, attached to 2009-03-07
March 7th, 2009 was the middle night of Phish’s triumphant comeback run at the Hampton Coliseum in Virginia, a super-fun sold out string of shows that marked the end of the band’s second hiatus. In addition to spending the weekend attending a trio of great concerts I spent a whole lot of time socializing and meeting m’lady’s US concert buddies for the first time.
And there were a lot of them.
Among the swirl of introductions, handshakes, hugs, and hotel room have-a-beer’s were a number of hey-let’s-get-a-bite-to-eat’s. On one such diversion six or so of us found ourselves at a Hooters restaurant. I have no idea why we went to Hooters; it must have been the closest place. Either that or we were already sick of Applebee’s or were unwilling to shell out the big bucks for a place like The Keg, which should give you an idea of the urban sprawl sort of food options we were faced with in the immediate vicinity of our room at the Hampton Inn.
So anyway, we walk into Hooters and are wearily welcomed by the hostess, a short, stocky seventeen year-old greeter that had unmercifully (for everyone) squeezed herself into her obligatory too-tight orange t-shirt.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Table for six please.”
“Sorry,” she said, clearly not sorry. “It’s going to take about an hour for a table, are you gonna wait?”
I pointed to an empty table right behind her that was set up for six and looked ready to go.
“Could we use that table?” I asked, hopefully.
She turned to me with popping gum and a teenaged swagger that was painful to watch and said (if you can believe this):
“How much will you pay me if I let you sit at that table?”
Oh, to have a time machine so I could go back and and ask to speak to her manager! It kills me that I merely gaped in shocked horror and gave her a poisoned, “Are you kidding?!?!” before turning to the group and insisting that we “go somewhere else, now!” I won’t say I walked out of there livid, but I would have if I hadn’t been in such a great mood when I walked in. As it was we merely laughed about it, agreed that she was being ridiculous and walked to one of the many other nearby food chains.
Of course later on we went to the show and had a fantastic time. The band encored with [i]A Day In The Life[/i], which always pleases me. But the one thing that is really permanently burned into my memory from the day is that chubby Virginia hick asking me, “How much will you pay me…”
It makes me shudder with ickiness.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
March 7th, 2009 was the middle night of Phish’s triumphant comeback run at the Hampton Coliseum in Virginia, a super-fun sold out string of shows that marked the end of the band’s second hiatus. In addition to spending the weekend attending a trio of great concerts I spent a whole lot of time socializing and meeting m’lady’s US concert buddies for the first time.
And there were a lot of them.
Among the swirl of introductions, handshakes, hugs, and hotel room have-a-beer’s were a number of hey-let’s-get-a-bite-to-eat’s. On one such diversion six or so of us found ourselves at a Hooters restaurant. I have no idea why we went to Hooters; it must have been the closest place. Either that or we were already sick of Applebee’s or were unwilling to shell out the big bucks for a place like The Keg, which should give you an idea of the urban sprawl sort of food options we were faced with in the immediate vicinity of our room at the Hampton Inn.
So anyway, we walk into Hooters and are wearily welcomed by the hostess, a short, stocky seventeen year-old greeter that had unmercifully (for everyone) squeezed herself into her obligatory too-tight orange t-shirt.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Table for six please.”
“Sorry,” she said, clearly not sorry. “It’s going to take about an hour for a table, are you gonna wait?”
I pointed to an empty table right behind her that was set up for six and looked ready to go.
“Could we use that table?” I asked, hopefully.
She turned to me with popping gum and a teenaged swagger that was painful to watch and said (if you can believe this):
“How much will you pay me if I let you sit at that table?”
Oh, to have a time machine so I could go back and and ask to speak to her manager! It kills me that I merely gaped in shocked horror and gave her a poisoned, “Are you kidding?!?!” before turning to the group and insisting that we “go somewhere else, now!” I won’t say I walked out of there livid, but I would have if I hadn’t been in such a great mood when I walked in. As it was we merely laughed about it, agreed that she was being ridiculous and walked to one of the many other nearby food chains.
Of course later on we went to the show and had a fantastic time. The band encored with [i]A Day In The Life[/i], which always pleases me. But the one thing that is really permanently burned into my memory from the day is that chubby Virginia hick asking me, “How much will you pay me…”
It makes me shudder with ickiness.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2011-06-04
On June 4th, 2011 I pulled into Ohio’s Blossom Music Center for the second of a little two-night Phish run. This was my first time at the venue and I was pleased to find that the parking area was nothing but lawn and trees with not an inch of asphalt in sight. I followed the waving arms of the traffic control dudes and parked in the park next to a trio of young partiers who had already set up their huge sound system.
I got out of the car, poured myself a drink and introduced myself to the neighbours who were absolutely raging out to classic rock. They had a cooler, no shirts, a pair of PA speakers wired to a generator in the back of their pickup truck and a whole lot of ironic energy.
As my crew and I settled into lawn chairs it occurred to us that the guys parked next to us weren’t just listening to cheesy ’80’s music, they had the same two songs on a loop: [i]Rosanna[/i] and [i]Africa[/i] by Toto. It was pretty fun for everyone walking by, the three young long-hairs were getting plenty of high-fives and occasionally someone would join in the dance before continuing on their round of the lot, but for those of us stuck within continuous earshot the joke got real old real quick.
It didn’t take the four of us long to pack up our lawnchairs and go on a lot stroll of our own. I can’t imagine how the three guys could stand it. I amused myself by imagining that one of them wasn’t that into it, but endured the two-song torture just to fit in with his bros.
M’lady and I were lucky enough to have pulled pit tickets for this show through Phish mail-order so we were as close as you could get to the band without actually fighting for a spot on the rail. We danced and stared and just had a great time at the show, which seemed extra-awesome due to our proximity to the stage.
One thing that stands out in my mind was the debut of their new song [i]Steam[/i]. I liked the song immediately, and I kept trying to figure out how they were getting the steam sound. I was convinced it was Fishman splashing away on his Chinese cymbals but m’lady insisted it was a keyboard patch played by Page. Even from our spot so close to the stage it was hard to tell – especially with all the accompanying dry ice – but after seeing the band play the song many times since I’ve become convinced that m’lady was right in the first place.
When it comes to Phish she usually is.
Oddly enough one of the three Toto ragers was in the pit too, a fair coincidence given that about two hundred people out of a crowd of perhaps twenty-five thousand manage to secure pit tickets. He was still raging it hard, and he was holding up a sign that said “[i]Africa Reprise[/i]” for the whole show, which was actually a pretty funny little post script to his gag of the day.
I don’t recall where we stayed after the show but it was probably in the direction of Canada. Though we had tickets to the upcoming Phish show at Darien Lake we had for some reason decided to skip the Cincinnati and Great Woods concerts, and with three days off between shows we probably went home to Ottawa.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On June 4th, 2011 I pulled into Ohio’s Blossom Music Center for the second of a little two-night Phish run. This was my first time at the venue and I was pleased to find that the parking area was nothing but lawn and trees with not an inch of asphalt in sight. I followed the waving arms of the traffic control dudes and parked in the park next to a trio of young partiers who had already set up their huge sound system.
I got out of the car, poured myself a drink and introduced myself to the neighbours who were absolutely raging out to classic rock. They had a cooler, no shirts, a pair of PA speakers wired to a generator in the back of their pickup truck and a whole lot of ironic energy.
As my crew and I settled into lawn chairs it occurred to us that the guys parked next to us weren’t just listening to cheesy ’80’s music, they had the same two songs on a loop: [i]Rosanna[/i] and [i]Africa[/i] by Toto. It was pretty fun for everyone walking by, the three young long-hairs were getting plenty of high-fives and occasionally someone would join in the dance before continuing on their round of the lot, but for those of us stuck within continuous earshot the joke got real old real quick.
It didn’t take the four of us long to pack up our lawnchairs and go on a lot stroll of our own. I can’t imagine how the three guys could stand it. I amused myself by imagining that one of them wasn’t that into it, but endured the two-song torture just to fit in with his bros.
M’lady and I were lucky enough to have pulled pit tickets for this show through Phish mail-order so we were as close as you could get to the band without actually fighting for a spot on the rail. We danced and stared and just had a great time at the show, which seemed extra-awesome due to our proximity to the stage.
One thing that stands out in my mind was the debut of their new song [i]Steam[/i]. I liked the song immediately, and I kept trying to figure out how they were getting the steam sound. I was convinced it was Fishman splashing away on his Chinese cymbals but m’lady insisted it was a keyboard patch played by Page. Even from our spot so close to the stage it was hard to tell – especially with all the accompanying dry ice – but after seeing the band play the song many times since I’ve become convinced that m’lady was right in the first place.
When it comes to Phish she usually is.
Oddly enough one of the three Toto ragers was in the pit too, a fair coincidence given that about two hundred people out of a crowd of perhaps twenty-five thousand manage to secure pit tickets. He was still raging it hard, and he was holding up a sign that said “[i]Africa Reprise[/i]” for the whole show, which was actually a pretty funny little post script to his gag of the day.
I don’t recall where we stayed after the show but it was probably in the direction of Canada. Though we had tickets to the upcoming Phish show at Darien Lake we had for some reason decided to skip the Cincinnati and Great Woods concerts, and with three days off between shows we probably went home to Ottawa.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2009-06-05
June 5th, 2009 was my first and only time at Jones Beach Amphitheatre. I spent the afternoon meeting a million new people at a pre-party near the venue and arrived at the show with enough time for a drink or two in the lot. Ours was one of a million little circles of friends hanging out before the show with eyes turned upwards toward the darkening skies.
This was the last show of a three night run at Jones Beach, a venue infamous among Phish fans, and not just because the band makes a habit of playing here when they tour the east coast. The amphitheatre is right on the water, which I’m sure is much more picturesque from a boat than it is from the stands, but tonight the venue would feel like it was actually in the water.
When it rains it pours; it rained and it poured. I remember standing in the concrete upper tier with water literally swirling above my ankles. It was a warm night and the rain felt good. I was wearing a poncho that was soaked through enough that I didn’t care anymore so I just enjoyed the show. They played of few of my favourites, like [i]Theme From The Bottom[/i] and [i]My Friend, My Friend[/i] and they debuted [i]Twenty Years Later[/i], a new song I liked instantly; from the very first line (“I can hold my breath for a minute or so…”). And anytime Phish encores with [i]A Day in the Life[/i] I generally walk out in a good mood, even if I’m in soggy shoes.
I have no idea how I managed to get a poster home safe and dry, but I did. It still lives in the tube and has not seen the light of day since the show.
Come to think of it, the poster might be damaged after all.
Review by toddmanout
June 5th, 2009 was my first and only time at Jones Beach Amphitheatre. I spent the afternoon meeting a million new people at a pre-party near the venue and arrived at the show with enough time for a drink or two in the lot. Ours was one of a million little circles of friends hanging out before the show with eyes turned upwards toward the darkening skies.
This was the last show of a three night run at Jones Beach, a venue infamous among Phish fans, and not just because the band makes a habit of playing here when they tour the east coast. The amphitheatre is right on the water, which I’m sure is much more picturesque from a boat than it is from the stands, but tonight the venue would feel like it was actually in the water.
When it rains it pours; it rained and it poured. I remember standing in the concrete upper tier with water literally swirling above my ankles. It was a warm night and the rain felt good. I was wearing a poncho that was soaked through enough that I didn’t care anymore so I just enjoyed the show. They played of few of my favourites, like [i]Theme From The Bottom[/i] and [i]My Friend, My Friend[/i] and they debuted [i]Twenty Years Later[/i], a new song I liked instantly; from the very first line (“I can hold my breath for a minute or so…”). And anytime Phish encores with [i]A Day in the Life[/i] I generally walk out in a good mood, even if I’m in soggy shoes.
I have no idea how I managed to get a poster home safe and dry, but I did. It still lives in the tube and has not seen the light of day since the show.
Come to think of it, the poster might be damaged after all.
, attached to 2011-06-08
I do like a rollercoaster ride, so I was really excited that the Darien Lake Amusement Park was to be open exclusively to ticketholders for the Phish concert on June 8th, 2011.
I got to town nice and early and checked into the hotel onsite. It was still too chilly for any swimming in their big pool but that’s okay – I had bigger fish to fry. I didn’t have a ticket yet, and on the walk from the hotel to the park I ran into a friend who handed me one for free.
Well, that was a pretty good start to the day.
The entire middle of the day was filled with riding half-empty amusement park rides with a maelstrom of friends both new and old. There were coasters of course, and swingy rides and even a trip down the flume. And anytime I wanted to skip back to the hotel room for a break it was right there.
The evening was of course filled with Phish. Not my favourite setlist but who cares? In this 3.0 era or whatever the kids are calling it the shows are consistently great – to my ears there are no other bands achieving what these guys are achieving and I had a great time.
They closed off the second set with a song I always want to hear, [i]Harry Hood[/i]. And then a little rock and roll for the encore: [i]Good Times Bad Times[/i].
I’m sure after the show was nothing but good times but I can’t recall anything specifically. An educated guess would have the hotel rockin’ ’til dawn with an open door policy as strangers made friends and sleep fell by the wayside.
But that’s only a guess.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
I do like a rollercoaster ride, so I was really excited that the Darien Lake Amusement Park was to be open exclusively to ticketholders for the Phish concert on June 8th, 2011.
I got to town nice and early and checked into the hotel onsite. It was still too chilly for any swimming in their big pool but that’s okay – I had bigger fish to fry. I didn’t have a ticket yet, and on the walk from the hotel to the park I ran into a friend who handed me one for free.
Well, that was a pretty good start to the day.
The entire middle of the day was filled with riding half-empty amusement park rides with a maelstrom of friends both new and old. There were coasters of course, and swingy rides and even a trip down the flume. And anytime I wanted to skip back to the hotel room for a break it was right there.
The evening was of course filled with Phish. Not my favourite setlist but who cares? In this 3.0 era or whatever the kids are calling it the shows are consistently great – to my ears there are no other bands achieving what these guys are achieving and I had a great time.
They closed off the second set with a song I always want to hear, [i]Harry Hood[/i]. And then a little rock and roll for the encore: [i]Good Times Bad Times[/i].
I’m sure after the show was nothing but good times but I can’t recall anything specifically. An educated guess would have the hotel rockin’ ’til dawn with an open door policy as strangers made friends and sleep fell by the wayside.
But that’s only a guess.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2010-06-17
June 17th, 2010 was the first night of a two-night Phish run in Hartford, Connecticut. M’lady and I were staying with the Frayler’s, a pair of brothers that came out of nowhere in my memory; I don’t know how or where I might have become acquainted with them but know them I did, enough to be invited to stay at their place and enjoy the spoils of their generous hosting for the two-night run along with several other people, most of which also pop out of nowhere in my memory.
Actually, it wasn’t even their place. Though the brothers had both moved out we were all staying at their parent’s place, which clearly provided more room and/or greater proximity to the venue. I only met the parents once; the had booked into a hotel for the two nights.
Just goes to show you that the Frayler’s come from cool stock.
And speaking of cool, this was the day that the two brothers showed me just the coolest trick for smuggling liquor into a venue. As we drove to the show* they described their method: The two brothers enter the lineup about five people apart. As soon as the first brother clears security and has his ticket scanned the second brother lobs a two-liter** plastic bottle filled with rum from his spot still three or four people away from getting searched. First brother reaches over his shoulder and receives the pass, tucking the contraband under his arm. Security doesn’t see a thing, busy as they are looking down into purses and and scanning tickets.
It sounded foolproof (in that fools would never catch on) and in practise it worked like a charm. I was standing with brother number two when he tossed the bottle with an underarm flourish. The bottle of rum arced high and perfectly and landed right in his brother’s waiting arms. The hundred or so people waiting to get in all saw it and cheered their approval. By the time the security guards looked up to see what was going on the deed was done and brother number one was well on his way.
It was nothing short of beautiful.
And economical, though I’ve never spent more money on soda at a concert in my life.
The show was awesome, the band played lots of my favourites and a few fun covers too, including [i]Shine A Light [/i]for the encore.
I just love it when they encore with that tune; it makes the show I’ve just seen seem that much more…epic…communal…religious even? It’s nothing less than a rock and roll hymn and it makes me feel really good. The sermon is over, now let’s sing together.
