#so we put it in a box (with no physical contact obv) and gave it some food and water

[straightlightyagami]

well this is just awesome. I am now reminded rabies exists and I don’t want to go outside ever again!!

[shorkbrian]

Give in to Love

so I have several thots about this. Like with Kiri, he would be like, relieved you’re being submissive but then he’d become like super depressed that you aren’t like idk seeming to live in your body, like you’re just a husk and he’d get so worried and sad and pamper you with so much love.

Yeah so aside from Kiri, a yan that I imagine this type of scenario is with someone like Victor Nikiforov from YOI 

yes. This Bitch right here.

So first fucking off, he’s rich. Money is no problem for him.

Second off, he’s so confident that he would not hesitate to do whatever he wanted.

Third, he’s actually pretty kind (especially to pretty, vulnerable little things like you)

It’d probably start out with the man spilling coffee all over you or something SUPER cliche like that. 

(Warnings - not much. NSFW but only the teeniest tiniest bit. barely even a mention. but obvs Yandere, dub con, dark content.)

He’s in a rush, he was bursting out of the coffee-shop, you just so happened to be walking by and in the direct path of the door and so smacks into you, knocking you onto your butt.

Immediately, you’re being helped up by a silver haired man, he’s apologizing heavily, patting your clothes into place, smoothing your hair, steadying you onto your feet. He’s so sorry, he didn’t even see you! And then the man stops, looks at you, smiles blindingly and blurts out that you’re pretty.

You’re understandably stunned. but you quickly just brush it off, his accent is foreign, it’s probably just a cultural thing. 

Then he’s offering to buy you something to make up for him trying to give you a concussion, asking if you like coffee, sweets, maybe a sweater? You look cold.

And you’re just so tired, life is exhausting, you don’t really even care anymore what happens to you. You don’t protest as the man doesn’t wait for an answer, immediately grabbing your hand and marching you into the coffee shop he had just burst out of.

“Pick anything you’d like, my treat! An apology for not paying attention to such a beautiful thing.” He smiles, gesturing at the menu.

You study it for a second, but there’s too many choices, and it’d just be easier if you didn’t have to, and you’re so used to people telling you what to do and making decisions for you and you’re lost. Where do you even start?

After a few moments of silence, the man (who's been not-so-subtly watching you as you deliberate) speaks up. “Can I pick? I LOVE their raspberry cheesecake! So good!”

It sounds fine, and you’re somewhat relieved that he was going to choose, take the burden of responsibility off of your shoulders.

He buys one of the giant slices, ushers you to table, sits you down. The man watches you take a bite, his face lighting up and giving a little clap when you give a thumbs up. He has his own fork, and he takes bits and pieces here and there from the slice. While you eat, he talks.

His name is Victor, he’s from Russia, are you from around here? What’s your name? 

“That’s such a pretty name!” He says your name once, twice, rolling it around in his mouth like it’s something to savor. 

Victor is a ball of energy, confident, full of life. He’s frankly an intimidating man, with how attractive he is, the obviously expensive suit he wears, the way he dominates the conversation and expertly handles your awkward silences and uncomfortable pauses.

By the time you leave, he’s entered his number into your phone, quickly scrolling to find your own number (even though he was only supposed to put in his own - but you really didn’t care) and note it down.

You’re pretty sure he won’t actually be texting or calling you - he was just being polite, feigning interest in someone as boring and pathetic as yourself.

Lo-and-behold, that evening you get a notification that “Vitya! (:” has texted you.

Hello! Is your body feeling alright?

Immediately confused, you send out a reply

Who is this?

It’s Victor!!! From the coffeeshop, haha. 

Oh, hi (: your contact name says “Vitya” lol what a typo

Not a typo, I like it when pretty girls call me Vitya (;

Baffled, you don’t reply, and no further messages are exchanged.

A few days go by, Victor texts you on the fifth day, asking if you wouldn’t mind recommending some fun local activities. You have to apologize - you don’t get out much, you’re sure there’s info online though.

Victor asks why you don’t go out, you decide to be blunt and succinctly explain the fatigue, you’re anxious, this is your first time being out on your own and you’re so used to other people dictating your life that it feels uncomfortable and wrong to be able to make decisions. 

