The Jew in the Phish

But if you aren’t here, you will say that the answer is incorrect.

You will say there is no “here.” You will say there is no “answer.” You will say there is no knowable king. You will say that to say otherwise is to blaspheme. You will say that joy is self-indulgence. You will say that community is orgy. You will say that worship is sin. You will say that dark is light and without is within.

You will say a lot of things, and you will make a lot of noise and your anger at such a self-indulgent orgy of devil-worshiping sin will be full of holy fiery righteous indignation.

You will interview the disenchanted dissidents, the broken angels and the recovering addicts. You will write a book based on these interviews. The book will claim to defend all that is good and decent and moral. The book will say that all that is good and decent and moral has been lost and forgotten. The book will be an impassioned plea. It will speak to all who are happy and free and make them realize that their happiness and their freedom are faint wisps: feelings, delusions, illusions, moments—nothing more and nothing less than sin. Heresy. Idol worship. Eternal damnation. The End.

Or maybe you won’t write this book because such a book already exists. In Losing Moses on the Freeway: The 10 Commandment in America, journalist-cum-theologian Chris Hedges sets up a neat little argument for why Americans have descended into the pits of hell: Ten chapters, 10 commandments, 10 true stories of sin.

For the sin of idol worship, Hedges pokes his golden finger square in the chest of Phish—the band, the fans and the culture. He quotes a couple former Phunky Bitches, women who gave up everything for a “road toward spiritual obliteration, a road that led them away from life, a road that led them toward nothingness, the final essence of death.”

Says one of them, “For us it is like going to synagogue or church.”

Says another, “The band takes over a crowd. They throw everyone into a fury. You cannot move or shake quickly enough.”

And yet another, “There are parts of their music that can be a spiritual experience, but at the same time it can be very easy to make that experience idolatrous. It can remove you from the real world. It can become a cult.”

In this conception, the cult is phandom and the manipulative cult leaders are none other than Page, Jon, Mike and Trey. To Hedges, Mike Gordon does not euphemistically “drop bass bombs” and Fishman is not the quintessential comedic troll. To Hedges, Phish are literally the Four Horseman. OK. Maybe he wouldn’t go that far. The Four Horseman work for the white-bearded man upstairs, while Phish, in this conception, work for no one but themselves. They are, Hedges writes, “False prophets, who say they can harness the power of God for us, lead us away from the worship of God into the corrosive idolatry of self-worship.”

Idols? False prophets? God harnessers? Really?

I’m not up on Christian theology, by any means, at all. But those 10 Commandments are my commandants, Phish plays music that speaks to my heart and, in this conception, I am, like other Jews who have also fallen into the perceived trap, a part of the Phish cult, too.

Aish.com writer Jenny Hazan interviewed American-Phishhead-turned-Israeli-soldier David Sussman about his time skipping through the lily fields with the band. Sussman stares fondly back on that part of his life, but sees only a period of youthful abandon:

“Sometimes when I look back at my Phish days, I feel like I wasted time. There was a lot of great energy there that never really went anywhere, never accomplished anything. There would be this explosion of energy at concerts, but they always ended flat. With Judaism, I feel like I’ve tapped into something real, long-lasting, even infinite. Living in Israel as a religious Jew provides a framework with boundaries to contain that energy, and now I feel I am investing my energy much more wisely, toward a real greater good, toward ‘tikkun olam’, trying to truly repair the world.”

That explosion of energy is something that Chris Hedges pointed out in his declamation. About Phish’s fans, he said, “They sought, over and over, what the band, what all idols cannot give: permanent rather than transitory meaning. A life dedicated to transitory happiness is poisonous and impossible to maintain.”

Wait. What? Fans who repeatedly sought peak experiences, tried to glean wisdom from such highs and even wished for those experiences to become long-lasting reality, those fans were merely “dedicated to transitory happiness”? That sounds like a contradiction in terms, or, at worst, a cop out. Explosion of energy, mind expansion, dveikut, psychedelia, loss of ego, peak experience: These are all the same thing: goals of the spiritual endeavor.

