ASTRO PHISH SCHTICK: The Baker's Dozen Harpua

[YouTube video deleted by old "you know whose"]

On 7/30/17 -- the second Sunday of The Baker's Dozen, Phish's monumental 13-day Madison Square Garden run -- the band chose "Jimmies" as the night's flavor. Uproar ensued. "'Jimmies' is not a flavor," some complained..."they're just sweet, and sweet is not a flavor; it's a taste." Along with the furor, elation erupted at the almost sure indicator that one very popular "Jimmy" would probably make an appearance in the setlist that evening...

Relatively ubiquitous in very early setlists, as part of a handful of mysterious and alluring tales which peppered the more thematically frisky days of Phish 1.0, the song became ever more rare, finally disappearing with the band itself into their first hiatus.

Aligning with an early-Aughts jamband trend of wacky and labyrinthine segues of tunes into each other, Harpua made its lone one-night-stand of the 2.0 in a single show at the Star Lake Pavillion in Burgettstown, PA. Punters that night will never forget the serpentine treat that began with Harpua, and ended with David Bowie, after popping up twice more within a chain including three other songs!

Phish 3.0, now nearing its decade-mark (and still chugging), has not been lousy with Harpuas, much to the chagrin of many phans, but to the glee of those who do manage to stick the landing, and turn up on a night it's pulled out of the bag. It first appeared in two, one-night segue-fests: in Saratoga, NY, and then on an explosive Fourth of July night in Alpharetta, GA, where it was famously (and perhaps quizzically) interspersed with Rage Against the Machine's relentless punk shredder, "Killing in the Name." Only 3 more times did Jimmy have a talk with Dad, once each in 2011, 2015, and 2015. To call it a rarity would be an understatement among phans...

So, to get personal, my lone storied experience with the dog named Harpua and his aspiring owner, Jimmy, consists entirely of lone, extremely damp and cathartic second night encore at the Clifford Ball in 1996. Having listened to it in so many shows, resigned to the fate that I was just lucky for making the trek to the Airforce Base in Plattsburgh and sleeping in my friend's car, Harpua just became the song other people get to hear.

Until, quizzically, your FOMO disappears, and you find yourself in the Hole in the Donut.

The Baker's Dozen marks the first time I am solvent enough to potentially have afforded the entire run, but didn't actually go for it. My relationship with Phish, when I lean back into it, is and always will be one of the most important and inspiring ones in my life. Like all relationships, it has come with its ups and downs, mostly related to the increasingly complex economic and logistical machinery involved with experiencing their copious live shows.

I've said enough to say, for the record, that I am in a great place; one of the best I've been in during the time between Phish's reunion in 2009 in the midst of an economic downturn, and today (August 1, 2017, which would've been Jerry Garcia's 75th Birthday), where I'll be getting to see Phish for the second time during the month.

However, this post is not really about that (although it is, kinda)...had I not been in this mellow mood, this relaxed mind-state borne of hard work and plump savings, and of the thick skin that forms from years of gleaning tickets from flighty phellow phans (many of whom are now young enough to be the ditzy Millennial tour babies I thankfully never had), I wouldn't have managed to score a not-too-exorbitantly-priced-over-face ticket for Night 8 of The Baker's Dozen, effectively near the midpoint of the circumference of the circle that is the so-called Dozen.

What happened on that night? Well, this happened. Actually, this happened after I scooped my jaw up off the floor, and seized the presence of mind to capture the moment I'd probably not witness again for some time. And then they started talking about astrophysics, which is one of my favorite topics in all of science. Their dulcet tones, japing and jesting, brought me back to those pastoral days, when these wily sons of businessmen plied their ragged trade across the country, to the salivating scores of many who still remain rapt and loyal. I, being one of that lot, was really glad to be there, and I'm really glad to be back here, to share a bit of it with you.

(PS: Sorry, Phish, if this is copyright infringement, but hopefully you'll be glad I'm still on the train, and I've gone through the effort for posterity... ;)

Editor's Note, 8/7/17: On Monday, August 7, 2017, the dawn of phandom's first day without an MSG show on the immediate horizon, an Important Journalist revealed in an Important Rock 'n' Roll Magazine, the provenance of the following transcription, in an Important Article from an Important Newspaper, from March 11, 2003. On that date, I had been in Upstate New York, deeply pondering my life, for 23 of what would eventually be 40 days. In the scope of this discussion, as far as I'm concerned, that is like saying, "The picture of an eyeball pasted to the inside of that Joseph Cornell box from 1953 was taken from a copy of Le Monde that he bought at a newsstand on Fulton Street some time in July of 1947." That is to say: kinda irrelevant.

TRANSCRIPTION (to my best cosmological understanding and ability. Initials are the JEMP of Jon, Ernie III, Mike, and Page. I can be heard exclaiming "Quantum Phish!" at 2:41, and, predictively, "A DONUT!" at 3:33. Sorry, I couldn't help myself. I love the science. And the Phish.):

E: Wow. That's amazing.

J: What?

E: There's lumps in the cosmic gravy.

J: Huuuhhh...

E: No, seriously...there's lumps in the cosmic gravy!

P: Yes, actually, he's right! The microwave cloud is laced with ripples of splotches. Lumps in the gravy...that's where galaxies and other cosmic structures form.

J: Ahh. Interesting.

E: Yeah, the lumps are born as microcosmic fluctuations during the first instant of time, and then, they're amplified into sound waves.

M: That's actually right, Fish. And as the universe expands, matter and energy...they splosh around!

J: Wow! But, uh...I thought the universe consists mostly of, uh, dark energy that's expanding and accelerating outward. So, how does that fit in?

E: Well, that's true, Fish. There is a lot of dark energy in the universe. But, umm, for the record, it's an infinite universe, and the waves in the cosmic fireball appear randomly around the sky at all sizes. But there seems to be a limit to the size of the waves. 

P: Yes! None of them extend more than, say, 60 degrees across the sky. 

E: Wow!

M: It's kind of like...if the universe were a guitar string, it would be missing its deepest notes, the ones with the longest wavelengths. The bass notes! Maybe that's because it is not big enough to sustain them!
(Drum roll.)

J: Ooohh. I get it! So the fact that there appears to be an angular cutoff, like what Page is saying, hints at a special distance scale, in the universe!

P: Yes, that's it. If we only emit radio noise from the stars in our own galaxy...

E: Well...then the universe appears lumpier in one direction through space than it does in another. 

P: Exactly. And if you comb the finer variations out of the map, the remaining large scale variations form a line across the sky.

J: WAIT. So, if the universe is finite in one dimension -- meaning, it's like a cylinder...

M: Oh, yep...

J: Or...like...A DONUT!

E: Wow, Fish, that's right! It's definitely a donut. There's a limit to the size of clumps that can fit in that direction. And it couldn't be bigger than the universe in that direction. So, it has to be a DONUT.

M: A guitar string can only play a note solo, depending on its length. So, the biggest blobs would have to squish out in a plane in other directions. The way home around the donut would be perpendicular to that plane...

P: It's cosmology, with shapes! Except sometimes its hard to tell the difference between a coffee mug and a donut, because each object has one hole...

E: That's true...the two can be deformed into each other, so they're kind of...I don't know...topologically equivalent.

J: Ah! I see...so maybe the universe is a coffee mug? The way a figure-8 and a pair of eyeglass frames are almost the same?

P: Haha! Yeah. 'Cause you know what they say..."The more holes, the more complicated the topology..." 

