On The Phone Again

by thoughtsonthedead

Hey, Bill. What–

“How did you get this number? Who gave it to you?”

–cha doing? Um, what?

“Ah, who cares as long as you have a headliner for the weekend of the 12th.”

I do not.

“Grand Funk Railroad canceled.”

That’s a shame.

“Not really. Terrible act. Boom boom, fuck fuck. Every song: boom boom, fuck fuck. Not built for the long haul. Not like the Dead. The Dead were light on their toes. You know: for fuck-ups. But, still: there was a depth to the boogie that the other bands lacked.”

You hear about the 50th anniversary thing?

“Bill Graham hears things up and down the Time Lanes, you minkus.”

And?

“Everyone involved in this shonda is a schmendrick. Possibly goniffs. Definitely mishkites.”

Y’know, there are Gentiles reading this.

“Fuck ’em.”

What’s the problem?

“Three months out and they’re adding dates, changing band members, avoiding Mrs. Donna Jean’s phone calls? Jesus, did the number 50 sneak up on them? Bill Graham locks this down a year out. Eight shows: four in New York, four in San Francisco (or whatever they’re currently calling San Francisco, even though it’s an hour away.)”

What about Chicago?

“What about Chicago? Chicago? Fucking why? Fucking Chicago. Why Chicago? Fuck. Who the fuck cares about Chicago?”

Well, it was the last place the Dead played.

“NOT ON PURPOSE, you chumesh. It doesn’t have any meaning to anyone besides that little piece of trivia. Listen: there’s three places: home, the road, and New York. So, we play those two places only. And by New York, I mean any one of a dozen or so stadia on the East Coast.

It’s in the middle of the country.

“It’s in the middle–”

…

Bill?

“I had to close my eyes for a second. I almost flew into a rage. Middle of the country? Who came up with this, a second-grader? Are we meeting a friend and we wanna pick a place in between our houses? What percent of the fans at the Farewell Shoes will fly there?”

Eighty percent? Maybe higher.

“Shows on the coast, I got drivers. Day trip. No plane. Maybe a hotel, maybe not. Listen, schmuck: every dollar spent on a plane ticket or a hotel is a dollar not given to me.”

…

“And the band, and the band.”

Anything else?

“You mean if this was a Bill Graham Production? Huh.

“Old school for the announcement. Full page in the New York Times and the San Francisco Chronicle. No words. Just one of those skull faces with the heads. And you can put anything in the head, so we put ’50’ and then at the bottom, everybody’s last names and the dates. So, some words. Also, you got the website.

“And people read the ad and go Yay, the Dead are back, and they get on their computers and we got our big spiffy computer things doing this and that. Maybe some videos of the band, proving they’re alive like in kidnapping videos.

“Four months out, you put the shows on sale. All online. One ticket per customer, tickets top out at a hundred bucks. You can get in the door for a forty-dollar bill.”

No mail order?

“Mail order? Jesus…mail order? Kid, you ever heard of the Pony Express?”

Of course.

“You get your parcels today from an orphaned teen on a horse?”

Oh, no. There are much more efficient ways to transact business.”

“There ya go. Online. And you need a credit card because the Capitalists won.

“Then we send you a bracelet. Or a credit card thingy. I’m leaning towards bracelet. An undone bracelet is an unscratched itch. The fans’ll sit there for all those weeks, staring at the things, wondering where their real ticket was, praying for Jeff Chimenti, whatever.

“Then, dig this: Deadheads get to shows early, right? Sometimes days early, but these aren’t the old days. Now, you got Shakedown Street there, and you got the drum circle over there, and all around the lot are kiosks. And at your leisure, you go to one of them, scan your bracelet, and it prints you out your ticket. You can just go up to one when it’s free, or wait for the one with the shortest line. There’ll be a shit-load of them, though.

“Think of that. What you just did there. That adds value. How many Goodbye Show tickets are getting framed, y’think? Roughly all, right? Y’make the machine the ticket comes out of real nice. Maybe you man the kiosks with girls?

“Whatever: no scalpers, everyone’s got an experience, Bill Graham gets his name above the act.”

What can be done at this point?

“Nothing. They’ll blunder through. But it coulda been great, y’know?”