January 23, 2012 § Leave a comment

The whole Bath Salts and synthetic pot and even (maybe most characteristically of the trend) the uploaders vs. the providers on the web has come about because the curve of innovation has far exceeded the speed of legislation, let alone cultural thought.  This is in conjunction with the whip speed delivery system of the media.

All of these things are clearly Bad For US and they are made by people with transparently bad intentions. Bath salts weren’t actually marketed as bath salts and then people snorted them by accident and just realized this shit fucks you up.  This shit is just meth someone moved a molecule on.  Does methylenedioxypyrovalerone sounds like an accident?  It takes three post-docs to figure out how to spell it.

This is going to be happening a lot now.


Spinal Dead

January 22, 2012 § Leave a comment

Spinal Dead.

Rhythm Levels (I couldn’t think up a good pun, sorry)

January 21, 2012 § Leave a comment

Billy was the engine, even though he has never been seen in the same room as Brian Doyle-Murray.  In between tours, Billy would yell and yell at those damn caddies to make something of themselves but they never listened.  Billy had a Hawaiian shirt thing going on, and he spread it, like a virus to successive keyboardists.  Billy looks like he might have enjoyed starting fights.  Billy is an Uncle: the ‘stache, the smirk.

But listen to ’73.  No Mickey forcing everyone to sit there while he learns to play the kshdbviyus, the new percussion instrument he discovered in the village of extraordinarily foreign people, people so foreign that you secretly hate them because you sense they’re intentionally trying to be so foreign but whom Mickey will invariably refer to as “my brothers in drums.”  Mickey was always saying shit like that if he wasn’t tackling people in restaurants.  Mickey sounded like a lot of fun.

Now, when they were on, they were unbelievable, this churning graceful giant.  But, listen to 1973.  Just Billy out there.  The man’s a motherfucker.

Work the jab, Weir

January 21, 2012 § Leave a comment

Gentlemen, I realize the songs all want to be twenty minutes long.  But you don’t have to let them.  Do you fuckers know you played El Paso once for over 8 minutes?  And those minutes were in a row, mind you.  It wasn’t like they hid El Paso in a sandwich of other stuff and kinda broke up the El Paso: it was 8 straight minutes of Bobby pretending to be a cowboy.  Again.  As always.

The only person I can think of that pretends to be a cowboy as much as Bobby is George W. Bush.   The whole band went through the cowboy phase, but Bobby just Philip K. Dick’ed his cowboy persona and by this point, if you woke Bobby up in the middle of the night by screaming, “Stampede on the brazoes!” he would grab his hat and jump on his lovely steed and ride off into the purple skies of justice.  Bobby stopped pretending he was a cowboy at some point and, in his mind, became a Rider of the Prairies.

What I am trying to get to is that Bobby Weir was a raving goddam lunatic.  This is the only possible explanation for some of his choices.

There is only one documented instance of someone  treating Bobby in the manner you would treat anyone who behaved in this manner, but–and here’s the important part–was not a rock star.  In Sam Cutler’s entirely fallacious and therefore delightful book about road managing the band in the 70’s, Bobby liked to sneak up on people sleeping on planes and fuck with them.  This was, obviously, back in the days when wild-eyed lunatics were allowed to wander around planes giggling to themselves.   So Cutler pops him in the nose.  Like you would if, while you were dead-asleep because this plane ride was the only 90 minutes in the day you weren’t dealing with the promoter, the union, the crew (we’ll get to them), or the 7 sweaty gibbering drugsuckers whose every whim needs to be catered to, because if they’re not happy, then how do you expect them to play Sugaree for 22 minutes?

So this is pre-cell phone or obviously, wi-fi, on planes.  There are no phones.  There is no problem that can be settled now; we are en route and incommunicado until Des Moines.  You have just gone through the maddening ritual of getting these hairy morons through an airport and now all you want to do is catch a quick nap before you have to check them into the hotel. Which, if can learn anything from every single other time you checked into a hotel, will go poorly at best.

And now Bobby wants to lurk up from behind you and grab your face.

PS  And you know he wouldn’t pull that shit on Jerry.




Ready for your closeup, Mr. Welnick

January 21, 2012 § Leave a comment

“Hi, wardrobe?  Welnick here.  Show’s in an hour, so bring me the Ugliest Shirt in the Entire World, please.  No, not that one, the other one.  Ugliester!”

“And dad sneakers.”

Mr. Garcia? He Dead, suh.

January 21, 2012 § 4 Comments

You might ascribe a karmic tint to the fact that, by naming themselves the Grateful Dead, these men had brought about an inevitable and unenviable ability to defy the odds and die really early and predictably.  Like the universe just did that to them.

Others might see their rock held belief that in order to jam on an E minor 7 for, like, 20 fucking minutes again (while Keith nods off and no one–not a single one of those hirsute bastards–can remember the lyrics to the song he’s been singing for 11 years) they must stuff every single drug they see anywhere at any time directly up their own asses.  This is a poor long-term strategy.

Welcome to the Firm

January 21, 2012 § Leave a comment

When the Grateful Dead hired Vince Welnick, do you think they just openly said, “Please don’t die.  Like, um, everyone else that’s done the  exact job you’re about to do.  And whom you even physically resemble, to make it creeper-still.  In fact, don’t even think of this as a keyboard gig, think of it as a not-dying gig where you also play keyboards.  But keyboards really, with this kind of abysmal track record , should be at most secondary to your every single thought from the time you sign this contract until your untimely, yet entirely predictable death some time in the near next decade.  Please at all times try not to be dying. Thank you, and put on a hat.”