The Jew in the Phish

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.