Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: robert hunter (page 1 of 2)

I Got A Bob, You Got A Bob, Everybody Got A Bob

Ladies and gentlemen: the third Franco brother, Yup-Yup. James and Dave get most of the attention, but don’t sleep on Yup-Yup.

OR

Whenever Hunter would start talking about poems or whatnot and Bobby got confused, he would look in the mirror at his hair and feel all right.

OR

The building in the background looks (West) German, but the car right behind them looks like a Citroen. Any world-travelling Enthusiasts able to place this pic?

I’ll Meet You At The Diamond Jubilee

Hunter has the exact same face as Warren Zevon. Never noticed before.

OR

Rockin’ Ricky over there is John Cipollina, who was in Quicksilver Messenger Service and jammed with the Dead on many occasions, but even cooler is the fact that his mom gave Pigpen organ lessons.

This is ’68, right after the Least Effective Firing In History. (Second on the list is George Steinbrenner firing Billy Martin: yes, Billy always came back, but at least he left the stadium for a couple months or so. Bobby and Pig didn’t even miss a gig after they were fired, so the Dead–as always–win a contest that they didn’t know they were participating in.) Bobby buckled down and practiced, but Pig’s problem was more foundational: he had no clue how the band’s new Hammond B3 worked. The sucker’s got a dashboard like the space shuttle, and foot pedals and levers, and switches and sliders and two keyboards. Pig knew how to play the piano.

Luckily, John’s mom Evelyn was a concert pianist and an accomplished organist, and so she–semi-secretly, now: the Pig’s got his pride–taught him the intricacies of his new instrument. They probably sat there next to each other on the bench, and maybe Evelyn would whack Pig’s knuckles when he got something wrong, and give him a gold-star sticker when he did a good job.

I bet Pig called her “ma’am.”

OR

A rare photo in which Mrs. Donna Jean not only doesn’t have the best hair, but also does not feature Bobby.

OR

No, wait: Hunter looks like Elton John.

OR

Lucky Strikes are foul, but the packs–especially the soft packs–are art.

OR

Takes balls to start with an invocation to the gods. Homer did it, Virgil did it, Dante did it, and so did Hunter. All of them got away with it.

Been Through The Mill, Man

jerry-wedding

What was the dress code for this wedding? Watch the opening scene of Rocky Horror and do that?

Also: is this Garcia’s wedding, or is he walking someone down the aisle? Because if it is his wedding: holy shit, buddy. You could have had someone pick you up a collared shirt.

Also also: I have seen that blazer on Garcia before. It is his courtroom appearance jacket.

Also also also: Hunter.

All 184 Grateful Dead Songs, Ranked From Worst To Best

184. France, Shakedown Street This slight number from 1978’s Shakedown Street is crap, but it does count as Bobby’s last collaboration with Robert Hunter so it’s a historical novelty.

183. Money Money, From The Mars Hotel No one likes this song.

BANG

schlump

Did you just shoot yourself in the face?

Yes.

You could have just stopped writing.

You know as well as I do that I can’t stop writing.

Sure.

I just hate those fucking lists so fucking much.

Well, no one’s paying you to do one.

Oh, I would absolutely write one up in exchange for money.

Sure, but no one’s offered and you’re not volunteering.

I am not, no.

What’s number one?

Born to Run or Stairway.

The Dead wrote those?

It doesn’t matter: all Rock Lists have to end with Born to Run or Stairway.

Thanks, Obama.

Meister Jager

IMG_3614

Hey, Hunter. Happy birthday.

 

I guess, yeah.

 

Just about. I’m sure you know the feeling.

 

Well, I don’t know German.

 

Because I can’t grow a mustache.

 

I genuinely thought you would be more helpful than this.

 

Huh. Yeah.

 

Fuck. Yeah. You’re right.

 

You, too. Hey, Hunter? Thanks.

 

Heh. No use boarding up the windows when the rain got a key.

 

Take care of yourself, man.

Play Yub Yub!

Hunter ear mic
Here we see legendary space-pirate Hun Terr, dressed in the traditional Corellian vest and alongside his trusty droid S3-85.

Please stop with the Star Wars bullshit.

NEVER!

Never?

BY MONDAY, PROBABLY!

Okay.

Rolling Stone Away The Dew

Another day, another Rolling Stone interview with a Grateful Dead, another batch of important facts left out of the article at the command of Big Dead. Why were the following points Robert Hunter made omitted from the article? Is it because they cause autism? Probably.

  • Has outsourced his lyrics to Bangalore since around ’92.
  • Middle name: Corn Bread.
  • Makes deliberate grammatical mistake around John Perry Barlow just to fuck with him.
  • Raked in a bunch of cash translating poetry after he realized that the people paying him had no way of checking his translation and just started making shit up, which is much quicker.
  • Only listens to speed metal now.
  • Has been banned from 12 zoos for exposing himself to the marsupials.
  • And seven for exposing himself to the patrons.
  • It should be mentioned that the patrons he chose to expose himself to were wearing fanny packs, so they were kinda marsupials.
  • Wishes he and Garcia had written more novelty songs.
  • Not a germaphobe, but won’t get near a buffet. (“Why don’t I just pay a transient to shit in my mouth?” Hunter would often ask when offered access to the buffet table.)
  • The dark star was his butthole.
  • Did not care for Montevideo. Nothing to do there.
  • In 1975, gave himself scurvy, just to see what it was like.
  • Awful. Scurvy is awful.
  • His poetry dick is a dactyl long.
  • Tried writing with Bobby one last time in 1981, but by then, Bobby required a farmboy to drunkenly shoot at him to write a song, so that was it for the partnership.
  • Played the character of Jack Tripper in the pilot of Three’s Company, only to be fired and replaced by John Ritter.

Make A Wish

Next time you see a fountain, dig a coin out and wish for Robert Hunter to write a book. Maybe if we all do it…

Fair Fight

One time at a pool party, Garcia and Bobby were drinking mai-tais and thinking about doing some titty-fucking when they saw Hunter talking to John Perry Barlow by the grill. John Perry Barlow was in control of the fire; he had also brought the meat, which he had killed with a rifle made out of liberty and butchered with a knife made from freedom. Hunter wanted a burger and a frank because he had been eating healthy and he deserved a treat.

“Mine can beat yours,” Bobby said

And that was probably true, mostly because John Perry Barlow is a big farm dude. And because he was waving his pistols around to emphasize a point he was making at the time, but to John Perry Barlow’s credit, he had only fired the guns two or three times, which he would argue was “the absolute fewest times I could have discharged my weapons at a pool party with children present.”

Garcia mulled it over.

“How would we even…,” Garcia said. “Would we poke them with sticks?”

“Well, that’s how we race the groupies. So: yeah, sure.”

Except Hunter heard and got insulted, so he moved somewhere they speak the wrong language and didn’t call anyone for seven years.

Rising First And Shining Best

How bad can a day turn out when you wake up with Terrapin Station bouncing around your skull? Here’s a stellar version of Garcia and Hunter’s prayer to the Morning Star from the Winterland ’77 box set to start your Spring off right:

Kick today’s ass like it owed you money and cat-called your mom, fellow Enthusiasts.

 

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