Fucking Phish, Man

When I was writing 2013’s You Don’t Know Me But You Don’t Like Me, my book about becoming a Juggalo and Phish phan, and also losing my goddamn mind and finding myself, I would occasionally take a long view. I’d look forward to a moment in the future when the obligation of having to finish a book about Phish and ICP would no longer hang heavy over me and I’d be able to go to shows not as a half-assed would-be pop anthropologist with an ambitious professional project to complete but rather as a fan.

The same was true when I was working on Weird Al: the Book. I could not have imagined that after completing You Don’t Know Me and Weird Al: The Book my work with Insane Clown and “Weird Al” Yankovic would not be finished. Not by a long shot. Heck, my work writing books about the wicked clowns and the clown prince of American pop music wasn’t even over. I wrote and published 7 Days in Ohio about a week spent covering both The Gathering of the Juggalos and the 2016 Republican National Convention three years and the book compiling all of the entries in The Weird Accordion to Al should be finished in the next six months or so, God willing. 

Phish is different. I haven’t even contemplated writing a second book about Phish but they remain special to me. They’re more than special to me. They’re sacred. I want to continue to go to Phish concerts until I die or they break up, ,whichever comes first. But as a struggling freelancer with two small children, I generally only have the money, time and freedom to go to the shows in my hometown, and sometimes I do not have the money, time or freedom even for that. 

So I was excited that on Friday, August 3rd, I was able to attend a Phish show for the first time in two very long years. How long have the years been? Let’s just say that the last time I saw Phish rock Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, I had a perhaps drug-induced epiphany that of course Donald Trump was going to be soundly defeated in a historic rout of Nixon-over-McGovern proportions and the fear and sadness and anxiety I was feeling over Donald Trump’s rise would dissipate with his crushing, humiliating defeat. Could I ever have been that young and naive? 

The Lyft driver on the way to the venue was a forty-nine year old African-American private investigator who, like seemingly everyone involved in the ride-sharing community, is both a character and someone who loves to talk about themselves. He described himself as “Old School”, a label that increasingly applies to me as well, and blasted Haircut 100 loud and sang along and discussed his love for both Hip Hop and every major heavy metal band of the 1980s and 1990s. 

I talked to him about my career writing about pop music and when he asked me if “Weird Al” Yankovic had any rap songs I proudly/obnoxiously played him “White & Nerdy”, “All About the Pentiums” and “Amish Paradise” on Youtube on phone. See, I’m not just a deeply awkward, self-conscious weirdo who evangelizes on behalf of American pop parodist “Weird Al” Yankovic online; I do that shit in real life. In a possibly related development, I have very few friends. 

Phish is a communal experience even if you go by yourself. If anything, it might be an even more communal experience. I did not know any of the weird dudes around me. All I knew was that they all seemed to be older, doughier and more awkward than me, which considering that I’m pretty old, doughy and awkward, is really saying something. But that did not matter. For three and a half frequently transcendent hours we were locked in a groove we shared with everyone at the show, that ecstatic sense that everyone in on the same wavelength. 

Were drugs involved? Of course. There comes a moment in every Phish show where you find yourself thinking, “Man, I would really love it if a stranger passed me a joint.” Thankfully, that wish is often, if not invariably, immediately granted by the universe. That was the case at this particular show. 

But it was more than that. In Alpharetta, I felt like I was communing with the past and present and future, that I was reconnecting to a part of myself and my past that otherwise remains hidden but comes out to dance exuberantly, if incompetently, whenever I see Trey and the boys start to play. 

Not every musical flirtation is built to last, I'm afraid. 

In Alpharetta I once again experienced the deep spiritual joy I had felt over and over again at Phish shows over the past decade, that life-affirming sense that you are exactly where you want to be, and need to be, and all is right with a universe that otherwise seems to be all wrong and getting worse.

A lot has changed since I started going to Phish shows. I got married. I’ve had two babies. I switched jobs and then went freelance partially out of desperation and partially out of inspiration. I’m a different person than I was when I started. Time has changed me. But Phish has changed me as well. It’s opened me up and helped teach me patience and grace. 

Going to a Phish show remains sacred to me. It remains important. It continues to transcend music. I don’t need to write any more books about Phish or masquerade as an authority; it’s enough to just be a fan. In fact, it’s more enough. It’s goddamn sublime. 

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