Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: trey anastasio (page 1 of 9)

Why Are These Two Men Laughing?

“I’m not gonna tell you to slow it down again, Josh.”

“Was I going too fast?”

“Oh, yeah. You were, uh, not holding your horses at all. Free horses, man. I don’t know if you know this–”

“You spent a summer on a ranch.”

“–but I spent a summer on a ranch, so I know my horses. Gotta be held. Otherwise, you know, you got chaos.”

“We don’t have chaos, Bobby. We’re killing it.”

“The fans have grown used to Dead & Company tempos, and this sudden shift might discombobulate them.”

“I think they’ll be fine.”

“They’ll be relieved of their comboble.”

“‘Comboble’ is not the root word of discomb–”

“Don’t lecture me, Josh.”

“I let the first one go, but I have to correct you this time. I’m not Josh. In fact, there is no Josh.”

“There’s no Josh? Am I manifesting my imaginary friends again? That happens occasionally.”

“John. The man’s name is John. And I’m not him. I’m Trey.”

“Are you the one who plays basketball?”

“No, that’s Bill Walton. I’m Trey Anastasio. I played with you for the Dead’s 50th anniversary.”

“You did?”


“How’d it go?”


“Sounds right. Now, listen: whoever the hell you are, and however the hell you got on stage: slow the hell down or I’m gonna do attack yoga at you.”


Phoreheads Are Better Than One

“What’s going on here?”

“Forehead time, boy.”

“Oh, okay. How long does it–”

“Rub. Back and forth. Get some friction going.”

“I don’t understand what’s–”

“Nogginate me, Treyvon.”

“That’s not even a–”

“Gimme the nog! Gotta have it!”

“Are you finished?”

“I’m just happy to be out of the restaurant.”


“Now, remember: no matter how many times I tell you to slow down, keep playing fast.”



Enthusiasts, I was wrong–wrong as hell–about the Bobby & Phil Duo shows. I thought they would be goofy (they are, but in a good way), and sloppy (they are, but in a comforting way), and most of all I thought they would be boring.

I was not prepared for the jams, Enthusiasts. This is last night’s second set with Trim Arugula, and you should watch it.

Bright-Eyed Katy

“Pretty lady is pretty, Trey.”

“She is, Page, but she’s more than just a pretty lady. She’s a big-time reporter.”


“She’s not secretly Superman, Page.”

“Oh, right, right. Okay.”


“No, Page. All reporters are not secretly Superman. I don’t know who told you that, but they were messing with you.”

“Is she Spider-Man?”

“She has no super-powers at all, buddy. Although, she put up with Keith Olbermann’s bullshit for a few years, so maybe she does.”


“Big media joke, pal. Don’t worry about it.”

“What does she do?”

“Katy? Well, she covered the Trump campaign for NBC.”

“He is bad!”

“He is, buddy.”

“I don’t like him!”

“I’m with you.”

“He is orange! Presidents should be black!”

“Could not agree more, man.”

“Trump should not be around Katy. He will chain her up and make her wear a metal bikini.”

“She’s safe now, Pagey. She’s with us.”

“Okay. I like her better than Jake Tapper.”

“Everyone does.”


“Yeah, buddy?”

“What doughnut is it?”

“We’re not doing that anymore.”


Something Sweet

You know Annabelle and Trixie, but those are Trey’s daughters, Kay and Fay, on the outside.

Another Bella Figura

“Just explain to me your thought process while you were getting dressed.”

“Hey, man: some of  us don’t want to look like suburban dads.”

“I am a suburban dad. Did the pants come first or the scarf?”

“Scarf. The scarf is the fulcrum of the outfit.”

“And then the pants?”

“No, then the lipstick.”

“Right, yeah, the lipstick.”

“The shade is Canary Sparkle.”

“Awesome, pal.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m Page.”

“How long’s that thing anyway?”

“My dick?”

“The scarf.”


“Why would I ask about your dick?”

“Lots of people ask me about my dick. I’m a rock star.”

“Yeah, I could tell by the pants.”

“My pants are awesome, Trey.”

“Your legs look like a yuppie’s living room from 1983.”

“I’m fashion forward.”

“You’re fashion forewarned.”

“Not clever.”

“Seriously: how long is the scarf? It looks like a blanket for a very thin person. Like, if Slenderman took a nap on the couch, that’s what he would cover himself up with.”

“I’m gonna walk back over there now.”

“Don’t trip on your giant scarf.”

“Blow me.”

Get Your Stinking Hands Off Her, You Damn Dirty Drummer

The people online calling this adorable don’t understand guitar players or human body language. Trample Amplestample wants to headbutt Fishman and take back the Laser Duck.

That’s No Lady, That’s My Gaga

“You ever meet Lady Gogo?”

“Gaga, Bob.”

“Goo goo, Trot. Anyway, she’s a little bitty thing. Might be an elf.”

“I don’t think Lady Gaga’s an elf. She’s from New Jersey.”

“Ah, well, yeah. That’s where the elf community settled after the war. Mostly around Teaneck.”

“How about that.”

“But, you know, I don’t judge.”

“You’re not bigoted against elves?”

“Nope. Good folks. Now, pixies can go fuck ’emselves.”

“Bob, do you know the words to this song?”

“About as well as you know the chords.”


Walk Along That Lonesome Trail

“Are you all right, Troy?”

“Yeah, Bob.”

“You’re hunching.”

“I’m going with the music. I’m really feeling it.”

“You gotta use the can? Shouldn’t hold it in.”

“I’m good.”


“Is it your back? I got pills for that.”

“No, thank you.”

Together Again, Again

“Are you back in the band?”

“Just siting in, Bob.”

“The kid’s working out, but if you want in, then say the word.”

“I got plans this summer. We’re playing the Garden.”


“This summer. We’re gonna start playing Memorial Day and end on Labor Day.”

“Wow. Do you wanna borrow Red Metal Stool?”

“I’d rather have a seat that wasn’t sentient.”

“It’s not optimal. He’s a bit of a whiner.”

“You could just buy a normal one, Bob.”

“Not the Grateful Dead way, Troy.”

“Sure. Hey, you wanna play a Lady Gaga song?”

“You bet.”

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