The man asks if you would go to that coffeeshop again with him. The switch of topic relieves you, but at the same time you’re frowning. You probably word-vomited all over him, complaining about your problems. 

For some reason, you agree.

He meets you at the coffeeshop again, this time not even bothering to ask what you’d like to order. Victor just gets a few cookies, leads you to a table and plops down, spreading them in front of the two of you 

“In case you don’t like one of them. And if you have allergies!”

You smile at his explanation.

Victor slowly becomes a constant in your life.

The texts turn into quick calls, inviting you places, begging you to come sit with him in the park, feed some pigeons. Go to the grocery store with him? He’s lonely, don’t make him go by himself!

Even if you refuse, you’re gently bullied into doing virtually everything he says. It’s not like you mind though, you’re used to it.

He starts showing up at your apartment, you aren’t even sure when you gave him your address, but now he invites himself inside.

The first time he had shown up, completely unannounced, you had protested only once before letting him in. You could tell he was scrutinizing your home, but what did it matter? Victor was wealthy, everything you owned seemed shabby and poor.

He came over most nights, sometimes bringing food, making you sit with him at your table and eat. Sometimes he brought a book, or his laptop, and quietly sat on your couch while you puttered around. He’d always get distracted from what he was reading though, chattering towards you about this or that or the other.

Victor was nice.

He made decisions for you, he made you eat, he quickly picked up on when you were too tired to function, when all you could do was collapse somewhere and fall asleep.

But Victor was also threatening.

If you tried refusing him too many times, or if you mentioned your coworker telling a funny joke (It’s not like he wasn’t funny, the joke was hilarious - Victor just didn’t seem to like it) Victor’s face would sour, eyebrows drawing low, a deep frown etched onto his face. HIs voice would take on a commanding tone, low, as if he was going to do something that neither of you would enjoy if he had to ask again. 

It was scary sometimes.

But he had invaded your life, and you had stood by and idly watched. It’s not like you had put up a fight. You didn’t even know why he hung around you so, with the way you were constantly tired, moving through life like a zombie, sad and sleepy all the time.

Months passed and like every other year of your life, you could barely remember them slipping by. When had Victor become so comfortable in your apartment? It made you uncomfortable, but you were used to discomfort.

It came to a head when you retreated to your room for a nap, body sore and fatigued from merely existing. Victor followed you, nagging about wearing something cooler, to drink some water, how he heard about this new thing recently-

He followed you into your bed.

Like it was normal. Crawling under the covers with you, still maintaining a respectful distance, still talking. You were so tired, you didn’t care about how it made you uncomfortable.

When you woke up, he was curled around you, holding you tight. When you shifted, he had perked up, peeking around your shoulder to see your face. He had been awake the whole time, just chilling.

It was weird.

You were too tired to fight it.

Victor started paying for too much.

Of course it started small, as everything concerning Victor did. Sweets, small little gifts, occasionally a week’s worth of groceries. 

Then it escalated. He was paying for your medications, for your therapies, for your health aids. He started trailing after you to doctor’s appointments, introducing himself as a concerned friend.

You knew this wasn’t good, wasn’t healthy. Something was wrong about this, but you just didn’t care. Something was always wrong, you were always being directed and pushed towards this or that. You just had to accept it.

Then Victor was paying your rent, buying you clothes (since when did friends buy each other underwear?) surprising you with bigger and more expensive gifts until you tried to put your foot down.

You had gotten a stern talking-to, treated like an ungrateful child. And maybe you were? Victor was doing so much for you, shouldn’t you just accept his care?

Victor suggested that you move into his house, since he practically lives at your little apartment anyways. 

“My place is so much cozier! I have a fireplace, I miss it! I want to spend time with you but we could hang out in a more-” He looked around at your apartment “-comfortable place?”

You tried to argue, you did. But it took one disapproving glance from Victor and you were subdued, meekly agreeing to do whatever he wanted.

He called your landlord to terminate your lease. He helped you pack your clothes (that he had bought) into boxes (that he had bought) and arranged for your furniture (that he had bought, always complaining that your couch was bad for his back) to be sold.

Once moving in with him, he got more and more affectionate.

Right from the start, you quickly realized that Victor was very tactile-oriented. He wasn’t shy about physical touch, always wanting to hold hands or giving super long hugs, or begging to cuddle. He didn’t think it was weird, so you tried not to think so either.