(All laugh. Fish plays a rimshot.)

J: Page...you're a funny guy!

M: Well...a three-torus is a donut wrapped in three different dimensions. So...

E: That's gotta be it...it's SO obvious.

P: Duh!

J: Yeah. DUH. Three-torus...donut...universe...

E: It's tough to visualize, but it's almost like a cube with its opposite sides somehow glued together.

M: Exactly.
E: But...
M: Definitely a donut.

J: No duh. 

M: No duh!

J: Yup, no question about it.

P: The universe is a donut.

M: Living in this weird universe is kind of like being inside a hall of mirrors. Though, you know, instead of seeing new stars deeper and deeper in space, I keep seeing the same things over and over again. Light keeps traveling out one side of the donut, and back into the other. 

J: Weird.

E: It's like light just keeps repeating; it's just repeating patterns created in the sky by light going around and around the donut-shaped universe.

J: And somewhere, there are four guys having the same conversation, except one of them is talking to his DAD...

M: The dimensions are all curled in loops! And, of course the universe actually has 10 dimensions. Everyone knows that.

E: Of course! Nine of space and one of time. Not the four that people say it has.

J: Yeah, uh-DUH! Everyone knows that!

E: And the dimensions are curled up in to sub-microcosmic loops! 

P: Like the threads in an uncut carpet pile! And if it wasn't a donut, there'd be no way to get the inflation to stop, or for there to be enough space big enough to house all the galaxies, but small enough to see within the observable horizon. 

(All chortle.)

J: Well, that definitely proves it then...it's a DONUT. 

E: Unless, what if the biggest, longest waves are created first, and the missing notes are the earliest ones, that would've been struck by an inflation's guitar? Maybe...? 

M: Nope, wrong...it's a DONUT.

J: So, should I be looking for circles in the sky?

E: Yes. You should be looking for identical circles on opposite sides of the sky, with the same patterns of hot and cold running around them.

P: The size of the circles will depend on distance between the walls of the universe, which is, I supposed, shaped kind of like...A CAVE!

E: Ahh! Circles on the walls of the cave, if you will.

M: I will! 

(Rimshot.)

M: Oh, and by the way, on an entirely different subject...umm...Jimmy...?

From the Vaults: a famous letter to the band from the March 1995 Letters section of the Doniac Schvice (and Mike's famous reply).

Still Wading

To be totally honest, I'm just posting this to get the old post out of the way, and to let the world know I still loves me some of The Phish.

"How's that book coming?" you ask.

Slowly! (Duh.)

"How've ya been?"

Mehh...I'd say I've been better, but I don't think I have been. It's just that things look pretty messy on paper. The Imperfectitude of Life has been all over me like a cheap suit in the past three years (yes, literally), so getting "creative" has always seemed like a bit of fruitless frivolity, despite how completely absurd that idea might be. Call it "fusty home-training," bred into me by post-Depression-era immigrant parents. "Get a job, work the job, hate the job, be miserable, retire" is a tune I got used to...

Phish has, throughout the years, helped me alter that tune, little bit by little bit. Mainly, rather than seeing shows (which has gotten prohibitive for a number of reasons I haven't been able to successfully outrun, it seems), I've just been getting into the music. From a somewhat celebratory but often cringeworthy 2010, to a jubilant 2011, and a dominant 2012, the boys are back for what, so far, seems to be a real old-timey powerhouse of steamy, shimmering jams, somewhat jangly progressions, but more than enough potential for positive regression to the Golden Phish of Tymes Olde.

It always seems like I get nostalgic on days they play at Jones Beach (such as today)...and I'm especially nostalgic this year (and month) since it marks my 20th Phishiversary seeing the Twisting Troubadours. Like seemingly always, I'm much too buried alive to be dealing with my own life, much less that of Phish and the incipient circus that is Phish Tour. I'm moving house on Sunday, which is good enough a reason to knock me clean out the box for all of July. However, my appreciation for that bizarre, carnivalesque cyberphunk watering-hole known as COUCH TOUR has increased tremendously.

I may go so far as to say, in some ways, I enjoy Couch Tour a bit more than actual tour.

Heresy, you squawk? First of all, derr...couch terr is cheaper by far! The signal to noise ratio is excellent...it's just me, my laptop, jacked into the big speakers, and away we go into whatever cesspool (or aromatic ocean) of a stream we'll get for that evening, from whatever intrepid phan risks life and bicep to hold aloft their mobile device for that night's festivities. I always make sure to give thanks, to share links in the chat, and to generally be a good citizen...it makes for an arrestingly similar experience to being at a show, in miniature, replete with e-Lot, pregaming, postgaming, lifted "fingers" ("Who's got a link???" and "PM ME!" being the standard equivalents there), and all kinds of other sociologically scintillating corollaries.

Anyways, I could go on, and probably will, especially since I'll be back on the couch tonight, between puttering and packing, and chatting it up with the e-w00ks in Hoodstream-land, and many a night during this Summer Tour. I'd really love to get to Gorge, and since I'm the master of last-minute planning, I got all kinds of hookups and angles I could work to make it happen (including one particularly delicious guaranteed pancake breakfast). It's on the docket, I'm thinking about it, and we're hoping it's a go (that's the Royal We, by the way...it is, unsurprisingly, still only me -- what can I say...I'm an acquired taste, LOL). It would be a Gorge-ous way to mark 20 years following these very talented musicians, who are aging like a fine old oak monkey barrel on four wheels.

You'll also notice my new Twitter roll at the top right; I spun off a Phish-only Twitter account, to spare all my massive 300+ followers from the inevitable onslaught of arcane phististics...now I'll just bore them to death with mysterious meanderings and veiled mutterings to people who may or may not be listening, and absorption in whatever OTHER obsession-du-jour has got me on the run. FWIW, I've recently gotten deep back into dance music, particularly drum 'n' bass, which was a mainstay for me during the Dry Years, that awful first post-2000 hiatus. Now I have twice the phun...clubs, clubbing, new and deeper associations there, and the good old boys. Life's rich pageant, all over again.

So, tour on, bros and sisses, and dance them asses off! I'll see you on lot: actual, virtual, or otherwise.

Everyday I Write the F*cking Book, Okay? Nothing is Planned...

I'm not quite sure what seems more absurd…that I haven't written here since late June, that late June is already such a fossil, or that it's finally time for me to go tromping off to lot tonight, to get my summer's only phill from the Travelers' Trough.

It hasn't been the best summer, but the good man Jah has had a few slim mercies to lay upon this very good girl. I've labored to stay sane beneath a ton of anxiety, doubt, and dizzying transition; no more squeezing my freewheeling 21st century bohemian-nerd self into the sensible corporate low-heeled loafer of my old life. But alas, where does the flip-flop shod foot shuffle in a "no shirt, no shoes, no service" kinda world? It spends a lot of time dangling off the futon couch, stepping into an unknown void of future, toes wiggling vainly for footing, all the while the mind up top reeling & appealing to "superior forces" for signs of change.

Things I have had as mine to change have been few; one of them is my physical well-being. I've eaten healthy and lean all summer, and have dragged my mortal coil through umpteen iterations of introspective kickassery, including cardio kickboxing, speed walking & light weight training. I'm still sober, which, as always, takes its own share of intensely heavy lifting all its own, if engineered in a manner leaning towards consistent elevation (rather than soulless treading water on the wagon).

And finally, as ever germane to this ongoing conversation, there's been Phish.

