For Brent: 10/25/89 in Miami.
The transition between Standing on the Moon and Truckin’ is the Dead summated in seconds: from a pulsing, churning beast with Garcia soooooooaring over the top–not a note out of place–to the stumblin’ bumblin’ that rumbles your tumble! Right HERE on WBBB, brothers and misters, lovers and sisters, YEEEEAH!
Not this shit again.
Weeble WOOB, weeble woob a ringa DEALIO!
Now you’re just making noises in a disc jockey’s cadence. You do realize they can’t actually hear you, right?
We play the hits, we take the shits, we oil the mitts, we pop the zits, we smooch the tits, we pitch the fits–
Your family is starting to worry.
–we pick the nits, and we PUT ON THE RITZ, BABYSNAKES and even my little serpents.
You finished strong, at least.
WHO ON MY PHONE?
Again: not this shit again.
Who this talking to Johnny JOHNSON right here on WBBB? Is it one of the big bad ballers; the busty, buxom belles; the big braggadocious beasts; Beulah’s beauty biscuits–
At this point, I’d actually prefer you answer the phone.
–bounteous, bulbous booga-boogas? Identify yo’SELF!
This is Beauregard St. Phillips. I represent the 6th level of Hell: I am its Man on Earth; my sins are legion and complete. My voice is your regret; my gaze is your judgment. I’m the sound of The Universe not even caring enough to say ‘So What?’ I’m the tumor. I make orphans. And then I make orphans a warm meal of comfort food, because it’s only the 6th level: we’re not complete dicks.
Stan? Stan?! STOP LETTING THE WEIRD INTERN WRITE THE PHRASE THAT PAYS. IT’S FREAKING EVERYBODY OUT.
Okay: new rules, fuckers.
PLUS: a Close Encounters tease from Garcia with his farty MIDI oboe at 8:45 into Space.