Now that you were in his house, his gigantic, expensive house, Victor became even more physical. He showered you with kisses on the cheek, pressed to your forehead, on your shoulder, your neck when he curled around you at night (because of course you slept in the same bed. Victor had just laughed when you asked where your bedroom was)

Eventually, he kissed you on the mouth.

You were surprised, but you didn’t fight it. Why would you?

A heartfelt confession followed - how he had fallen in love with you at first sight, and how every day he fell more and more in love with you. You were his everything, the light of his life, he would die for you.

Don’t you feel the same?

You did, because that’s what Victor wanted to hear.

So now the two of you were dating, sharing kisses and intimate touches and eventually sharing bodies, letting him touch you even though it made your flesh crawl, touching him because he asked you to.

He provided everything, it was simpler just to do what he asked, what he desired. You didn’t even really mind being told what to do, what to wear, what and when to eat - it gave you a sense of comfort, knowing that you didn’t have to make decisions for yourself like that.

Victor would take care of you.

Even when you didn’t want him to

After all, it was simply easier to give in to love

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

dani sent me a text without punctuation, which i then interpreted as a very specific fic request

this became so much more than I thought it was going to be and *i guess* there’ll have to be more 

so anyway here’s afab Zhao

nsfw, obv. 

Almost, Almost. Kasuga said it was close. An empty building, still unsold, still draining a dead man’s bank account. It was technically squatting, but no one would think to look for them there and none of them could quite handle a bar right now.

 They leaned on each other, stumbling down the narrow alleys of the Red Light district, the support both physical and emotional. Saeko shouldered more of Kasuga’s weight than Zhao had assumed she could. Themself and Joon-Gi embraced like drunkards on a dance floor, each a load-bearing wall to the other. Just focus. One step after another, one foot in front of the other, until the gaudy facade of an abandoned soapland came into view. 

The door was unlocked. That should have been reason for concern, but “preoccupied” was an understatement. The interior was quiet nonetheless, air stagnant, dank from the lingering moisture of the establishment’s past. A layer of dust covered the front desk, the phone, the pictures of the smiling girls that still adorned the walls. The scattering of bubbly brunettes, headshots subtly retouched, greeted them in the absence of their late boss as the party silently trudged up the stairs, each one picking a room. Zhao went straight down to the end of the hall to a room they knew was still fully stocked with a variety of therapeutic oils and herbs. With the finish line in sight, each step became a battle of its own; each one highlighting a new ache, a yet undiscovered cut, a deep bruise. Their legs felt like jelly, like the bones could slide out onto the floor at any moment. After an eternity, they hit the threshold, not so much opening the door as letting the weight of their body fling it to the side. Inside, they found the room not entirely as expected. 

“Oh…?” Surprise, disappointment, irritation. A great cacophony of feelings arose at the sight of another person in the room, and somehow they all fit neatly into that one word.

“Huh?” The figure rose from their crouched position in front of the sliding doors of the storage closet. It was a woman - inky black hair cut short, face unadorned by makeup aside from striking oxblood lipstick, athletic outfit both fashionable and utilitarian. “Fuckin’ hell, ya look like ya tried to fist-fight a wreckin’ ball.” 

Ignoring the surprisingly accurate comment, Zhao tried to slip into the old Scary Gang Boss performance. They didn’t know who this woman was, but they were fairly certain she didn’t belong here. “Hey! You…” But the energy quickly faded, intensity falling from their voice. “Just get out.” They hoped that tone could carry the rest of the message as the words failed to come. I have a lot of questions, but no drive to ask them right now.  

“I’m serious, ya got fucked up.” There was genuine concern in this stranger’s voice. “Come sit down before ya fall over an’ hit yer head ’r somethin’.” She approached, guiding Zhao to a rickety chair in the corner. “Didn’t mean to cause any problems, I thought this place was abandoned,” she said, resuming her search through some boxes stacked at the bottom of the closet. 

Zhao sank into the seat and watched her, trying not to concentrate on the throb of torn muscle. More questions came and were dismissed, deemed not worth the effort of speech. They couldn’t help but notice how well her ass filled out her athletic leggings, though.  

