The Jew in the Phish

“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.

Seats. Lights. Roar. This is what we wait for. Seats. Lights. Roar. This is what some of us live for. Seats. Lights. Roar.

We walk up the steps, empty pockets, raise arms to the heavens and are oh so happy to let strangers feel us up. Inside, people pour from every door, up every staircase and into every hall and byway of the venue. We’ve left Miami. We’ve left time and space. This is not hyperbole. This is not fluffed-up fandom. This is simple. To get to our seats, to watch the lights drop from bright to black, to add our chords to the roar, this is what we wait for.

Nat goes one way. Kabatznik another. Ben’s gone to his seats, the Harpers to theirs. All our various friends have fanned out across the aisles and floor. Now, I am alone and I am home. Tonight is Night 2 is December 29. My seat is in the 100s, Page-side. I find it and survey the surroundings. The lights are up. I’m ready. The lights go down, and with the darkness comes that holy eruption of collectively conscious sound.

In a matter of moments, the four friends of Phish are onstage and, after having consulted each other, Pow!, have opened the gates with one of, if not the oldest, still-played Phish song: “Golgi Apparatus.” If the title and lyrics of this song sound ripped (and then warped) from the pages of a middle-school biology textbook, well, that’s because they were. Trey and a posse of preteen cohorts wrote this tune when they were in eighth grade, and it debuted as a Phish song way back in ’86.

I’m reminded of Nat, who’s groovin’ somewhere out there in the crowd. I’m reminded of driving to Atlanta with my mom sometime in high school. She was headed there to hear a panel of neo-cons speak about war and Bush and the vast left-wing conspiracy. I went to hear what they had to say, and maybe to shake the place up a bit with some youthful descent during the Q&A. Also, Nat lived in Atlanta. Mom and I got to the hotel after dinner that night. A dozen missed calls later and “nat” was finally buzzing on my cell phone. I answer it. He’s driving home from a co-billed Allman Brothers Band/moe. show, he says. I tell him that I’m in Atlanta and that I want to chill. I ask what is plans are, ask can he pick me up? “Doo do do dun dun nuh nuh nuh nuh, dan neh nuh do nuh nuh nuh nuh,” he responds. “Nat, Nat. What’s goin’ on, man? I want to see you.” “Nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh, dan neh nuh do nuh nuh nuh nuh,” he repeats. I can hear music in the background. I can hear that his singing aligns with the guitar of that music. I can hear that “Golgi Apparatus” is playing. “Haha. Dude, what’s up? What’s your deal?” I ask. “Nah nuh nuhn nuh, nah nuh nuhn nuh nuh, da nah nuh nuh nuhn nuh nuh nuh nuh nun nun nun nun nuh nah nuh nah,” he continues. I don’t respond. I wait. This is, in effect, an answer to the question that so many Phish haters ask: But where are all the whine whine whine words? I can’t sing along. This music suuuuucks. Nat keeps singing along with the guitar. I am not hanging up. I can sing right along with him, but I don’t. He sings along with the song ‘til the end. It ends. He stops singing. “Hey man. Sorry. What’s going on?” he asks. “I’m in Atlanta. Let’s chill, man.” “Alright. Cool. Where are you?”

Thus began another sleepless Atlanta adventure, and thus begins another rocking Miami Phishventure. “Under the light / Middle of the night / Couldn’t get it wrong.” “Golgi” is a short tight, raucous way to start a night of Phish, and the boys execute it perfectly. Seconds later, the quick, repetitive tonk tisk tonk tisk of Fishman’s high hat and the sparse bumping metronome of Mike’s bass signal the beginning of an even rawkier outing.

“The overhead view is of me in a maze / And you see what I’m hunting a few steps away / And I take a wrong turn and I’m on the wrong path / And the people all watching enjoy a good laugh.”

It’s early in the show, but we’ve already entered the “Maze.” And I don’t mind getting lost, in the least. Anywhere else, be it a club or party or whatever, dancing means moving just that much less than I want to. From fear of all the people watching and laughing on my behalf, real or imagined, I don’t ever really fully let loose. But not here. I flail and jump and twirl and rage just as hard as I please and thank you. Nothing is an embarrassing failure to this freaky horde—less maybe a flubbed lyric or solo from Trey. But this final ’09 take on “Maze” features nothing of the sort. Trey’s guitar work sears through every vestige of insecurity and apprehension and, if it wasn’t before, the party is now truly on.