I can’t remember much about going back to the Frayler’s after the show, but to be fair it’s not like we were sneaking any of that rum back out of the venue with us after the concert. Either way I’m sure the rest of the evening involved plenty of high fives, craft beers, tasty snacks, and lots of comfy couch space.
*Interesting to note that in Hartford passengers in a motor vehicle are allowed to possess (and drink) open liquor, though of course the driver must abstain. We took full advantage of this law (or lack thereof) as did many others I could see. It seemed to have no adverse effects – neither personally nor on society as a whole – and I recommend these same laws be implemented (or struck down?) across North America (nay, the world) immediately.
**I use the American spelling of “litre” here as the Frayler’s would have obviously been using an American bottle for their liquor-sneaking trick. I’ve always found it funny that there is an American spelling for a measurement they don’t even use, but it turns out they do! Despite the fact that they could easily call the large American soda bottle a half-gallon (with only the slightest alteration) for some inexplicable reason they use the metric measurement. I’ll never figure out America.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
June 17th, 2010 was the first night of a two-night Phish run in Hartford, Connecticut. M’lady and I were staying with the Frayler’s, a pair of brothers that came out of nowhere in my memory; I don’t know how or where I might have become acquainted with them but know them I did, enough to be invited to stay at their place and enjoy the spoils of their generous hosting for the two-night run along with several other people, most of which also pop out of nowhere in my memory.
Actually, it wasn’t even their place. Though the brothers had both moved out we were all staying at their parent’s place, which clearly provided more room and/or greater proximity to the venue. I only met the parents once; the had booked into a hotel for the two nights.
Just goes to show you that the Frayler’s come from cool stock.
And speaking of cool, this was the day that the two brothers showed me just the coolest trick for smuggling liquor into a venue. As we drove to the show* they described their method: The two brothers enter the lineup about five people apart. As soon as the first brother clears security and has his ticket scanned the second brother lobs a two-liter** plastic bottle filled with rum from his spot still three or four people away from getting searched. First brother reaches over his shoulder and receives the pass, tucking the contraband under his arm. Security doesn’t see a thing, busy as they are looking down into purses and and scanning tickets.
It sounded foolproof (in that fools would never catch on) and in practise it worked like a charm. I was standing with brother number two when he tossed the bottle with an underarm flourish. The bottle of rum arced high and perfectly and landed right in his brother’s waiting arms. The hundred or so people waiting to get in all saw it and cheered their approval. By the time the security guards looked up to see what was going on the deed was done and brother number one was well on his way.
It was nothing short of beautiful.
And economical, though I’ve never spent more money on soda at a concert in my life.
The show was awesome, the band played lots of my favourites and a few fun covers too, including [i]Shine A Light [/i]for the encore.
I just love it when they encore with that tune; it makes the show I’ve just seen seem that much more…epic…communal…religious even? It’s nothing less than a rock and roll hymn and it makes me feel really good. The sermon is over, now let’s sing together.
I can’t remember much about going back to the Frayler’s after the show, but to be fair it’s not like we were sneaking any of that rum back out of the venue with us after the concert. Either way I’m sure the rest of the evening involved plenty of high fives, craft beers, tasty snacks, and lots of comfy couch space.
*Interesting to note that in Hartford passengers in a motor vehicle are allowed to possess (and drink) open liquor, though of course the driver must abstain. We took full advantage of this law (or lack thereof) as did many others I could see. It seemed to have no adverse effects – neither personally nor on society as a whole – and I recommend these same laws be implemented (or struck down?) across North America (nay, the world) immediately.
**I use the American spelling of “litre” here as the Frayler’s would have obviously been using an American bottle for their liquor-sneaking trick. I’ve always found it funny that there is an American spelling for a measurement they don’t even use, but it turns out they do! Despite the fact that they could easily call the large American soda bottle a half-gallon (with only the slightest alteration) for some inexplicable reason they use the metric measurement. I’ll never figure out America.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2004-06-19
I’ll tell you what I remember about June 19th, 2004:
I remember checking into a room somewhere at SPAC (that’s Saratoga Performing Arts Center for you newbs) with a crew of chums from Ottawa (don’t ask me how I got to SPAC – that would be me telling you what I don’t remember about June 19th, 2004). It was a cheap strip motel with a small second floor – we were on the second floor – with a couple of side buildings that could have been separate strip motels on their own had they not shared a parking lot (and ownership) with our place.
I remember seeing the double bed all made up nice with it’s early-70’s bedcover (that matched the curtains) and taking a running dive at it, causing the flimsy frame to immediately collapse under my much sturdier frame. We called the desk and complained, I think they fixed it. Regardless, the lines were clearly drawn; it was us against the hotel staff, and we weren’t going to lose.
The room was a suite, with a half-wall that offered my friend Andre and I a charming Linus & Charlie Brown wall-skit recreation. You definitely had to be there but it was still good enough to merit recognition in this missive.
Somewhere in there we went to see Phish. This was in the dark days just before their Ugly Duckling Song*, Coventry, and the show probably wasn’t anything to write home about. Unless you’re the kind of person who writes home about flubs and train wrecks at the hands of a guitar player who used to be a serious contender, which I choose not to be at this time.
After the show I soon tired of my Ottawa compadres so I grabbed my guitar and a bottle of hard liquor and set out from our room to find an adventure. This had long stood as a guaranteed recipe for success but on this night Casey struck out, hard. I cruised up and down the many rooms of our strip-motel resort serenading one heady music fan after another, each parked in their plastic throne with fresh drinks at the ready. And somehow, someway, I couldn’t cajole a single one of them to invite a traveling troubadour to their fire, as it were. I had somehow tipped the scales to become party-irrelevant.
I had, however, gained the ire of the evening’s sole hotel proprietor, who gave me the stink-eye in between fielding a thousand calls and hassles that he was obviously very unprepared for.
Benevolent as I am, I eventually decided to spare him at least one problem so I slunk back to the room, where I did the only thing a chronic benevolent snorer could do in a proper wookstack: I cast my guitar aside and banished myself to the closet – where I slept like a dead man – using tomorrow’s t-shirt as a blanket and my small knapsack as a pillow.
And that’s what I remember about June 19th, 2004.
Glory days.
*A play on “Swan Song”.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
I’ll tell you what I remember about June 19th, 2004:
I remember checking into a room somewhere at SPAC (that’s Saratoga Performing Arts Center for you newbs) with a crew of chums from Ottawa (don’t ask me how I got to SPAC – that would be me telling you what I don’t remember about June 19th, 2004). It was a cheap strip motel with a small second floor – we were on the second floor – with a couple of side buildings that could have been separate strip motels on their own had they not shared a parking lot (and ownership) with our place.
I remember seeing the double bed all made up nice with it’s early-70’s bedcover (that matched the curtains) and taking a running dive at it, causing the flimsy frame to immediately collapse under my much sturdier frame. We called the desk and complained, I think they fixed it. Regardless, the lines were clearly drawn; it was us against the hotel staff, and we weren’t going to lose.
The room was a suite, with a half-wall that offered my friend Andre and I a charming Linus & Charlie Brown wall-skit recreation. You definitely had to be there but it was still good enough to merit recognition in this missive.
Somewhere in there we went to see Phish. This was in the dark days just before their Ugly Duckling Song*, Coventry, and the show probably wasn’t anything to write home about. Unless you’re the kind of person who writes home about flubs and train wrecks at the hands of a guitar player who used to be a serious contender, which I choose not to be at this time.
After the show I soon tired of my Ottawa compadres so I grabbed my guitar and a bottle of hard liquor and set out from our room to find an adventure. This had long stood as a guaranteed recipe for success but on this night Casey struck out, hard. I cruised up and down the many rooms of our strip-motel resort serenading one heady music fan after another, each parked in their plastic throne with fresh drinks at the ready. And somehow, someway, I couldn’t cajole a single one of them to invite a traveling troubadour to their fire, as it were. I had somehow tipped the scales to become party-irrelevant.
I had, however, gained the ire of the evening’s sole hotel proprietor, who gave me the stink-eye in between fielding a thousand calls and hassles that he was obviously very unprepared for.
Benevolent as I am, I eventually decided to spare him at least one problem so I slunk back to the room, where I did the only thing a chronic benevolent snorer could do in a proper wookstack: I cast my guitar aside and banished myself to the closet – where I slept like a dead man – using tomorrow’s t-shirt as a blanket and my small knapsack as a pillow.
And that’s what I remember about June 19th, 2004.
Glory days.
*A play on “Swan Song”.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 1995-06-22
On June 22nd, 1995 I rounded out a three-show run of Grateful Dead concerts south of the border with my second-ever Phish concert, which took place at a lovely little amphitheatre in the Finger Lakes region of New York state with the very obvious and quite pleasant name: Finger Lakes Performing Arts Centre. It’s now called Constellation Brands – Marvin Sands Performing Arts Centre which is clearly a much catchier name. It’s staggering to think of how much thought went into the new name.
Did I say “thought”? I meant “money”.
Anyway, as I said I had just finished a very eventful and dare I say life-changing little run following the Grateful Dead from Vermont to New Jersey with my good friend Jason, and we pulled into the Finger Lakes lot to find our good friend Corey lackadaisically selling Molson XXX beers (the high-octane beer from the pre-IPA lot era) aside his flashy red sportscar sporting Ontario plates. We gave him hugs and handshakes and he gave us frosty beers in return and we three whiled away the preshow drinking away all of his profits.
We had lawn tickets for the show which was a-okay with me. With very few exceptions I tend to prefer standing on the grass at outdoor venues to standing on the concrete-floored seating area in front of a folding chair – I don’t sit down very much at concerts* (especially back then), and this outdoor venue in particular was rather small anyway. It’s a good thing that we were on the lawn too, because I fell myself down a couple of times…on purpose.
Y’see, back then there was a secret language that Phish was trying to create with their audience and having seen the band a year before and done some listening since I was “in” enough to know about the inside joke but still very “newb” enough to totally screw it up. Basically, Trey would make a slippery-slidey sound on his guitar alerting everyone to get ready for the coming message and then he would play one of several set riffs that called for a collective audience response. Like, he could play a snippet from the theme to The Simpsons and we were all to scream “D’oh!” at the same time. Or he would play a riff from The Byrds song [i]Turn Turn Turn [/i]and everyone was supposed to turn around en masse and face the back of the venue. The idea was that only the serious core Phish-heads would know to do these things and these seemingly random collective actions would both intrigue and freak out the newcomers.
I mention this because I twice heard Trey give the signal and follow up with descending slurs that told me (and many others, or so I thought) to fall down onto the ground and play dead. Only he hadn’t made the signals – I had obviously been a little too excited about being in on the game and was listening a little too hard for the signals – so I was the only person in the crowd who just randomly fell down out of the blue.
And I can tell you, it’s a lot less cool when you perform a mass simultaneous action along with exactly nobody else.
Musically, I can (and should) report most particularly on the second set of this concert, notable that it is. The first set was fine, fun, and quite standard (though what did I know about “standard” Phish sets back then?) but the second set contained a mere three songs – two and-a-half, really – including a deep delve into exploratory space-jamming over under and through their one-riff masterpiece[i] Tweezer[/i], a single song that stretched to a full forty minutes and only wrapped up by morphing into a reprise of the same song, obviously titled [i]Tweezer Reprise[/i]. (For those keeping score, the other song was [i]Theme From the Bottom[/i], which opened the set.)
Wow, a forty-minute song. Funny that I walked out of there thinking this was pretty normal for the band (again, I had only seen them once before, whereas I have seen them well over a hundred times by now). Also funny that I would eventually find myself in attendance for one of the band’s most famous and notorious jams, the very famous Lake Tahoe [i]Tweezer[/i], which clocked in at a relatively brief thirty-seven minutes.
After the show Jason hopped a ride with Corey leaving me to drive back to Ottawa solo. It was (and remains) very, very out of character for me to drive with even a hint of alcohol in my system, but despite pounding back a bunch of powerful beers before the show I still got behind the wheel and drove after the concert. Now, I knew that I would be meeting a border guard along the way so I wasn’t drunk or anything, but let’s just say I became quite concerned when a patrolman lighted me up about an hour after I started the ride home. He was pulling me over for my broken tail-light, I knew that from recent experience, having gone through an altercation with the New Jersey police over the same issue the night before. I also knew that I needed a distraction, quick.
So, to direct the officer away from any thought of checking my sobriety I quickly led the conversation straight to my broken tail-light (and headlight, I’m now remembering) and showed him the summons I had already received for the infraction in Jersey, further assuring him that I would soon be in my own land where I would then be the concern of the Canadian law enforcers, and where I would be getting the lights fixed in short order anyway.
He acknowledged my Jedi mind trick with a smile and an obedient wave and sent me on my way. No droids for him on this night!
*Yeah (turning around with an annoyed look), I’m that guy, and no, I don’t care if you “paid for these seats”; if you aren’t a patch-wearing outlaw I’ll continue to stand throughout the concert thank-you very much. If you’d like to complain there is an usher right over there. If he tells me to sit down I will consider it, but until then all I can say is enjoy the show, buddy (turns back to the music and raises fists in the air).
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On June 22nd, 1995 I rounded out a three-show run of Grateful Dead concerts south of the border with my second-ever Phish concert, which took place at a lovely little amphitheatre in the Finger Lakes region of New York state with the very obvious and quite pleasant name: Finger Lakes Performing Arts Centre. It’s now called Constellation Brands – Marvin Sands Performing Arts Centre which is clearly a much catchier name. It’s staggering to think of how much thought went into the new name.
Did I say “thought”? I meant “money”.
Anyway, as I said I had just finished a very eventful and dare I say life-changing little run following the Grateful Dead from Vermont to New Jersey with my good friend Jason, and we pulled into the Finger Lakes lot to find our good friend Corey lackadaisically selling Molson XXX beers (the high-octane beer from the pre-IPA lot era) aside his flashy red sportscar sporting Ontario plates. We gave him hugs and handshakes and he gave us frosty beers in return and we three whiled away the preshow drinking away all of his profits.
We had lawn tickets for the show which was a-okay with me. With very few exceptions I tend to prefer standing on the grass at outdoor venues to standing on the concrete-floored seating area in front of a folding chair – I don’t sit down very much at concerts* (especially back then), and this outdoor venue in particular was rather small anyway. It’s a good thing that we were on the lawn too, because I fell myself down a couple of times…on purpose.
Y’see, back then there was a secret language that Phish was trying to create with their audience and having seen the band a year before and done some listening since I was “in” enough to know about the inside joke but still very “newb” enough to totally screw it up. Basically, Trey would make a slippery-slidey sound on his guitar alerting everyone to get ready for the coming message and then he would play one of several set riffs that called for a collective audience response. Like, he could play a snippet from the theme to The Simpsons and we were all to scream “D’oh!” at the same time. Or he would play a riff from The Byrds song [i]Turn Turn Turn [/i]and everyone was supposed to turn around en masse and face the back of the venue. The idea was that only the serious core Phish-heads would know to do these things and these seemingly random collective actions would both intrigue and freak out the newcomers.
I mention this because I twice heard Trey give the signal and follow up with descending slurs that told me (and many others, or so I thought) to fall down onto the ground and play dead. Only he hadn’t made the signals – I had obviously been a little too excited about being in on the game and was listening a little too hard for the signals – so I was the only person in the crowd who just randomly fell down out of the blue.
And I can tell you, it’s a lot less cool when you perform a mass simultaneous action along with exactly nobody else.
Musically, I can (and should) report most particularly on the second set of this concert, notable that it is. The first set was fine, fun, and quite standard (though what did I know about “standard” Phish sets back then?) but the second set contained a mere three songs – two and-a-half, really – including a deep delve into exploratory space-jamming over under and through their one-riff masterpiece[i] Tweezer[/i], a single song that stretched to a full forty minutes and only wrapped up by morphing into a reprise of the same song, obviously titled [i]Tweezer Reprise[/i]. (For those keeping score, the other song was [i]Theme From the Bottom[/i], which opened the set.)
Wow, a forty-minute song. Funny that I walked out of there thinking this was pretty normal for the band (again, I had only seen them once before, whereas I have seen them well over a hundred times by now). Also funny that I would eventually find myself in attendance for one of the band’s most famous and notorious jams, the very famous Lake Tahoe [i]Tweezer[/i], which clocked in at a relatively brief thirty-seven minutes.