“Is that so?” They took a breath, gathering the will to continue the conversation-slash-interrogation. “Strange, I didn’t know Kansai thieves came in such pretty packages.” They wanted the comment to be something more aggressive, but the flirtation was instinct; the quip slipped out before they even thought to stop it. It was met with a sharp jab to the side by a single manicured nail. 

“A comedian, huh? Very funny.” She upended another small box. “Damn…”

“But really, who are you? What are you doing here?” They let their voice go quiet and calm, an almost-threat, Serious Business Zhao. Great ass aside, an intruder was an intruder. And sure, they didn’t have the strength to put up much of a fight, if it came to that, but Quiet Menacing usually did the trick. 

“I used to work here.” Another box, inspected and discarded. Finally, she fell back out of a squat, now sitting on the floor in a crab-like position, red faced with the effort of her frantic search. An errant strand of hair fell into her face and was blown away in a huff. She wore her frustration openly. It was cute as hell.  

Oh, now you’ve done it. They tried to come out with something slick and witty. “Hi, ‘I used to work here’. I’m Zhao.” They threw a half-smile on for good measure. Nailed it. 

That frustration gave way to something between second-hand embarrassment and disgust. “Really?” 

She stood abruptly, gracefully. It seemed the athletic outfit wasn’t just for show. “As I was sayin’, I used to work here. Just got back in town and had to pick up some stuff I left behind. Looks like one of the other girls already got to it, though.” She paused, stretching. “Sucks about Nonomiya,” she added, the murder of her boss an afterthought. 

With new found high ground, she looked down at Zhao, licked a thumb, and tried to smudge away a line of blood on their cheek. “What’re you doin’ here?” 

“We, uh, wanted a bath.” They motioned toward the door, shifting uncomfortably through the strange woman’s fussing. “A friend of mine briefly worked for Nonomiya.” 

“Huh.” She began to inspect their various cuts and contusions. “Ya know any first aid? This is gonna take more’n a Toughness to fix.”   

“Not really.” Nothing more than the basics. Usually they’d just go see a Liumang doctor, but that wasn’t exactly an option anymore. 

“Lemme fix ya up then, it’s the least I could do.” She chuckled to herself. “Ya looked like yer soul’d left yer body, seein’ me in here.” She turned and started the bath running, opening the jars and bottles that she’d pulled out of the closet. Zhao watched as she mixed a scoop of this or that into the rising water and popped open a still-sealed medical kit. She tore open and arranged packets of gauze and astringent pads as the bath filled, a mise-en-place that would satisfy even the pickiest nurse. She’d even produced a basic suturing kit. “Go on, get in! I’m doin’ ya a favor here.” She tugged at the collar of their jacket. 

The transition to standing upright was not without pain. “Uh…” Sure, this might as well happen. “Yeah...ok, fine.” They carefully removed the leather jacket, the shorts, the shoes, folding them neatly and placing them on the chair Zhao had once occupied. Knowing my luck, I’d fall asleep and drown if I had to do it myself. 

“Hurry up,” She waved a hand in their direction. “It’s not nothin’ I haven’t seen a million times before.” Unsatisfied with their pace, the woman began to rapidly, procedurally, unbutton Zhao’s shirt, deft fingers working more quickly than they’d assumed the nails would allow. “Oh!” She stopped about half way down as the shirt fell open to reveal the sturdy sports bra beneath it. “Sorry, guess I just assumed…” 

“Don’t worry about it, easy mistake.” It wasn’t exactly a secret. Anyone who’d been in the Liumang long enough knew the old boss never had a son, but Zhao wasn’t going to stop any new blood from making convenient assumptions. They finished undressing themself as the woman stood in contemplation and slowly stepped into the bath, smiling at the stranger’s quiet nice. “If this changes anything…” 

“Oh, no.” She settled onto a short stool behind Zhao’s back and rolled up the sleeves of her sweater. “If anything, my job just got easier. Don’t gotta worry about any wayward, uh, anatomy.” Her tone was cool, casual, but Zhao knew when their body was being appreciated. They had that effect on some people. Mostly girls. Men typically didn’t like someone they perceived as a woman having shoulders as broad and well-muscled as theirs.  

