We now bid a hearty farewell to Bob Weir, the Grateful Dead’s Robin to Garcia’s Batman, you might say, guitarist, vocalist and founding member, dearly departed at 78. Weir was known for a very clear, strong and almost macho vocal disposition, and, to an extent, certain documented exploits of womanizing (“I was born in a desert / I was raised in a lion’s den / My number one occupation / Stealin’ women from their men”).
Garcia and Weir would often alternate taking lead on vocals, as they do on the first two tracks of In the Dark, the Dead’s 1987 album, which was their first new LP in six years. This fact is kind of interesting, given the incredible impact of lead single “Touch of Grey” and great inclination toward succinct, memorable songs. Along these lines, it reasons that In the Dark was also the first album the band wrote after hearing U2 and R.E.M., and the pliable, expedited-but-emotionally-complete results corroborate just as much.
“He** in a Bucket” was the second single released from the album, after “Touch of Grey”; and, while not reaching the gargantuan heights of radio play, ubiquity and general, unstoppable dominance of the latter, is still a pretty pervasive tune, ushering in somewhat of an anthemic chorus: “I might be goin’ to He** in a bucket baby / But at least I’m enjoying the ride”. With Garcia’s feel-good firebrand “Touch of Grey” leading off the album, “He** in a Bucket” makes a nice, foiling successor, far more given to Dionysian snarkiness, and obliterating, meantime, any fears that the Dead were going to come back for this new project with some hippy-dippy, flowers-in-your-hair copouts.
More or less, “He** in a Bucket” plays as verbal warfare against what the listener perceives as an endearing but somewhat beguiling and aggravating lover. It’s ok, though, because Weir is rolling in with the heavy artillery: “I was drinkin’ last night with a biker / And I showed him a picture of you / I said ‘Pal, get to know her, you’ll like her’ / It seemed like the least I could do”; “It’s not like I’m leaving you lonely / ’Cause I wouldn’t know where to begin”; “You analyze me / Attempt to despise me / And laugh when I stumble and fall / There may come a day I will dance on your grave / If unable to dance I will crawl”.
They’re the kind of words that, when viewed just verbally on a page, seem almost disturbing, in message and sentiment. Actually, I’m pretty sure I was around my parents the first time I heard “He** in a Bucket”; and so was able to view their sustained mood of light conversation and easy tones, hence realizing that the song was not a pressing cause for concern.
Then, I think, I at some point incorporated this almost vituperative brand of humor into my own personality, a maneuver that, truth be told, can get you in trouble sometimes in this world. Lots of people don’t want to know that you have the ability to cut them down to size. And some people don’t know how to take a joke or they might get jealous of your sense of humor. Use this potent vial wisely, my friends. But observe the depth in Weir’s lyricism, especially paired with the forcefully political and metaphoric “Throwing Stones” later on this album, a personal favorite track of mine, the ability to juxtapose obvious appeal with what amounts ostensibly to demonic perniciousness, on the part of this lover subject. This is dirty rock and roll for a dirty world, about the opposite of the safe, weak or naive discourses likely thought to be hurled about by the Dead in some provincial sectors, leather jackets and binaca optional, of course.
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