Next up is “Driver,” a much-needed-by-my-muscles breather. Successful Phish shows are as much based around high-energy rock songs and exploratory jamming as they are around sets that flow well. If “Maze” had catapulted into another searing jam, that would’ve been one thing. But it didn’t. The song ended. There was a short break. And then the audience’s sweating energy found its cooldown in “Driver,” a formerly acoustic number — about that dude who lives inside your brain and tells you what to do and where to go — that is played with relative infrequency but has been reworked in recent years to feature Trey on electric guitar. “Driver” is a short, insightful song that acts as a direct challenge to anybody who thinks Phish only plays long, directionless jams with no-to-meaningless lyrics.

Glad to catch my breath after “Maze,” I am slightly let down but mostly amused that, after a long lull, the band chooses to play what it plays next.

“The Connection” is, according to Phish biographer Parke Puterbaugh, the “undisputed pinnacle” of Undermind, Phish’s last album before calling it quits in 2004. Puterbaugh qualifies that distinction: “A burnished gem, it is a song so simple, tuneful, and eloquent that you could swear it’s always been there.”

Out there in the mass of people, I know that Nat is laughing hysterically at this song choice. To Puterbaugh’s claim that this connection has been waiting in the wings of sonic perfection all along, Nat would later say, “Yes. In the form of every pop song that sucks.” And that is a sentiment I can’t echo with more effect because, in fact, Undermind features many higher high-points than this song—the title track, “Scents and Subtle Sounds,” “A Song I Heard the Ocean Sing,” to name a few. So I stand there and just laugh hysterically, too. Hey!, at least it’ll be over soon, I rationalize.

And it is. Seconds later, Page strikes a minor chord and then strikes a chord one step up and the American Airlines Arena is greeted by that lovable funky furry friend, “Wolfman’s Brother.” Let the dancing recommence. Trey and Mike lock in soon enough and while this isn’t exactly liquid funk a la 1997, it’s easy enough to get down and groove with this friendly monster. For a little while. The jam doesn’t break the 10-minute mark before the Wolfman’s Distant Cousin, “Ocelot,” makes an appearance and I know there’s ample time and that the night is young and that the run isn’t even half done. “Ocelot” is a feel-good romp in the middle of a feel-good first set. This jam, which also doesn’t break the 10-minute mark, is firmly rooted in the structure of the song. Phish clearly isn’t in a hurry. “Settle in, friends,” they seem to be playing/saying. But what comes next — sweet, blissful “Reba” — seems more a note-to-self about settling in than a message to the audience.

The Phish.net is one of the earliest Internet resources by and for Phish fans. It has an extensive FAQ section that virtually answers any question you could ever have about the band. But because fans create the content on this site, there’s a healthy dose of creative exegesis involved. A prime example of wild speculation is the page that asks (and answers), “They, Uh… Sing In Hebrew??” Yes, in fact, they do. And Hebrew is probably the most widely used foreign tongue in Phish music given the presence of “Aveinu Malkeinu” and “Yerushalayim Shel Zahav” in set lists. But what’s this got to do with “Reba”? Well, there’s speculation that the name is Russian and there’s also speculation that it is Hebrew. The truth, most likely, is that “Reba” is just the name of the character in this song about concocting the finest amalgamation in the nation. It’s just a name, people! Stop attaching importance to every little letter. It’s just a name. They’re just letters. It’s just a song. Now, get down, motherfunkers.

But, of course, Phish fans can’t allow for anything to be so simple. So, in 1994, on the infamous RMP message board, someone made a loose (but tiiiiight) connection between “Reba” and Hebrew and the nature of Phish’s beloved musical exploration. In Hebrew, “Reba” (ריבה) means “jam.” As in, “I’d like some strawberry jam for this here toast.” “Jam,” in English, also means, “to freely improvise a passage of music as a group.” And that is just the sort of jamming that Phish does. But, of course, it doesn’t even stop there. “Reba” is a song about an epic concoction that is itself an epic concoction of zany lyrics, tight composition and loose improvisation that, as consistently as any other Phish tune, leads the band and its fans toward a connection to something beyond, something other, something higher. In other words, “Reba” is the perfect case study for our purposes. But don’t take my word for it. Let’s hear what SSDS-alum Mike, in a passage taken from Puterbaugh’s Phish: The Biography, has to say:

“To get so tight in a preplanned way makes the looseness juxtapose even more. I look at it that the written-out stuff is a sort of ritual, almost like a prayer session that gets my mind in gear for what’s to come. Sort of like a Hassidic Jew doing a bunch of prayers and moving until he starts to reach God. There’s like this leg work that has to be done, something where the prayers are already written.”