Jay Michaelson, founding editor of Zeek: A Jewish Journal of Thought and Culture and a scholar at Hebrew University, doesn’t mind a little transitory happiness. In an article for Zeek about Jewish meditation he writes, “These peak experiences are really nourishing. They show us that there is far, far more to this miracle of life than what we ordinarily experience. They give us a glimpse of possibility, of Light.”

Such experiences show the seeker that his search is not in vain, pushing him or her or them further along the path, in obvious and subtle ways. But there is always a but.

“Unfortunately, peak experiences tend not to last,” Michaelson went on. “You can’t chase kicks forever.”

Which is why such a high, or “showing up,” as he puts it, is a “beginning, not an ending.” Reach the same high repeatedly and the seeker is pushed, sooner or later, to the constant realization of divine immanence. Which is where meditation, contemplation and raw effort come in. Such focus aims to normalize the peak experience. Like launching a rocket into the sky, but instead of briefly leaving the atmosphere and falling just as fast back to earth, the rocket pushes through the atmosphere, reaches zero gravity and then everything seemingly stops and just is. There is time then to watch the wonder, to watch with wonder.

Let’s be clear: Phish is a band of musicians who play improvisational psychedelic rock music. The members met in college, where they studied music and film and philosophy and other things. They did drugs. A couple of them are Jews. The other two are, I don’t know, staam dudes. Phish played their music in small bars. They practiced a lot. They worked real hard. They played in small theaters. They practiced a lot. They worked real hard. They sold out this country’s most prominent arenas. They toured Europe and Japan. They did drugs. They partied. They played music. They faced demons. They started families. They broke up. They got back together.

They play music and they play it well. This is why they have fans. Those fans sometimes take drugs. Sometimes those fans are irresponsible. Some of them don’t lead healthy lives. Some of them are bad people. But people are people. People are responsible for themselves.

Can’t get a glimpse of ecstasy brought to you by four guys who are really good at what they do—which is play music—without losing your shit, leaving your family, getting addicted to drugs and aimlessness and your self? Well, I would say you have some growing up to do.

Don’t blame Phish. Don’t blame the music. Don’t blame the culture. You are a part of that culture. Take responsibility for it. Take responsibility for yourself. Phish is a band that plays psychedelic rock music. They tour the United States of America, a country of freedom and opportunity that is often addicted to excess. The members of Phish are not prophets any more than Chris Hedges is a prophet or Jesus Christ was a prophet or you are a prophet or I am a prophet. That is to say, they are people with the same infinite potential of all other people.  Though Phish, maybe, has realized more of that potential. They work real hard. They practice a lot. They play music.

As Trey said:

“Music can’t lie — it really is the universal language. People can hear your intent. If you intent is to sell records and make money, people will hear that, and it blackens the music. That’s why the live thing has been so exciting, and so spiritual for us. Once the fans are in the room, there’s nothing we can do on-stage that will bring us any more monetary gain. So we’re then free to explore and celebrate the spiritual aspect of the music.”

OK. Fine. Only a cult member would defend the cult with the cult leader’s words. Only an idol worshiper would let the idol speak for itself. I hear that. But these people who say that once they ran from life and now they live life, these people imagine that life can be segmented into the times of mistake making and the times of answer knowing and that the former segments of life were not life in the way that the latter segments are life. They imagine that their definitions of happiness and spirituality and community and God and evil and good are now definitions of truth while their old definitions of such things were misguided, dishonest, blasphemous heresies—a result of stupid, reckless, Godless youth. Oh! but they were so much younger then; they’re older than that now.

An oft-mentioned story from the Talmud (Hagiga 14b), with additional details from the Zohar (I, 26b): Four people entered paradise, an orchard. They were Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, Ben Avuyah and Rabbi Akiva. Before entering, Rabbi Akiva spoke to them, saying, “When you come to the place of the shining marble plates, do not say: ‘Water, water!’ For it is written: ‘He who tells lies shall not tarry in my sight.’”

