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I’ll be honest right from the get-go: the whole jam band phenomenon is a pretty foreign concept to me. I don’t see the allure of collecting, trading, and/or hoarding hundreds of live recordings from the same band, nor would I ever consider following around a band for more than even a couple of shows (in my 25+ years of gigs that spans hundreds of shows, I’ve seen back-to-back shows exactly four times: NEIL YOUNG (twice), GUIDED BY VOICES, and MOGWAI). The stock defense is that bands of this ilk never play the same show twice, and that it’s all about the shared experience; well I wouldn’t know much about the first but I can emphatically concur with the latter. When Phish announced they were getting back together to hit the road after a five year absence, Live Nation’s servers melted under the ticket demand onslaught, and some peace-loving hippies frustrated with this system of The Man caught their first taste of bitter hatred. When the throngs assembled at the beloved home of the Red Sox, tickets in hand, everything was alright; even the late afternoon storm cell that brought some lightning and a downpour couldn’t dampen the collective spirits (as well as providing a dose of some much-needed hygiene in certain cases).
After leading off a baseball stadium gig properly (the band stood at the pitcher’s mound and sang the national anthem a capella), a short walk later they were on stage and miraculously the sun burst out of the clouds, driving the rain and grey away for good. As a musical entity, it’s clear that Phish is quite talented and enjoy stretching out and taking some time to get to what they are trying to say; the key focal point most of the time is de facto leader TREY ANASTASIO on guitar, but drummer JON FISHMAN is certainly critical as a rudder to the music. Though I could barely see him from behind the gargantuan kit (the monitors confirmed he had on the standard circle-printed dress), the shifting tempos and loose but never lackadaisical fills were prevalent. Bass player MIKE GORDON looked a bit like Arnold Horshack as he deftly manned his five string bass, and keyboardist PAGE MCCONNELL was encased in a fortress consisting of a grand piano on one flank and a bank of organs and synths at the other.
Having seen them play only once before (the semi-famous gig/turning point in 1989 when they rented out Boston’s Paradise Rock Club since the club wouldn’t book them, and proceeded to draw fans from all around to sell out the club), I wasn’t exactly familiar with their output, but the format of semi-endless noodling was a near-constant, with Trey poking, prodding, leaning and bending notes out of his guitar on a continuous basis. The second set, once darkness fell, was when the momentum picked up. Bounced beach balls were replaced with a steady hail of thrown fluorescent glowsticks, raining down on the hordes below, and the light show helped move the music in ways that the late daylit stage couldn’t, courtesy of unofficial fifth member and lighting director CHRIS KURODA. “Tweezer” and “Bowie” were long workouts, and the latter had a strong odor of GENESIS-esque prog hanging over it. To Phish’s credit, despite their appointed designation as standard-bearers for the post GRATEFUL DEAD world, they didn’t just coast on Captain Trip’s fumes. One could discern some equal parts of STEELY DAN, FRANK ZAPPA and ALLMAN BROTHERS in their playing, and they could work a riff much harder than the Dead. This predilection became apparent with covers from both LYNYRD SKYNYRD and LED ZEPPELIN. The crowd was clearly having a great time, with a constant heaving motion of thousands of people collectively gyrating in that manner that only white people can. I did enjoy myself, but can safely say that I don’t need to tune in again until 2019.