Phish’s composed-then-jammed songs — “Reba,” “You Enjoy Myself,” “Harry Hood” — are mere meditations that set the band and its fans on the path to temporary enlightenment. You can only climb the mountain if you follow the right signs and, once you’re up there, you only get to see God’s back, but even that back is composed of the purest loving light. This type of jamming is deveikut. It is cleaving to the divine. It is mind expansion. It is clinging to Jah Most High. It is psychedelic. It’s climbing toward Icculus. It is seeking a connection to whatever you want to call that ineffable source of all sources. It is IT. It is the first time I have seen Phish play this song, and I couldn’t be happier to be alive.

The “Reba” jam (Is that redundant?) starts softly enough, but Trey wastes no time and is soon pulling at my soul with his blissful lead. Then Red and Page lock onto each other, and the all systems are GO as Mike and Fish lay down the rumbling ground. Without a wasted note or cymbal splash on any band member’s part, the tightness and looseness juxtaposed perfectly, “Reba” culminates succinctly and with beautiful grace.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. A collective exhale of clap and cheer. But the set is not over yet. The band quickly drops into the rarely played, Mike-penned tune called “Access Me” off of Undermind. “And you don’t have to open up the secrets of your soul / But if that’s the place you want me I’d be glad to pay the toll.” Mike doesn’t talk very much, but he’s very profound. His song wraps up with a sentiment that is as much about personal relationships as it is about how I’d like to treat this community of friends and family and fans around me.

And then it all comes full circle. With the strumming of one beautiful chord, Mr. Trey Anastasio brings me back exactly six years, brings me back to the Rhombus, brings me back to an ancient, unknown time and place.

“Divided Sky” is the primordial chant of the Lizards of Gamehendge. It is, according to Trey’s telling, chanted ritually atop the Rhombus in the middle of a field: “Ahhhhhhhhhh! Divided Sky and the wind blows high! Divided sky and the wind blows high!” Off of Phish’s freshman effort Junta (its best, most inspired effort, in my opinion), “Divided Sky” is a composition of elation that moves from a silence to a whisper to a cheer to a soaring mountain of sound. There’s no jam here. This is pure composed bliss. Virtually wordless, it is a niggun.

Out in the crowd is Andrew Shaw, another beaming, passionate yid who, confronted with the task of extracting niggunim from Phish music, ended up creating an entire prayer service of epic Phishy proportions. He found endless inspiration. But it started with “Divided Sky.”  There’s a section of the Hallel service — a collection of six psalms that are recited on joyous occasions — that fits musically and intentionally with the various melodies of “Divided Sky.” Literally, it just fell into place. Take a listen:

Divided Psky

The challenge is to do a little searching and digging, but this pairing says, in part, this: “Min hametzar karati Yah, anani vamerchavyah,” which means, according to one translation, “From the narrow places I called out to God, who answers me with Divine expanded perspective, the expansiveness of the open field.”

But seriously? Seriously? This is a joke, a coincidence, a little bit of both and neither. Seriously.

Phish executes their beautiful composition with precision, and after a joyous set-closing “Cavern,” we’re one third of the way toward the culmination. One third of the way is close enough, so I’ll say it early and, God willing, often. Shannah tovah, chevre. Happy New Year, friends.

Outside of my section, the halls are already filled with heads. I find the stairs and head down to the lowest level. On my way to find Harper and his ilk, I pass Brad, one of Ben’s Phish-virgin friends. He’s buying a $7 beer. I ask him what he thought of the first set, but he doesn’t say much outside of “Great!” and “Awesome!” I know that he’s unsure of what just happened in there and the familiarity of an over-priced domestic draft is the only thing that can clear his mind and provide some context. I leave Brad in line and find the doors that lead to a sort of porch. The place is packed with cigarette smokers, exhausted revelers and others like me looking for friends.

I squeeze through the packs of people and come to the other end of the porch without finding anyone I know. After one more trip around the crowd, I run into Doogans who leads me to Sarah and Ryan and eventually Harper. Harper’s friend Adam—a guy I first met freshman year when he came to visit and ran into again while living in Israel—is there, and then, in the span of 30 minutes, two or three pockets of Jewish kids, all people he met in Israel but didn’t know were coming to these shows, run into our group on the porch.

