Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: rolling stones (page 1 of 2)

Wham, Bam, Birmingham

Alabam’ don’t give a damn.

Sweet And Bitter Fruit

Virginia, you slut.

The Only Way To Trip

Let’s be honest about the subtext of Desert Trip, Enthusiasts, also known as Oldchella: See ’em before they die! These are some creaky-ass white men with guitars, and there are malignancies growing within them; the elasticity has dripped from their skin, and their forearms hang and sway. 2016 is outside with a machete and a hard-on, and literally any rock star could be taken at any moment.

This way to the egress, suckers.

I’m sure I’ll talk about it some more, especially if it’s streamed. (My guess is that, like Coachella or Lockn’, they’ll announce a stream two days before.) I have very little personal or musical interest: as I mentioned, I saw the Stones and Floyd two decades ago, and they’re still doing the exact same shows; the interesting musicians in The Who are dead; I’m allergic to Paul McCartney. Neil Young will be performing, and I get yelled at when I discuss my feelings about him, so I’ll just note that Neil Young is performing. Bob Dylan will also be making that noise he makes.

“HHHHEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHeeeeeeeehhhhh.”

Or singing torch songs, or maybe he’s rearranged all his old tunes for an oompah band: something irritating like that.

But the bullshit, Enthusiasts? Oh, will I be paying attention to the bullshit and there is so much; you can luxuriate in it. Now, Oldchella is out in Indio,  CA, which is on the edge of the desert, halfway to Barstow. It’s not near anything, so you have to travel there and stay there for the weekend, and the amenities being offered are varied in price and comfort.

TotD has spies everywhere, though, and one of the Haight Street Irregulars has passed along this information about the ultra-high end lodging package, which is not available to the public due to the clientele’s  need for discretion. I mean, you could stay in this shitty place…

screen-shot-2016-10-03-at-8-49-30-pm

…if you were some sort of scum person, or C.H.U.D., or Dickensian orphan; people of means–decent people–need something a little more upscale, which is why Desert Trip offers the Praetor’s Suite Experience®.

Have your social secretary call for pricing about the package, which includes:

  • Six (six) all-access passes to Desert Trip, including backstage and the artists’ bathrooms; you can watch Roger Daltry poop.
  • Round-trip private airfare to and from the concert on both weekends, plus the pilot will do a barrel roll or a loop-de-loop if you ask him to. (Female pilots also available for a small premium.)
  • Your choice of accommodation:
    • Glurt. (A glurt is a Glamour Yurt.)
    • Minimalist house that looks like they shoot catalogues and fancy porn there.
    • Elevated stilt-house so you can throw human waste on the poor people.
    • John Mayer’s Earthroamer. (Limited availability! Call today!)
  • All of the above accommodations come with: emperor-sized bed, private bathroom with dual bidets for your front and back filth, steam showers, full kitchens, solariums. four-car garages, media rooms, and sex dungeons.
  • 24-hour personal shuttle service with access to cars (Teslas only), vans (Mercedes Sprinters), helicopters (identical replica of Marine One), and large men carrying you around.
  • 24-hour protection provided by Katy Perry’s security team.
  • Breakfast delivered to your bedside, along with pharmaceuticals and (for a small premium) tuggers.
  • Bottle of champagne upon arrival, check-in, unpacking, and every twenty minutes thereafter for the entire weekend; the good stuff, too.
  • One-quarter of an ounce of saffron.

For a small additional fee, guests can make Paul McCartney watch them eat a bacon cheeseburger.

Steal Your Heart Away

Joe’s got a cough, sounds kind a rough,
Yeah, and the codeine to fix it.
Doctor prescribes, drug store supplies,
Who’s gonna help him to kick it

Mick Jagger doesn’t get enough credit as a lyricist. There’s some gold in those mumblings. (And don’t overlook Mick Taylor on the slide guitar.)

Have You See The Other One, Baby?

bumensisters

A lot of bands took silly drag photos, but the Dead’s turned out poorly.

The Superest Of All Super-Groups

  • Brown Sugar Magnolias.
  • Monkey Man and the Engineer.
  • Far Away Eyes of the World.
  • Harlem/Chinatown Shuffle.
  • Stray Cat Blues for Allah.
  • China Cat Dead Flowers.
  • Not Fade Away.
  • I Just Want to Make Love to Loose Lucy.
  • Hang Fire on the Mountain.
  • Shakedown Street Fighting Man.
  • Jumpin’ Jack Straw.
  • Paint it Black Muddy River (you devils).
  • Dark Starfucker.
  • Sympathy for the Friend of the Devil.
  • New Casino Boogie.
  • (You’ll Never Make A) Saint of Circumstance of Me.
  • Satisfaction.

Paint It Black-Throated Wind

bobby old happy beard

CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Weir here.”

“Bobby! Irving. How are you?”

“Y’know, Irv: woke up this morning and felt super.”

“I see what you did there.”

“What did I do?”

“Anyway. Bob: I got Dead & Company a great show. Big publicity. Huge crowd.”

“You haven’t mentioned the money.”

“It’s a free show.”

“Yeah, huh, about that: no. Well, I mean: the drummers won’t show up. If it’s a real good cause and there’s a private plane and all that then maybe I could go with my acoustic and play some numbers.”

“This is worth it, Bob. Big show!”

“Where?”

“Havana.”

“Illinois?”

“Cuba.”

“There’s a Havana in Cuba, now?”

“Bobby, concentrate. Millions of people. Broadcast around the world. Huge pub, baby.”

“Well, wait: do Cubans know who we are?”