After the show Jason hopped a ride with Corey leaving me to drive back to Ottawa solo. It was (and remains) very, very out of character for me to drive with even a hint of alcohol in my system, but despite pounding back a bunch of powerful beers before the show I still got behind the wheel and drove after the concert. Now, I knew that I would be meeting a border guard along the way so I wasn’t drunk or anything, but let’s just say I became quite concerned when a patrolman lighted me up about an hour after I started the ride home. He was pulling me over for my broken tail-light, I knew that from recent experience, having gone through an altercation with the New Jersey police over the same issue the night before. I also knew that I needed a distraction, quick.
So, to direct the officer away from any thought of checking my sobriety I quickly led the conversation straight to my broken tail-light (and headlight, I’m now remembering) and showed him the summons I had already received for the infraction in Jersey, further assuring him that I would soon be in my own land where I would then be the concern of the Canadian law enforcers, and where I would be getting the lights fixed in short order anyway.
He acknowledged my Jedi mind trick with a smile and an obedient wave and sent me on my way. No droids for him on this night!
*Yeah (turning around with an annoyed look), I’m that guy, and no, I don’t care if you “paid for these seats”; if you aren’t a patch-wearing outlaw I’ll continue to stand throughout the concert thank-you very much. If you’d like to complain there is an usher right over there. If he tells me to sit down I will consider it, but until then all I can say is enjoy the show, buddy (turns back to the music and raises fists in the air).
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2019-07-03
On July 3rd, 2019 I woke up in Saratoga Springs much earlier than I wanted to and headed downstairs for the free hotel breakfast, which wasn’t too bad at all. It was much better than I was, that’s for sure, but that isn’t saying much. After taking a feeble stab at nourishing myself I went back upstairs where m’lady and I checked each other for bruises and memories, of which we had plenty and few, then I spent the next four hours sitting alone on the front deck writing a song called I Wish I Was a Cell Phone. Again, the song was better than I was.
Next up was an unhelpful dinner where I didn’t even finish my warm, thick, freshly cooked Saratoga potato chips – if you can believe that – and then it was off to night II of Phish at SPAC. We were lucky to hop into a friend’s Uber which saved us a fair walk and got us to the venue in time for a pleasant bout of relaxing on the lawn before the concert.
When showtime loomed m’lady and I left our friends and found our adjoining seats in a thankfully rather sedate section of the balcony, where we sat in sleepy anticipation waiting for the concert to begin.
In no time the lights faded and the four lads ambled onstage and started the show, or at least they tried to. As Trey played the opening chords to [i]Fluffhead[/i] the crowd latched on and screamed their anticipation. Fishman started rattling on his ride cymbals and Page plunked down a few notes while Mike…well, Mike was having problems with his bass. As the other three guys shrugged and vamped, Mike’s tech poked and prodded and eventually went backstage to retrieve a replacement bass (aka: a “rebassment”). Mike put it on and immediately the strap gave away, almost causing him to drop his spare bass. Egad…this wasn’t boding well.
All the while the other three musicians continued to tickle out the opening to [i]Fluffhead[/i] with a half an eye on their troubled bandmate, who still couldn’t seem to find any sound. After another twenty seconds or so the tech re-emerged holding bass number one, stepping towards Mike’s riser with a strident, confident gait that told the crowd, “Don’t worry friends, I got this,” and he was right – he had fixed the bass.
And then, after the other Phishies had already been flapping in and around that [i]Fluffhead[/i] intro Mike came in with his first note of the evening and clearly the show had finally begun, proving something I’ve always known: a song doesn’t actually start until the bass comes in (with apologies to The Doors and The White Stripes).
Following on the back of Mike’s instrumental troubles, the sound of the first few songs was really muddy and Trey’s vocals were very, very low in the mix. I had frankly never, ever heard anything other than the tiniest little sound quirk at a Phish concert, but here the sound was, well, bad. Roadies were seen running about, Mike kept signalling to the stage mix guy for more monitors, and Trey even had a midsong huddle with one of the techs.
Meanwhile the band had upped the ante with a second-song[i] Guyute[/i] followed by one of the Thrilling Chilling tracks, [i]Martian Monster[/i]. Next up was Llama and then [i]Steam[/i] and [i]Poor Heart [/i]and, well, it’s quite startling how much clarity I have when recalling this concert, especially when compared to the previous one the night before*.
Thank goodness for two-night runs, but c’mon now.
Anyway, it was another great show (my 113th, I believe) and afterwards we re-found our preshow friends and half-walked half-Ubered our way back to the Inn, where we found a little jam on the porch but overall kept the night under control.
The next day we had the pleasure of enjoying the day off in Saratoga Springs, one that saw us cycle through the vast and beautiful state park, sample from a couple of the smelly carbonated healing spring water spouts that are the town’s namesake, visit a huge old cemetery (where we happened upon a couple of curious deer) and the old racetrack (Saratoga Springs boasts the oldest horse racing in America, doncha know), coast past a mile of big old beautiful houses, and have a dinner that couldn’t be beat before laying on the grass in Congress Park and staring up at the darkened sky watching a very loud and frantic 4th of July fireworks display alongside thousands and thousands of other people, all of us ooh-ing and aah-ing to (almost) beat the band.
Having a non-concert day in Saratoga Sprigs was something I’ve long wanted to do and man, it did not disappoint. Now I’m hooked on the idea of coming back for the horse races.
*Or is it?
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On July 3rd, 2019 I woke up in Saratoga Springs much earlier than I wanted to and headed downstairs for the free hotel breakfast, which wasn’t too bad at all. It was much better than I was, that’s for sure, but that isn’t saying much. After taking a feeble stab at nourishing myself I went back upstairs where m’lady and I checked each other for bruises and memories, of which we had plenty and few, then I spent the next four hours sitting alone on the front deck writing a song called I Wish I Was a Cell Phone. Again, the song was better than I was.
Next up was an unhelpful dinner where I didn’t even finish my warm, thick, freshly cooked Saratoga potato chips – if you can believe that – and then it was off to night II of Phish at SPAC. We were lucky to hop into a friend’s Uber which saved us a fair walk and got us to the venue in time for a pleasant bout of relaxing on the lawn before the concert.
When showtime loomed m’lady and I left our friends and found our adjoining seats in a thankfully rather sedate section of the balcony, where we sat in sleepy anticipation waiting for the concert to begin.
In no time the lights faded and the four lads ambled onstage and started the show, or at least they tried to. As Trey played the opening chords to [i]Fluffhead[/i] the crowd latched on and screamed their anticipation. Fishman started rattling on his ride cymbals and Page plunked down a few notes while Mike…well, Mike was having problems with his bass. As the other three guys shrugged and vamped, Mike’s tech poked and prodded and eventually went backstage to retrieve a replacement bass (aka: a “rebassment”). Mike put it on and immediately the strap gave away, almost causing him to drop his spare bass. Egad…this wasn’t boding well.
All the while the other three musicians continued to tickle out the opening to [i]Fluffhead[/i] with a half an eye on their troubled bandmate, who still couldn’t seem to find any sound. After another twenty seconds or so the tech re-emerged holding bass number one, stepping towards Mike’s riser with a strident, confident gait that told the crowd, “Don’t worry friends, I got this,” and he was right – he had fixed the bass.
And then, after the other Phishies had already been flapping in and around that [i]Fluffhead[/i] intro Mike came in with his first note of the evening and clearly the show had finally begun, proving something I’ve always known: a song doesn’t actually start until the bass comes in (with apologies to The Doors and The White Stripes).
Following on the back of Mike’s instrumental troubles, the sound of the first few songs was really muddy and Trey’s vocals were very, very low in the mix. I had frankly never, ever heard anything other than the tiniest little sound quirk at a Phish concert, but here the sound was, well, bad. Roadies were seen running about, Mike kept signalling to the stage mix guy for more monitors, and Trey even had a midsong huddle with one of the techs.
Meanwhile the band had upped the ante with a second-song[i] Guyute[/i] followed by one of the Thrilling Chilling tracks, [i]Martian Monster[/i]. Next up was Llama and then [i]Steam[/i] and [i]Poor Heart [/i]and, well, it’s quite startling how much clarity I have when recalling this concert, especially when compared to the previous one the night before*.
Thank goodness for two-night runs, but c’mon now.
Anyway, it was another great show (my 113th, I believe) and afterwards we re-found our preshow friends and half-walked half-Ubered our way back to the Inn, where we found a little jam on the porch but overall kept the night under control.
The next day we had the pleasure of enjoying the day off in Saratoga Springs, one that saw us cycle through the vast and beautiful state park, sample from a couple of the smelly carbonated healing spring water spouts that are the town’s namesake, visit a huge old cemetery (where we happened upon a couple of curious deer) and the old racetrack (Saratoga Springs boasts the oldest horse racing in America, doncha know), coast past a mile of big old beautiful houses, and have a dinner that couldn’t be beat before laying on the grass in Congress Park and staring up at the darkened sky watching a very loud and frantic 4th of July fireworks display alongside thousands and thousands of other people, all of us ooh-ing and aah-ing to (almost) beat the band.
Having a non-concert day in Saratoga Sprigs was something I’ve long wanted to do and man, it did not disappoint. Now I’m hooked on the idea of coming back for the horse races.
*Or is it?
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2019-07-10
When Phish announced that they would be playing a couple of back-to-back dates at Mohegan Sun on their 2019 summer tour I’ll admit I had to sit down for a little info session with Mister Google. Turned out that Mohegan Sun was the name of a casino somewhere called Uncasville, Connecticut (a town name which required more chatting with Mr. G.) and these would mark Phish’s first (and second) show(s) there.
Of course by the time I finished my research the price of the rooms at the actual casino on the dates in question had shot up a million per cent to the point of unaffordability, which was disappointing as there were no other hotels anywhere even close to Mohegan Sun. In the end m’lady and I shared a room at a Holiday Inn-ish sort of place about twenty miles away with our bestest Boston buddies Joe and Dee, which turned out being just fine. We saved even more money by shunning taxis and/or ubers; if I’m not mistaken I drove on night one and Dee drove on night two. You’d think such a division would make it easy for me to distinguish the memories of one night from the other but nope…both nights are a swath of memories that blur into one another like cream and sugar in black coffee.
I must say they did a pretty darn good job with the casino. It was clean and classy but shunned glitz and glimmer in favour of emblems of the native land that sat beneath the spiralling carpets and tiled swimming pools. There were feathers and dreamcatchers and stuffed wolves and bisons and teepees and rock formations all over the place. And of course gambling tables and slot machines and esoteric restaurants and upscale bars and shopping concourses. Curiously, I noticed lots and lots of children, many of them proudly strutting through the casino hallways carrying trophies. I discovered later that in addition to hosting Phish and their following the Mohegan Sun was simultaneously hosting a youth gymnastics competition and man, did the parents have at the Phish fans online, chastising them (us) for engaging in every manner of party-like transgressions in front of their innocent children, to which I replied (in my head): it’s a casino! Why would anyone hold a children’s event at a casino? Casinos are by definition dens of sin and excess so don’t bring your six year-old to one.
Anyway.
July 10th, 2019 was the final of the two nights and the show was super-great. The band was clearly having a great time and playing well, they played a bunch of my favourites and the second set ended with what m’lady and I had jokingly (but seriously) decided was now “our” song, a new one called [i]Drift While You’re Sleeping[/i], the lyrics of which would kick off our wedding ceremony three months down the road. And just to prove that everyone was having a swell time the encore stretched into a long continuous musical stream that proceeded thusly: [i]Bouncing[/i]>[i]Saw It Again[/i]>[i]Kung[/i]>[i]Saw It Agai[/i]n>[i]Slave to the Traffic Light[/i].
Sometime late in the second set I finally remembered to take off my glasses, an optical trick I had stumbled upon a year or two previously but one that had not ingrained itself enough to yet become habit. The globular fuzziness produced by my significant visual impairment does amazing things to Chris Kuroda’s already exceptional light show and I was giddy to experience his astounding visuals through my own unique filters. Gosh, I’m so glad I haven’t had corrective surgery.
Much like the extended encore our aftershow experience stretched on into a stream of events that saw us visit several burgeoning hotel rooms, a handful of pools, and at least one highly unattractive dance bar until the evening finally ended with my first-ever visit to a Krispy Kreme outlet (one of four locations of the iconic shop in the one, single casino), a culinary experience that was not nearly as satisfying as I expected it to be.
Even at 5am.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
When Phish announced that they would be playing a couple of back-to-back dates at Mohegan Sun on their 2019 summer tour I’ll admit I had to sit down for a little info session with Mister Google. Turned out that Mohegan Sun was the name of a casino somewhere called Uncasville, Connecticut (a town name which required more chatting with Mr. G.) and these would mark Phish’s first (and second) show(s) there.
Of course by the time I finished my research the price of the rooms at the actual casino on the dates in question had shot up a million per cent to the point of unaffordability, which was disappointing as there were no other hotels anywhere even close to Mohegan Sun. In the end m’lady and I shared a room at a Holiday Inn-ish sort of place about twenty miles away with our bestest Boston buddies Joe and Dee, which turned out being just fine. We saved even more money by shunning taxis and/or ubers; if I’m not mistaken I drove on night one and Dee drove on night two. You’d think such a division would make it easy for me to distinguish the memories of one night from the other but nope…both nights are a swath of memories that blur into one another like cream and sugar in black coffee.
I must say they did a pretty darn good job with the casino. It was clean and classy but shunned glitz and glimmer in favour of emblems of the native land that sat beneath the spiralling carpets and tiled swimming pools. There were feathers and dreamcatchers and stuffed wolves and bisons and teepees and rock formations all over the place. And of course gambling tables and slot machines and esoteric restaurants and upscale bars and shopping concourses. Curiously, I noticed lots and lots of children, many of them proudly strutting through the casino hallways carrying trophies. I discovered later that in addition to hosting Phish and their following the Mohegan Sun was simultaneously hosting a youth gymnastics competition and man, did the parents have at the Phish fans online, chastising them (us) for engaging in every manner of party-like transgressions in front of their innocent children, to which I replied (in my head): it’s a casino! Why would anyone hold a children’s event at a casino? Casinos are by definition dens of sin and excess so don’t bring your six year-old to one.
Anyway.
July 10th, 2019 was the final of the two nights and the show was super-great. The band was clearly having a great time and playing well, they played a bunch of my favourites and the second set ended with what m’lady and I had jokingly (but seriously) decided was now “our” song, a new one called [i]Drift While You’re Sleeping[/i], the lyrics of which would kick off our wedding ceremony three months down the road. And just to prove that everyone was having a swell time the encore stretched into a long continuous musical stream that proceeded thusly: [i]Bouncing[/i]>[i]Saw It Again[/i]>[i]Kung[/i]>[i]Saw It Agai[/i]n>[i]Slave to the Traffic Light[/i].
Sometime late in the second set I finally remembered to take off my glasses, an optical trick I had stumbled upon a year or two previously but one that had not ingrained itself enough to yet become habit. The globular fuzziness produced by my significant visual impairment does amazing things to Chris Kuroda’s already exceptional light show and I was giddy to experience his astounding visuals through my own unique filters. Gosh, I’m so glad I haven’t had corrective surgery.
Much like the extended encore our aftershow experience stretched on into a stream of events that saw us visit several burgeoning hotel rooms, a handful of pools, and at least one highly unattractive dance bar until the evening finally ended with my first-ever visit to a Krispy Kreme outlet (one of four locations of the iconic shop in the one, single casino), a culinary experience that was not nearly as satisfying as I expected it to be.
Even at 5am.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2013-08-02
When I woke up on August 2nd, 2013 I wiped the magical pixie dust of live musical bliss from my eyes and found myself in a dingy motel room on the outskirts of the outskirts of San Francisco. M’lady and I had joined a pile of friends for a Phil Lesh concert at Phil’s very own clubhouse/venue Terrapin Crossroads the night before, a lifetime highlight kind of show that came with a buffet dinner, a lengthy sit-in by Phish bassist Mike Gordon, and a dreamy campfire singalong that brought tears to the eyes of many. It had been so amazing that we couldn’t stop ourselves from driving straight back to Terrapin Crossroads the moment we checked out of that dingy motel. We were hoping they might be open for brunch where we could linger and reminisce about the previous evening but alas, they only opened for brunch on the weekends, which this wasn’t.
