switch back, man. I got pulled over nine times in an afternoon.”

That’ll happen.

“I wasn’t anywhere near a car.”

Yup. So, uh, why is there a picture of a horse crudely taped to your bass drum?

“Skank sees horse, skank thinks dick.”

Sure.

“Skank has a simple thought process. Salt of the earth. Know what needs salt on it?”

Popcorn?

“Meat. Specifically, mine.”

Don’t you have any other topics of conversation?

“I once punched both Gumbels in the dick.”

I’d almost rather talk about skank.

“Speaking of meat, you can find prime skank at the butcher’s shop.”

Like, ordering something in particular?

“Nah, not in the store. Out back feeding the stray cats. That’s choice skank right there, but you gotta watch out for toxoplasmosis. Then once you bang her, you can shit in a litter box.”

Wow.

“And that’s what America means to me.”

We’re done. Wait: who’s the chair for?

“Elijah.”

Now we’re done.

Bill Schwarzemann

Billy?

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Any explanation?

“Well, you know how Phil’s black now?”

He’s not. You’re talking about a man named Oteil Burbridge.

“Yeah! That’s what Phi keeps saying his name is!”

When I heard this joke the first time, the name was Rappaport.

“So I decided to try and understand the plight of his people. I’m a soul brother now.”

How?

“Don’t worry about it.”

Okay.

“I’m about to lose my voice, I’m saying the n-word so much.”

Stop that.

“I’m allowed! It’s great!”

You’re not black, Billy.

“Tell my dick that.”

STOP THAT. Get out of Jaimoe’s body.

“It’s nice in here. Look at all these muscles and hair. I’m staying.”

You’re gonna stay black?

“Definitely.”

You do know you have to walk offstage and back into America at some point, right?

“Not a bad point.”

Sadly.

“I’m gonna bang some white chicks behind the amps before I quit, though.”

Of course.

Jerry, Phil, and Pigpen Sitting On A Fence

Jesus. Precarious?

“Yo.”

What the fuck?

“The picket fence?”

The picket fence.

“Security.”

How?

“40,000 volts running through it.”

40,000? Isn’t that a bit of overkill?

“Hey, man. I don’t work for the fuckin’ Eagles.”

True.

Pete Townshend, Jerry Garcia, And Some Coke

“And then the alien jumps down, right, and eats Harry Dean Stanton.”

“Blimey, Jer. ‘Ow’d you get away, then?”

“Pete, for the third time: this didn’t happen to me.”

“Right, right. Go on.”

“So Sigourney Weaver takes off her clothes for some reason, right? And she’s got on a pair of panties that are, like, not functional. They’re just not big enough to perform the task of underwear.”

“Blimey. Fuck her, didja?”

“Again, Pete: movie.”

“Sorry. Right.”

“And then she blasts the sucker out of the airlock.”

“You guys have an airlock? Where? On your bus?”

“Is Entwistle around?”

“Yeah, but he’s not much of a talker.”

“I would prefer that.”

I’m Ready For My Closeup, Miss Brightman

Who’s a sleepy bear? Who is? Who is?

“I didn’t really miss our talks, man. Aren’t you a big-time novelist now?”

I’m like James Patterson if he could write and didn’t make any money.

“So, nothing like him?”

I guess, sure. You know how to sell a book?

“I see guys on the street that lay ’em on blankets.”

Not that way.

“Yeah, I know, man. I got no idea. Every business deal I ever did was brought to me.”

Pete Townshend said being a rock star was like being a hot chick.

“I can see it, yeah, sure. Everybody pretends to laugh at your jokes while they’re figuring out how to fuck you.”

How did no one notice how cynical you were?

“I have a cheerful way of speaking. No one listens.”

Course not. You’re a hot chick.

“I didn’t apply for the job, but it’s not a terrible position.”

Nope.

Star, Stripes

Garcia’s about to pop that blond fucker for stealing his look.

Also: Olompali?

And: This photo comes via the Brokedown Podcast, which you should check out.

Plus: I’ve changed my mind about Purple Dress’ age nine times now. Look at her: she could be anywhere from a really-mature 13 to 43 with good genes.

Double-Plus: Behind Garcia on the other side. Blue shirt and sunglasses. All right, all right, all right.

With: Garcia is not smoking, and for the only reason Garcia was ever not smoking: he was about to smoke. There were only two options.

Join Together With The Band

Fun fact: this is a bigger crowd than at Trump’s inauguration.

Not fun at all fact: Trump was inaugurated.

Familiar fact: Mickey. Who does he look like? I can’t quite place my…oh, right.

I knew I recognized him.

Anyway: Meet-Up at the Movies is on 8/1/17 and the show is 7/12/89. Make your plans, or don’t. I’m not your boss.

Olsen Shmolsen

Keith Olsen (left) produced Terrapin Station, which might be the saddest Dead album. Not theĀ  material–there isn’t even a ballad on the record, unless you want to count Mrs. Donna Jean’s Sunrise–but the doings and transpirings behind the scenes. They tried so hard on this record. Hired a big-time producer with a big-time haircut, trucked in violinists by the bushel, had Parish nail the studio doors shut from the outside. (Perfectly safe. Not like anyone in the band was constantly setting his surroundings on fire. No worries.)

Then the record came out and no one gave a shit. Lucy pulled the football away again.

Fun fact: Mickey’s first opinion of Keith Olsen was that he was “too small to hit.”

Funner Fact: Mickey still hit him.

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.

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