| By David Feder I suppose I should warn you before the thoughts come spilling out of my headabout Phish's takeover of the Rosemont a few weeks back. Unlike every otherarticle that has matriculated from the pen of the mainstream music critics, I'mgoing to stay away from those sweeping generalizations that either trivialize thePhish experience or belittle the essence of the group.  | | This is not Eric Clapton, but rather Trey Anastasio, the lead guitarist from PHEESH. | I'm talking about those phrases that John Q. Critic likes to heap in hiscommentaries, like "Phish has taken the title of world's best jam band [or is itcult band, Entertainment Weekly?] in the wake of Jerry's death and the demise ofthe Grateful Dead." Or the overly-nonsensical quip, "While Bathtub Gin startedout with the powerful syncopation of Anastasio's corporate-infused lynchpin, theexploratory element so embraced by the band's marijuana-hazed following lackedthe poignant counter-deft-touch of more superfluous, yet ordained perfunctoryexplicitude." Oh, and they love the ol' ph-for-f letter switcharoo. The first critical sampling only states what the casual music fan already thinkshe knows: Phish does what the Dead used to do. The second makes absolutely nosense, which is how most journalists tend to rationalize what they cannot fathomin music, something that happens more often than just reviewing Phish. First, what these people can never understand is that Phish and the Dead are not one andthe same. Secondly, Phish's greatest work is usually best described with thewords "dude," "kickass," and "Did you hear that shit Page was doing on thatlittle keyboard?," not the convoluted psychobabble above. So, my rant about musicreviewers aside, here's my altern-a-take on what happened when the circus came totown on September 22 and 23. Phish + Chicago = Rain Yes, it's true, about three weeks ago, the Phish caravanmoseyed on over to the Allstate Horizon to be in good hands with four gentlemenwhose music we've all absorbed so well through the years. Along with a slew ofother like-minded Wildkits, and the thousands of other heads on the scene, Iwithstood the pounding rain and constant glares of Rosemont Arena securitylooking for public urination and general shadiness. I'm pretty sure Mayor Daley and his band of weather-manipulating cronies enlistthe rain to keep the parking lot mayhem to a minimum. Beware the gooballs,Richie, beware the gooballs. Of course, it's not always rain. For those of uslucky to attend the three-night UIC Pavilion run in November 1998, an earlysnowstorm made for an interesting car ride home. Just ask my bud Earl (h)Ebner,who made the Chicago Iditarod from the Eisenhower to Dempster in record time. Anyhoo, the Rosemont shows featured rain...and lots of it. Enough to shield thebeers from the unwanted shower. Enough so that the guy in the lot who sold me hisown blown-up illegal photos of the band warned me that "rain screws the picture,dude." Smart people, these heads, they know precipitation. The Lot For anyone who thinks the show is just like any old concert (drive up, goin, listen, go home, look at porn) is sorely mistaken. Phish and its fans tend todrag things out. So, just as the Super Bowl has incessant pre- and post-gamecommentary, so does Phish. Only in this instance, Terry Bradshaw is ahairy-pitted hippie chick; Howie Long is that guy ducking through cars to evadethe cops; and Cris Collinsworth is passed out from too many rippers in the backof his van like the lightweight that he is. To take it further, instead ofpumped-in crowd noise, there's the fuzzy hiss of nitrous tanks, and whileeveryone's friend's uncle is a dentist, you can never get your hands on hissupply. The Chicago lot, plagued by the dreariness, lacked a lot scene. A few frisbees.More puddles than phatty quesadillas. Although, it wasn't just the rain fallingout of the heavens...every 10 minutes or so a 747 would rumble overhead drowningout the ever-present tour stories. "Merriweather, man. It was sooo phat. Not likeDarien, though, man, that was the shit." The Nashville boys who joined myroommate and I were intently throwing down Jack Daniels, this despite its obviousradiator burning ramifications. Once a Tennessean, always drunk. The big electronic board that tells you what's ahead at the arena provided muchof the anxiety-driven, pre-show chatter. Not only would Toy Story on Ice be therein a few weeks, but so would Elvis. Don't ask me how, that's what the sign said.Electronic boards don't supply much information. I will say, however, that, whilethe music will always be why I go, the crowd and the lot scene provide much ofthe entertainment. It's like my buddy Hal once said: "Where else in the world can you find so manypeople gathered together, talking to complete strangers, and generally having thetime of their lives?" Makes you wonder why so many people despise Phish fans.They must not be having such a good time at Limp Bizkit. Entrance Why is it that every security guard at a Phish show is such a bigdouchebag? We're standing out there drenched and freezing; cricks forming in ournecks as we check to see how hard they're patting down. Frantically, things arebeing stuffed into shoes and wallets. Just let us the hell in, dammit! Very few men bark as loud or as often as security guards that need to stress justhow important rent-a-cops are in the grand scheme. I will say that the guy withthe Metallica patches on his leather jacket working the door was pretty cool, notas big a douchebag as the rest. So here we go, plodding into the shelter andwarmth provided by Chicago's most spaceship-like arena. Out of the rain, and intothe lightning. I was lucky enough to have seats on the floor with the editor, and a number ofother 'Kits who hopped the rail to join us in the pit. This is always the placeto be unless you cherish comfort before the show and during the set-break. Can'treally go wrong with the floor, though. That's where the best sound is. That'swhere the best lights are. And yer not confined by seats. And if some assholecomes by and starts playing percussion on your head, chances are he'll move away.They always do. So we sat around. We remarked on how terrible the sound at the Rosemont was lastyear and hoped that Phish's magical engineers had fiddled with the equipment toavoid a clamorous reprise. Speaking of magical, at every show, this oddballdresses in a green jumpsuit with matching cape and the name Lawn Boy written onhis chest, throwing tootsie rolls to the crowd. This show was no exception. Whywould some idiot deem it his duty to prance around like a candy fairy at everydamn show? Because it's Phish, and he knows that he won't get razzed like hewould at, say, any other show. And he's the happiest guy there. The lights went out, the band came on, and the smoke poured towards the ceiling... David Feder hasn't showered since attending these Phish shows. Send him advice on how to be more normal: d-feder@northwestern.edu. |