So we drove into San Fran brunchless. It was my first time visiting the city and I found the steep winding streets quite unnerving. It’s odd to be surprised when confronted with a well-known cliché, but I always am. I was shocked to discover that there were really canals throughout Venice, astounded at the proliferation of slot machines the first time I visited Vegas, and amazed that the impossibly steep streets that Steve McQueen raced through in Bullitt were actually impossibly steep.
But they were. M’lady was shocked too, but for a different reason. “What is wrong with you?” she asked with a smidgen of actual concern. “I’ve never seen you drive so slow.” I suspect this was the only time she ever saw me white-knuckle driving.
We had arranged an unbelievable deal at the very fancy-shmancy Fisherman’s Wharf Hyatt, one that included full breakfast every day and very expensive valet parking. We checked into our luxe accoms and had a drink or two to celebrate before setting out to explore the wharf. When we did we found an olde-schoole penny arcade museum filled with an astonishing array of coin-operated delights, all in working order. There were fortune telling machines and juke boxes, pinball machines and video games, horse racing machines and strongman challenges, but most fascinating were the coin-op marionette scenarios. We dropped a coin into one and the curtains opened to reveal a mob cheering on a hangman. The trapdoor dropped, a little puppet dangled from its little puppet neck, and the curtains closed.
Amazing what people did with their spare time before the internet.
After an early dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant (I had the burger) we hopped the bus to Bill Graham Civic Center for the first of a three-night stand of – you guessed it – Phish, Phish, and Phish.
We met a stranger in a park for a pre-arranged ticket trade and hung out with all the loco locals in a tiny Shakedown Street that had sprung up across the street. Inside the venue we found some friends we had met at the Tahoe shows. They had some extra seats saved so we joined them just as the lights were set to dim.
Of course this was my first time inside the Bill Graham Civic Center and I thought it was a heck of a venue. Smallish, it holds maybe 8,000 fans, about half of which crowded onto the expansive square floor while the rest (like us) sat in balcony bleachers that surrounded three sides of the boxy room. I loved it up there; we were treated to a great view of a great show for the whole night.
Drink trips were frequent and simple, as were the corresponding bathroom jaunts. But most importantly, the concert was awesome. The Tahoe show from two nights earlier had quickly become legend, mostly due to a 30+ minute jam ([i]Tahoe [/i][i]Tweezer[/i]) that birthed an audience/band/back-and-forth/participation “Woo!” that was the talk of the tour. At this show both the band and the crowd picked up where they had left off and got their woo’s in wherever and whenever they could. Anytime the band even hinted at a millisecond stop in a jam the crowd would woo it up, which encouraged the band to put the little breaks wherever they could which in turn made the crowd woo more which inspired the band to…
Being so early in the history of woo we were still having a good time with it but let’s just say the woo thing got pretty old pretty fast. “Woo” is almost considered a dirty word on tour nowadays.
After the show we missed the bus by mere seconds and waited a half-hour for the next one to take us back to the hotel where we nightcapped in king-size luxury. Funny to think back to the days when I would sleep in my car on some dark hidden road after a concert. Crazy.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
When I woke up on August 2nd, 2013 I wiped the magical pixie dust of live musical bliss from my eyes and found myself in a dingy motel room on the outskirts of the outskirts of San Francisco. M’lady and I had joined a pile of friends for a Phil Lesh concert at Phil’s very own clubhouse/venue Terrapin Crossroads the night before, a lifetime highlight kind of show that came with a buffet dinner, a lengthy sit-in by Phish bassist Mike Gordon, and a dreamy campfire singalong that brought tears to the eyes of many. It had been so amazing that we couldn’t stop ourselves from driving straight back to Terrapin Crossroads the moment we checked out of that dingy motel. We were hoping they might be open for brunch where we could linger and reminisce about the previous evening but alas, they only opened for brunch on the weekends, which this wasn’t.
So we drove into San Fran brunchless. It was my first time visiting the city and I found the steep winding streets quite unnerving. It’s odd to be surprised when confronted with a well-known cliché, but I always am. I was shocked to discover that there were really canals throughout Venice, astounded at the proliferation of slot machines the first time I visited Vegas, and amazed that the impossibly steep streets that Steve McQueen raced through in Bullitt were actually impossibly steep.
But they were. M’lady was shocked too, but for a different reason. “What is wrong with you?” she asked with a smidgen of actual concern. “I’ve never seen you drive so slow.” I suspect this was the only time she ever saw me white-knuckle driving.
We had arranged an unbelievable deal at the very fancy-shmancy Fisherman’s Wharf Hyatt, one that included full breakfast every day and very expensive valet parking. We checked into our luxe accoms and had a drink or two to celebrate before setting out to explore the wharf. When we did we found an olde-schoole penny arcade museum filled with an astonishing array of coin-operated delights, all in working order. There were fortune telling machines and juke boxes, pinball machines and video games, horse racing machines and strongman challenges, but most fascinating were the coin-op marionette scenarios. We dropped a coin into one and the curtains opened to reveal a mob cheering on a hangman. The trapdoor dropped, a little puppet dangled from its little puppet neck, and the curtains closed.
Amazing what people did with their spare time before the internet.
After an early dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant (I had the burger) we hopped the bus to Bill Graham Civic Center for the first of a three-night stand of – you guessed it – Phish, Phish, and Phish.
We met a stranger in a park for a pre-arranged ticket trade and hung out with all the loco locals in a tiny Shakedown Street that had sprung up across the street. Inside the venue we found some friends we had met at the Tahoe shows. They had some extra seats saved so we joined them just as the lights were set to dim.
Of course this was my first time inside the Bill Graham Civic Center and I thought it was a heck of a venue. Smallish, it holds maybe 8,000 fans, about half of which crowded onto the expansive square floor while the rest (like us) sat in balcony bleachers that surrounded three sides of the boxy room. I loved it up there; we were treated to a great view of a great show for the whole night.
Drink trips were frequent and simple, as were the corresponding bathroom jaunts. But most importantly, the concert was awesome. The Tahoe show from two nights earlier had quickly become legend, mostly due to a 30+ minute jam ([i]Tahoe [/i][i]Tweezer[/i]) that birthed an audience/band/back-and-forth/participation “Woo!” that was the talk of the tour. At this show both the band and the crowd picked up where they had left off and got their woo’s in wherever and whenever they could. Anytime the band even hinted at a millisecond stop in a jam the crowd would woo it up, which encouraged the band to put the little breaks wherever they could which in turn made the crowd woo more which inspired the band to…
Being so early in the history of woo we were still having a good time with it but let’s just say the woo thing got pretty old pretty fast. “Woo” is almost considered a dirty word on tour nowadays.
After the show we missed the bus by mere seconds and waited a half-hour for the next one to take us back to the hotel where we nightcapped in king-size luxury. Funny to think back to the days when I would sleep in my car on some dark hidden road after a concert. Crazy.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2013-08-05
On August 5th, 2013 m’lady and I woke up early, wiping sleep from our eyes following three consecutive nights of San Francisco Phish. We arose in the luxury of the Hyatt at Fisherman’s Wharf and wandered zombie-like to the restaurant for excellent made-to-order fluffy omelettes. After a relaxed breakfast we packed up and called the valet. Our car certainly stood out amongst the parade of shining Beemers and Caddys that were arriving at the ornate front entrance to the hotel. It was packed to the roof with camping equipment and dirty laundry and in very, very dire need of a good washing, but it sure looked like it was having more fun than the other cars! We loaded in our suitcase, guitar, mandolin, cooler, and beach bag and hit the highway with the windows down.
We had one final show in this half-summer Phish tour to go and it promised to be a doozy. The drive to Los Angeles was fast and pleasant along wide highways that arced through endless tracts of semi-desert that reminded me of the opening segment of M*A*S*H (which was shot in the area). When we got to LA I somehow pulled off the highway and landed us directly in front of our destination, the Hollywood Bowl. In no time at all we found our weird and wonderful accommodations for the night, the Magic Castle Hotel.
The Magic Castle Hotel is a medium-low grade hotel built atop a mountain directly across from the iconic Hollywood sign. It sports a nice pool and an oddly huge, centuries-old pagoda that had been brought from Asia a century earlier, and you reached the hotel by driving up a road that began behind the Magic Castle. The Magic Castle is not a chintzy restaurant nor a children’s playhouse, it is in fact an actual castle and it serves as the meeting place and headquarters for international card-carrying magicians. The place has hosted the world’s greatest illusionists for decades and continues to do so, which is pretty darn nifty.
Also nifty was the free shuttle offered by the hotel, a surprising feature given how inexpensive the room was (also surprising was how big the room was, with a full kitchen and a twenty-foot balcony replete with a million dollar view). Our driver even let me bring a beer for the drive, and he dropped us off at the front door of the Hollywood Bowl with a promise to pick us up whenever we were done.
When we had left Canada three weeks earlier my PTBM tickets for this show had not yet arrived so I had to have them switched so I could pick them up at Will Call. The lady in the booth gave me a miniature heart attack when she told us that there was only one ticket on our order but we got it worked out soon enough. Unfortunately our replacement “ticket” was basically a diner receipt but no matter, we were still in the proper seats: 5th row dead centre.
This was my first visit to the Hollywood Bowl and I had been wanting to see a show there since I first saw that famous Bugs Bunny cartoon that has the wascally wabbit conducting an opera singer in the iconic venue. Before the show I wandered and marvelled. The concession stands are top-rate and there’s even a wine shop. M’lady and I bought some drinks and semi-upscale grub and sat along the perimeter of the walkway to eat.
In the venue itself much of the seating was in boxes of course, each with four moveable director’s chair-style seats and two fold up tables and waiters who busily rushed food and drinks to happy customers. How civilized. The cheap seats to the side and behind the boxes were hard wooden pews. How quaint.
Down in the very front where we were seated there were no boxes – just regular folding chairs – but there was still wait service. The gentleman in front of me ordered a bottle of wine to his seat while the guy beside me ordered one of the largest hamburgers I’ve ever seen. White-cloth-on-arm, yes sir no sir service, and all the while in front of you sat that shell, that bandstand to define bandstands, the world famous Hollywood Bowl.
Of course seating doesn’t always matter so much; when the show started the 20,000+ in attendance were on their feet and we all stayed there throughout. The first set was rolling along well when I noticed roadies setting up two extra amps beside Trey – there was going to be a sit-in! Here in LA it could be anybody! I was pretty excited at the possibilities.
In the end there was no guest-star. Rather, Trey’s amp had crapped out on him and the two amps were set up on the fly to get him through the night. While the roadies were busy plugging things in and setting dials the band gathered around Fishman’s drum riser and together the four of them performed an impromptu and very rare drum jam.
Aficionados might notice that for the rest of the show Trey’s tone suffered slightly and his sustain was nonexistent. That’s okay because the real star of the second set was Chris Kuroda, Phish’s masterful light man. He lit up that bowl with a constantly morphing colourful swirl of unbelievable creativity. The eye candy was just so over-the-top that the lights were bound to steal the show no matter what the band did. Rainbows, pulsating tunnels, Olympic rings, at times I felt like I was standing on the lip of a cosmic psychedelic wormhole to the future. The guy’s work is absolutely unparalleled in the lighting business and the stuff he does when faced with a unique space to work with is always incredible. (For further examples see the the suspended balloons at the ’09 comeback shows in Hampton or what he did with the treeline at Festival 8 in Palm Springs.)
For the encore we left our seats and found a spot near the back so we could appreciate the venue from a wider perspective, an exercise that proved that the visuals looked fantastic from everywhere.
After the concert we were walking to a nearby hotel and found our way blocked by a caravan of Mexican women selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs smothered in fried onions and green peppers from hand-pushed carts. They were all yelling “hotdoghotdoghotdoghotdog…” and seriously had my attention when m’lady grabbed my hand and gave me a pull. “Come on,” she implored, trying to weave us through the carts. “I’m starved and we’ve got to find something to eat!”
I pointed out that we were standing in the middle of a flock of people selling delicious-looking bacon-wrapped hot dogs smothered in fried onions and green peppers. She said she didn’t want a bacon-wrapped hot dog smothered in fried onions and green peppers and so I told her I was happy to join her wherever she wanted to go, but only if she would wait a moment while I got myself a bacon-wrapped hot dog smothered in fried onions and green peppers.
It was the single greatest hot dog I had ever eaten*, but it was relegated to the number two spot as soon as I bit into my second bacon-wrapped hot dog smothered in fried onions and green peppers. M’lady ended up ordering one and it was undercooked. Hers was terrible.
A few minutes later we arrived at our friend’s hotel which was Phishhead ground zero, snake charmers in every other room and no one daring to be quiet. We visited for a while but soon found it difficult to follow the conversation. As we left our friend’s room a lady across the hall appeared. She was clearly an accidental booking; one of those unfortunate souls who innocently books into a hotel that is playing host to something she doesn’t understand.
For just the briefest moment she looked at me with eyes searching for a kindred spirit, like “Dear lord, can you believe what’s going on here? Let’s put up a united front with the hotel manager!” But in an instant she realized that I too, even with white beard of long and greying hair of short, yes I too was one of “them”.
Aside from the subtly different styles of raging parties that could be heard as we passed each floor on the way down to the lobby it was a very quiet elevator ride.
We called our hotel and in no time our personal shuttle arrived. Back at our place I found a wookstack dog party in the room next door so I forced myself onto them for an hour or two before bidding everyone good night. Then I enjoyed a final nightcap with m’lady on our spacious balcony overlooking the diamonds of Hollywood glinting below us.
The next day started with a swim in the glorious pool and a call to the manager to arrange for a second night’s stay. We had planned to start heading north but instead we stuck around LA and touristed through the world-famous Chinese Theatre, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, my first In & Out burger (delicious!) and dinner reservations at the very fancy Chinese restaurant that sat just above our hotel, the Yamashiro.
It was a good Phish tour.
*I had not yet experienced the glory of the Icelandic hot dog.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On August 5th, 2013 m’lady and I woke up early, wiping sleep from our eyes following three consecutive nights of San Francisco Phish. We arose in the luxury of the Hyatt at Fisherman’s Wharf and wandered zombie-like to the restaurant for excellent made-to-order fluffy omelettes. After a relaxed breakfast we packed up and called the valet. Our car certainly stood out amongst the parade of shining Beemers and Caddys that were arriving at the ornate front entrance to the hotel. It was packed to the roof with camping equipment and dirty laundry and in very, very dire need of a good washing, but it sure looked like it was having more fun than the other cars! We loaded in our suitcase, guitar, mandolin, cooler, and beach bag and hit the highway with the windows down.
We had one final show in this half-summer Phish tour to go and it promised to be a doozy. The drive to Los Angeles was fast and pleasant along wide highways that arced through endless tracts of semi-desert that reminded me of the opening segment of M*A*S*H (which was shot in the area). When we got to LA I somehow pulled off the highway and landed us directly in front of our destination, the Hollywood Bowl. In no time at all we found our weird and wonderful accommodations for the night, the Magic Castle Hotel.
The Magic Castle Hotel is a medium-low grade hotel built atop a mountain directly across from the iconic Hollywood sign. It sports a nice pool and an oddly huge, centuries-old pagoda that had been brought from Asia a century earlier, and you reached the hotel by driving up a road that began behind the Magic Castle. The Magic Castle is not a chintzy restaurant nor a children’s playhouse, it is in fact an actual castle and it serves as the meeting place and headquarters for international card-carrying magicians. The place has hosted the world’s greatest illusionists for decades and continues to do so, which is pretty darn nifty.
Also nifty was the free shuttle offered by the hotel, a surprising feature given how inexpensive the room was (also surprising was how big the room was, with a full kitchen and a twenty-foot balcony replete with a million dollar view). Our driver even let me bring a beer for the drive, and he dropped us off at the front door of the Hollywood Bowl with a promise to pick us up whenever we were done.
When we had left Canada three weeks earlier my PTBM tickets for this show had not yet arrived so I had to have them switched so I could pick them up at Will Call. The lady in the booth gave me a miniature heart attack when she told us that there was only one ticket on our order but we got it worked out soon enough. Unfortunately our replacement “ticket” was basically a diner receipt but no matter, we were still in the proper seats: 5th row dead centre.