Well, so, the rabbis entered the orchard, and they came to the place of the shining marble plates that probably looked a lot like water and Ben Azzai gazed and died, Ben Zoma gazed and was burned and Ben Abuyah became Aher, The Other One, a heretic. Only Rabbi Akiva entered and left in peace.

Shining marble plates are shining marble plates. Water is water. Words are words. Feelings are feelings. Divisions are divisions. Definitions are definitions. God is God. But “God” is by no means God.

As Professor Matt writes in The Essential Kabbalah, “Every definition of God leads to heresy; definition is spiritual idolatry. Even attributing mind and will to God, even attributing divinity itself, and the name ‘God’—these, too, are definitions.”

Rabbi Akiva knew that the shining marble plates were unique shining marble plates and he knew that they were not unique shining marble plates. He did not seek to define. He came and went in peace.

But Akiva was a disciplined mystic, a seasoned practitioner of meditation. The story about entering the orchard is, in part, a metaphor for mystical study and for serious meditation. He came and went in peace because he was worthy to do so. But the others were unworthy?

Gershom Scholem translated an account of Ma’aseh Merkavah, or descending the Divine Chariot — also variously known as the Hekhalot texts or descriptions of the palace of the eternal king or entrance into the orchard — in his book Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism:

“But if one was unworthy to see the King in his beauty, the angels at the gates disturbed his sense and confused him. And when they said to him: ‘Come in,’ he entered, and instantly they pressed him and threw him into the fiery lava stream. And as the gate of the sixth palace it seemed as thought hundreds of thousands and millions of waves of water stormed against him, and yet there was not a drop of water, only the ethereal glitter of the marble plates with which the palace was tessellated. But he was standing in front of the angels and when he asked: ‘What is the meaning of these waters,’ they began to stone him and said: ‘Wretch, do you not see it with your own eyes? Are you perhaps a descendant of those who kissed the Golden Calf, and are you unworthy to see the King in his beauty?’…And he does not go until they strike his head with iron bars and wound him. And this shall be a sign for all times that no one shall err at the gate of the sixth palace and see the ethereal glitter of the plates and ask about them and take them for water, that he may not endanger himself.”

Many people get lost at the top of the mountain. The path up is obvious. Descent is another thing. Ascending and descending and ascending and descending—acting like an angel can be disorienting. But even Moses eventually had to come down. For the seeker can easily become addicted to the seeking and forget to find anything at all. The definer can easily forget that each definition is an interpretation of the thing and not the thing itself.

Or, as the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Hasidism, once told his disciples, as recounted in Elie Weisel’s Souls on Fire, “Imagine a palace with an infinite number of doors. In front of every door the visitor finds a treasure. Satisfied, he feels no urge to continue. Yet, at the end of the hallways, the king is waiting to receive those among his subjects who think of him rather than of the treasure.”

Thus, The Golden Phish are idols only insomuch as we call them idols. And if we call them so, then every unsavory act – every modicum of morality lost in the context of a Phish concert or a Phish tour or a blinded-by-Phish world – can be attributed to the seeming source of that world (i.e. Phish) rather than to the fact that life is full of both mistake making and question asking, climbing and falling and climbing again, and that that is OK. Meanwhile, the source of the source of that world, of all worlds, sits silently by, indefinable, infinite and unfathomable, waiting.

And, like, I get it. Saying the “source of sources” instead of saying “God” does not a mystic truth-bearer make. And it does not get me out of defining. “Source of sources” is a definition. But, Professor Matt goes on, “Were it not for the subtle awareness that all these are just sparkling flashes of that which transcends definition—these, too, would engender heresy.”

