The Jew in the Phish

The longest, most revolutionary month of my life was over. The world looked and sounded different. The mainstream didn’t rumble like it used to. It was time to approach the real rapids head on.

My co-conspirator in this pop-culture crime adventure: Ben Whitman, a pre-school-era friend among friends. Our mission: locate and procure illicit sonic material from the heart of the machine. Possible consequences: extreme confusion, uncontrollable guffaws, hemp buildup, beard.

OK. Maybe the situation wasn’t so dramatic or daring, but it certainly felt that way. Ben and I were 13 at the time. I don’t know about him, but my musical taste prior to that month of adolescent eye opening was downright sour. My CD collection didn’t amount to much: a few Blink 182 albums (two studio, one live), Green Day’s Nimrod, some New Found Glory probably, Will Smith’s Willennium, the “clean” version of The Slim Shady LP and that really was about it. All of these discs were scratched and getting skippy. I knew every word to every song—minus, of course, the bleeped-out profanities from Eminem but plus the narrated interludes from Blink 182’s live album, The Mark, Tom, and Travis Show (The Enema Strikes Back!). Dark middle-school times, to be sure. But, for far too long, as far as I knew, this was the cream of the crop.

Ben had been going to camp for a few years already before I decided to join the summer circus. I brought a guitar with me. I knew how to play G and C and D and had busted my fingers up learning a Green Day song whose name should not be mentioned. I thought I could learn a few things at camp.

When I got there, a bunch of other kids had guitars and basses around their necks. And our counselors could play pretty well, too. I remember sitting around in the bunk one day listening to this kid Carl from Birmingham pick on a Fender Strat and thinking, “Holy shit! Somebody introduce this guy to someone. Anyone. He’s the best guitar player I’ve ever heard!” I didn’t pick up my guitar much that summer, and I didn’t go to many of my scheduled Judaica or Hebrew classes that summer either. But I did sit around the bunk listening a lot. I remember a few other guys from Austin and Montgomery and Orlando having an argument about something:

“No, no, no, man,” the kid from Montgomery, Barry, interjects. “The Widespread fans are really happy that Phish is gone. It’s a good thing.”

One of the Austinites named Jacob isn’t too pleased with this analysis. “Fuck that. Phish is better. Fuck Widespread.”

To 13-year-old me, that seemed to be a bulletproof argument. But I had no idea what they were talking about. I didn’t grasp this—couldn’t—at the time, but I’d just experienced my first over-analytical, conjecture-based discussion of the music of Phish.

Later, I looked through Barry’s overflowing CD folder. He pointed out the Phish and the Panic and much more. There was a two-disc set that caught my eye. One of the discs was white and there was a drawing of a mouse with a fishing pole. The cover of another disc was bulging with the blurry, smiling face of someone. The kid from Orlando—everyone calls him Sherman—sees that I’ve taken an interest in that particular CD and says, “That’s my cousin.”

“Wait. What?” I ask. “Isn’t this a Phish CD? Your cousin is on the cover of a Phish CD?”

“Yea. My cousin plays bass in Phish,” Sherman responded.

This was all new to me. From what I could tell, there were two bands—Phish and Widespread Panic—that had big fan bases, and, though the music was similar, the fans didn’t get along. Oh, and one of my new friends was related to this fat face on the cover of an album called Billy Breathes. But how did all of these kids know about this music? I’d never even heard of these groups before. Why didn’t the one band still play? Would the conflict between the fans be resolved? Why was there a conflict at all? Was Sherman telling the truth? I knew there was more to the story.

Later that day or that week, Ben and I headed to the tower for some quality climbing time. Everybody at camp had a sort of elective activity that he or she would do once or more times a week. Ben and I chose climbing, and every time we began to approach the tower some happy, whistley, makes-you-wanna-jump-in-a-creek music would float over to us. It would get louder and louder as we got closer and closer, and pretty soon we’d be standing around waiting for this beard-and-bandana big dude to notice our presence and help us climb up onto the tower at whose base he was napping. The music, it turned out, was that of the Grateful Dead. Something about the name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t tell what or why. We went climbing a couple times every week, and every time this same music would lilt toward and dance around us.

And then the longest month of my life ended. Everyone went home. Back in Jacksonville, Ben and I were about to make a leap into an abyss. We arrived at the mall, located Sam Goody, the biggest music store there, and went straight to the Gs.