Once they were settled, the stranger set to work. Whatever she mixed into the bath stung as it came into contact with the various cuts across Zhao’s body, but soothed sore muscles and joints better than any concoction they could have come up with. The initial inspection was thorough; the woman was unhesitant in picking up limbs and manipulating skin. She didn’t seem to find anything worth stitches - the few cuts that were a little more than just a scratch got spritzed with wound wash and treated with an antibiotic ointment. She rubbed some kind of cream over the larger bruises. 

Once satisfied with the state of their wounds, she started working the shoulders and neck. First gentle, but firm, presses of knuckles to loosen the knots. Then she really set in, putting her full weight behind an elbow, working just under the base of their neck. It hurt at first, and Zhao almost called it quits, but after a minute or so the tension gave way and their legs - their whole body, for that matter - turned to jelly once again. They had a brief spike of worry - they were helpless under her hands; this would be a perfect opportunity for an assassin - but the thought left as quickly as it came as she moved lower down their back, pushing the heels of her hands into their spine and hitting each vertebra one by one. “Relax, relax. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” She must have felt the moment of tension. Zhao tried to respond, but the words that came devolved immediately into a low moan at the return of the elbow. No use; resistance was futile. They were putty. 

Eventually - unfortunately - the massage ended. As the woman pulled her arms out of the water, Zhao could have sworn they felt the barely-there sensation of her fingers trailing the outline of the phoenix inked across their back. Before they could say anything, she leaned in, pressing the side of her face against theirs. “All better?” she said, lips grazing the bit of neck just below the ear. Not even a kiss, just a whisper of heat. Her voice had changed, becoming something saccharine and syrup-dipped, dripping with anticipated carnality. Oh, a full service experience? Zhao didn’t anticipate this being part of the deal, but who could turn down such a skilled professional? The woman was a master of her art. The hands soon returned, this time settling low on the hips, drifting slowly around to the front of their body. Her chest plastered against their back, chin nestled in the crook of their neck, the first finger slipped between their legs... 

A voice sounded, somewhere down the hall, barely squeezing through a quickly narrowing tunnel of desire. Something about Survive and karaoke and Joon-gi said he’ll sing this time, are you done yet? 

Without warning, the warmth of her body pressed against them disappeared as the woman pulled away and snatched a bag off the floor, leaving Zhao red-faced and stupefied. “Looks like it’s time for me to scram.” Back to business. No more Sexy Soapland Girl. “Put this on yer bruises ‘til they go away,” she said, dropping a tube of cream onto the stool as she hurried toward the door. 

“Wait, who - “ Zhao tried to hoist themself out of the bath only to find their legs still shaky as a foal’s. They slipped back in with a wet plunk, sloshing water over the edge and onto the floor. By the time they’d righted themself, the woman was long gone and Kasuga had come wandering in with a towel to hassle them about their bathing habits. After a moment of teasing, they were left to dry, and dress, and try to pretend they weren’t wet in more ways than one. 

It would be hours until they realized they didn’t remember seeing the woman’s face among the portraits over in the waiting room. 

[jafreitag]

Grateful Dead Monthly: Academy of Music – New York, NY 3/28/72

Before Europe ’72, there was Academy of Music ’72. Between March 21 and 28, 1972, the Grateful Dead played seven concerts at the Academy of Music in New York City.

That’s the original Academy of Music. It opened in 1854 as a 4,000 seat opera house on the northeast corner of East 14th Street and Irving Place in Manhattan. The Dead didn’t play there. They played across the street at a 3,400 seat movie palace also named the Academy of Music, which opened in 1927.

That’s the latter Academy of Music. It shifted from a cinema toward a concert venue in the mid-60s. The Rolling Stones played there on their first U.S. tour in 1965. Around the closing of the Fillmore East, some eight blocks south and east (if my dodgy NYC geography is correct), the former movie palace was a full-on rock palace, hosting the Allman Brothers Band (8/15/71), Aerosmith opening for Humble Pie and Edgar Winter (12/2-3-71), and the Band (12/28-31/71 – those shows were excerpted for the 1972 live album Rock of Ages and featured in their entirety for the 2013 box set Live at the Academy of Music 1971).

The Academy of Music was renamed the Palladium in 1976. And on 9/20/79, this happened there.