“No. But they know who the Stones are. You’re opening.”

“Opening for the Stones?”

“Yeah.”

“At a free show?”

“Right.”

“Click. Dial tone.”

“Bob, did you just say “click” and “dial tone?”

“Well, you just can’t hang up on people dramatically anymore.”

Unnecessary Roughness

keith violentWe’re done with the Stones, but this is too much fun not to share.

Also: this would never happen at a Dead show. First off, those balloons would be far too valuable at a Dead show to just waste throwing on the guitar player.

Second, if a Deadhead did rush the stage…wait: a Deadhead would never “rush” the stage. Accidentally stumble out on? Yes. Happen upon? Totally: a Deadhead could absolutely happen upon the stage. (“Hey, guys: look what I found!”)

Third, none of the three guitar-wielding members of the Dead would ever use their instruments as weapon, as each one of them cost as much as a Honda, but featured none of the reliability that Civics and Accords are known for.

Fourth, the Dead’s crew was a little more proactive than the Stones’, apparently. Parish would have given the guy a forearm shiver before he had hit the stairs.

The Last Time

We are done with the Rolling Stones, I promise you that.

But: have you ever wondered if there were things that you might overhear at BOTH Stones and Dead shows? Like, sentences, phrase, or questions that you could say at either place and they would make sense?

I think they understand the premise.

Hope so.

  • Keith has passed out again.
  • The Hells Angels are here.
  • Which Chuck Berry song should we open with tonight?
  • Where are my opiates?
  • I cannot solo interminably without my opiates.
  • Why did you spend the bail money on drugs?
  • I’m sorry, Mick: they didn’t have grape Fresca at the store.
  • I don’t even know if it’s a thing.
  • If you want, I could mix 7-Up and Welch’s together.
  • Did you want grape Fanta?
  • That’s a thing; I got that; done deal on the Fanta.
  • Help me quench your thirst, Mick.
  • If we see the judge’s daughters, we’ll be sure to let you know, officer.
  • Please put the knife away.
  • Sam Cutler dosed you? Sam Cutler dosed me! Jesus, how many people did Sam Cutler dose? We should go kick his ass.
  • I wonder if the clothing the band is wearing is available for purchase? (Later Stones tours/Fare Thee Well only)
  • Closing with Satisfaction?*
  • There’s no such thing as Mister Pepper, Mick.
  • No, it’s not “the drink for the common man,” Mick.
  • It’s just something you made up because you, Mick, are a legendarily difficult human being.
  • The people in this room are responsible for what happened at Altamont.
  • Do you smell a couch on fire?
  • Maybe a stuffed chair or love seat: anything that can smolder?
  • Are you in the band or are you a drug dealer?
  • Or are you one of those mysterious types with neither visible means of support nor purpose that managed to affix himself to the group?
  • No, Mick, you cannot have a Diet Tab.
  • Tab is already a diet beverage; it cannot be dieted any further without resorting to mad science.
  • No, I don’t know any mad scientists, Mick.

*Listen to this: it’s all wobbly, but the energy is stupid high and Bobby does the band introductions in extemporaneous rhyme and instead of being too cool for the old gag, everyone leaps in and starts soloing when their name gets called, especially Garcia, who has far more gusto than you would expect from a man who would be in a coma that weekend.

Roll Away

All I wanted were your artistic interpretations of Veneta. Drawings of Ken Babbs telling everyone they were about to be sprayed with shitwater. Watercolors of Billy’s posture. A novelization of the Dark Star. Whatever: I just thought it was something we could do together.

If you’ll recall, I made one for you, seen here:

veneta art jerry dong paintI received nothing in return. Were you intimidated by my artistic skills? I mean, you can’t even see the brush strokes.

No matter: intent is nothing. I got no art.

Wait.

THE TRUTH HAS WAITED LONG ENOUGH.

It’s been, like, two days.

That’s two generations to a fruit fly.

No one sent you crude drawings of a concert from 43 years ago, so you loosed a barrage of Rolling Stones-based shaky premises, links, and blatant homoeroticism at them?

What possible other option was there?

I didn’t think of it that way.

One does what one must.

Right. So: the nigh-on-infinite parade of virtually-identical concerts and bottomless well of pictures of coked-up limeys?

Yes.

You know I love the Stones, right?

Yes, I do.

Bro?

Bro?

Two Thousand Light From Brome?

Sure?

Ebrotional Rescue?

Uh-huh?

The Stones are about their albums.

They are, yeah.

There’s nothing deeper than Mick and Keith and Charlie playing the songs the way they’re supposed to go, but a little faster.

Nope.

Just find the best show from ’72 and the best one from ’78 and listen to those. All the other shows are exactly the same, but not as good.

It turns out that this is the case, yes.

What about the art?

Oh, Swaggie Maggie sent me this:

IMG_2030

The dog eating the baby’s food?

It’s good, isn’t it?

No.

You knew what it was.

That is not the metric by which art is measured.

I don’t know, man: I like it when stuff looks like the stuff that it is.

You’re a moderd-day Robert Hughes.

I have no idea who that is. Anyway: Maggie solved the puzzle and said the magic words and clicked her ruby Tuesdays and that’s it: GARCIA AND THE PALO ALTO PLAYMAKERS, MOTHERFUCKER.

Whatcha got in the tape deck?

Can’t go wrong with ’73

Chileans would disagree with that statement.

Fuck ’em.

Yeah. Yeah, y’know what: God Bless the Grateful Dead and God Damn Chile, May The Entire Country Get Ass-Measles.

Everything’s back to normal.

YAAAAY.

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