This was my first visit to the Hollywood Bowl and I had been wanting to see a show there since I first saw that famous Bugs Bunny cartoon that has the wascally wabbit conducting an opera singer in the iconic venue. Before the show I wandered and marvelled. The concession stands are top-rate and there’s even a wine shop. M’lady and I bought some drinks and semi-upscale grub and sat along the perimeter of the walkway to eat.
In the venue itself much of the seating was in boxes of course, each with four moveable director’s chair-style seats and two fold up tables and waiters who busily rushed food and drinks to happy customers. How civilized. The cheap seats to the side and behind the boxes were hard wooden pews. How quaint.
Down in the very front where we were seated there were no boxes – just regular folding chairs – but there was still wait service. The gentleman in front of me ordered a bottle of wine to his seat while the guy beside me ordered one of the largest hamburgers I’ve ever seen. White-cloth-on-arm, yes sir no sir service, and all the while in front of you sat that shell, that bandstand to define bandstands, the world famous Hollywood Bowl.
Of course seating doesn’t always matter so much; when the show started the 20,000+ in attendance were on their feet and we all stayed there throughout. The first set was rolling along well when I noticed roadies setting up two extra amps beside Trey – there was going to be a sit-in! Here in LA it could be anybody! I was pretty excited at the possibilities.
In the end there was no guest-star. Rather, Trey’s amp had crapped out on him and the two amps were set up on the fly to get him through the night. While the roadies were busy plugging things in and setting dials the band gathered around Fishman’s drum riser and together the four of them performed an impromptu and very rare drum jam.
Aficionados might notice that for the rest of the show Trey’s tone suffered slightly and his sustain was nonexistent. That’s okay because the real star of the second set was Chris Kuroda, Phish’s masterful light man. He lit up that bowl with a constantly morphing colourful swirl of unbelievable creativity. The eye candy was just so over-the-top that the lights were bound to steal the show no matter what the band did. Rainbows, pulsating tunnels, Olympic rings, at times I felt like I was standing on the lip of a cosmic psychedelic wormhole to the future. The guy’s work is absolutely unparalleled in the lighting business and the stuff he does when faced with a unique space to work with is always incredible. (For further examples see the the suspended balloons at the ’09 comeback shows in Hampton or what he did with the treeline at Festival 8 in Palm Springs.)
For the encore we left our seats and found a spot near the back so we could appreciate the venue from a wider perspective, an exercise that proved that the visuals looked fantastic from everywhere.
After the concert we were walking to a nearby hotel and found our way blocked by a caravan of Mexican women selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs smothered in fried onions and green peppers from hand-pushed carts. They were all yelling “hotdoghotdoghotdoghotdog…” and seriously had my attention when m’lady grabbed my hand and gave me a pull. “Come on,” she implored, trying to weave us through the carts. “I’m starved and we’ve got to find something to eat!”
I pointed out that we were standing in the middle of a flock of people selling delicious-looking bacon-wrapped hot dogs smothered in fried onions and green peppers. She said she didn’t want a bacon-wrapped hot dog smothered in fried onions and green peppers and so I told her I was happy to join her wherever she wanted to go, but only if she would wait a moment while I got myself a bacon-wrapped hot dog smothered in fried onions and green peppers.
It was the single greatest hot dog I had ever eaten*, but it was relegated to the number two spot as soon as I bit into my second bacon-wrapped hot dog smothered in fried onions and green peppers. M’lady ended up ordering one and it was undercooked. Hers was terrible.
A few minutes later we arrived at our friend’s hotel which was Phishhead ground zero, snake charmers in every other room and no one daring to be quiet. We visited for a while but soon found it difficult to follow the conversation. As we left our friend’s room a lady across the hall appeared. She was clearly an accidental booking; one of those unfortunate souls who innocently books into a hotel that is playing host to something she doesn’t understand.
For just the briefest moment she looked at me with eyes searching for a kindred spirit, like “Dear lord, can you believe what’s going on here? Let’s put up a united front with the hotel manager!” But in an instant she realized that I too, even with white beard of long and greying hair of short, yes I too was one of “them”.
Aside from the subtly different styles of raging parties that could be heard as we passed each floor on the way down to the lobby it was a very quiet elevator ride.
We called our hotel and in no time our personal shuttle arrived. Back at our place I found a wookstack dog party in the room next door so I forced myself onto them for an hour or two before bidding everyone good night. Then I enjoyed a final nightcap with m’lady on our spacious balcony overlooking the diamonds of Hollywood glinting below us.
The next day started with a swim in the glorious pool and a call to the manager to arrange for a second night’s stay. We had planned to start heading north but instead we stuck around LA and touristed through the world-famous Chinese Theatre, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, my first In & Out burger (delicious!) and dinner reservations at the very fancy Chinese restaurant that sat just above our hotel, the Yamashiro.
It was a good Phish tour.
*I had not yet experienced the glory of the Icelandic hot dog.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 1998-08-12
On August 12th, 1998 I found myself in the latter half of a little entertainment run south of the (Canada/US) border courtesy of Phish and The Tragically Hip (though mostly Phish I suppose), a stretch that had proved to be high on the fun-scale and somewhat rife with technical difficulties, not the least of which was a nagging car problem that no amount of wishing and hoping could seem to remedy. Regardless, my friend Jason and I got everywhere we needed to go, including Vernon Downs, a harness racing track in New York that was hosting Phish on that fine summer evening.
Vernon is just outside of Syracuse, which happens to be hometown to the band’s drummer Jon Fishman and I remember a lot of attention being thrown onto the quirky percussionist throughout this show. There was a shoutout to Fishman’s high school cover band Frodo before they covered Zeppelin’s [i]Ramble On[/i] and I seem to recall Trey trying to goad Fishman into singing some cheesy cover song (perhaps [i]Sexual Healing[/i]*?) that he really didn’t want to sing to the point that it became an onstage argument, though it is possible that I’m mistaking that with another show or perhaps even dreamed it up entirely.
How could one know?
On the other hand, the internet does confirm that this concert was indeed littered with some killer cover songs that weren’t [i]Sexual Healing[/i], from the show-opening [i]La Grange[/i] and the aforementioned [i]Ramble On[/i] through a sweet second set [i]Loving Cup[/i] and into the now-legendary encore of [i]Burning Down the House[/i], sung (of course) as “Vernon Down the House”. Not bad, huh? Covering ZZ Top, Zeppelin, The Stones, and the Talking Heads all in one show, and a bunch of tasty Phish too, like [i]Makisupa[/i], [i]Slave[/i], and a [i]Mike’s[/i]>[i]Weekapaug[/i] sandwich that had [i]Simple[/i], [i]Rift[/i], and [i]Sleeping Monkey[/i] along with that [i]Loving Cup[/i] all squished inside. For me it was all about the [i]You Enjoy Myself [/i]that closed the concert. Back then [i]YEM[/i] was hands-down my favourite Phish song and one I was always always always hoping to see, most especially as a show-ender. I just loved it when the last thing I heard was an extended whacked-out vocal jam.
Though really, when I think back at this show all I can think about are those cover songs (and the banter). Maybe Grumpy Billy Joel had a point when he jealously dismissed Phish as a “second-rate cover band” after their historic no-repeat thirteen-show run at Joel’s favoured venue Madison Square Garden.
Except for the “second-rate” part, of course.**
*Not that Marvin Gaye is cheesy, but Phish covering Marvin Gaye is certainly cheesy.
**Though thinking about the times that I actually did hear them cover [i]Sexual Healing[/i]…maybe in select instances Joel has it righter than wronger?
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On August 12th, 1998 I found myself in the latter half of a little entertainment run south of the (Canada/US) border courtesy of Phish and The Tragically Hip (though mostly Phish I suppose), a stretch that had proved to be high on the fun-scale and somewhat rife with technical difficulties, not the least of which was a nagging car problem that no amount of wishing and hoping could seem to remedy. Regardless, my friend Jason and I got everywhere we needed to go, including Vernon Downs, a harness racing track in New York that was hosting Phish on that fine summer evening.
Vernon is just outside of Syracuse, which happens to be hometown to the band’s drummer Jon Fishman and I remember a lot of attention being thrown onto the quirky percussionist throughout this show. There was a shoutout to Fishman’s high school cover band Frodo before they covered Zeppelin’s [i]Ramble On[/i] and I seem to recall Trey trying to goad Fishman into singing some cheesy cover song (perhaps [i]Sexual Healing[/i]*?) that he really didn’t want to sing to the point that it became an onstage argument, though it is possible that I’m mistaking that with another show or perhaps even dreamed it up entirely.
How could one know?
On the other hand, the internet does confirm that this concert was indeed littered with some killer cover songs that weren’t [i]Sexual Healing[/i], from the show-opening [i]La Grange[/i] and the aforementioned [i]Ramble On[/i] through a sweet second set [i]Loving Cup[/i] and into the now-legendary encore of [i]Burning Down the House[/i], sung (of course) as “Vernon Down the House”. Not bad, huh? Covering ZZ Top, Zeppelin, The Stones, and the Talking Heads all in one show, and a bunch of tasty Phish too, like [i]Makisupa[/i], [i]Slave[/i], and a [i]Mike’s[/i]>[i]Weekapaug[/i] sandwich that had [i]Simple[/i], [i]Rift[/i], and [i]Sleeping Monkey[/i] along with that [i]Loving Cup[/i] all squished inside. For me it was all about the [i]You Enjoy Myself [/i]that closed the concert. Back then [i]YEM[/i] was hands-down my favourite Phish song and one I was always always always hoping to see, most especially as a show-ender. I just loved it when the last thing I heard was an extended whacked-out vocal jam.
Though really, when I think back at this show all I can think about are those cover songs (and the banter). Maybe Grumpy Billy Joel had a point when he jealously dismissed Phish as a “second-rate cover band” after their historic no-repeat thirteen-show run at Joel’s favoured venue Madison Square Garden.
Except for the “second-rate” part, of course.**
*Not that Marvin Gaye is cheesy, but Phish covering Marvin Gaye is certainly cheesy.
**Though thinking about the times that I actually did hear them cover [i]Sexual Healing[/i]…maybe in select instances Joel has it righter than wronger?
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2009-08-13
August 13th, 2009 was the start of little three-show Phish run fairly close to home. M’lady had been attending some of the band’s more westerly dates so I met her at the bus station in Buffalo (I must have been in Toronto for something or other) and together we made our way to Darien Lake. We booked into the nearest-by EconoLodge which had been completely overtaken by fellow concert-goers, just the way I like it.. We enjoyed a couple of drinks making new friends and soon started making our way to the venue.
Of course Darien Lake is most noted for it’s theme park, which houses the concert amphitheatre. Unfortunately we didn’t take advantage of the park – that would come a few years later when our Phish tickets included exclusive park access – so there were no rollie-coasters for me, though admittedly the Phish show provided sufficient entertainment for the day.
We were on the lawn for the show and I remember looking wistfully at the large Ferris wheel lit up in the near distance. Don’t get me wrong, you’d never get me on one of the things but they sure do look cool at night. Especially when one of your favourite bands is rocking out proper in the foreground.
[i]Sample[/i], [i]Bowie[/i], [i]Golgi,[/i] [i]Sparkle[/i], [i]Fluffhead[/i]…it was all so wonderful. There was a spot of bad news when late in the first set Trey informed the crowd that the great Les Paul had died. Inventor of flange, multi-track recording and yes, the electric guitar (arguably), Les Paul is the only person to be inducted into both the rock hall of fame and the inventor’s hall of fame. I met the legend and heard him play a set of music on Valentine’s Day back in 2005 and was sad to hear of his passing.
And while I was more than happy to hear Phish pay tribute to Les Paul by playing one of his signature hits [i]How High The Moon[/i] I was astounded that they just played the head and stopped dead. Could it really be that Phish doesn’t know how to jam over jazz changes? Unthinkable, but it made me wonder*.
Back at the hotel after the show I recall running into a bunch of Ottawa friends in the stairwell just outside of our room at the EconoLodge. I remember being surprised that there was such a large Ottawa contingent at the show and indeed at the same hotel but I shouldn’t have. With Darien Lake only about four hours away it’s basically a hometown show, and everybody likes to stay as close to the venue as possible, especially if it’s cheap (or if you prefer: econo).
In the first few years after Phish reemerged and started touring again I would forever be surprised to run into friends from home in the most unlikely of places. Nowadays I consider it a given.
*What was I saying?!? Since I first typed that sentence I have noticed many, many Phish jams where they were unquestionably improvising and comping jazz changes.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
August 13th, 2009 was the start of little three-show Phish run fairly close to home. M’lady had been attending some of the band’s more westerly dates so I met her at the bus station in Buffalo (I must have been in Toronto for something or other) and together we made our way to Darien Lake. We booked into the nearest-by EconoLodge which had been completely overtaken by fellow concert-goers, just the way I like it.. We enjoyed a couple of drinks making new friends and soon started making our way to the venue.
Of course Darien Lake is most noted for it’s theme park, which houses the concert amphitheatre. Unfortunately we didn’t take advantage of the park – that would come a few years later when our Phish tickets included exclusive park access – so there were no rollie-coasters for me, though admittedly the Phish show provided sufficient entertainment for the day.
We were on the lawn for the show and I remember looking wistfully at the large Ferris wheel lit up in the near distance. Don’t get me wrong, you’d never get me on one of the things but they sure do look cool at night. Especially when one of your favourite bands is rocking out proper in the foreground.
[i]Sample[/i], [i]Bowie[/i], [i]Golgi,[/i] [i]Sparkle[/i], [i]Fluffhead[/i]…it was all so wonderful. There was a spot of bad news when late in the first set Trey informed the crowd that the great Les Paul had died. Inventor of flange, multi-track recording and yes, the electric guitar (arguably), Les Paul is the only person to be inducted into both the rock hall of fame and the inventor’s hall of fame. I met the legend and heard him play a set of music on Valentine’s Day back in 2005 and was sad to hear of his passing.
And while I was more than happy to hear Phish pay tribute to Les Paul by playing one of his signature hits [i]How High The Moon[/i] I was astounded that they just played the head and stopped dead. Could it really be that Phish doesn’t know how to jam over jazz changes? Unthinkable, but it made me wonder*.
Back at the hotel after the show I recall running into a bunch of Ottawa friends in the stairwell just outside of our room at the EconoLodge. I remember being surprised that there was such a large Ottawa contingent at the show and indeed at the same hotel but I shouldn’t have. With Darien Lake only about four hours away it’s basically a hometown show, and everybody likes to stay as close to the venue as possible, especially if it’s cheap (or if you prefer: econo).
In the first few years after Phish reemerged and started touring again I would forever be surprised to run into friends from home in the most unlikely of places. Nowadays I consider it a given.
*What was I saying?!? Since I first typed that sentence I have noticed many, many Phish jams where they were unquestionably improvising and comping jazz changes.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2018-08-17
Amazingly enough, when m’lady and I awoke on the morning of August 17th, 2018 we still didn’t have a plan. Bringing you up to speed, two days earlier we had gone from heavenly bliss to hell in a bucket when the purchase of our dream home in Newfoundland had fallen through on the very closing day. We bit our trembling bottom lips and drove to Watkins Glen, New York where we checked into the VIP camping section for a weekend of Phish. The next day a million friends from far and wide began arriving and just when things were looking upupup our hopes and dreams were dashed once again when the entire Curveball festival was cancelled in the middle of the afternoon due to a boil-water order (which was indeed quite a curveball). We opted to stay onsite for the evening and commiserated with a hundred friends over a thousand beers. When m’lady and I finally turned in for the night we still had no idea what we were going to do with the weekend (not to mention all the beer we had bought). But just like the bar staff says at a quarter after closing: We didn’t have to go home but we couldn’t stay here.
It’s not like ideas hadn’t been bouncing around our crew. A handful of hastily thrown-together relatively-nearby mini-fests had cropped up out of thin air in an attempt to draw the massive dispersing crowd of music fans, plus there was talk of trying to book multiple sites in a nearby state park. The bottom line was we had a lot of friends gathered together with tents, food, snacks, and a festival-sized pile of alcoholic beverages so the opportunity was nigh. We just needed a plan.
And then in an instant one was miraculously hatched, confirmed, and settled upon sometime around 10am. Seemed our good friend Brian had a godfather who was a judge, and this judge had a cottage on the banks of Keuka Lake just twenty-five miles away in the Finger Lakes, and not only that, he was willing to give it up to his godson and a significant pile of his friendly neo-hippie friends, of which we were two.