"Hey, Phishhead!" called my friend Ian with mischievous volume, jaunting his way into a local gathering of sober folks, right in front of a rather large assemblage of über-kewl, ciggy-swiffing North Brooklyn hipsterati, myself dwelling mostly unnoticed among them (save a little shady non-anonymity in that area, displayed on a certain popular social networking portal).

"'Sup braw," I replied, flashing a "hang loose." In spite of myself, I grinned. I didn't flinch, didn't blink, just grinned. Time was, in that situation, I'd have withered, possessed of a strangely shameful conspicuousness at being an unrepentant champion of those hapless, accidental ringleaders of the "modern hippy aesthetic." But such has been the Summer of 2010, and, by now, there's no way it couldn't have happened. The likes of it may not ever happen again anytime soon, but such a proclamation, for now, shall be nothing less than second skin.

This much is obvious: whatever I may do with the endless changes I've listened to Phish go through this summer (and last year, Reunion 2009), the relationship is here to stay. And no matter what the circumstances, I don't think I'll be able to avoid for very long the fascination with their evolution. Honestly, I think that evolution could only become strange, confounding and unwieldy if, again, it should somehow end. But for now, right now, it is alive, and thriving, writhing and wriggling, rinsing and repeating, rising and self-erasing.

As of this moment, I am poised at 0:00 at the beginning of the third "Wading in the Velvet Sea" (I almost typed "Waiting in the Velvet Sea," hyulk hyulk, sorry faithful punters!) of Summer 2010, in Raleigh, NC 7/1/10. I have, until now, and until that point, listened to every single note Phish has played thus far this year. FYI: the only shows from last year's 50 I haven't yet laid ears on are shows # 1 and 3 of last year's East Coast run: believe it or not, I still haven't fully recovered from missing them, again, due to various and sundry "life circumstances"…

Yeah, I'm a little bit behind, missing 11 shows out of 27 to be exact. Not bad…I'm just past the halfway mark. Thus, I've listened to 14 shows in 9 weeks, the equivalent of seeing two straight weeks of shows, or ruminating on almost two shows a week, which is, in a sense, exactly what I've been doing. I had to take a breather for most of July, as you could imagine, especially since the end of June saw me having several royal heart attacks at the golden fungiform treasures the band began hauling out of the trove of their personal Atlantis, towards the end of the first leg of tour.

I'm just getting around to those now. Having just savored the very first recent emergence of one of my absolute favorite, lamentably awesome, weep-enducing hempseed shuffle-boogies, "Light Up or Leave Me Alone," I'm plowing bravely and itinerantly ahead on this newest, infinitely more demanding and personal version of V-T00R, headlong through my regret at having missed everything up until tonight, and tomorrow. Again, it's back to the Origin Space, moist incubator near the sea and sand…I can heal life's slings and arrows' wounds there keen. I'll sashay back into the fray, sample and survey the lot economy, make sure the Kids are Alright (I know, I know…you are), and try to raise my prime index finger up just right -- and will no doubt find what I'm looking for, hopefully for a low flat fee, and once again, tilt in through that misty door, to do what I can for the local pause of the Circus jalopy in my neck o' the brambles.

Incidentally (or not so), I've been writing the whole time I've been listening. Uhhh…doy? Why do you think I started this blog? I listen to Phish, I write. Done, and done. It's like smelling fresh bread and drooling…it just happens. And, with every strum, stumble and hum, I have amassed a pile of scribblins at least aloft of the foothills of Mt. Ranier (its snowy cap seen in the distance in the commemorative August 2009 post-Gorge photo below, Sea-Tac bound early in the morning of 8/9/01). What I've realized about this here bloggy-blog is that I don't really know how to handle it on a consistent basis. Actually, I barely know how to handle anything on a consistent basis; such is my peculiar mental eccentricity. But those things that seem native to my machinations, I do with great frequency, at an almost uncontrollable clip.

In short, with these mad shavings of Phish-fuled internal chatter, I'm thinking (just thinking, mind you…for me, it goes very far…I said, for me…) of scraping it all into a book. Yes, that's right, another Phish book.

"Huh? A book about a tour?"

C'mon, people, you know how I do. The jots I have collected are quasi-prose poetry based on my life, as interwoven with this phase dancing, wincing, frowning, rewinding, calculating, gesticulating, cavitating enterprise I have embarked on with my four Soul Brothers Number 1…2, 3 and 4 (in no particular order). I'm hoping that, with sufficient encouragement and endorsement, the book will not only be the first book almost solely about the analysis of a two years of Phish shows (for musicology's sake), but the first of its kind to be written entirely on a handheld device.

That's right, kids…I have thumbed thousands and thousands of words thus far, at least 40 pages of notes, all written whilst grocery shopping, dinner-eating, subway riding, platform-waiting, street-walking, corner turning, sober-keeping and generally roustabouting New York City at large. I wouldn't be surprised, speaking of kids, if I wasn't be the first to have done this, what with their thumbs much smaller, defter and more furious than mine.

However, what I have going for me is a particularly long, keen attention-span borne of that peculiar gulf between the Age of Machines, and the Age of the Cyber-Mental Melt, which still knows the creamy aroma of historicity when it smells it. My mind, heart, fingers and ears still know what knocks us all upside our heads, and/or lures us into the moldy lair of the sometimes stinky sea creatures. The sensibility can sniff out contextual sensations worthy of voicing, for the sake of either relation, or purely sociological analysis, on the level of observing outright psychiatric gymnastics.

It should probably be stated that this blog will, as time passes, also be getting a complete overhaul, to support the deepening fathoms of ongoing scholarship and absorption. The domain has been secured, and, well...the domain has been secured! 'Nuff said for now! A redesign and some greater whiz-bang is definitely worthy of the endeavor. For a big-yet-tiny mouth such as mine, best to take it all one byte at a time...

But it's all happening, folks, and it means something. Whether it comes to fire up your Kindles, or sneaks around and tickles your Nooks, remains to be seen. Meanwhile, later, your senses may oddly tingle as I pad towards the subway, pressing play, and descending, to later emerge into late summer's fading day, to have my ears bathed in all the snowflakey, quotidian glory of the Mages' livelihood a-sway. Let's hear it for meltage, ladies and gents, Walfredo's Gaucho slant and the Sloth's clogging the Maze, and the long, daily grind through my own purple haze. No matter what the rinse may hold, hey…'scuse me while I kiss these guys. Brosephs all, they never cease to inspire. And for that, the least I can do is perspire a drip. Or a few.

Cracklin' Prose: Stealing Time for the Lofty Plan

An ethereal cascade into "Harry Hood" (out of a "Theme From the Bottom" taken on an eye-popping detour out its own side) made me make a Ren Hoek face. Those of you old enough to know remember narrow-mouthed, pendulous-tongued, bulge-eyed rictus of the erstwhile MTV cartoon chihuahua... Having just finished listening to the whole, very long, seriously eh-pick (in no uncertain terms), 6/18/10 was made for a writer like me to bathe in.

While positively *getting down* to the combustibly jubilant "Halley's Comet" Set II opener, I jumped up and down yelling, "This is it! This is the one!", in reference to that nebulous "thingy" I seem to need to drag my voice into the current cloud of appreciative analysis, the locomotive strong enough to ignite and propel my train of thought along its twisty track.