The guitar smash, not the album, obv. #paulsimononftw The venue was converted to a nightclub by Studio 54 guys Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager in 1985. In 1992, they sold it to Peter Gatien, who kept it open until 1997. The last concert at the Palladium was Fugazi on 5/1/97 (Red Medicine tour, I think). It’s now an NYU dorm with a gym in the basement.

The Dead visited the Academy/Palladium twice – once in 1972 and once in 1977. In ’72, they were workshopping material that they would soon take across the pond. In ’77, they were solidifying material that they would soon take upstate for the ne plus ultra. Fun fact, the fourth night of the ’72 run was presented by Hells Angels. Here’s the full poster.

[The lessons of Altamont ’69 apparently had been learned, then put to rest. Quick replay, tho, from less than three years earlier.]

The New York Daily News summarized the run like this: “Seven concerts in one week at the Academy of Music, every one of them sold out within hours, more by ESP than advertising… The week’s series will help finance the Dead’s traveling expenses for a two-month, seven-country tour of Europe beginning Saturday.” That quote appears in an excellent and exhaustive recap of all the shows (and their recordings) by someone called “Light Into Ashes” on the Grateful Dead Guide blog. There, LIA posits:

“Musically, this run falls midway between the honky-tonk vibe of the fall ’71 shows, and the smoother Europe ’72 tour. Probably one of the Dead’s plans for the run, aside from raising money for the Europe tour, was to hone their performances for the upcoming live-album recording – after a two-month break from playing shows together, they would need to get back in the groove! 

People who saw them at the time were probably struck by the changes in repertoire. (They only played two songs that had been on Live/Dead, one time each; few songs from Workingman’s Dead or American Beauty were played at all; and many of their newer songs were not on any albums yet.) Pigpen was also singing and playing more than he had in ’71 (singing five or six songs a night); a new piano player had altered the band’s sound quite a bit; and some unknown longhaired lady would come onstage to sing for a song or two. New Yorkers would also have noticed that the Dead no longer played til dawn, as they had done so often at the Fillmore East!

The average show length was three and a half hours, as they played through most of their repertoire each night. (Any audience members who went to several shows in the run would hear most of the same songs a LOT of times.)”

The Grateful Dead Sources blog has a 1972 newspaper review from Toronto’s Grapevine. Pretty funny, it’s worth a look.

Betty Cantor-Jackson recorded the shows, but the tapes disappeared until some guy from Northern California bought them at an auction in 1987. The tapes sat in his barn deteriorating. When Jerry died in 1995, one of the guy’s friends, who must’ve known a thing or two about the Dead, contacted Dark Star Orchestra’s Rob Eaton. Eaton cleaned and restored the tapes at his own expense, and returned them to the guy.

(^ Rob Eaton)

From LIA’s post, which quotes Eaton from an interview with Katie Harvey:

“‘The collection was really unique. Half of it was Garcia-Saunders from ’73, 74, 75. It was just nothing anybody had ever seen. And all the Academy of Music tapes from the Dead in ’72, which no one had ever heard a tape of: really bad audience tapes were the only thing [from that run], nothing was in the Vault. So I knew it was really important.’

Eaton kept DAT copies of the reels, although the buyer made him sign a contract not to copy or distribute the recordings. ‘He drew up this contract that I was liable for $100,000 in liquefied damages if I released the contents of the collection without his written authorization. And I wasn’t allowed to keep a copy according to this thing. All the copies had to be in his possession. Of course I’m keeping a DAT master of everything I’m doing. I’m not that stupid. I was a deadhead and protecting the music was my first and foremost thought. Legally, I wasn’t really that concerned with it. Because I was sort of in with the Dead office at the time, they found out that I had these. They wanted to get a hold of the guy. So I got them in touch with this guy who wanted a million dollars. They just told him to fuck himself. They came back to me and they go, “Look, we know you’re smart. We know you probably kept a set of DATs. What would it take to get that set of DATs from you?” And I said, “Well, first of all, I signed this contract.”’

But according to Hal Kantor, the Dead’s attorney, ‘He can’t claim rights to what’s on the tape. He has rights to the actual physical tapes, but what’s on the tape is our rights, not his.’ So Eaton copied his DATs (including Dead shows from 1971-76) and gave them to the Vault. And as Harvey writes: ‘They prohibited him from distributing copies because they planned to commercially release the material.'”