Definition is the plight of language, and heresy is the plight of question asking. So why define Phish as that which is worshiped—an idol? From fear of being heretical? Rav Kook teaches, according to Matt, that “Even heresy plays a spiritual role, challenging us to continually expand our concept of God.” So, instead of limiting faith with fear — or worse, confusing faith with fear — and eternally pointing an accusatory finger, why not define Phish as that which serves, ultimately, only to facilitate worship—a vessel?

Why not? If all that this band engenders—which undeniably includes joy and grandeur and goodness as much as it includes self-absorption and addiction and darkness—can be defined as profane, wouldn’t it instead be better to look at Phish in terms of that which is sacred? Phish is world unto itself, and to look at such a world in terms of blinding light rather than empty darkness, that’s a tikkun if I’ve ever seen one.

Uplift your eyes, your language and your definitions. Uplift for the sake of uplifting. There are idols, sure. But do not say “idol, idol.” The stream flows—through idols and through everything else that exists. Denying that it flows or acknowledging that it flows does not change the fact that it flows. Let it flow or do not let it flow. Either way, it flows. And that is good.

“So, Ezekiel was standing on the River Kevar. As he was gazing at the water, the seven heavens were opened for him and he saw the Glory of Holiness, along with celestial creatures, ministering angels, bands of angels, seraphs, and angels with sparkling wings, all joined to the heavenly chariot. As they were passing through heaven, Ezekiel saw them reflected in the water. As it is written, ‘on the River Kevar,’ the River of Already.”

So, I stood at the edge of the Stream of Already. As I gazed at the water, Ben Whitman began walking—down from the waterfall, down upon the rocks, cautiously, wrapped in woven thread.

As I gazed at the water, Ben Whitman began falling—down from the waterfall, down from upon the rocks, crashing, scraping, sliding, breaking, wrapped in woven thread.

Gaze broken, laughing, I turn toward thud’s source, gaze broken, laughing—and down from the waterfall, down from upon the rocks I fall, helpless, flailing, without sparkling wings, crashing, wrapped in woven thread.

So much for a peaceful meditation session by the waterfall. What does a 13-year-old know from meditation anyway? Ben stood up. I stood up. We laughed, brushed ourselves off, checked for damage to our tallitot and helped each other walk safely back to path, down from the waterfall, down from the rocks, down from top the mountain where we’d come to pray, down into the valley of summer camp, down into the hidden, frozen caves of memory.

When Phish opens the second set of the second night in Miami with a song about a waterfall, my mind turns to Ben and to that still-life, still-vivid moment of laughing and slippery rocks and lift off and fear. Also, Ben’s told me he really likes this song.

“Kill Devil Falls” has been called many things, among them, “a pointed metaphor for the seductive oblivion of addiction” and a tune “bound by simplicity.” Whether those descriptions are true, the song’s musical family tree reads something like this: Chalkdust Torture (1991) + 46 Days (2003) = Kill Devil Falls (2009). “KDF” is 3.0’s road-to-relapse blues-rock anthem.

“Just got back from Kill Devil Falls/ draped my water-logged clothes in the hall / Reach for a beer, glad that I’m here / when I realize that you’re not around.”

Trey singes through the song’s main lick and sings his story with the lucid fury of a retired partier. He went out. He saw the light. He came back. A different light was gone.

“How can leave me, you heard what I said / I’d be at the waterfall clearin’ my head / soakin’ up nature and thinkin’ of you / but leaving’s the last thing I thought you would do.”

Or maybe he never actually retired from the scene. Or maybe he was never a part of a scene at all. Or maybe he was never apart. Maybe.

“I didn’t plan to stop at the bar / but Kill Devil Falls is really so far / who knew a day would turn into a week / but I learned my lesson / and I can still remember the last one / but this time will be different / until I do it again.”

Patterns. Ripples. “You think you have grasped the light, when suddenly it escapes, radiating elsewhere,” writes Danciel C. Matt, a scholar of Kabbalah. “You pursue it, hoping to catch it—but you cannot. Yet you cannot bring yourself to leave. You keep pursuing it.” Ripples. Meditations.