The Grateful Dead had a million colorful covers to choose from. Some were double-, triple- or even quadruple-disc sets of lives music. But one stood out. It was the cheapest and safest title: Skeletons From the Closet, a best-of collection that I figured would be a good introduction. I bought the disc and just burned a copy for Ben. It was too risky an investment for him, I guess. But we ended playing those songs over and over and over again that summer. Green Day and Blink began to fall by the wayside. These Grateful Dead were singing from a different America than the one Ben and I inhabited, but the sounds were still somehow familiar and I wanted to know why. The longest track on there was a six-minute live cut called “Turn On Your Lovelight.” I found out that it had been cut down to fit on the disc. That didn’t seem possible. The edited version was six minutes long? Woah. That was twice as long as the longest Blink 182 fart joke. I wanted more from these crazy cowboys. I wanted to hear the whole uncut thing.

But first Ben and I needed to re-visit Sam Goody. We’d fallen deeper into the abyss, this time straight down to the Ps. The selection of Phish here wasn’t as vast as the Grateful Dead’s but it was just as unfamiliar. There were a bunch of CDs on display above the regular racks. New releases, I guessed. One was unlike the rest. The case was shiny silver card paper with a black-and-white drawing on the cover of a cityscape that looked like it was being invaded. A giant hand had plucked a tree off the street with some tweezers and was holding it upside-down. Another hand was holding a fishing pole. A comet and airplane were flying through the sky in opposite directions above the buildings. “Live Phish 01” was printed above the comet. There was a date—12.14.95—and the venue and city were named next to that. I picked up the CD. It felt heavy. I turned it over. There were two discs hidden inside this silver sleeve. The song names were intriguing—“Suzy Greenberg,” “Split Open and Melt,” “Makisupa Policeman,” “Slave to the Traffic Light.” On the song list for the second disc, some songs repeated and had a mysterious carrot symbol—“>”—after the name. The weird song names and symbols, the unusual silver packaging, it might as well have been a piece of crash-landed space junk. After the Skeletons From the Closet experience, logic dictated that it was a wise decision to skip the studio stuff and go straight for the live release. And what better place to start than Live Phish 01?

It’s hard to say what that first listen was like. Mainly, it left me feeling confused and a little bit scared. I didn’t try to listen to the concert again for a while. Our logic had failed. We weren’t ready for these alien songscapes. One best-of Grateful Dead album wasn’t enough to prepare us for two and a half hours of unscripted Phish. We had no point of reference.

Needless to say, it was back to the listening boards for some training. Ben and I found Farmhouse, Phish’s most accessible album, and then we began listening to A Picture of Nectar. This was the hey-day of Kazaa. It was pretty easy to find and download the group’s most popular recordings. Someone—a friend with older, hipper sisters probably—recommended a song called “Bouncing Around the Room.” The song was infectious. And meanwhile, we started getting acquainted with the Dead’s vault of live stuff. For whatever reason, their brand of psychedelic Americana was a bit easier to digest than Phish’s. But I was trying to acquire the taste. I remember staying up late one night to watch a show on PBS. Our local affiliate was playing a Phish concert from Austin City Limits. With the volume way down low so that my parents and sister wouldn’t wake up, a part of me felt like I was finally a part of a secret club whose rites I was slowly beginning to understand. Honestly though, another part of me was disappointed when they didn’t play “Bouncin’” on that ACL broadcast. “Get to the good stuff,” I remember thinking.

The “good stuff” had taken on a completely different meaning for the self who walked through the doors of the American Airlines Arena nine years later on December 28, but my original partner in pop-culture crime is still right here with me. After making it through security with Harper and Doogans, after going up the escalator, after realizing IT is actually, finally about to go down, after leaning over the railing and screaming a joyous scream to the revelers all around, after parting ways with Harper and Doogans and finding my 300-level seat, after talking giddily with an older phan next to me, after accepting that the show won’t be starting for another 15 minutes, I know I have to go find Ben.