These types of meetings should seem coincidental or unlikely, but I’ve actually come to expect them. Today, I’m the friend of a friend meeting friends of friends of friends. Tomorrow, I’ll be introducing my old friends to friends of other friends. I bought solo tickets to this run of shows in Miami without a moment of hesitation because I knew hordes of familiar Heebs would be at the show, no matter the amount of pre-planning. But what made this a reality of the Phish experience for American Jews?

In the summer of 2003, I was heartbroken that I couldn’t attend camp with my friends. Just about the only thing that lifted my spirits that summer was the knowledge that I’d be seeing the Phab Four live in concert in Atlanta, Ga. I went to that show with Ben and Ben’s older cousin (we were 15 at the time and Ben’s 19-year-old relative, himself a moe.ron, was our parent-approved chaperone). At the show, I remember running into people from Camp Ramah left and right. Barry from Alabama was there, smoking a cigarette and telling us a story about breaking in to someone’s house and almost getting arrested. After not seeing this guy for more than a year, his tendency to tell the tallest of tales had only increased. Lizzy, also from ‘Bama, was twirling around the grounds, too. And then there was the group of familiar faces lounging behind us on the Lakewood lawn. I wasn’t friends with anyone in this group. They were older. I recognized most of them as counselors from Ramah. Bearers of the Phish torch, these guys had Phish shows written into their camp contracts—or so one of them told me in Jerusalem while I crashed on his couch during a month of homelessness six years later.

Part of the secret of Phish fandom being somewhat synonymous with American Jewry lies with that group of twentysomethings on a grassy hillside. Phish began in the American Northeast, and though they’ve played for audiences from sea to shining sea and as far away as the island of Japan, they will always remain a Northeastern band. There are a lot of Yids in the Northeast, and so too there are a lot of Jewish summer camps. Camp Ramah Darom was founded in 1997. Until that year, Conservative Jewish families in the Southeast shipped their kids off to Ramah camps in Massachusetts, the Poconos or elsewhere. It was not uncommon for a counselor at one of these camps to be a Phishhead. In fact, it was probable. And the people who inevitably ran Ramah Darom came from this background. There’s nothing special about my experience at this camp in this time. Analogous experiences have been repeated for decades. And the Northeast connection has been noted before. The torch is still passed on—L’dor v’dor—from generation to generation. But in America, where the majority of Jews lean toward the secular side of religious involvement, new Jewish traditions are passed on through new Jewish communities—like this one centered on Phish.

As set break inches to a close, I decide to join Doogans and sit in a different section of the venue for the second set. We pick the perfect pre-set moment, and I manage to make it through security without the proper ticket. Doogans leads me to his seat in the 118 section, which is Page-side but, given the size of this audience, not quite rage-side. Soon as we settle in, the lights go down and Phish returns to the stage for Part B of Night 1. The first set had clearly been a warm up. Would the second set continue in this vein, or were the boys ready to really throw down?

“Yes!” comes the answer, as the opening riff of “Mike’s Song” rings out from the speakers. I immediately turn to Doogans. “You’re definitely gonna get your ‘Weekapaug’ now,” I tell him. “How do you know?” he asks. “Trust me,” I say.

“Mike’s Song” is, according to the Phish Companion, a “groove of transcendentally elephantine proportions” that is about as old as the band itself. In fact, it was Mike Gordon’s first contribution to the repertoire. Though it has morphed over the years, “Mike’s Song” can still be relied upon for a couple of things: the snarling-est guitar work from Trey and an inevitable pairing with Doogan’s favorite, “Weekapaug Groove.” These two songs and a variable musical interlude collectively compose “Mike’s Groove,” a fan favorite that has become pretty formulaic in these latest years of Phish. This version of “Mike’s” lacks exploration but is still sharp and gnarly. Lasting fewer than 10 minutes—short compared to many “Mike’s” of lore—the song comes to a familiar ending before the band quickly transitions to the new-school jam vehicle “Light.”

Of all the songs on Phish’s 2009 release Joy, “Light” has been explored the most in this year. While fans have waited for “Stealing Time for the Faulty Plan” to finally bust open and for Trey to abandon his long-winded “Time Turns Elastic,” “Light” has become the Joyful anthem of Phish 3.0:

“It a takes a few moments of whirling around / Before your feet finally leave the ground / And fending off fears and hearing the call / And finally waiting for nothing at all / And the light is growing brighter now / And the light is growing brighter now.”

