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.
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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.
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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