So we packed ‘er all up and caravanned to the cottage. When we arrived we were greeted with a lovely two-storey cabin directly on the glassy lake with plenty of bedrooms. There was even an old, working funicular to transport all our stuff down the steep embankment from the roadside. Good thing too, as m’lady and I had well over a hundred beers with us and everyone else was similarly stocked.
Hmmm…now did m’lady and I pitch a tent? I think we did. I recall there were a couple of tents set up in the small backyard, but most people had found sleeping space indoors. There was what, maybe fourteen of us there?
And my gosh we had so, so much fun! I don’t remember much grumbling about the cancelled festival. If there was any at all it would have been quickly quashed by the bevy of good friends forcing beers into and belly laughs out of one another all weekend. We were swimming, singing, jamming, sunning, relaxing and eating great food and it was just freakin’ stellar.
I’m still laughing about my friend Dave remembering with a start that he had had his phone in his pocket when he went for an impromptu midnight swim the night before. A group of us were rolling on the ground with tears in our eyes as Dave waded cursing into the lake in search of his umpteenth lost phone of the season. Oh, it was all such a great time. Thanks BDunn.
I honestly can’t imagine that we would have had nearly as much fun at the festival, however I’m totally open to experiencing a time/space vortex that will allow me to test the theory.
Astoundingly, when m’lady and I left on Sunday afternoon (with our friend Stapes in tow) we didn’t even need to use the funicular as we had somehow gone through our entire mountain of beer. Perhaps we accidentally went swimming with our beers in our pockets?
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
Amazingly enough, when m’lady and I awoke on the morning of August 17th, 2018 we still didn’t have a plan. Bringing you up to speed, two days earlier we had gone from heavenly bliss to hell in a bucket when the purchase of our dream home in Newfoundland had fallen through on the very closing day. We bit our trembling bottom lips and drove to Watkins Glen, New York where we checked into the VIP camping section for a weekend of Phish. The next day a million friends from far and wide began arriving and just when things were looking upupup our hopes and dreams were dashed once again when the entire Curveball festival was cancelled in the middle of the afternoon due to a boil-water order (which was indeed quite a curveball). We opted to stay onsite for the evening and commiserated with a hundred friends over a thousand beers. When m’lady and I finally turned in for the night we still had no idea what we were going to do with the weekend (not to mention all the beer we had bought). But just like the bar staff says at a quarter after closing: We didn’t have to go home but we couldn’t stay here.
It’s not like ideas hadn’t been bouncing around our crew. A handful of hastily thrown-together relatively-nearby mini-fests had cropped up out of thin air in an attempt to draw the massive dispersing crowd of music fans, plus there was talk of trying to book multiple sites in a nearby state park. The bottom line was we had a lot of friends gathered together with tents, food, snacks, and a festival-sized pile of alcoholic beverages so the opportunity was nigh. We just needed a plan.
And then in an instant one was miraculously hatched, confirmed, and settled upon sometime around 10am. Seemed our good friend Brian had a godfather who was a judge, and this judge had a cottage on the banks of Keuka Lake just twenty-five miles away in the Finger Lakes, and not only that, he was willing to give it up to his godson and a significant pile of his friendly neo-hippie friends, of which we were two.
So we packed ‘er all up and caravanned to the cottage. When we arrived we were greeted with a lovely two-storey cabin directly on the glassy lake with plenty of bedrooms. There was even an old, working funicular to transport all our stuff down the steep embankment from the roadside. Good thing too, as m’lady and I had well over a hundred beers with us and everyone else was similarly stocked.
Hmmm…now did m’lady and I pitch a tent? I think we did. I recall there were a couple of tents set up in the small backyard, but most people had found sleeping space indoors. There was what, maybe fourteen of us there?
And my gosh we had so, so much fun! I don’t remember much grumbling about the cancelled festival. If there was any at all it would have been quickly quashed by the bevy of good friends forcing beers into and belly laughs out of one another all weekend. We were swimming, singing, jamming, sunning, relaxing and eating great food and it was just freakin’ stellar.
I’m still laughing about my friend Dave remembering with a start that he had had his phone in his pocket when he went for an impromptu midnight swim the night before. A group of us were rolling on the ground with tears in our eyes as Dave waded cursing into the lake in search of his umpteenth lost phone of the season. Oh, it was all such a great time. Thanks BDunn.
I honestly can’t imagine that we would have had nearly as much fun at the festival, however I’m totally open to experiencing a time/space vortex that will allow me to test the theory.
Astoundingly, when m’lady and I left on Sunday afternoon (with our friend Stapes in tow) we didn’t even need to use the funicular as we had somehow gone through our entire mountain of beer. Perhaps we accidentally went swimming with our beers in our pockets?
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2011-09-14
In the late summer of ’11 Vermont was among the states hit with major flooding, the worst the region had seen in almost a century. Good on the de facto hometown boys Phish to quickly organize a one-off flood benefit show just off the highway one exit north of Burlington on September 14th, 2011.
The showground was a field and not much else, perhaps there were some aluminum bleachers facing the stage but other than that nothing. I grabbed a handful of beers and found lots of standing room, off to stage right (Page side).
While I remain a bit of a poster geek this was early in my geekery stage and lingering in the lot before the show had caused me to miss out on the poster. They had also given copies of the poster to people with VIP tickets, so I took on a strategy of finding a VIP who wasn’t interested in their free poster and would they please sell it to me for $50?
As the beers flowed and the tunes rocked I asked more and more people to sell me their posters. Or so I thought. It turns out I was just basically asking the same dude to sell me his poster over and over again, thinking he was different people. He eventually made himself memorable to me at which point I gave up my poster hunt and turned my attention to the show.
By then it might have been too late for me, except Phish just tore from one rocker to another in a fist-pumping free-for-all with [i]Carini[/i], [i]DWD[/i], [i]Rock and Roll[/i], [i]Slave[/i], [i]Twist[/i], [i]Suzie Greenberg[/i], and more, and with a hands-in-the-air [i]Loving Cup[/i] encore, well I was just a little bundle of poster-free rage cage. There was no reggae, no barbershop, no freaky vocal jams, no country twang, just a bunch of three-chord blazers in a straight-up rock and roll show, start to finish. The highlight of the somewhat highlightless show was [i]Character Zero[/i]. The band really drove it for the distance and Trey raged.
The wook-stack at the hotel after the show had curious bedfellows. There was a bass tourney going on nearby and the place was packed with fishermen. So some were there for the fish while the rest of us were there for the Phish, though I suppose we were all into the bass. The continental breakfast started at 4am when nobody in the building was asleep (yet or still).
You’re welcome Vermont, for all the help.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
In the late summer of ’11 Vermont was among the states hit with major flooding, the worst the region had seen in almost a century. Good on the de facto hometown boys Phish to quickly organize a one-off flood benefit show just off the highway one exit north of Burlington on September 14th, 2011.
The showground was a field and not much else, perhaps there were some aluminum bleachers facing the stage but other than that nothing. I grabbed a handful of beers and found lots of standing room, off to stage right (Page side).
While I remain a bit of a poster geek this was early in my geekery stage and lingering in the lot before the show had caused me to miss out on the poster. They had also given copies of the poster to people with VIP tickets, so I took on a strategy of finding a VIP who wasn’t interested in their free poster and would they please sell it to me for $50?
As the beers flowed and the tunes rocked I asked more and more people to sell me their posters. Or so I thought. It turns out I was just basically asking the same dude to sell me his poster over and over again, thinking he was different people. He eventually made himself memorable to me at which point I gave up my poster hunt and turned my attention to the show.
By then it might have been too late for me, except Phish just tore from one rocker to another in a fist-pumping free-for-all with [i]Carini[/i], [i]DWD[/i], [i]Rock and Roll[/i], [i]Slave[/i], [i]Twist[/i], [i]Suzie Greenberg[/i], and more, and with a hands-in-the-air [i]Loving Cup[/i] encore, well I was just a little bundle of poster-free rage cage. There was no reggae, no barbershop, no freaky vocal jams, no country twang, just a bunch of three-chord blazers in a straight-up rock and roll show, start to finish. The highlight of the somewhat highlightless show was [i]Character Zero[/i]. The band really drove it for the distance and Trey raged.
The wook-stack at the hotel after the show had curious bedfellows. There was a bass tourney going on nearby and the place was packed with fishermen. So some were there for the fish while the rest of us were there for the Phish, though I suppose we were all into the bass. The continental breakfast started at 4am when nobody in the building was asleep (yet or still).
You’re welcome Vermont, for all the help.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2018-10-16
On October 16th, 2018 three of us drove (well, I drove) to the United States of America for a pair of Phish concerts in Albany. Approaching the US border I noticed a large, conspicuous digital sign on the side of the road warning: “No cannabis at the border”. With Canada just a day away from legalizing marijuana nation-wide the Americans were obviously making a point of making their point. “It ain’t legal here buddy, and we’ve got our eyes on you.”
So it was with a little extra trepidation that I pulled up to the border crossing, half-expecting some extra questioning. What I got was this:
“Where do you live?” Ottawa.
“Where are you going?” Albany.
“What are you going to Albany for?” To see some concerts.
So far, so standard.
“You going to see Phish?” Um…yes.
“Why?” Um….because it’s fun…
“They’re terrible!”
Um…
“Why would anyone want to see Phish, they are horrible!”
Er…
“Aw, I’m just kidding,” the border dude said, smiling and handing back our passports. “Have a great time.”
And we did.
Checked in to our Holiday Inn Express right around the corner from the venue and went to a nearby New Orleans-style bar for dinner, just beating the massive pre-show crowd and scoring the best table in the house. An hour and a half later we walked up the street and joined the booming crowd in front of the Knickerbocker Arena.
Dave found his Boston crew and zigged to his seat beside the stage while m’lady and I zagged to our reserved perch in the back corner of the upper level, which ended up being an excellent spot for the show.
The band kicked off with [i]Moma Dance[/i], which was a bit of an odd beginning – but good – followed by a nicely jammed out[i] Tube[/i]. It proved to be a good start to the show, and things just kept getting better: [i]Theme From The Bottom[/i] (always a favourite of mine) and [i]Free[/i]. Later in the set [i]Cities[/i] surprised everyone in the room (band included) by miraculously appearing out of the end of [i]Everything’s Right[/i]. before rounding out set one with [i]Walls of the Cave[/i].
But it was during the second set that I realized just how odd of a show we were witnessing. Halfway through the setlist it occurred to me that Trey was ducking away from every possible solo opportunity. Whenever a soft spot would come up, a pocket just waiting for one of Anastasio’s signature screaming bend solo intros, Trey would instead milk a low chord, soloing in pure timbre rather than notes. It was really curious, really different, and really fun.
Worthy of very, very special mention was CK5’s continuing mastery of his dangling light rig. During [i]Twenty Years Later[/i] he took things to new heights, arranging his remote-controlled light trusses in a downward sloping angle that careened and pulsated in ways I’ve never seen before. The crowd screamed madly. I was literally weeping. Gosh, it was so great.
When [i]Character Zero[/i] started up to close the set I convinced m’lady that her best chance at truly enjoying one of her least favourite Phish songs was to air-guitar along with it. She did and she did, and so did I (of course. I always do).
Then, during the [i]Harry Hood [/i]encore I took a chance during the late jam and raced all the way down to the basement bathroom and back again, arriving just in time to join in breathlessly for the “You can feel good, good about Hood!” singalong that capped the concert.
Out on the street the lot was getting closed up just as it was starting so m’lady and I finished off the evening enjoying fridge-beers in front of our hotel and making new friends.
All in all it was a fantastic time.
“Why would anyone want to see Phish?” Honestly!
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On October 16th, 2018 three of us drove (well, I drove) to the United States of America for a pair of Phish concerts in Albany. Approaching the US border I noticed a large, conspicuous digital sign on the side of the road warning: “No cannabis at the border”. With Canada just a day away from legalizing marijuana nation-wide the Americans were obviously making a point of making their point. “It ain’t legal here buddy, and we’ve got our eyes on you.”
So it was with a little extra trepidation that I pulled up to the border crossing, half-expecting some extra questioning. What I got was this:
“Where do you live?” Ottawa.
“Where are you going?” Albany.
“What are you going to Albany for?” To see some concerts.
So far, so standard.
“You going to see Phish?” Um…yes.
“Why?” Um….because it’s fun…
“They’re terrible!”
Um…
“Why would anyone want to see Phish, they are horrible!”
Er…
“Aw, I’m just kidding,” the border dude said, smiling and handing back our passports. “Have a great time.”
And we did.
Checked in to our Holiday Inn Express right around the corner from the venue and went to a nearby New Orleans-style bar for dinner, just beating the massive pre-show crowd and scoring the best table in the house. An hour and a half later we walked up the street and joined the booming crowd in front of the Knickerbocker Arena.
Dave found his Boston crew and zigged to his seat beside the stage while m’lady and I zagged to our reserved perch in the back corner of the upper level, which ended up being an excellent spot for the show.
The band kicked off with [i]Moma Dance[/i], which was a bit of an odd beginning – but good – followed by a nicely jammed out[i] Tube[/i]. It proved to be a good start to the show, and things just kept getting better: [i]Theme From The Bottom[/i] (always a favourite of mine) and [i]Free[/i]. Later in the set [i]Cities[/i] surprised everyone in the room (band included) by miraculously appearing out of the end of [i]Everything’s Right[/i]. before rounding out set one with [i]Walls of the Cave[/i].
But it was during the second set that I realized just how odd of a show we were witnessing. Halfway through the setlist it occurred to me that Trey was ducking away from every possible solo opportunity. Whenever a soft spot would come up, a pocket just waiting for one of Anastasio’s signature screaming bend solo intros, Trey would instead milk a low chord, soloing in pure timbre rather than notes. It was really curious, really different, and really fun.
Worthy of very, very special mention was CK5’s continuing mastery of his dangling light rig. During [i]Twenty Years Later[/i] he took things to new heights, arranging his remote-controlled light trusses in a downward sloping angle that careened and pulsated in ways I’ve never seen before. The crowd screamed madly. I was literally weeping. Gosh, it was so great.
When [i]Character Zero[/i] started up to close the set I convinced m’lady that her best chance at truly enjoying one of her least favourite Phish songs was to air-guitar along with it. She did and she did, and so did I (of course. I always do).
Then, during the [i]Harry Hood [/i]encore I took a chance during the late jam and raced all the way down to the basement bathroom and back again, arriving just in time to join in breathlessly for the “You can feel good, good about Hood!” singalong that capped the concert.
Out on the street the lot was getting closed up just as it was starting so m’lady and I finished off the evening enjoying fridge-beers in front of our hotel and making new friends.
All in all it was a fantastic time.
“Why would anyone want to see Phish?” Honestly!
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2016-10-18
October 18th, 2016 was the first of two nights of Phish in Nashville, Tennessee. These would be the only two shows of the fall tour that I would catch, once again proving that I sure know how to pick ‘em.
I flew in and cabbed to my standard dive hotel, a neo-hippie takeover Comfort Inn reasonably close to downtown. When I arrived I noticed a small group of people protesting in front of the hotel, waving around signs featuring home-drawn pictures of bedbugs and other unsavoury critters. Like I say, the place is a bit of a dive. I checked in and strolled down the street to buy some mix for my duty free. By the time I returned the hotel had obviously taken care of the pest problem; there wasn’t a protester in sight. I grabbed a glass from my room, settled into the busy pool area and started in.
I think I might have walked downtown for the show, I don’t remember for sure – perhaps I hopped on the free tourist bus – but I do recall being on foot as I approached the venue. With every step the faint rumblings of amplification grew until the soundcheck crystallized in my ears. “That’s funny,” I said to m’lady, “it sounds like they are playing [i]Walkin’ Blues[/i], and it sure sounds like Bob Weir singing.
“Do you think that’s the soundcheck we are hearing,” I pondered as we walked, our pace increasing, “or are they playing music through the PA?”
We kept walking, they kept soundchecking, and soon the two of us were convinced; that was definitely Bobby singing with Phish. Well now!
We cruised the lot before the show and bought some food and sundries (I got the coolest Steal Your Boognish t-shirt for a mere $20) and hung out before heading in. Inside the nearly-new amphitheatre we parked ourselves on the lawn and made friends with our grassy neighbours.