It’s a song about forgetting the past and the future and living in the moment, living in the light—a great philosophy for the new health-oriented Phish. Page plays some phaser synth effects that lift the jam off into space. Then, Trey subtly takes control with some dissonant leads, and 10 minutes into “Light,” the jamming has an otherworldly feel. The band members are clearly listening with open ears, as the jam is both tight and loose at the same time. Koruda is also plugged in. His lights at this point are multi-layered and, as always, synced to the sound. Mike weaves some well-placed and groovy lines into Trey’s rhythmic flashes but, tending toward compactness in perfect 2009 style, “Light” slows down a couple minutes later and lands in “I Am Hydrogen,” the traditional “Mike’s Groove” interlude that was written by Phish lyricist Tom Marshall and friend Marc Daubert in the early ‘80s. “Hydrogen” is short, sweet and just a wind up to Doogan’s delight. Led by Mike’s popping bass, the band kicks into “Weekapaug Groove” with lots of danceable energy. But this segment of the set runs just over six minutes—not long by historical standards. Maybe this compact “Mike’s Groove” should me wondering when we’ll really get to let loose and share in the groove, but can I really complain? I’ve just heard my first ever Mike’s Anything. Write it down. Cross it off the list. I’ll groove regardless of length.

Up next is “Alaska,” a fun rock song that’s reminiscent of “Tennessee Jed,” quintessential Grateful Dead Americana, but isn’t something to write home about. Trey’s solo is on point and the band builds the song to a head captivatingly. Still, like parts of the first set, I’m left thanking Kuroda’s lights that this song is out of the way.

And then the group digs into another Joy track, “Backwards Down the Number Line.” Like the rest of that album, “BDTNL” (as I wrote it in the Moleskine) is an anthem of renewed life, happiness and friendship. “All my friends come / Backwards down the number line.” The jam is bright and tight, but it’s also pure Type I. “The only rule is it begins / Happy happy oh my friend.” I wonder about my friends. I wonder why they are spending so much time and money to travel to see these shows. Traveling to see this band again. I wonder why I care, why we care, if this jam unfolds uniquely or formulaically.

Another part of the secret of Jewish-Phish synonymousness is love of, or even genetic propensity toward, analysis. Mike and Trey have both described how a no-analyzing rule was instituted in the latter half of the ‘90s to combat micromanagement. Mike has said that this over-analysis is a feature that speaks to Jews. He’s a product of the same middle- to upper-middle-class lifestyle that my friends and I grew up in. He went to Solomon Schechter Day School in Massachusetts. I went to Solomon Schechter in Jacksonville. So what?

Well, American popular culture is just a large bucket of white paint—public schools here value you standardization and percentiles, MTV is both a rite of passage and a vapid sham and fast food is our nutrition-less national pride. The American Dream is getting on a fast track to prosperity. It’s never looking back at what flies off of you and lands in the roadside ditches. Thoughtful religious practice doesn’t fit very well into this box. But Jews remain Jews. And though we’ve succeeded and assimilated more in America than ever before in our history, there are certain deep-seeded drives from which we can’t speed away. Community and connection are some of those things. Nuanced debate is another. Phish provides all of this. So when a jam is just a jam and not something more, I want to know why. I want to shake Trey and Mike and Page and Fish until they open their eyes and let go. I want to dance a new dance, not step backward.

“BDTNL” ends and two seconds of organ signal the beginning of a tune that is as old as “Mike’s Song” and brings the widest smile to my face. “Makisupa Policeman” is an original Phish reggae tune from the early ‘80s that was feature on Live Phish 01. It’s based around two chords and a few lyrics that are changed up at most shows. “Hey Makisupa Policeman, policeman came to my house,” the group sings several times. Then, “Woke up this morning,” Trey sings as always, but with the next line, Makisupa’s silly, ever-changing narrative continues anew: “did just what I like, spent a whole two minutes listening to nobody but Mike.” The spot light drops onto Cactus and he begins a low-end bass line. As he builds the line, Trey chimes in with a chant: “Mike! Mike! Mike!” The audience takes their cue and the whole arena eggs Mike on. And then the rest of the group lays into their parts. Mike turns on the Lovetone effect and his bass takes on a thick, warbling sound. “Policeman! Policeman! Policeman!” The story ends. Trey begins looping little lines. Page gets into the synth again. Mike is thick as ever and his lines are still front and center. The group is progressing toward something, I hope. Trey reaches out toward space. Mike builds and builds. And then back to the usual reggae rhythm. “Hey Makisupa Policeman,” everyone sings. “Policeman came to Mike’s house.” And without hesitation the group begins to play vocally play on this theme over a syncopated soundscape that soon segues into a beloved Phish classic.