Parts of all seven nights in 1972 are scattered across various official releases, but the archivists have unloosed only two complete shows – 3/26 (Dave’s Picks #14) and 3/28 (Dick’s Picks #30). The latter also contains the Bo Diddley sit-in from 3/25, so ECM and I decided to focus on that one.

According to the DP#30 Wiki, the 3/25 show was a “semi-private party” billed as Jerry Garcia & Friends. In reality, it was a GD with the band backing Bo Diddley for the first set, then playing its own second set. The entire show has sound quality issues, but the first set is quite poor. The “jam” is the most notable part. It’s essentially a slower version of the “Hard to Handle” wig-out, and not super interesting.

The Dead opened their set with a couple rarities – How Sweet It is (To Be Loved by You), on which Donna Jean reaches a truly wicked level of caterwaul, and Are You Lonely for Me Baby?, from which Bobby must’ve gotten inspiration for Black-Throated Wind. Are You Lonely was later a staple of Garcia/Merl Saunders sets in ’72-74.

3/28 is better, and offers more typical Dead fare. The first set features an extremely hot China Cat Sunflower > I Know You Rider duo, and some funny stage banter from Phil Lesh. After the band played Mexicali Blues, some audience members chanted for Alligator. Phil responded, “Hey, for all you Alligator fans out there, we done – ah alright alright alright. We understand that there’s a lot of Alligator fans out there, but we done forgot it, see. And so ah, we’re gonna have to remember it sometime later, you know.” The second set showpiece is an extended version of The Other One that offers a preview of what the band would do in Europe.

Ed reminded me that this show was Pigpen’s last in NYC. And he added that it contains Donna’s first Playing in the Band wail. Awesome. His listening notes are more robust than mine, as usual:

The Europe ’72 tour began on April 7th, but the boys played a preparatory seven-night run at the Academy of Music in NYC in the days leading up to their flight across the pond. 

The festivities open with a rockin Truckin.’ All the first set songs are played with gusto and feeling especially the “new” songs such as Tennessee Jed, Chinatown Shuffle, BT Wind, Mr. Charlie, You Win Again and Mexicali Blues.  After Mexicali, the audience is calling out for “Alligator” and Phil tells them that “we done forgot it.” A rare, mid-set Brokedown follows and it is a pure joy. It just might be my favorite song from the entire first set. Next Time You See Me is perfectly executed. The band tears up Cumberland. Bobby is high in the mix and it is exciting to hear his guitar part. Next, Bobby introduces LLR as a “cryin’ song.” It’s a gorgeous version that has Jerry on pedal steel and Phil on backing vocals.  and China->Rider really stands out. The segue jam in China->Rider is especially interesting as the band seems to struggle at first to find the groove behind Bobby’s solo, then they just roll with it, and then Jerry locks into a cool riff before diving into Rider. The only minor complaint is that after 6 shows, Garcia’s voice is beginning to show signs of strain (You Win Again, Big Railroad Blues and China Cat). 

The setlist for Set II pretty much speaks for itself. Playing in the Band continues to progress. This performance marks the the first time that Donna lends her vocal contributions. The jam section starts off drifty like Veneta with that big psychedelic bubble. By the 6-minute mark Jerry is in full guitar psychosis mode. They cool down into drifting, mournful ribbons of sound only to bring it to another peak around the 10-minute mark before entering the reprise. A few songs later we get a high-energy Sugar Magnolia. Jerry goes nuts on the wah pedal during the coda. Donna has not yet found her way into the arrangement yet). This segues directly into a brief drum intro that leads into a 28-minute version of The Other One. The entry is surprisingly laid back as is the entire performance. By the 7-minute mark there are no traces of the song. The band has entered uncharted territory…deep space. This is pretty experimental stuff…atonal notes and peals of feedback. Things begin to become melodic again at about the 14-minute mark as the band prepares to deliver the first verse but it takes them 2 more minutes to eventually get there and after dispensing with it they return to the same misty pastures where they once were. The concert ends in fine form with their standby crowd pleasing closer of NFA>GDTRFB>NFA. The jam at the end of NFA leading into GDTRFB especially shines. 

The only version of the Sidewalks of New York is just a half-minute tuning.

Here’s the Spotify widget.

I’ll add LMA links at some point.

More soon.

JF

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