As I began to say above, at some point during the "Hood" intro, I decided I'm going to use Hartfords I and II as the linchpin for my discussion of Summer 2010 Tour So Far. In Part I, I shall attempt to distill the reams of critical guff I've ammassed on Toyota Park through Portsmouth, then land on Hartford I as a defining moment, a sort of power bridge between VA and what will encompass Part II, Night II of the Hartford stand, a full-blooded, gate-opening welcome to what I recently coined "3.0.1 - The New Classic Phish" in an email to a notable phellow Phishtorian.

Oh, process, glorious process! Stay tuned, lovelies! I have an end to the thing which is always the clincher, sappy as it may be. But hopefully I'll have it wrung out before I head to the Delaware River camping and rafting Thursday and this weekend, with water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink! ;-)

Shred centrally in Mansfield to-nite! Y'all are in for it; it's gonna be a week. The parapet has been breached, and the Phish war against sanity in music has begun anew!


(Speaking of which, PS: Phish, if you're listening, and you really are an "All-Request Band," then you'll do us all a favor by kicking it real "Back to the Future"-stylee with the FAST VERSION of "Sanity" (a-la 5/28/89) sometime this tour. 'Nuff said...)

The Show of Life: Summer Tour 2010 in the Velvet C.

Curious readers,

I am currently thrilling to the unfolding drama that is V-T00R, listening to every show the minute it emerges, and writing down copious impressions in that way that I do. These impressions are lengthy, in-depth, and have gotten discursively more elaborate, in terms of the musical dynamics of Phish. It's decidedly more thoughtful, essay-length exegesis material than the traditional daily "Hay, this show was awesome/not so good" etc. (which, too, has it's place among the voices of the community).

It takes editing, redigesting tunes, backing up and relistening...and can certainly border on mental. I've recently been turned onto the work of music "critic" Paul Williams (no, not the songwriter), and, not to mention, finally got the time (for the most part) to be as immersed in this process of writing as I've been since 2000. I'm adjusting to the whole process, and specifically that of ingesting, absorbing, metabolizing and expounding on Phish. As the joy of it all evolves, I'm coming closer to adopting a comfortable means of knowing when these sublimations of tour and the band's sonic evolution are "done" and ready for public consumption.

Oh, and of course, there's the rather brass-tacks fact that I am distracted by being without steady income, on unemployment, and waiting for that just-right, part-time IT consulting job to come along. For maximum impact, I need a clearer mind, unmuddied by looming bills and dangling fiscal responsibilities, which do dearly impede both the creative process, and (as suffered this last glorious weekend) the ability to responsibly afford to go on tour! And we all know: being sonically sequestered with just the music has its own place among the divine, but tour is the real deal.

So, just keepin' y'all posted. In capsule: Toyota was a warmup that got heated in Set II; Blossom had both petals and pedals pushing psyhedelic envelopes; Hershey began to melt the frost of rusty tendons and signaled promisingly expanding fun and flexibility; Portsmouth was an interesting plateau landing the band in the Easy Coast stew again; but Hartfords...oh Hartfords is where my mind split, and the discourse becomes electric. SPAC is next in the snack pack.

Stay mellow, campers, safe travels, and twist a knee and a booty for me.

Backwards Down the 2009: A Right-on-Time 3.0.1 Recap (Part II)

Great. Fine. So, you have "Mars" to thank for the appearance (finally!) of this post, the so-called "continuation" of the first "BDT2009" Recap, posted -- crap! -- almost a month ago! I'm not gonna get into excuses, but two main things are to blame: 1) My own personal "Bag it, tag it, sell it to the butcher in the store" happens to be the dreaded Three P's of Perfectionism, Procrastination and Paralysis. That is, I want everything wrapped in little bows and well-matched paper, all sense-making and thorough, and most of all (for the sake of my ego) totally awesome. Unfortunately, in the name of getting ANYTHING posted at all, these standards need to be either reduced, or eliminated entirely. You'll see in this piece I've almost opted for the latter...

Reason 2) for the extended delay of this post will rise to the surface within about 48 hours: yeah, TOUR. Tour is upon us. It's happening. But, despite all my best efforts, wishes and hopes to the contrary, it's almost 99.99% certain I will not be in Chicago Friday night, or Cuyahoga the next, or...blah blah blah. And about all that, I am NOT HAPPY. From the minute dates hit the airwaves, I've been trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents, all to no avail.

You might hearken with electrified fondness back to the beginning of Fall 2009 tour, whereupon whirling out the door to MSG 12/2/09 for night 1 of 3, I was roundly canned from my job. Well, things being what they is, I haven't found another job, and have been riding the dole wagon ev'ry since, a gig here, a drop in the bucket there, and the landlord always a-lurkin' -- but, as if by magic, it's all churned along with relative, though chaotic predictability.

But one thing became for sure about three weeks ago: saying "eff all" and going on tour on the fumes of the Government, to heck w/ my landlord for a month, and without so much as sand on the wind in terms of prospects upon my return: NOT A GOOD IDEA. Luckily, with the 2009 behind me, I've come to learn many lessons about what I WANT, and what I NEED. And what I NEED is to be well-fed, alive, housed, employed, sane, sober, solvent and happy -- in the final analysis, as much as I wanted to, going on tour wouldn't have supported that agenda in the slightest.

So, having to closely survey last year's "product," while knowing I wasn't going to be bearing witness to the laying of new bricks, has made me extremely glum and crestfallen. But soldier forth I must. I'll likely appear in a few last-minute lot bustouts closer to the the second half of this first leg of tour -- Hartford, SPAC...who knows. You know how I do.

Anyway, to get back to the matter at hand (and today, the anniversary of my *favorite show* of 2009), I'll begin by saying this: Phish plays a lot of songs.

Throughout 2009, they played many of the same songs multiple times, much to the chagrin of some old-skool fans. This, being endlessly bitched and moaned about from aforesaid fans (some indeed truly old-skool, others merely presumptuously posturing, ill-informed or bored), gave me pause, and I've landed on the side of the Phellas.

There's a whole new crop of phans coming up. I might've mentioned it, but for laughs, I'll reiterate that the crowd in the Chelsea Clearview Cinema (wherein I saw Phish 3D) had to be, on average, below age of 25. This pretty much means that a veritable glut of Phishheads are more than likely THE KIDS of the First Wave of phans!

I've come to greater and greater terms with this, on lot, on trains and planes, in crowds and stands. My good buddy Thane from the Train (to Charlottesville) is probably a nubile postgrad backpacking through Patagonia, trying to "find himself." If my old ass hasn't "found myself" yet, then I've probably not found just where I need to be looking. Unfortunately, I have a sneaking suspicion that that place may just keep moving around. And lo, thus, must I!

True...in 2009 (barring 12/30/09, har har), Phish did not play a whole lotta their vast litany of songs, sticking, rather, to decidedly more straight-ahead but, as things progressed, tinkered-with and inspiring versions of some perennial classics, both old, and new. I dunno if there's a rationale behind the frequent, healthy (yet often irksomely so) warming-up of Phish's favorite song muscles. I'll briefly posit that what seems to be a glut of repetition may actually be logistical distortion; for example, 13 instances of "AC/DC Bag" in 1994 may seem statistically fewer in comparison to 2009's 12, simply because 1994 had 124 shows, while 2009 had only about a quarter as many (50)...

Merging the above two concepts (song frequencies, plus the slightly decreased phan age demographic), I'm gonna take it back to school this time around, for Part II of my Backwards Down the 2009 Just-in-Time 3.0.1 Recap. I hatched upon an idea, while puzzling on how to tackle a "Best of" list for a band with a ~300-song catalog. "Let's do it A-B-C style," came the bright idea! But I couldn't use the whole alphabet or I'd be here all year (or longer than it's already taken me, i.e. much longer than desired!). So, I decided to look up the letter frequencies of the English alphabet, and use those selections instead!