The band came out and got the place up and moving with blazing [i]Chalkdust[/i] followed by a torturous [i]Blaze[/i]. Then [i]Ghost[/i] appeared, and man, all of us on the grass were ready for the [i]Lawn Boy [/i]that came next. It almost sounded like hell was coming when they went into [i]Halley’s[/i], then they come at us with [i]Sand[/i]!
I could keep this going, but how about I give both of us a break. Let’s just say the first set odyssey ended with a funky twilight run though of [i]Also Sprach Zarathustra[/i].
Of course the second set was the money when it comes to this show. After [i]My Friend, My Friend[/i] (one of my Phish faves) the band introduced their friend Bob Weir. Actually, scratch that – as I recall nobody said a word of introduction. Come to think of it, I don’t believe that Bob’s name was mentioned at any time, even after the show. However, it was literally a case of a man needing no introduction. Bobby came out, they launched into [i]Samson and Delilah [/i]and the crowd went completely nutballs.
It was pretty exciting when he stayed onstage for Phish’s [i]Twist [/i]and even took the lead vocals on [i]Miss You[/i]. And they kept going! [i]West LA Fadeaway [/i]and then [i]Playin’ In The Band[/i] (which was at one time my absolute favourite Grateful Dead song), with Trey on vocals! (Let Trey Sing)
Again without a word to the audience, Weir joined Phish for the encore too, treating us to a blissful version of Dylan’s [i]Quinn The Eskimo[/i]. Bobby had sat in for basically half the concert and it had sounded great – by the time we filed out of the place and walked the two blocks to the Nashville strip the show had already become the stuff of legend on the interwebs.
M’lady and I poked our heads in on a Jeff Coffin gig but it was too notey and non-Nashville for us so we opted for a bit of honky-tonkin, stopping in for a beer and a song or two at a half-dozen bars along the noisy street. We found out the next day that we had left our seats by the door in one place just a few minutes before Trey and Mike had walked in. Too bad we missed them but it’s not like they got up and played or anything. It is interesting to note that Bobby wasn’t with them.
I bet he was out partying with Fishman.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
October 18th, 2016 was the first of two nights of Phish in Nashville, Tennessee. These would be the only two shows of the fall tour that I would catch, once again proving that I sure know how to pick ‘em.
I flew in and cabbed to my standard dive hotel, a neo-hippie takeover Comfort Inn reasonably close to downtown. When I arrived I noticed a small group of people protesting in front of the hotel, waving around signs featuring home-drawn pictures of bedbugs and other unsavoury critters. Like I say, the place is a bit of a dive. I checked in and strolled down the street to buy some mix for my duty free. By the time I returned the hotel had obviously taken care of the pest problem; there wasn’t a protester in sight. I grabbed a glass from my room, settled into the busy pool area and started in.
I think I might have walked downtown for the show, I don’t remember for sure – perhaps I hopped on the free tourist bus – but I do recall being on foot as I approached the venue. With every step the faint rumblings of amplification grew until the soundcheck crystallized in my ears. “That’s funny,” I said to m’lady, “it sounds like they are playing [i]Walkin’ Blues[/i], and it sure sounds like Bob Weir singing.
“Do you think that’s the soundcheck we are hearing,” I pondered as we walked, our pace increasing, “or are they playing music through the PA?”
We kept walking, they kept soundchecking, and soon the two of us were convinced; that was definitely Bobby singing with Phish. Well now!
We cruised the lot before the show and bought some food and sundries (I got the coolest Steal Your Boognish t-shirt for a mere $20) and hung out before heading in. Inside the nearly-new amphitheatre we parked ourselves on the lawn and made friends with our grassy neighbours.
The band came out and got the place up and moving with blazing [i]Chalkdust[/i] followed by a torturous [i]Blaze[/i]. Then [i]Ghost[/i] appeared, and man, all of us on the grass were ready for the [i]Lawn Boy [/i]that came next. It almost sounded like hell was coming when they went into [i]Halley’s[/i], then they come at us with [i]Sand[/i]!
I could keep this going, but how about I give both of us a break. Let’s just say the first set odyssey ended with a funky twilight run though of [i]Also Sprach Zarathustra[/i].
Of course the second set was the money when it comes to this show. After [i]My Friend, My Friend[/i] (one of my Phish faves) the band introduced their friend Bob Weir. Actually, scratch that – as I recall nobody said a word of introduction. Come to think of it, I don’t believe that Bob’s name was mentioned at any time, even after the show. However, it was literally a case of a man needing no introduction. Bobby came out, they launched into [i]Samson and Delilah [/i]and the crowd went completely nutballs.
It was pretty exciting when he stayed onstage for Phish’s [i]Twist [/i]and even took the lead vocals on [i]Miss You[/i]. And they kept going! [i]West LA Fadeaway [/i]and then [i]Playin’ In The Band[/i] (which was at one time my absolute favourite Grateful Dead song), with Trey on vocals! (Let Trey Sing)
Again without a word to the audience, Weir joined Phish for the encore too, treating us to a blissful version of Dylan’s [i]Quinn The Eskimo[/i]. Bobby had sat in for basically half the concert and it had sounded great – by the time we filed out of the place and walked the two blocks to the Nashville strip the show had already become the stuff of legend on the interwebs.
M’lady and I poked our heads in on a Jeff Coffin gig but it was too notey and non-Nashville for us so we opted for a bit of honky-tonkin, stopping in for a beer and a song or two at a half-dozen bars along the noisy street. We found out the next day that we had left our seats by the door in one place just a few minutes before Trey and Mike had walked in. Too bad we missed them but it’s not like they got up and played or anything. It is interesting to note that Bobby wasn’t with them.
I bet he was out partying with Fishman.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2014-11-01
On November 1st, 2014 I awoke with a bit of a fuzzy head. Sure I had gotten a little tipsy at Phish’s Hallowe’en show the night before, but really, isn’t every morning a little fuzzy when you wake up in Las Vegas?
(If you answered “no” to the previous question – which was meant to be rhetorical – then one of us ain’t doin’ Vegas right.)
Perhaps especially when you’re staying at The Flamingo (or as I typoed it once and have since and will forever call it: The Flaming O). Why? Because the Flaming O is kitschy, it’s classic, and it’s cheap, and as a result it attracts a fuzzier clientele than does, say, the Bellagio or The Venetian. Take, for example, yours truly from just a few nights previous. We had just checked in after a long day of airplaning and enjoyed a relaxing nightcap in our room – which was situated about thirty-seven acres from the nearest bank of elevators, which were themselves at least twenty-nine leagues from the front desk, to which I had to return twice upon arrival because the key kept not unlocking the freakin’ door – when I decided to spend an hour raking it in at the tables downstairs.
And I did quite well. So well in fact that I found I couldn’t leave the roulette table. Not when my chips stacked so high I could barely reach over them, not when the free-drinks ladies started calling me by name, not when my pile started diminishing at a steady and rapid rate, not when my dashes to the bathroom started coming with every spin, not even when in a fit of frustration I placed just one, single bet on the table, $10 on number 9, and lo, the little pea popped right into the #9 slot. No friends, I was fuzzy enough to sit at that table until I lost everything I had won and even the $100 I had started with (and maybe a wee bit more – I remain fuzzy on the actual figure). Had I left the table at exactly the right time I could have come back to the room and crawled into that king-sized coconut-scented bed with enough money sitting on the nightstand to pay for our entire trip, but of course I didn’t. Instead I arrived back at the room shocked to discover that not only was it daylight, but m’lady was awake, showered, and ready to meet some friends for brunch. I did my morning calisthenics and we got out of there.
And so, it is with admitted – nay, professed – fuzziness that I report that Phish delivered a solid middle-night show at the MGM Grand arena that evening (not the evening of my gradual roulette fiasco, but the evening that I am ostensibly writing about: November 1st). The first set was a rock and roll sandwich bunned by[i] Fuego[/i] at the front and [i]Wingsuit [/i]at the back, a clear nod to the previous year’s Hallowe’en show, a concert that premiered Phish’s new album Wingsuit, which was renamed Fuego when it was officially released.
The second set was even better. At one point the keyboardist played a few samples from the Chilling, Thrilling Disney album they had jammed along to during their musical costume the night before, snippets that were met with roars from the crowd. The writing was already on the wall, and Phish knows which side of the bread they are buttered on. The band would go on to play the heck out of Chilling, Thrilling tracks at their future shows, consistently to the ecstatic joy of approximately 95% of their fans (myself included) and the head-shaking chagrin of the other 10%.
And while my figures may be a little fuzzy and a lot made up, they are utterly consistent with the rest of this ticket story and, frankly, these write ups on-the-whole.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On November 1st, 2014 I awoke with a bit of a fuzzy head. Sure I had gotten a little tipsy at Phish’s Hallowe’en show the night before, but really, isn’t every morning a little fuzzy when you wake up in Las Vegas?
(If you answered “no” to the previous question – which was meant to be rhetorical – then one of us ain’t doin’ Vegas right.)
Perhaps especially when you’re staying at The Flamingo (or as I typoed it once and have since and will forever call it: The Flaming O). Why? Because the Flaming O is kitschy, it’s classic, and it’s cheap, and as a result it attracts a fuzzier clientele than does, say, the Bellagio or The Venetian. Take, for example, yours truly from just a few nights previous. We had just checked in after a long day of airplaning and enjoyed a relaxing nightcap in our room – which was situated about thirty-seven acres from the nearest bank of elevators, which were themselves at least twenty-nine leagues from the front desk, to which I had to return twice upon arrival because the key kept not unlocking the freakin’ door – when I decided to spend an hour raking it in at the tables downstairs.
And I did quite well. So well in fact that I found I couldn’t leave the roulette table. Not when my chips stacked so high I could barely reach over them, not when the free-drinks ladies started calling me by name, not when my pile started diminishing at a steady and rapid rate, not when my dashes to the bathroom started coming with every spin, not even when in a fit of frustration I placed just one, single bet on the table, $10 on number 9, and lo, the little pea popped right into the #9 slot. No friends, I was fuzzy enough to sit at that table until I lost everything I had won and even the $100 I had started with (and maybe a wee bit more – I remain fuzzy on the actual figure). Had I left the table at exactly the right time I could have come back to the room and crawled into that king-sized coconut-scented bed with enough money sitting on the nightstand to pay for our entire trip, but of course I didn’t. Instead I arrived back at the room shocked to discover that not only was it daylight, but m’lady was awake, showered, and ready to meet some friends for brunch. I did my morning calisthenics and we got out of there.
And so, it is with admitted – nay, professed – fuzziness that I report that Phish delivered a solid middle-night show at the MGM Grand arena that evening (not the evening of my gradual roulette fiasco, but the evening that I am ostensibly writing about: November 1st). The first set was a rock and roll sandwich bunned by[i] Fuego[/i] at the front and [i]Wingsuit [/i]at the back, a clear nod to the previous year’s Hallowe’en show, a concert that premiered Phish’s new album Wingsuit, which was renamed Fuego when it was officially released.
The second set was even better. At one point the keyboardist played a few samples from the Chilling, Thrilling Disney album they had jammed along to during their musical costume the night before, snippets that were met with roars from the crowd. The writing was already on the wall, and Phish knows which side of the bread they are buttered on. The band would go on to play the heck out of Chilling, Thrilling tracks at their future shows, consistently to the ecstatic joy of approximately 95% of their fans (myself included) and the head-shaking chagrin of the other 10%.
And while my figures may be a little fuzzy and a lot made up, they are utterly consistent with the rest of this ticket story and, frankly, these write ups on-the-whole.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2003-12-01
On December 1st, 2003 I drove with a couple of friends from Toronto to Albany to see Phish at Knickerbocker Arena. nero must have just finished up a run or at least had a few days off in their relentless touring schedule that freed me up for a show, a relatively rare opportunity during that era of my life. Either way, I had a chance to catch some Phish and I took it.
The drive to Albany should have been a cakewalk, especially compared to the constant epic driving of the nero bus I was very accustomed to at the time. But it was storming the whole way, and it was storming bad.
A good eight to ten inches of snow had accumulated and it was still coming down fiercely. The traffic on the interstate was down to one lane in each direction and moving slow, the lengthy parade of cars stuck behind the salt-spewing snow plows that crawled along at no more than thirty miles per hour. We had a show to get to but even more pressing was the fact that my friend had an extra ticket to sell, and he was very worried that we would be late and he would have to eat the ticket.
Back then I was driving a pretty solid Honda Accord. It wasn’t a four-wheel-drive but it had winter tires and seemed up to the challenge. I pulled out and reclaimed the I-90 passing lane, flying blind past the snowplows with a steady hand and an iron nerve and wouldn’t you know it, we made it to Shakedown Street just in time to sell the ticket and get in to the show (albeit a bit late; we walked in during their second song, [i]Stash[/i]).
The concert that followed has become infamous due to an extended sit-in by long-lost original member Jeff Holdsworth who, as I had heard it, walked off into the mountains one day during an early Phish tour and never came back, never called or wrote…nothing. I heard he just disappeared, found religion or something like that and nobody had heard from him since that day, and here he was stepping on stage at Knickerbocker midway through the second set and strapping on a guitar.
Just because nobody does, I’ll reference the first set, which was great. As I mentioned we walked in during [i]Stash[/i] (having missed the opening [i]Chalkdust Torture[/i]), then it went: [i]Guyute[/i], [i]Thunderhead[/i]>[i]Sparkle[/i], [i]Wolfman’s Brother[/i]>[i]Good Times Bad Times[/i]. And so you didn’t need a crazy sit-in to make this a memorable show, but I suppose it helped.
Not that Holdsworth’s participation was musically transcendent or anything. Though notable for being historic, the second set won’t win any awards in the “killer jams” category. It was a fun event to be at though, no denying that, but when they started into [i]Long Cool Woman In A Black Dress[/i] Dave and I rolled our eyes pretty hard, silently (I hope) urging the band to abandon their nostalgic romp and get back to rocking our faces off.
They didn’t though. They even encored with [i]Fire[/i].
I’m guessing we drove back to either Toronto or perhaps on to Ottawa after the show, maybe even dropping off or picking up a passenger or two along the way, I don’t remember. The storm must have abated though as I don’t recall the post-show drive at all.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On December 1st, 2003 I drove with a couple of friends from Toronto to Albany to see Phish at Knickerbocker Arena. nero must have just finished up a run or at least had a few days off in their relentless touring schedule that freed me up for a show, a relatively rare opportunity during that era of my life. Either way, I had a chance to catch some Phish and I took it.
The drive to Albany should have been a cakewalk, especially compared to the constant epic driving of the nero bus I was very accustomed to at the time. But it was storming the whole way, and it was storming bad.
A good eight to ten inches of snow had accumulated and it was still coming down fiercely. The traffic on the interstate was down to one lane in each direction and moving slow, the lengthy parade of cars stuck behind the salt-spewing snow plows that crawled along at no more than thirty miles per hour. We had a show to get to but even more pressing was the fact that my friend had an extra ticket to sell, and he was very worried that we would be late and he would have to eat the ticket.
Back then I was driving a pretty solid Honda Accord. It wasn’t a four-wheel-drive but it had winter tires and seemed up to the challenge. I pulled out and reclaimed the I-90 passing lane, flying blind past the snowplows with a steady hand and an iron nerve and wouldn’t you know it, we made it to Shakedown Street just in time to sell the ticket and get in to the show (albeit a bit late; we walked in during their second song, [i]Stash[/i]).
The concert that followed has become infamous due to an extended sit-in by long-lost original member Jeff Holdsworth who, as I had heard it, walked off into the mountains one day during an early Phish tour and never came back, never called or wrote…nothing. I heard he just disappeared, found religion or something like that and nobody had heard from him since that day, and here he was stepping on stage at Knickerbocker midway through the second set and strapping on a guitar.
Just because nobody does, I’ll reference the first set, which was great. As I mentioned we walked in during [i]Stash[/i] (having missed the opening [i]Chalkdust Torture[/i]), then it went: [i]Guyute[/i], [i]Thunderhead[/i]>[i]Sparkle[/i], [i]Wolfman’s Brother[/i]>[i]Good Times Bad Times[/i]. And so you didn’t need a crazy sit-in to make this a memorable show, but I suppose it helped.