“Harry Hood” begins with a reggae rhythm that is complimentary to “Makisupa” but soon—after the obligatory “Harry! (Hood!) Harry! (Hood!) Where do you go when the lights go out?” section—becomes all its own. Soon the band enters the composed section of “Hood” and though the only lyrics are an infrequent “Thank you, Mr. Miner,” I can sing along to the entire thing. Six minutes in, Phish has already reached the jam segment. The improvisation starts from a quiet, contemplative place. Mike is leading as much as Trey here. Fishman is holding it down on the high hat while Page drops tiny sonic pebbles that slowly ripple out through Kuroda’s blue light pool. The band doesn’t get louder, but they do begin to coalesce. Trey and Page trickle together while Mike returns to the bottom of his bass. Everything starts from the center. Trey returns to a familiar line, a it’s clear that this is where things will start to build. But there’s no rush. Each band member takes his time. It’s all pretties and possibilities and potentials and before I realize it, the lights have signaled to the Mothership once again and we’ve all been beamed out into the cosmos.

Collectively, we land on the surface of “Contact,” another classic Phish tune that was penned by Mike and whose lyrics are equally laughable and clever. The song begins with a solo run up the bass, a line that is then echoed by Trey and finally filled in by Fish and Page. “The tires are the things on your car that make contact with the road,” Mike sings to us several times. “The car is thing on the road that takes you back to your abode,” our lesson continues. “The tires are the things on your car that make contact with the road,” Mike sings. And he concludes: “Bummed is what your are when you go out to your car and it’s been towed.” And the band breaks it down into some funky, bass-led grooving. Page splashes in with laser beam lines, and then Drop!, the spotlight’s back on Mike, who serenades us (and his car) with more solo bass and singing:

“I woke up one morning and realized I love you. / It’s not your headlights in front, your tailpipe or the skylight above you. / It’s the way you cling to the road when the wind tries to shove you. / I’d never go driving away and come back home without you.”

Just like the recorded version of “Contact” on Junta, Mike treats everybody to some short and sweet bass flirtation. This AAA-worthy love song comes to an end as the entire AAA audience follows the band’s lead, creating an endless sea of arms waving back and forth, back and forth as the refrain is sung one final time.

The opening riff of “Character Zero” comes right out of the end of “Contact” and it signals the final song of this set. “Zero” has been a go-to show closer since it was debuted in 1996, and though it has been jammed out in the past, I don’t expect that to happen here. Sure enough, this “Zero” is a straightforward shred-fest for Trey.

The band leaves the stage, returns a minute later and quickly drops into “First Tube,” an explosive, Farmhouse-era jam vehicle that took the roof off of Madison Square Garden when it ended the first set of the last night of a three-night run there a few weeks ago. Maybe the energy is a bit off in the American Airlines Arena tonight. The crowd doesn’t erupt for it this time. But I love this tune. It’s the first Phish song I ever learned to play on guitar. I can play that eerie riff over and over and over in my sleep. And the jam section is, to me, a concentrated stream of pure bliss. Though I try, my limbs can’t twist, jerk or flail fast enough.

The lights go up. My voice is already nearly gone from all the screaming. Walking up the steps, into the halls and out of the arena surrounded by Phans, all I am is a big, breathless smile. In the Lot across the street—all smiles. Driving around downtown Miami looking for something to do, I’m smiling. The $20 cover for an aftershow—not so smiley. Harper, Doogans and I decided to go grab something to eat, while Sarah and Cahlin and others bite the bullet and pay the bills to get in. We find a McDonald’s. I don’t want to eat there. I don’t eat non-kosher meat, and a Filet-o-Fish is not a Philet-o-Phish, no matter how you wrap it. Not in the mood. Doogans and I walk across the street to grab some pizza and walk back to eat it under the golden arches with Harper. About this time, Harper gets a text message from his sister. Turns out the MVP of tonight’s show, Mike Gordon, is at the club we just left. So what? I’ve got pizza. I’ve got two sets of Phish behind me. I’ve got three more days to chill with Mike and his friends ahead. I’m all smiles.

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.”