Starting from the top, and heading south with the most popular letters players in the A-B-C's, here's what I came up with:

11/18/09 "AC/DC Bag":

2009 was the year of what I've enjoyed calling the "Bag Opener" -- an overall splendid way to get a Phish show on the road (so to shpeak). 1995 is the only other year far as I can see with as many "Bag Openers" (that is, shows with "Bag" in the first set opening position), tied at 7 with 2009. Of course, with an 81-to-50 show ratio, 2009 definitely made for what seemed like a whole lotta exploding "Bag"s. None, in my ear, were quite a pop as 11/18/09, a/k/a "Bag COBOpener" -- what better way to start the first Fall Phish tour in nine years... (where, of course, they shall -- *sob* -- be starting this new decade's Summer Tour -- *weep* -- in nary a day...*flogs self*)

The 11/18/09 "Bag" unfolds slowly apace, Trey and Page's harmonized vocals and riffs ratcheting, vamped up, boogied down, loud, sneaky and sinister... "Bag" openers are true temperature-takers, compasses for where the band and crowd are starting off the night's journey together. But things have to wind up with near-mechanical, precarious precision in a "Bag" opener, lest it poof into an overheated air-sack. The "Bag COBOpener" exemplifies this, briefly and deftly disassembling Detroit Rock City first on tiptoes, with exploratory pokes and squeals, right in time to clang into sync just over 7 minutes later with a pyrotechnical bang that twinkles off into the Great Unknown a freshly, deftly opened "Bag" has store. In this case, we're then treated to the Detroit sack's first contents: a little Cobo "Foam"...

8/7/09 "Bathtub Gin":

By the end of a hot-ass "Gin", you can barely believe what distilled from the unassuming hokey-pokey from whence it came. I'm grateful for small miracles (and comments, I must remind you!), because right when I got stuck between this "B"-stumper and the much easier rest of the alphabet (another thing hanging this post up in extended perfectionistic limbo), I got a comment from a certain "Jake," reminding me that I actually bore witness to the juiciest "Gin" of 2009: the "GORGE GIN" (which went > "Harry Hood" holy-sh'incidentally).

Clocking in at a healthy 18 minutes, the "Gorge Gin" journey began at a late point in an already magic-ass set (preceded by "Moma, Light > Taste, Fluffhead" and a much-needed "Joy" breather). I was bitch-slapped by thoroughly aggro, door-opening piano chaos, a stage-setting, determinedly upbeat march, then a host of mischievous, spark-sprinkling fuses that soon sent a whole buncha "BLAMMO" into the canyon behind the stage. At around 9 minutes, after shredding like an attack dog, Trey riffs chunkily but ever so slightly back into the mix, whereupon Fishman pops out with a quick tumble of funktification, soon matched by Mike's viciously viscous and persistent gurgling, into a full-on, key-shifting, head-tilting "frog" jam (that's "funky-prog," kids).

Then, adding insolence to inspiration, they had the absolute nards to leap off the cliffside into an 18-minute "Harry Hood"! Like, what?! Dare I say, near-religious for the hills to witness. That weekend's shows, after all, were what supplied the inspiration for this blog!

"Cities" / "Crosseyed and Painless": So invisibly plugged-in am I to the linkage of these two Talking (Phish) Heads staples, I didn't realize until just now that they're two of the sauciest C-songs in the Phish canon, both yielding fierce 2009 covers of the Renegades from RISD.

"Cities" came in two prime forms this past year, first, with a most laid-back and positively Jah-licious 6/2/09 Jones Beach-side version, and, in my pick for best, the show-saving "Cities" from Googleburg, 8/5/09 at Shoreline. Don't get me wrong: the latter show had great energy and overall awesome playing, but I think it was veritably extinguished by the glory that followed up the Coast at Gorge (see "Bathtub Gin" above). Last year's "Cities"' liked the seaside, because waves carried it away both times. As similar for the two "Crosseyed"s of 2009, the two "Cities" each have distinct merit, but with one holding slightly more weight than the other.

6/2/09 "Cities":

The Wantagh "Cities" was an atmospherically and perfect choice, with an air of laid-back yet richly historical (dare I say) Grateful Dead-like significance. A dreamy, yet persistently dubby vibe floated over the oceanside, the air fragrant with salt, seaweed and...uhh..."land weed"... With heart-informed rhythmic familiarity, the band members relaxed into each others' wah-ified, lovingly modulated grooves, creating a familiar but richly unique sense of place with a body of temples in motion, the band weaving moments in a tapestry of musical legacy, our communal memory.

After scrounging my ticket on a trade for a 6/4 extra I had in the lot, I finally made my way into the nosebleeds, and tilted into the high, high stands, just in time for this tune to fire up. I twirled slowly, dancing dizzily along the rail, ecstatic to be back in the throng after what seemed like a lifetime after a renewed taste (but indeed only two days!). I high-fived strangers, ran headlong into some old friends, then took my place, dipping down, surfacing, and dipping again into my own Phishtory, which began in that very amphitheater.

8/5/09 "Cities":

The (other) Shoreline "Cities" delivered a whiff of similar historicity as its predecessor, taking its place, though, among a strongly-delivered, but somehow energetically diffuse show. The crowning glory of the Shoreline "Cities" is its mammoth, goal-sinking segue into an incredible "Maze" both of which were the absolute highlights of the show.

There were only two "Crosseyed"s in 2009, both cause for much endless squealing from those lucky enough to catch them. Actually, they're such rare gems that it's hard to choose a favorite, so instead, I'll briefly wax on their particular charms.

6/21/09 "Crosseyed and Painless":

The first of the dynamic duo was Set II opener of the last show of 2009 Summer Tour Leg I, Alpine Valley 6/21/09. This was the first show of 2009 after Hampton that made me elbow everyone and everything outta the way, head to LivePhish.com and snag it. Seeing the setlist, I HAD to hear it the SECOND it was available, and I was more than willing to spend my last bucks to do it. Hah, it only took them three weeks to whip me into that much of a frenzy? You can hear the blood shooting from the eardrums of the crowd even on the SBD mix, when the frenetic rhythm spins up; everyone knew they were freaking lucky.

About midway through, the trance-whip turns into an inferno, with Trey whirling out bursts of disto-tinged code. The ensuing synergetic froth is worthy of being christened the "Alpine Jam" on the LivePhish recording.

7/31/09 Red Rocks "Crosseyed and Painless":

Secondly, something about the depth of valleys sends the up the call of the "Crosseyed", since the year's second emerged from a masterfully executed, key-shifted segue out of a richly jammed "Drowned", in Show II of the 4-night Red Rocks stand that kicked off Summer 2009 Leg II. If I had to choose, the Alpine "Crosseyed" would win out, for some truly inspired Trey soloing that, in 3.0 style, meshes prominently but equally on a plane with the other band members; no showboating on this cruise!

11/22/09 "David Bowie":

The Fall '09 Syracuse "Bowie" signaled the return of Fearsome Phish; an exacting onslaught, almost supernatural in its virtuosity and near-malevolent interconnectedness. Second only to the SPAC "Bowie" (more psychedelic and otherworldly in nature), it comes out of the gate like a lion with fire in its eyes, plunging through the preliminary positions to rest heaving in the pre-jam pocket. Like a quiet storm, the band slowly (but stealthily) slide around in a forcefully loungy bebop place that suddenly catches like a brush fire, led by Trey's deliberate, feral escalation, Page's pounding piano chords right behind, and trussed up by direct and limber backend Fish and Mike (who is definitely the song's silent-but-deadly MVP).

