I have 3, they have 30: How Phish converted me

There I was -- cheering, swaying, jamming in my seat at Madison Square Garden. I never, ever thought I'd be there, let alone be enjoying myself.

Sure, I'd gone to MSG to see the Knicks play. Shit, I'd even been there to see a hockey game. But to see Phish? What the fuck was I doing here? Had I been drugged? Was I having some LSD-infused nightmare? I'm a custy? Who has wook flu? Is this Star Wars?

That was how I felt three years ago, the night I arrived at my very first Phish show in the heart of New York City. I was a Hip Hop fan. I didn't know Phish from (sorry, Phish fans) Reel Big Fish. I didn't know Phish from one fish, two fish, redfish or bluefish. I was frightened. I was confused.

But I was there. I was there because my good friend had always been a fan and I needed to see (or he needed me to see) what it was all about. And I'm glad I/he did.

--

The atmosphere is unlike any other. You don't have to know the songs. No one's screaming them out or waiting for you to do the same.

The long, twisting guitar riffs and echoing keyboard overwhelm everything. They'll hit a nerve you never knew you had. I certainly didn't know I had it. You'll want to dance. You might make out with the person next to you. You'll smile. They'll smile.



With welcoming music comes welcoming fans, or Phans, or Phisheads, or wooks. There's no fighting. There are no angry mobs. People share seats. People hang out in the fucking aisles for the show's entire entirety.

"Sure, your seat is at the top of the building, but you can sway here next to me in the front row while hitting my bowl filled with my marijuana."

What? Can you imagine that kind of thing happening at any other concert? There would be mass ejections/murder. But here, it was safe. It was normal. It was just how it was, and it was spectacular.

OK, grab that bowl back and pay close/lose all attention. Watch the show. Watch as the lights stream magically around the arena, bringing the audience to life. It's almost as if that ray of brilliance first made them dance, but then you remember you're at a Phish show, and everyone is dancing ... all the time.

It's nearly midnight, but the energy from the music and the people keep you going. You're as young as you ever wanted to be. A beach ball comes into your section and you juggle it on your head a few times before punching it forward. First punch thrown in Phish show history?

Trey, Jon, Mike and Page keep jamming away -- eight, 10, 20, 76, I lost count(?) minutes at a time. Balloons fall from the ceiling, lighters flicker in unison, glowsticks pour out from sections like green rainbows running over some fairytale horizon. You can't help but laugh. Good times, brah.

--

Three years this past December. That's how long we've made going to the MSG Phish run a tradition. I roared the Reba Roar, I air-guitared my way through last NYE eve eve's classic second set, and I've fucking swayed. I look forward to the show every winter.

And how about Phish. The four mates celebrated their 30th year together in 2013. They've adopted hoards of fans with their easygoing, jam-band-man, incredibly quirky sound. They don't rant. They don't scream. They don't blow things up on stage.

They perform. They play music. They have a good time doing what they love.

And I've had a good time listening.

Photos via Phish.com and Phishthoughts.com

Shut up and Lift: Papa Frenchie is Here to Stay

He shuffled in his chair and squinted out his desk-side window -- perhaps wondering how a neighborhood could have changed so much over the past 37 years, perhaps simply watching the trucks roar by on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“You know, I could’ve been a wrestler,” Frenchie said with a smile. “But I was too short. Too light.”

Before the luxury, high-rise buildings shot up along the East River, before Christopher Wallace became Notorious BIG, before the MetroCard -- there was Frenchie’s Gym.

Hailing from Puerto Rico, Frenchie (or Papa Frenchie, if you’d like) came to the Big Apple in 1966. He started off as a Manhattan factory worker before quickly entering the club wrestling scene via Williamsburg’s Mr. Puerto Rico Gym. But after attending a local match with early-WWF superstars Johnny Rodz and Jose Estrada, Frenchie decided refereeing was the better fit.

“Let me tell you, I was 5’3” and 140 pounds!” he recalled. “These guys were giants.

And referee he did. Frenchie began by officiating local events before eventually doing a 1979 match in front of 30,000 people ... at Madison Square Garden:

“Nervous? Never. I was excited!” the 73-year-old said, smacking his hand on his desk. “The boss (Vince McMahon) had to tell me to calm down in between rounds.”

He worked on-and-off at MSG for 10 years. He was in the ring for the first Wrestlemania. He hung out with Hulk Hogan and Mr. T. He even starred in the short-lived FX show “Lights Out.”

But Frenchie’s greatest contribution probably came in 1976 – the year he turned an old dentist’s office into a workout haven. A Williamsburg mainstay that’s survived crack epidemics, recessions and varying degrees of gentrification.

Frenchie’s Gym stands two floors above a discount clothing store, parallel to the elevated M Train station on Broadway and Marcy. In many ways, the gym is refreshingly old-fashioned -- hardwood floors, rows of free weights, get-to-the-point bodybuilding machines and the owner, yes, the owner there to greet you at the door.

In other ways, change has crept its way into the neighborhood landmark. A “Like Us on Facebook” sticker sits awkwardly next to a poster of an ‘80s bodybuilder, the glowing light of a drink machine shines over a vintage desk full of old wrestling tales and an array of sports jerseys hang from a decades-old ceiling -- ready to be sold.

And then there’s the surrounding neighborhood.

A McDonalds, Checkers and Bank of America have all since opened right around the corner. High-rise apartments, internet cafes, grass-fed beef restaurants, smoothie stores and barcades have sprouted up in droves across the highway in South Williamsburg. Ridership on the L has increased almost 20 million in the past 20 years. Young professionals have replaced Dominican, Italian-American and Puerto Rican immigrants.

“Who am I to judge people?” Frenchie shrugged, rubbing his head. “But yeah, people who have been here a long time have been knocked out. Prices are too high to compete.”

Brooklyn’s average rent was calculated at $3,305 (an 8.2% increase from 2012) this past summer, not far off from Manhattan’s $3,822 median.

But although he feels the pressure of rising prices and radical changes, Frenchie keeps his fees low ($30 per month), maintains fulfilling relationships with customers and will stay in business as long as he can.

“I’m here 15 hours a day,” he said, stroking his long grey beard as an M Train rattled by the far windows. “As long as I can walk up that staircase to my desk -- I’ll be here, Papi. You can count on it.”