“Standing at the face of a mountain (Don’t follow me) / Step back up to the cliff side (Better learn how to lead) / Stare straight into the future (Tell me, what do you see?) / This time’s gonna be different.”

Maybe. The boys launch into the jam with gusto. Searing leads from everyone. Nothing quite so crazy or new emerges, but they are tuned in, certainly. It’s like they have the password to the mainframe, the key to the lock of locks.

Climb the ladder. Climb the mountain.  Climb the spheres.

This “Kill Devil Falls” is short but determined. And then Huh!, with one simple riff—a different key, password, secret name—Trey drops “Tweezer” and launches the energy of the arena to far-off realms.

This journey into the freezer has got to be big. In many respects, the ascension of this four-night run into the annals of Phishtory or the relegation of it to dusty external hard drives everywhere hinges on this “Tweezer.” If they go big here, the rest is history. But if they fail to turn the heat up in this collective cooler, well, we might just freeze to death.

Three minutes in, before the lyrics have even been finished, it’s clear that this is going to be big. Five minutes in, as the last of Uncle Ebenezer’s exploits are recounted, the band begins kneading the molasses. Mike starts up a rhythmic line, and, in a barely perceptible iota of a second, Trey locks onto the simple riff—the secret name, the key to the door. Page and Fish are right behind. Soon the repetitive “dunh dunh” evolves into subtle vocal play care of Trey. Mike is the first to break free from the simplicity, laying down the sort of lines that make for aural ice cream topped with fiery fudge. But his riffs grow from—not against—the roots already laid. And soon, as Trey colors the jam with his own simple psychedelic sprinkles, it’s as though Mike is as much in charge of the direction of this music as Ol’ Leadership Qualities Anastasio. Fishman and Page lay some rumbling groundwork, as Mike and Trey spiral around each other, and, ladies and gentleman, once again, we have lift off.

Climb the ladder. Climb the mountain. Climb the spheres.

Mike, at the controls, slows the ship substantially and before anyone can argue—and why would they?—we’re out in space, floating above the Earth to the tune of a contemplative cosmos. Patient and emotive, the soundscape descends and ascends softly, simultaneously.

But to where?

With Trey leading the way—he knows the secret name, he has the key—the floating Phish soon crashes right into “Prince Caspian.”

“Ohhhhh! to be Prince Caspaian / and float upon the waves / with nothing to return to / but the demons in their caves.”

The days when it was impolite to sing along at a Phish concert are long over. The American Airlines Arena is one big sing-a-long reunion. We’re all out to sea, out to space, whatever, and Oh! to float here without a care, the world below us, its problems and its promises have no consequence. Trey wastes no time sending us soaring even higher. Whatever doubt may have existed last night or earlier or ever that 2009 would end with a bang is banished to those caves as the four highly-trained cosmonauts craft a succinct segment of charging electric ecstasy.

Prince Caspian floats upon the Sea of Already with stumps instead of feet. If he could look down on the waters and see a reflection, even he would see reflected the heavens opened, himself with wings instead of feet.

As “Caspian” comes to a close, without stopping to admire the sights on high, Phish glides gently into the warm glow of “Gotta Jibbo.” This Farmhouse-era tune is one highly danceable, delightful groove. About three minutes in, as if weren’t steeped in the improv already, Trey’s spacey loop signals the real beginning of the jam. Mike and Fish hold down the bottom end while Page and Trey begin to slowly climb a mountain once again—the jam proceeding in traditional “Jibboo” fashion. The Chairmen of Board and Fret, respectively, offer clean leads that chug and jog and begin to pick up speed. Nine minutes in, things start to veer off a bit. It’s like out over there, Trey spots a pocket of unexplored rhythmic space. He hits a “dunh, dunh” that mirrors the simple theme from tonight’s “Tweezer” jam and hovers over it for a little while before launching back into a solo. But he can’t fly out alone for long, as Page picks up the “dunh, dunh” and begins playing it himself—the secret name, the glinting key. And like that, in unison, Phish has left “Jibboo” for the revolutionary pastures of Gamehendge. “Dunh nuh. Dunh nuh,” Trey eggs us on. “Wiiilllssoooon!” we respond. “Dunh, Nuh. Dunh, Nuh.” “Wiiilllssoooon!”