A few text messages and stairwells later and I am approaching a row of dudes in polos and khakis. Ben, two of his fraternity brothers and an older gentleman are right on the aisle in the middle of section 107. Handshakes and hugs all around. The older guy is father to one of Ben’s friends. These guys, Brad and Beer as they’re known, are all relatively clean-cut. Standing there, the five of us literally embody a large part of the spectrum of Phish concertgoer stereotypes. I’ve got the longhair and beard covered. Ben’s got the southern-fried phrat contingent on lock. His friend’s father is the Deadhead vicariously reliving his glory days through his college-aged son. And the rest of them are the gawking onlookers along for the ride. As divergent as our paths have been since those first glimpses of musical enlightenment, Ben and I still share a love of this band and a will to spread the Good Word to the uninitiated. Brad and Beer are Ben’s night-1 n00bs, but they weren’t supposed to be. Had things been different, Ben’s parents and brother would be sitting right there instead. He drove into Miami earlier that day after getting off of a plane in Ft. Lauderdale, which had left from Philadelphia early that morning. Though they had requested and received a handful of tickets to this show through Phish’s lottery, Ben’s family stayed behind in Philly. This show is the first movement from darkness into light for Ben, I think. His grandmother had just passed away and he was grieving by sharing in the groove. Phish’s music is a celebration of life, its darkest parts included.

The venue isn’t exactly filling up, but I have the feeling show time is approaching. I want to be set and ready when the lights went down, so I wish everyone a good show and hurry back to my seats. Sure enough, just as I get situated, the room turns black and the roar of thousands erupts. Game time. The boys walk onto the stage, which is bathed in blue light, and take their positions. Page McConnell is on the keys to the far left, Trey Anastasio is next to him on the guitar, followed by Mike Gordon on the bass and, finally, the band’s namesake, resident clown and drummer, Jon “Fish” Fishman, all the way to the right. Mike and Trey pick up their axes and confer with each other while Page and Jon take their seats.

What will they start with? Weeks of speculation in my head and among my friends come down to this roaring room on this day in downtown Miami. Phish would play what they would play. The only sure thing: Nine sets of music over a four night holiday run would result in not a single song being repeated and lots of expected but as-yet-mysterious trickery.

My notebook is ready and so is the band. The initial chords of “Sample In a Jar” ring from the stage, bringing Phish in Miami underway. “Sample,” like “Bouncing Around the Room,” is one of Phish’s most accessible, even mainstream, songs. Pick a random person off the street. Look through his or her iPod. If you find Phish under “Artists,” it’s likely that this will be one of the few songs, if not the only that he or she has by the group. It’s an obvious crowd-charger, a go-to show opener, but it’s definitely the least interesting song with which they could have started this run. “Better to get this shit out of the way,” I think to myself. And thankfully, it ends quickly.

Next up is “NICU,” a funky little number with the kind of silly, nonsensical lyrics that make many Phish-detractors cringe: “Appendages flailing, you’re running at me / Ferocious, tenaciously clawing at me / The devious gelatin holding me fast / Miraculous now you let me move past / Over the wall rushing rivers of sleaze / The tips of stalactites incising my knees / A slipper, a sand dollar day at the shore / Nice evening at home that I dread even more.” Though this song was never released on a studio album, lately it is played every 4 or 5 shows. It’s also featured on the second disc of Live Phish 01, so it holds a special place in my heart. I like to think that NYE 2009 was started with this song and not with “Sample.” Willful ignorance perhaps.  Though “NICU” was first played back in early 1992, its lyrics have contemporary pertinence. The verse after the first chorus goes like this: “Look back on those days when my life was a haze / The gelatin lay on a truncated sleigh / Copernicus drank from a vessel that stank / The free masons crank to the overflow tank.” As Trey gets through the first line, a triumphant cheer resounds around the venue and the guitar player’s face stretches into a quick smile.

Already, this year in Phish history, these initial tours of Phish 3.0, are proving to be the polar opposite of post-hiatus Phish 2.0. That time period, 2002-2004, referred to by some as the Oxy Years, was a time of long, often directionless jamming, of poorly played compositions, of flubbed lyrics and of a wild, drug-fueled backstage scene. That was then. This is the Phish of compact jamming, of perfectly executed composed sections and of a family-oriented and drug-free behind-the-scenes philosophy. So when Trey gets to that line about looking back on a time of haziness, the crowd congratulates him because many people here are in his shoes and many more just love to see Big Red happy and healthy. As for the free masons crank and the overflow tank, the mystery continues.