I went to college not half-hour from Syracuse (in God's own purgatory, Oswego, NY), and I'll say firsthand that Central New York has a ferocious, hardy Native American energetic underpinning that few acknowledge; the flying tomahawk of Phish's fiercest fusionary vision sliced out the "David Bowie" opener that night, which, upon first listen, had me scraping my quivering jaw off a sidewalk somewhere in Long Island City, Queens.

12/3/09 "Free":

Captured in all its crystalline crispness and hypereality, the MSG "Free" dug deep into the delivery mechanism (i.e. the band), probing and expressing its message. Obviously, "swimming weightless in the womb" of Madison Square Garden again for a second night of three, for the first time in 7 years, the tune's joyous prosody pulsed rhythmically in the air upon its classic opening measures. Although I can't say exactly authoritatively, Phish is one of the only bands I've witnessed at MSG that can throw hooks like the circular raindance and spin of "Free" into the walls, and shrink the 19,000 capacity venue down to the size of an explosive, rhythmic block party in the round.

Trey and Mike both splash out lively, unhindered lines right from the guts to the fingers; it's a brief shot, but placed at dead center of a cathartic, bricklaying second set sandwich -- "Down with Disease > Piper > Fluffhead, Cities" followed by "Halley's Comet > (an armpit pumping party-jumping) 2001 > David Bowie", the MSG "Free" was enough to make me remember why letting life's limber magic take over is sometimes just the way to go.

6/9/09 "Ghost":

A good way to refer to some of the best instances of "Ghost" in 2009 is as "The Slappin' Apparitions" -- most of the 2009 killers rose from an eerie fog lifting off some of the year's smokinest jams. I know the pillory is opening for my neck, having not written "11/27/09 Ghost" to head off this section, but I'm going to play Devil's Advocate for a minute, so bear with me...Fall 2009's Albany "Ghost" was the second leg of a Vitruvian Man-like ubermensch that floated up and shattered the ceiling many thought Phish had hit and/or been trapped under for most of last year.

But believe me when I tell/remind/convince you that the evolution was being contrived months and months earlier, you just had to be listening to hear it. Asheville's "Ghost" (or, properly, the spirited "Backwards Down the Number Line > Ghost" combo) is the direct ancestor of Albany's sky-shifting "Seven Below > Ghost". Vastly more uptempo, and true to its funky roots, but with equally expansive key-changes, ranges and flow, Asheville's "Ghost" dug one of the first holes that a grew the kind of monster seen in Albany five months later.

3/7/09 "Halley’s Comet":

To avoid the obvious “H” Phish song that people were sick to death of on the first leg of Summer tour, I'm picking a Phish-o-sophical dark horse that doesn't get near enough attention in the Phish rotation, but for the inevitable "hoo-hah party" value it absolutely guarantees from Mike's first "deep joop ba-ba-ba jimbo". But to me, "Halley's Comet", in a tradition of, say, Dr. John or, hell, even the Four Tops, espouses a familial feeling borne of whimsical, honest storytelling, despite the fact that, in the case of this song that never actually includes the celestial body of its title but in its merry refrain, it makes zero factual sense.

Much in that vein, bringing it back to the second show of the reunion (that's 3/7/09 Hampton, holder of not a great many Greatest Hits of 2009, mostly since the band was rusty as phuck-all) makes sense in the concept of historical atmosphere, space and place: phamilial, rootsy, comfortable to the point of barenaked hilarity, and the everyday celebration of good old-fashioned new-school road rock, this time satisfyingly back home among its people.

All this can be heard, and felt, in Trey's joyously quavery tones, Page's celebratory near-holler, Mike's merry boobling, some phine and poppy Fishman shimmy, and, most of all, the straight-up ecstatic "get-down" whiff coming off the crowd, even on the recordings. Moreso on the healing tip, too, the Hampton "Halley's" plops quite quickly into the debut of "Beauty of a Broken Heart," which is all about stitching up the wounds, and swerving into the light... 

*whew!!* That's about half the functional alphabet right there. I'll tell ya right now; "Y" is not one of the topmost utilized letters in the alphabet, so that'll save me a couple more sleepless nights. It may take me a while, but what can I say? Mine is not an easy life in the big city. Next time, I'll hopefully be finally finished catchin' ya up on what's gone on, as what's comin' at ya...is comin' at ya!

Letter to the Editor

In response to my last post's "Expansion Module jam" comment, re: 11/27/09 "Seven Below > Ghost", "Jake" writes:

Q: "I'm curious as to the etymology of your term "Expansion Module jam" for the 11/28/09 Seven Below > Ghost. Is it because the jam, and this style in general of jamming, finds what seems to be an independent harmonic, melodic, and affective segment, plays around with it, and then moves to another one of these segments with basically block juxtaposition? I'm guessing that's what you mean with the term "module," since it's a more modular style rather than a smooth progression towards an end goal (like Hood or Slave), or the very crazy, abrupt juxtapositions of old-school '92-'93 era jams (like the 8/28/93 Antelope). I'd suggest that the SPAC 6/19/04 Piper is a great example of this "modular" style jamming. 5 distinct jam segments, including a heavy Tweeprise jam..."

A: Yes, exactly. Well put. Students, you can learn well from Jake's class participation. High-fives, "Jake" -- nice work! Here's my very own (holy-crap lucky) capture of the aforesaid specimen, which was difficult to film whilst holding the top of my head on from exploding, due to the rapid change in, err, "atmospheric pressure"...

(PS: M'boy, 8/28/93 "Antelope" -- and, heck, the legendary 8/28/93 in toto -- is worthy of a whole post unto itself, and I'm glad you brought it up. A tale for another time, but an excellent reference and reminder! Extra credit!)

Part II (the so-called meat, or tofu, or TVP, if you prefer) of my 2009 "Best-of" series is forthcoming. There's a lot to write about and compile. It's coming together, I'm about 3/4 done; please be patient. The management apologizes for any inconvenience... ;-)

Backwards Down the 2009: A Right-on-Time 3.0.1 Recap (Part I)

[It's made out of people!!! From Phish's Official Summer Tour site.]

When I started this here blog, I spent a lot of time wrestling with myself over whether I'm just a mindless cheerleader, or, rather, an *epicure* of nuanced discussion of the *critical dialectic* of Phish. (Yeah, take that, emo hipsters!)

I quickly grasped that one who starts a blog about a band cannot, in any way, simply be a cheerleader. The conversation would get boring pretty quick.

However, critiques (mostly) aside for now, there's much good aphoot on the Phish agenda. The piece regarding my three-month absence is forming up much slower than I'd like, and may be expanded in more depth as a piece about the general phenomenon of musical obsession -- addiction, if you will -- over at my new, very slowly evolving, Phish-phree blog, Wade Between the Lines. Well, that's if someone with a blog about a band can keep things so clearly separated. Oy vey! I never said I was a kosher blogger! (::rolls eyes::)

So, as I suppose is worthy of a blog, I'm going to deposit here a recent discourse with a phriend of mine, regarding the current state of Phish. And why not? The crest of their wave has risen again and the hot, heady Summer vibe is again climbing. Awash with public exposure after last night's first post-reunion, full-band TV appearance (on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon, as part of his "Exile on Main Street Week" festivities), they're on the minds of both the dyed-in-wool and uninitiated, too. 

