That is Michael McGinn, who is Bobby’s long-time sound guy, and that is his art: 15 years of hotel room cards assembled into the image of Bob Weir. It is beautiful and odd. Outside the frame is the statue made of stolen hotel towels that Matt Busch made; it is 20-feet high, three tons, and depicts Bobby as an anatomically-correct centaur. It is just odd.
Also: that is the nappiest couch I’ve ever seen. That sumbitch is sleepifying, somnambulizing, soporificating…I’m sayin’ it makes me tired, son.
There are many things to get to, and we will cover all of them in due time, but first: Sammy Hagar and the TRI Try-Hards try their hand at Loose Lucy; it’s pretty good, actually.
It might be better than Garcia’s version, simply for the fact that I never liked hearing Garcia sing about humping. Plus, the keyboard player from the the guy from Talking Heads who is not Bernie Worrell.
Bobby, being a sensitive and with-it kinda dude, had been in therapy for years and he always took at least one of the guys from the road crew with him. It had been Ramrod for years, but Parish was doing it lately.
The psychiatrist would ask a question and mostly Bobby would let Parish speak. Bobby enjoyed Parish’s stories so much: he was in a lot of them, and they sounded mostly true, even if Bobby remembered it different mostly.
Bobby always felt better after the sessions; so would Parish. Mostly because while they were bullshitting the doctor, Mickey had broken into the guy’s office and stolen a prescription pad, a whole bunch of samples and the rug.
The tickets were free, and the crowd was exclusively Enthusiasts who wanted to be on Bobby’s side, but after the fifteenth minute of Bobby’s Invisible Piano routine, a bad mood had descended upon the audience.
I don’t keep up with the Post-Dead, except faintly: through the post titles on Reddit, or from @’s on Twitter. I knew of someone ostensibly named Jeff Chiamenti, but I knew neither his form nor his function.
It turns out he’s a motherfucker. Like, he showed up for the audition and someone said, “I hear you play the piano.” And he said,
“No, I motherfuck the piano. This is both my form and my function: it is what I do because it is who I am. And it is who I am because it is what I do. My name is Jeff Chappaquiddick and I motherfuck pianos.”
Not his name.
Not a word.
–I’m watching Weir Here, which is a homophonic joke that someone who wanted cocaine laughed at once which Bobby has used as the title for everything he’s done since then, live on the interweb. It is in high quality video, and again: live. The sound is as good as any official live release from the Dead.
Live, wireless, just exactly perfect.
This internet thing? Very soon, it’s going to become miraculous. Very soon, it’s going to get deeply strange and we might have to start making choices.
Also, Bobby, we need to talk about the manpris.