“NICU” comes to an end after just five minutes and, without missing a beat, the band drops into “My Soul,” a bluesy tune originally written by Clifton Chenier that hasn’t been played since 2000, in the days of Phish 1.0. It’s a simple song with repetitive lyrics, but after having been gone for so long, “My Soul” gets the crowd moving. During the crescendo, the lighting starts to sync up with the energy of the music, and I’m reminded of the man behind that bit of white magic, Chris Kuroda. Some rightly consider him a fifth member of the band. His light show is unlike anything. It mirrors the music being played on stage, sometimes to the point that it’s unclear who is leading the improvisation, the musicians or the lighting guy. “My Soul” doesn’t reach any improvisational territory, but, as the song comes to a head, Kuroda’s lights peak right there with band anyway.

A minute passes and then another elusive tune of latter-day Phish peaks out from the catalogue. The softly introduced “Roggae” hasn’t been played yet in this modern era, and I am happy to hear it, had actually listed it off to Ben as one of the seemingly unlikely songs that I wanted to hear busted out during the run.

“The circus is the place for me with bears and clowns and noise / I love the shiny music that descends from overhead / Gordon knew the moment when the stars all turned around / but from that vantage point I frowned.”

The song is lyrically self-reflective—each band member sings one of the lines underneath Kuroda’s spotlights—and even refers directly (maybe) to the moment in Mike Gordon’s college career when he decided he had to play music for the rest of his life. Mike recounted that experience in The Phish Book, an out-of-print history of Phish and collection of band interviews conducted, compiled and written by music journalist Richard Gehr:

“I had my peak musical experience of all time during a gig at Goddard College in November 1985. At the time I was an engineering student pondering a transfer to film. I’d just completed a series of tests, and the pressure was temporarily off me. The entire week was a peak experience of sorts. I’d played jazz bass solos for the first time in my life during an open-mike gig with [Jazz Mandolin Project leader] Jamie Masefield, the night before our Goddard cafeteria dance. The snow had just fallen for the first time that fall the night we played, but it was still fairly warm outside. Located out in the middle of the woods, Goddard was something of an anti-institution at the time. Only about fifty people were on campus the night we played, and of the ten people who came to the dance, eight left after the first set. This was an official college event, so not coming definitely made some sort of statement.”

Mike goes on to say that the five band members—original member and lead guitar man, Jeff Holdsworth, was still in the band at the time—set up in a circle in the school cafeteria. This was a time of childlike learning and growing for the band. Mike recounts how he felt the group could then only play two kinds of gigs, but could never combine the styles. There were loose gigs when the jamming was ON and there were tight gigs when the boys nailed complicated arrangements. The light show consisted of three floodlights-red, green and yellow. Mike says that before he picked up his bass, while he was helping set up, he knew that this gig “would be infinitely tight and loose at the same time.” Mike continues:

“The sun was setting, and it looked perfectly white and tranquil outside.

We went out into the hallway and passed a joint around with some strange people after the first set. I got really, really high, and as the rest of the band returned to the cafeteria, I realized I couldn’t stand up. When I finally did, I just sort of glided like a hovercraft back downstairs. Jeff was playing volume swells on his guitar, which I thought was the most incredible sound I’d ever heard. We turned off all the lights, and I started jumping up and down with the beat, not caring how I looked for perhaps the first time in my entire life. As we jammed, I felt more spiritually in tune than ever before. I felt at one with the buildings, wall outlets, chandeliers, and these people I loved. As we kept jamming, my ecstatic state didn’t diminish no matter how I played or what style we played in. at one point I had a vision of Trey standing beside me in white tails with a pocket watch, as thought we were performing during the 1920s.”

It was like viewing a well-lit room after a lifetime of blindness, Mike said.

“I was more like myself that show than ever before, but I was also part of Phish, five people in a circle who seemed to hover above the forest and move slowly through the trees. I wandered into the woods after the second set and decided never to return. Yes, filmmaking was better than engineering. But film had nothing on the musical experience I’d just had, and I was afraid I’d never be able to recapture it. So why bother? When I did return, the rest of the band decided to play another set. I was terrified another set would soil my peak experience, but it turned out to be just as great! We played for hours to the two or three people listening to us in the darkness. I decided my goals in life were to live in the woods, travel around from city to city, and try to replicate the experience I’d just had as often as possible. The whole gig’s on tape, but I’ll probably never listen to it.”