Yeah, I know what it's like when tour is nigh, people...it's happening for me as well. Invisible money is flying outta purses and pockets, rational explanations for "normal living" are wearing thin, and longing for the sweet smell of fresh-pressed Groove Juice -- that undefinable, intoxicating nectar -- is haunting dreams and (seemingly endless) work hours alike.

But, if you're a phan that hasn't yet gotten back on the bandwagon, you may be jaded, bummed, resentful, mistrustful, or just plain unable to *get into* Phish 3.0. It's gotta be tough. And, for many old-schoolers among us, there simply isn't enough time in the day, and all sorts of factors to deal with; kids, mortgages, rent, responsibilities. For the youngers, the song remains the same; cash, school, parents, cash, transportation, "hooch" (umm...), cash, finding phriends, cash...

(An aside...I'll tell you one thing; for me, sober touring definitely knocks a few more brain cells back into the equation. Gearing up for spending a lot of the summer on the road myself, I honestly couldn't -- and didn't over many years, mainly from paranoia -- make tour happen any other way. Thing is; I won't be by myself...I've got phriends in "naturally high" places. FYI, kids: yep, still sober. Made 7 years in February. Why? You don't wanna know what happens otherwise. And if that ain't a mother-flippin' miracle, I'm gonna walk on the Good Lord's bathwater.)

But I digress. Why is Summer Tour (a/k/a Phish 3.0.2, for you dorques in the audience...) worth making the effort? Hell if I know, for you, anyway. For ME, though, it's worth it because I have dedicated myself to having the time to make it worth it. You figure: a band such as Phish stays in the picture for more than two decades, it's something to pay attention to. All way-too-easy and buffoonish comparisons aside (*coughs* Jerry *coughs*), love 'em or hate 'em, they're one of the most important American bands around.

That said, I recently had a a conversation with an old-skool phriend and partner in Crimes of the Mind from way back. He's among the most staunchly discerning a-Phish-ionados I've known. Though he's scarcely the same high-strung, rangy cat he was 10 years ago (all growed up with wife and daughter), he expressed ambivalence about upcoming tour:

"If they could replicate the Seven Below from Albany [i.e. 11/28/09, the now-legend Expansion Module jam] just once, I might consider seeing them again," he said. "But their brilliance has been too far in between. It's really not their fault. In 1997 they were our age, at their peak creative abilities. They've mellowed out due to old age and their songs and straight jams and solos just don't do it for me anymore..."

Pshaw! I'm really not a fan of the "they're old" get outta jail free card, when it comes to writing Phish off as no longer a going concern as musical performers, entertainers, and innovators. And nor am I in the convincing business. But, however you slice it, I'm a PHAN, goddammit. Thus inspired by such nescience, I rattled off a few "Well have you heard..."s from between November and New Year's 2009 that I think stack up well enough to (in my estimation) make a case for some serious shizz to look forward to.

Here's the first part of my "Glad I Didn't Write This Sooner" review of Phish Greatest Bits 2009, starting with those four examples I mentioned to my grumpy ol' pal. Take a listen; comments welcome. My next piece will be a "Most Popular Letters of the Alphabet"-ical rundown of Best Versions of Songs from last year (at least as many as jump off the top of my head: in progress).

In the meantime, though, dig the sound of the just-crashed wake, bearing a promise of oncoming surf. And again, I mean it...comments welcome!

1)
11/18/09 "46 Days" jam: The first day of Fall Tour had this not-incredibly-jammable (-seeming) tune hauled out near the end of the first set. In Hoodstream.com chat, there were banal e-groans from those present, regarding the song choice. However, as we squinted with our ears to the grungy stream, no video to be seen, when the verses ended, something happened, and it went a little something like this... The jam's a little pokey, perhaps, but spacey enough that, by the end of the song (which just floats in like nebular fog), some celestial transportation has surely occurred. Also, check out this Chris Kuroda "WTF"-style light show during the "46 Days" jam, as an example of how CK5's influence as "5th Phish" may indeed effect overall improvisational outcomes, and vicey-versey...)



2)
12/29/09 "Tweezer" jam: I was working the table the first two nights of the Miami run, taking turns jogging in and out of the stands to catch bits of the show, on rotation with my other sober phellows. When the Tweezer began, we were kind of "meh." But again, when the main element had fired, and we stopped paying attention, soon, someone stood blinking and said, "Are you hearing what's happening in there...?"

3) 
(later that set) 12/29/09 "Gotta Jibboo > Wilson > Gotta Jibboo": Okay, okay folks...this is just what we were used to back in the day, 50-minute "Tweezer"s and setlist gymnastics of the most consistently irie variety. Things have changed. But what slays me is how people seem to think a) they don't still have it in 'em, or b) Rome was fabricated of popsicle sticks on Jehovah's lunch break. Not at all perfect in execution, the cartoon anvil of the aforementioned segue (as you'll hear) hit the crowd like a sock full of pennies. Yes! Keep on keeping us guessing! Mush, mush, more!!

And...

4) 
12/30/09 "Boogie On Reggae Woman > Run Like an Antelope" (or, as I'm fond of calling it, the "Boogie Antelope"): The pre-NYE barnburner of December 30, 2009 was so powerful, it contributed to my disappearing off the blogosphere for three months. The sheer magnitude of this last-blast of Phish brilliance for the year (no offense 12/31; you wuz aiight) knocked my flippin' flip-flops off; I was still wearing them, and South Beach sand, by the time I, err, "engineered" my way onto the floor, where I floated around for most of the show. Wearing green shorts and an orange Phish "Citrus" Miami t-shirt (bought at setbreak because my still-damp bathing suit + 1st set sweat soaked my first shirt), I planted myself messily down front in the Fish-Mike pocket, just in time for this bit of insanity to emerge. "Lost my shit" (audibly) kinda covers the sentiment in most of those in attendance...

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Phish 3D: A Glide Inside the Cubic Tube

I'd sacrifice anything come what might
For the sake of having you near
In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night
And repeats, repeats in my ear

Don't you know little fool, you never can win
Use your mentality, wake up to reality
But each time I do, just the thought of you
Makes me stop before I begin
'Cause I've got you under my skin

-- Cole Porter, "Under My Skin"

It’s a good thing I was in Piscus interruptus between 11/01/09, and Friday night at Chelsea Cleaview Cinema in NYC. When the lights went down just after midnight, the show was brand new to my ears and eyes. FYI, Piscus interruptus is my invented description of delayed ingestion of some aspect of Phish, in whatever form, for whatever reason, whether their whole polyvalent orbit, or just the hearing of a certain show, or shows.

The term came to me while in that very Phish-frozen state, from January 2010 until a few weeks back, circumstances of which will be discussed in more depth my next post. But, as in this case, sometimes, I just don’t get around to bearing witness to some slice of Phish. Usually, though, there always ends up being some astounding cosmic obviousness for why it’s better off that way.

Phish 3D is another file-under in that category for me. I won’t attempt to pin down their motives in producing the film, itself and its subject matter the newest entry in their litany of ambitious live concert offerings. Though brief, it’s on par with the fullness of legendary 7-disc Clifford Ball DVD extravaganza, first for the novelty of The Glasses. Never have I felt such kinship with Trey as a fellow spectacle-clad nerd; I can't have anything in my eyes except my eyeballs, so contacts have always been a non-option, making 3D movies a precariously smudgy ordeal.