I’ve definitely lost my voice at this point. But there’s an old teaching that you receive a second voice at every Phish concert, this one straight from heaven. (And by “old teaching,” I mean “extremely new teaching.”) So when the final pairs of Es ring out, I let my voice soar in as rough a roar as I can produce: “Wiiilllssoooon!”

But why? How does everyone in this place know to scream that awful name in unison when Trey strikes those dark and devilish Es? And why do I say that name is “awful”? And why do I say those Es are “dark”?

In answer, the story to this soundtrack, which is this: There once was a land of peaceful forest, frothing river, golden pasture and mystical mountain. A certain happy bunch of people lived there. Lizards, they were called. Lizards, they called themselves. And these people lived in the peaceful forest near the golden pasture by the frothing river that flowed cold and free from the magic mountain. The river kept on flowing and bubbling like that back and forward through time forever. And these people knew peace, they knew it well, they knew it for as long as they knew to know.

You see, the trick was to…

Well, so, peaceful forest and mother mountain were no more, it seemed. The Lizards had forgotten how to know. In all their eternal solitude, they forgot that there was nothing to remember and remembered only to forget.

The trick was to…

Well, so, that’s when they awoke. Every time.

The trick was to…

Shock. Harsh light. Eyes open. The world again—still without peace, still without magic. Still. They awoke with an image blurred. They became convinced that the memory of perfection was just the dream of perfection. They became convinced that when they slept, they slept. They became convinced that when they woke, they woke. And that was it.

The trick was to…

Well, back in that dream, in that blurry vision, there had been a man. He had appeared as a harmless dot in the distance, walked along the frothing river, hiked though the thigh-high golden grass and finally entered the tranquil forest. He had smiled. He had waved. He had been greeted with peace. He had come in peace.

The trick was to…

And that was it. The memory turned right then to hazy dream. What happened after? Where went the peace? Where went he? And who, more importantly, are we?

Well, certain Lizards among men began asking these questions. And since their self reflection echoed neither infinite nor peaceful heaves but instead blurred tradition and self rejection, certain Lizards among men began to ask, softly, then loudly, then hoarsely, and then finally violently, “Who the hell is He?!?”—“He” being that once-harmless dot. “He” being end of memory and beginning of dream. “He” being past, present, future and everything in between. “He,” of course, being Wilson: the wicked, evil, dirty, rotten, awful, murderous king.

Well, these Lizards among men began asking such questions and then, met with silence, they began answering the questions themselves. Their voices grew louder still. They took up weapons, invented madness and kept feeding the dream. But even the Lizards among men had forgotten that they were Lizards. They asked questions but forgot how to listen for the answers.

The trick was to…

Well, that’s for another time. Back, now, to that awful name, to those devilish chords. Errand Wolfe, one of those Lizards among men—in fact, the Lizard among angry Lizards—stands above the Sea of Already. Only, he sees an ocean of raging fists and upturned heads. His revolutionary tirade is reaching its peak. The upturned heads are all screaming the same awful name in the same murderous tone: “Wiiilllssoooon!” Only their voices are disjointed—unity, after all, being only a memory and memory being just a dream.

“And dreams don’t kill dictators!” the revolutionary Lizard seems to scream above the din. We can tell Mr. Wolfe has nearly finished his diatribe because back in the American Airlines Arena in Miami, Fla., at the end of 2009 Trey has begun the “Blat Boom” section of “Wilson,” which is really just a final reprise of a searing solo. And this time around, Trey uses this section as an opportunity to revisit the groove session we never quite left. A door unlocked to yet another infinite hall in yet another palace. With two simple swipes, he signals that time is of the essence, that, if we’re gonna reach the peak of peaks, then “Jibboo” ain’t over yet. All four musical magicians dive back into the dance session instantaneously. And You Keep On Dancin’ Two. I know nothing else.