While reflective lyrics have become commonplace in contemporary Phish, “Roggae’s” introspection is still the exception not the rule. In this first set of a nine-set run, the song brings the first bit of improvisation. The band doesn’t break any new ground during 10-minutes of playing, but Mike’s bass lines are tight. And the whole group, echoing the song’s lyrical dreamland, moves as through a collective lullaby. “So now I wander over grounds of light and heat and sound and mist / provoking dreams that don’t exist / a circus of light where dreams can take flight / in the peacefulness dreaming dreams brings.”

The Story of a Ghost track comes to an end and pretty soon Trey strums a chord signaling the title track from 2004’s Undermind, an album that was released one month after Phish announced they were breaking up. The song itself was never performed by Phish 2.0, and this is only the sixth time it has ever been played live. “Undermind” is a fun, dance-y tune, but like the rest of the set so far this version doesn’t break into any new territory.

When I first started listening to Phish, I stayed up late one night to watch a concert of theirs on PBS and wondered why they wouldn’t play any of their good tunes like “Bouncing Around the Room.” I wouldn’t stay up late just to hear this song anymore, but that doesn’t mean the song isn’t classic Phish. Still, “Bouncing” unfolds predictably and leaves me wanting to hear a song with some teeth. “Poor Heart” comes next, and, though it barely breaks the two-minute mark, it’s stomping good time. Mike belts this tale of love and theft like he does on every bluegrass tune that Phish plays, and by the end of it the rest of the arena is ready to romp.

As the opening notes of “Stash” ring out, I know we’re about to experience the first song of the run that shows the snarling teeth of improvisational Phish. “Stash’s” lyrics are about as weird and nonsensical as they come—“Smegma, dogmatagram, fishmarket stew / Police in a corner, gunnin’ for you / Appletoast, bedheated, furblanket rat / Laugh when they shoot you, say / ‘Please don’t do that.’”—but their strangeness perfectly mirrors the musical mayhem of the song’s jam. That segment, which starts softly and slowly, is Miami’s first glimpse of the four-head monster that this group can at any moment become. “Maybe so, maybe not.” It’s probably the first time that I have that feeling that is the reason why so many people invest so much money and time in this band. The band plays and plays and I dance and dance, and then I look down at myself and see that we’ve lifted off the earth. “Maybe so, maybe not.” The lights climb and contort with the music, I dance and rage with the music, the band plays and pulses with music, and then Blam!, the band and the lights crash all at once, bringing me back to my body again, back to my screaming self.

As I catch my breath, I see Page and Fish stand up. This can only mean a few things, and as the low vocal bass of “I Didn’t Know” begins, it’s clear we’re about to be treated to some a cappella action. Trey, Mike and Page work through the piece while Fish dismounts his drum kit. Could it be? Are we already getting a vacuum solo? Soon enough, Fish comes to the front of the stage and Trey answers my question:

“Ladies and gentlemen, be prepared for the fine…this is the last vacuum solo you will ever hear in the Aughts. Are you ready for that? The final vacuum solo of this decade. Incredible. Incredible. Here it comes. Brace yourself. Stand up. Everyone stand up. Stand up. Brace yourself. The final vacuum solo of this entire decade. Are you ready? Are you ready, Henrietta? Give it to us.”

And with that, Jon “Henrietta” Fishman, the man in the doughnut dress, puts his face to the hose that blows and treats us to the last vacuum solo of the decade. Trey jumps on the drums at some point to help Page and Mike back the vac. Fish trudges on. Trey gets off the kit and goes back to his mike while Fish quietly ends the solo. “Pardon me, Doug (pardon me, Doug) / Is this a picture of Otis Redding? / Yes! Yes! Taken right before he died / Well you can give me his hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide,” Page, Mike and Trey sing, finishing “I Didn’t Know” with a flourish.

“Beauty of a Broken Heart,” a Page tune from Phish’s Joy album, comes next with some nice guitar work from Trey, but it’s clear that the peak of the set has passed. When the band quickly drops into “Possum,” I have the impression that the song will close out the set. Almost reaching the nine-minute mark, the Mike-sung “Possum” is concise but doesn’t disappoint. With it comes the end of an energetic but tame first set. “Eight more to go,” I think as I leave my seat for set break. “And they can only get better.”