[Tremendous geek, ready to rock!]


The film is sensuously intimate, to say the least, though not particularly awash in emotional intimacy. How those seemingly related states sometimes don't quite intersect is one of the fascinating, enduring mysteries inherent in Phish. Phans are given equal witness to the internal mechanics of the Floating Rainbow Peanut, but, more importantly, the outer-dimensional expansions of the band’s faces, and a few entrancing (yet detached) backstage run-throughs. When the concert footage kicks in, it's fun time.

 
Energetic highlights of the film come early, perhaps guaranteeing energy compromise in its latter half. When "Tweezer" (perennial crowd-pleazer) began, the theatre became (unsurprisingly) thick with herbal smog, and dancing audience members filled the aisles, self included, at least until jam break.

Page and Fishman are again revealed as carnal firmament of Phish. Their left-and-right bracketed expressions suggest pressure molding in die-cuts of space, forming a perpetual vessel that contains its more volatile, arbitrary contents. This mélange becomes most thrilling to witness, as "Tweezer" gets more reformatted and ugly, then suddenly sprawling and gorgeous, 4th dimensional swerve, whilst riding a light-train into "Maze". (Weirdly and incidentally, as things Phish tend to happen, euphoric recall reminds me that "Cities" > "Maze" was a better aspect of mostly indistinct 08/05/09 Shoreline Amphitheatre…note to self, must revisit).

Onscreen, from behind my 3D glasses, terse, hyper-real, tumultuously grimaced Page soloing is tossed about by Trey’s aggressively narrow-eyed, abstract prodding, all seen as though sitting atop Page’s piano. Trey seems bent on extruding the angular maze, almost unnervingly so at times. One can only imagine kinesis in the band room, without cameras present… Again, as with Clifford Ball, I'm stunned at how very close we're getting, while remaining just-so-slightly impersonal, like tracing the metallic contours of Mike’s remarkably immobile facial features.

Soon, we’re onstage in visibly rippling, late Sunday morning Indio heat. My skin sizzles with nostalgia (not the good kind). But I’m then loudly amused at the plywood-esque brim of Fishman's cartoonish Phish baseball cap, a hilarious bit of nightmare haberdashery [see diagram]. It’s tricky to separate music of a concert film from the film itself, but the acoustic set ranks most visually and musically interesting portion of Phish 3D, much due to the Technicolor weirdness of phans, and secondarily to beautifully nuanced orchestrations of Phish in an “unplugged” format.

[Fishman and his Festival 8 Sunday morning doppelganger. Pic by C. Taylor Crothers, from phishfromtheroad's Flickr photoset.]

"The Curtain," stirring, magical, and played in stoic absorption, has not sounded as majestic, causing me to actually consider the novel concept of a 100% acoustic Phish show. I had to be careful here to mind the screen while iTyping, to not miss 3D snippets like crowd hippie sketchily painting the stage on a strangely-gessoed canvas, stippled in Martian-morning pink and white. (Some wisacre behind me quipped, “I bet it’s gonna turn out awesome.”) Better, there were more “note-to-self” phan nibbles, like a very impressive Phish lot shirt held aloft, designed like a "Twister" game board (white with big red, yellow, and blue dots), its song-name punchline emblazoned on the front: “Twist”! (That is, “Twister” in its original font, with the last two letters lopped off.) Ah, enduring artistic brilliance of phans is just a little of what keeps pulling me back in…

A rather awkward moment came in the unbidden segue of “Mike’s Junk” > "Train Song". This red-blooded American gal was shaken out of a growing theatrical contact high and well-reproduced, hot-ass desert sun, when the crane-cam, in upward drift, fixated itself momentarily on Mike Gordon’s (err) crotch, in spectacular depth. Maybe due to continuity, it was difficult to edit that part out...?

Anyway, though the remainder of the acoustic set bore testament to versatility, it began to betray increasingly unhelpful cinematic disarray. 

Things began to come loose in final sequences of Phish 3D. I’m not saying this due to my ostensible past bias surrounding the Halloween costume choice. Of all “Phish Does Exile on Main Street” highlights I would've chosen, the Rolling Stones staples “Loving Cup” (a version that could be termed “Best Cup Ever”), “Happy” (love, love, love Fishman's voice, and its otherworldly, comic sensuality!), and “Shine a Light,” are a darn good lot. But by then, the audience was palpably pummeled. Over-the top, soul-inflaming tension release shoots from the screen, which the 3D brain drain could not sustain. 

That Coachella Valley weekend – 90° dehydrating desert sun – was gorgeous yet challenging, definitely among Phish’s most endurance-testing venues ever (Camden notwithstanding, haw, haw). The movie’s eventual, questionable tolerability will not be blamed on that, the quality of music (which, while not among most legendary Phish, was certainly above-snuff), or thrilling, smartly documented, wild accoutrements of Festival 8. For me, less-than-wise placement of the film’s sequences end up its biggest downfall.

My re-imagining is as follows. Though not temporally realistic, it’s art, so I can do what I want (so, there!): 1) Exile backstage rehearsal footage (an initial, non-jarring first 3D taste), 2) the Exile sequence (an analogous, impressive display of the weekend’s “main event”), 3) the acoustic set (which, though muted, was surprisingly rich), 4) the 11/01/09 footage (the juicy Phish meat of the film), and 5) the "Suzy Greenberg" closer, with an absolute omission of the night’s envelope-pushing “Suzy" coda. In that order, Phish in its essence might have been preserved, and a “jump the shark” energy wane and muddling, non-Phish entities (both songs, and people) so late in the mix, avoided. A truly arresting sparrow’s-eye view -- as if perched on the end of Mike's bass headstock -- comes during the end credits, some serious 3D wow-factor gone wasted, in terms of the punchy angle they’re presumably going for.

Either way, during the throbbing finale of the Stones-skin, scorching superimposition, soul-tight impression of their musical past, I suddenly realized it was exactly 6 months to the moment it all went down, the morning of May 1, 2010. I smiled in spite of myself, simply because they're back, and I'm back, as ever inspired by it all, the lumpy and the smooth alike. I made it, despite incongruence and emotional dissonance. It (the movie) got made; it's here, we’re all here, and it’s okay. I survived! And so did the love.

The “Best Suzy Since Beacon Theatre 1994 with the Giant Country Horns" began, and I had just boarded the Ferris wheel in a melancholy, sun-poisoned funk. Now, having seen Phish 3D, I’m nowhere near as crusty, even with my constructively creative critiques, all among the magnificent pageantry of deep connection with this complex, oft ungraspable, always compelling band. Despite its flaws, the Good Lord (Buddha, of course :-) shined a light on me with this flick. At Chelsea Clearview, half-an-hour from home, I got delayed gratification from all I abandoned 3,000 miles away at Festival 8, weeping on the tarmac, reading the acoustic setlist in real-time on Twitter just after Noon, sitting on a flight out of Palm Springs a day early, to nurse my terrific outbreak of polymorphous light eruption (PMLE) in NYC.

In much less physically compromising circumstances, I was ridiculously early, "the dork" at the front of the line, demanding another free glossy poster (the top one had fingerprints all over it!), howling aloud, chair dancing and gesticulating to Maze, fully recovered from some rather profound side-effects of my relationship to this quizzical musical entity. And so it goes. There are many full circles, rearranging globs, shifting spheres, rainbow peanuts, and more Technicolor dimensions yet to come.

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