Until two infinite minutes later, another instantaneous transition: “Heavy Things” emerges from this “Jibboo Sambo,” as Ben would call it, and the Farmhouse siblings couldn’t be a more perfect pairing of feel-good-ness. There’s no hesitation from Trey in his decision to end this song or begin another, and his bandmates are so tuned-in that it seems as though these transitions were preplanned, which, of course, they aren’t and which, of course, they are.

Like Mike said, on a song-by-song basis, complex composed sections act—much like prayers—as potent vehicles to get to from Point A to Point ?. That is, an unknown point beyond.

Mike Gordon may not know it, but his co-founding of The Phish is merely a latest chapter in the continually anthologized history of Jewish mysticism, Kabbalah. The most influential modern academic scholar of such mysticism, Gershom Scholem, definitely didn’t know it, but he was talking also about this current second set of holiday Phish when he wrote: “The Kabbalah regarded prayer as the ascent of man to the upper worlds, a spiritual peregrination among the supernal realms that sought to integrate itself into their hierarchical structure and to contribute its share toward restoring what had been flawed there.”

Or more specifically:

“Merkavah mysticism, or ma’aseh merkavah, was the name given in Mishna Hagigah, 2:1, to the first chapter of Ezekiel. The term was used by the rabbis to designate the complex of speculations, homilies, and visions connected with the Throne of Glory and the chariot (merkavah) which bears it and all that is embodied in the divine world.”

Ezekiel, Mike, Fish, Page, Trey and 20,000 some-odd people stand on the River of Already. And as we gaze upon the water there is reflected only the Joy of Already. It doesn’t matter what song turns into which kind of jam or which jam morphs into what song, only that the music continues and that we all climb together higher, together. Climbing, we remember that the dream is a memory is a reality is now.

Thus, a late second-set “Heavy Things” is not a travesty. It is just one more iteration toward the sublime divine. Late second set doesn’t always have to be other-worldly. And anyway, this-worldly is other-worldly.

As if to prove this, “Heavy Things” peaks and then plateaus into the veritable theme song of other-worldliness, the iteration of iterations, “2001.” Thus Spake Zarathustra, we have reached the seventh sphere, figuratively, literally, heretically, ecstatically. This is the seventh different song of the set, the final hallway, the last palace before the Throne of the Glory of Holiness.

And why is the Throne found beyond the seventh heaven? Because eight is the unknown point beyond. That is, everything in this world of ours, everything that can be felt and seen can be likened to any simple three-dimensional object, like, for instance, the rhombus. A rhombus has six sides. Those six sides amount to the visible world. The seventh point, the seventh heaven, is the point within the rhombus, or within the person, or the soul. It is Keter, crown—the spark of the monarch, which is the spark of the divine. It is the root.

That’s within you. Without you, beyond the rhombus, beyond the soul, beyond good and evil and beyond the root is the root of roots, is the ineffable is-ness. Beyond seven is eight. That is, 8. That is, infinity.

In “2001” we come to terms with our unlimited funky selves. In what “2001” turns into—on this night, “Slave to the Traffic Light”—we let our funky soul-selves free. Evil King Wilson is just a traffic light. Man is enslaved by him, yet man invented him. So, stepping beyond that “king,” that shackling traffic signal, we see that man has enslaved himself. Step beyond that beyond, into beyond’s beyond. Then where are we?

Don’t ask me. Don’t ask Mike or Fish or Page or Trey. Don’t ask Ezekiel. Don’t ask the angels. Don’t ask the King sitting there. Don’t ask the Queen, either. It is too late for questions.

If you are here, you already know the answer.