Not that Holdsworth’s participation was musically transcendent or anything. Though notable for being historic, the second set won’t win any awards in the “killer jams” category. It was a fun event to be at though, no denying that, but when they started into [i]Long Cool Woman In A Black Dress[/i] Dave and I rolled our eyes pretty hard, silently (I hope) urging the band to abandon their nostalgic romp and get back to rocking our faces off.
They didn’t though. They even encored with [i]Fire[/i].
I’m guessing we drove back to either Toronto or perhaps on to Ottawa after the show, maybe even dropping off or picking up a passenger or two along the way, I don’t remember. The storm must have abated though as I don’t recall the post-show drive at all.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 1999-12-05
This is going to be an easy one.
On December 5th, 1999 I drove to Rochester to see Phish with my good friend and fellow guitar teacher Doug, and a girl named Kyla who was taking the course I was teaching at the university.
We got pulled into the US border on the way and endured an hour-long useless hassle* before being released and sent forth, a common occurrence in the era before September 11th, 2001, a day when young, long-haired music lovers were suddenly no longer the droids they were looking for.
Anyway, we got down there and checked into some hotel and either by fluke or by design we ran into my Ottawa friend Jay and a couple of his buddies.
“Jay, this is Kyla,” I said, introducing the two.
They ran into one another again a week or so later at a bar back home in Ottawa, several years later I was honoured to attend their super-fun wedding, and here it is a decade or more on and they remain one of the nicest, best-paired couples I know.
And all because of me. And Phish. No wonder I keep going to see the band.
Anyway, getting to the show itself (which is an afterthought really, given the momentousness of my serendipitous introduction) there is really one major moment that stands out in my mind. It was late in the second set and Doug and I were on the floor together – Kyla was probably off getting acquainted with her new friend, I don’t know – when the band started into one of my favourites of their songs, [i]Maze[/i].
Now, this was back in the days when I had seen Phish only a handful of times, and I had seen them play [i]Maze[/i] only once or twice before. In a word: I was very, very interested in the band at that precise, exact moment.
And that was precisely, exactly the moment that Doug turned to me and said, “The crowd is really getting to me man, I gotta get off the floor.”
Um…okay.
Taking a last glance at the band just as they launched into the first verse I absorbed a short, longing look before turning around to lead my friend off of the floor. I led him all the way up to the walkway that surrounded the upper bowl where we would have plenty of space; indeed, when we got there the only other people up there were the spinners. Remember spinners?
On our way up we stopped into the bathroom where Doug had an odd encounter with some guy who was probably just spun out, but it really freaked Doug out. So once we got upstairs he was suffering from both claustrophobia and weird-dude-itis and he was kind of raving. So there was the band down there going into their cool time-signature overlay bit that I so, so wanted to pay attention to, meanwhile there I was trying to appear like I was paying attention to my good friend as he narrowly avoided a mid-concert meltdown**.
Anyway, we paced back and forth up there for a while and just as the song ended Doug got himself collected and we found ourselves a pair of seats in the bowl for the last few songs (specifically: [i]Fluffhead[/i], [i]Chalkdust Torture[/i], [i]Frankenstein[/i], and a [i]Character Zero[/i]/[i]Hello My Baby [/i]encore), which were awesome.
But of course the main point here is that I am forever honoured to be the person who introduced one of the world’s great couples to one another and I did it at this show.
And Phish is a fantastic band.
*God, I love this story: During the rather extensive search one of the border cops had discovered a pack of rolling papers in the front pocket of Doug’s ubiquitous jean jacket. Though Doug never once took off his jacket, he somehow hadn’t noticed that the border cop had discovered his semi-contraband, nor was he even aware that he had papers in his pocket in the first place. Anyway, when they were finally done all their poking and prodding the one cop summed things up to the other. “That guy has a record but it ain’t him [there’s another me out there who is a scallywag in the eyes of the law] and the other guy has a pack of papers in his pocket but other than that they’re clean…”
“”Waitaminnit,” Doug says, “…I don’t have any papers in my pocket.”
“Yes, you do,” the officer said matter-of-factly. “No. No I don’t,” Doug replied adamantly. Of course I’m standing next to him going through every Three Stooges-like action you can imagine – zipping my lips and quickly drawing my finger across my throat and the like – trying not-so-subtly to get Doug to just shut his mouth before he got us held up for real.
“Look buddy,” the guy said with way more patience than I expected. “You have a pack of papers in your pocket but it’s not a big…”
“I’m telling you,” Doug said, interrupting the border cop. “I do not have rolling papers on me.”
With a sigh of exasperation the cop took two steps towards Doug, and to his utter amazement the cop reached into Doug’s breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Zig Zag whites. He displayed it to the room for all to see.
I would pay a lot of money to have a picture of Doug’s face at that moment. I would pay even more for a picture of my face looking at Doug’s face at that moment.
Without a word the cop tucked the papers back into Doug’s pocket and dismissed us with a wave. We were frozen in time for about two and-a-half seconds and then we bolted, trying our best not to actually break into a run.
**Of course he was a-okay during the debut of [i]Jennifer Dances[/i] (the most reviled and mocked song in Phish’s entire catalog, and one they have sworn to never play again), so at least I was free to enjoy that one to the fullest.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
This is going to be an easy one.
On December 5th, 1999 I drove to Rochester to see Phish with my good friend and fellow guitar teacher Doug, and a girl named Kyla who was taking the course I was teaching at the university.
We got pulled into the US border on the way and endured an hour-long useless hassle* before being released and sent forth, a common occurrence in the era before September 11th, 2001, a day when young, long-haired music lovers were suddenly no longer the droids they were looking for.
Anyway, we got down there and checked into some hotel and either by fluke or by design we ran into my Ottawa friend Jay and a couple of his buddies.
“Jay, this is Kyla,” I said, introducing the two.
They ran into one another again a week or so later at a bar back home in Ottawa, several years later I was honoured to attend their super-fun wedding, and here it is a decade or more on and they remain one of the nicest, best-paired couples I know.
And all because of me. And Phish. No wonder I keep going to see the band.
Anyway, getting to the show itself (which is an afterthought really, given the momentousness of my serendipitous introduction) there is really one major moment that stands out in my mind. It was late in the second set and Doug and I were on the floor together – Kyla was probably off getting acquainted with her new friend, I don’t know – when the band started into one of my favourites of their songs, [i]Maze[/i].
Now, this was back in the days when I had seen Phish only a handful of times, and I had seen them play [i]Maze[/i] only once or twice before. In a word: I was very, very interested in the band at that precise, exact moment.
And that was precisely, exactly the moment that Doug turned to me and said, “The crowd is really getting to me man, I gotta get off the floor.”
Um…okay.
Taking a last glance at the band just as they launched into the first verse I absorbed a short, longing look before turning around to lead my friend off of the floor. I led him all the way up to the walkway that surrounded the upper bowl where we would have plenty of space; indeed, when we got there the only other people up there were the spinners. Remember spinners?
On our way up we stopped into the bathroom where Doug had an odd encounter with some guy who was probably just spun out, but it really freaked Doug out. So once we got upstairs he was suffering from both claustrophobia and weird-dude-itis and he was kind of raving. So there was the band down there going into their cool time-signature overlay bit that I so, so wanted to pay attention to, meanwhile there I was trying to appear like I was paying attention to my good friend as he narrowly avoided a mid-concert meltdown**.
Anyway, we paced back and forth up there for a while and just as the song ended Doug got himself collected and we found ourselves a pair of seats in the bowl for the last few songs (specifically: [i]Fluffhead[/i], [i]Chalkdust Torture[/i], [i]Frankenstein[/i], and a [i]Character Zero[/i]/[i]Hello My Baby [/i]encore), which were awesome.
But of course the main point here is that I am forever honoured to be the person who introduced one of the world’s great couples to one another and I did it at this show.
And Phish is a fantastic band.
*God, I love this story: During the rather extensive search one of the border cops had discovered a pack of rolling papers in the front pocket of Doug’s ubiquitous jean jacket. Though Doug never once took off his jacket, he somehow hadn’t noticed that the border cop had discovered his semi-contraband, nor was he even aware that he had papers in his pocket in the first place. Anyway, when they were finally done all their poking and prodding the one cop summed things up to the other. “That guy has a record but it ain’t him [there’s another me out there who is a scallywag in the eyes of the law] and the other guy has a pack of papers in his pocket but other than that they’re clean…”
“”Waitaminnit,” Doug says, “…I don’t have any papers in my pocket.”
“Yes, you do,” the officer said matter-of-factly. “No. No I don’t,” Doug replied adamantly. Of course I’m standing next to him going through every Three Stooges-like action you can imagine – zipping my lips and quickly drawing my finger across my throat and the like – trying not-so-subtly to get Doug to just shut his mouth before he got us held up for real.
“Look buddy,” the guy said with way more patience than I expected. “You have a pack of papers in your pocket but it’s not a big…”
“I’m telling you,” Doug said, interrupting the border cop. “I do not have rolling papers on me.”
With a sigh of exasperation the cop took two steps towards Doug, and to his utter amazement the cop reached into Doug’s breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Zig Zag whites. He displayed it to the room for all to see.
I would pay a lot of money to have a picture of Doug’s face at that moment. I would pay even more for a picture of my face looking at Doug’s face at that moment.
Without a word the cop tucked the papers back into Doug’s pocket and dismissed us with a wave. We were frozen in time for about two and-a-half seconds and then we bolted, trying our best not to actually break into a run.
**Of course he was a-okay during the debut of [i]Jennifer Dances[/i] (the most reviled and mocked song in Phish’s entire catalog, and one they have sworn to never play again), so at least I was free to enjoy that one to the fullest.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2015-01-01
As the ball dropped to usher in 2015 I found myself standing in the American Airlines Arena in Miami, Florida along with thousands of like-minded souls, watching Phish do their thing. After an appropriate amount of after-partying (it was New Years Eve after all) I found my hotel, in which I found my room, in which I found my bed, in which I soon found myself tossing and turning and wishing the day would just curl up and die as the sun rose on January 1st.
Or so I’m guessing. It’s not like everything that gets deposited into my memory bank gathers interest, and in this case the entire four-day run just sort of blends into one big smear of entertainment.
I wouldn’t be too surprised if this was the day that m’lady and I headed into Miami’s famous Little Havana and had lunch at the city’s best-known Cuban restaurant. Regardless, I certainly wasn’t surprised to discover that our meal was sub-par at best. Having scoured a bevy of restaurants in actual-sized Havana over the course of two week-long trips to Cuba I have determined that the country’s cuisine is spotty and uninteresting at best*.
Of course, the day (lazy as it likely was) was capped with the second night of Phish’s four-nighter. Now, I’m not saying that the Phish fellas stayed up too late the night before like everyone else did, but looking back at the setlist it seems like they were easing themselves (and the rest of us by proxy) into the New Year nice and easy.
Not that the show was a sleeper, but it did have its fair share of relaxed moments. [i]Prince Caspian[/i], [i]Lawn Boy[/i], [i]Winterqueen[/i] leading into[i] Wading in the Velvet Sea[/i], [i]Undermind[/i], [i]Yarmouth Road[/i]…you get the idea.
Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re thinking, “Wait a minute dude**, some of those songs aren’t so chill.
“Okay, maybe they aren’t ragers,” (thinkst thou, permaybe), “But c’mon, they ain’t sleepers…”
Or maybe you don’t even know these songs; maybe to you these are just random, silly titles.
If so, you are much more likely to buy the line I’m selling***. Because really, sometimes I either don’t know what I’m talking about or else I’m just trying to tether some sort of thread through these narratives through leaps and lackadaisical lies.
Or both. In which case, those Phishier-than-thou can (and do) easily call me out, or at least spend several boring hours arguing their case, citing obscure dates and venues to prove their eye-rollingly uninteresting points.
Better to just take my word for it. Trust me.
*And utterly inedible at worst. The worst seemingly-appetizing meal I’ve ever had in my life was at one of the ‘special’ restaurants in an upscale Cuban resort, plus there was that time that m’lady vomited up her meal on the front steps of a fancy restaurant in Havana’s old town. That said, I am very eager to be proved wrong with regards to the quality of Cuban dining.
**Don’t “dude” me, dude.
***Speaking of “selling”, we had arrived in Miami without any tickets (on purpose) and for this second night I scored a pair out front for “free or anything you want to pay.” The guy said he would donate anything I gave him to Phish’s charity The Mockingbird Foundation so I gave him $40 for the pair. That was the most I paid for tickets over the entire four-night run.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
As the ball dropped to usher in 2015 I found myself standing in the American Airlines Arena in Miami, Florida along with thousands of like-minded souls, watching Phish do their thing. After an appropriate amount of after-partying (it was New Years Eve after all) I found my hotel, in which I found my room, in which I found my bed, in which I soon found myself tossing and turning and wishing the day would just curl up and die as the sun rose on January 1st.
Or so I’m guessing. It’s not like everything that gets deposited into my memory bank gathers interest, and in this case the entire four-day run just sort of blends into one big smear of entertainment.
I wouldn’t be too surprised if this was the day that m’lady and I headed into Miami’s famous Little Havana and had lunch at the city’s best-known Cuban restaurant. Regardless, I certainly wasn’t surprised to discover that our meal was sub-par at best. Having scoured a bevy of restaurants in actual-sized Havana over the course of two week-long trips to Cuba I have determined that the country’s cuisine is spotty and uninteresting at best*.
Of course, the day (lazy as it likely was) was capped with the second night of Phish’s four-nighter. Now, I’m not saying that the Phish fellas stayed up too late the night before like everyone else did, but looking back at the setlist it seems like they were easing themselves (and the rest of us by proxy) into the New Year nice and easy.
Not that the show was a sleeper, but it did have its fair share of relaxed moments. [i]Prince Caspian[/i], [i]Lawn Boy[/i], [i]Winterqueen[/i] leading into[i] Wading in the Velvet Sea[/i], [i]Undermind[/i], [i]Yarmouth Road[/i]…you get the idea.
Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re thinking, “Wait a minute dude**, some of those songs aren’t so chill.
“Okay, maybe they aren’t ragers,” (thinkst thou, permaybe), “But c’mon, they ain’t sleepers…”
Or maybe you don’t even know these songs; maybe to you these are just random, silly titles.
If so, you are much more likely to buy the line I’m selling***. Because really, sometimes I either don’t know what I’m talking about or else I’m just trying to tether some sort of thread through these narratives through leaps and lackadaisical lies.
Or both. In which case, those Phishier-than-thou can (and do) easily call me out, or at least spend several boring hours arguing their case, citing obscure dates and venues to prove their eye-rollingly uninteresting points.
Better to just take my word for it. Trust me.
*And utterly inedible at worst. The worst seemingly-appetizing meal I’ve ever had in my life was at one of the ‘special’ restaurants in an upscale Cuban resort, plus there was that time that m’lady vomited up her meal on the front steps of a fancy restaurant in Havana’s old town. That said, I am very eager to be proved wrong with regards to the quality of Cuban dining.
**Don’t “dude” me, dude.
***Speaking of “selling”, we had arrived in Miami without any tickets (on purpose) and for this second night I scored a pair out front for “free or anything you want to pay.” The guy said he would donate anything I gave him to Phish’s charity The Mockingbird Foundation so I gave him $40 for the pair. That was the most I paid for tickets over the entire four-night run.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2011-07-01
Happy Canada Day, America.
Such was the dichotomy of gusto and subdued disappointment (not to mention misplaced nationalism, literally) as I emerged from my tent on July 1st, 2011 on the outskirts of the Watkins Glen Speedway just south of New York’s Finger Lakes Region*. Of course it was a Phish festival (Superball IX) and of course I was with m’lady, for it takes exactly this sort of confluence to extract me from my home city on my favourite annual holiday**. We had a quartet of great friends along for the ride – we had rented one of those Thule roof racks to make the one-car squeeze possible – so I suppose I had brought a nice little chunk of home along with me, but still…Canada Day in America? Ah well, no better place to make the best of it than at a Phish fest.
As we had all come to expect, the band and the fans alike had gone the extra mile to make the weekend as fun as possible. There were installations all over the place; mock buildings, balloon sculptures, some nifty pinball-related chunks of art, and was this the year they had a bunch of scientists wandering around with clipboards? Then there was the ubiquitous Ferris wheel***, the fun concession stands (Beers of the World was so, so wasted on pre-IPA me), and my buddy BDunn with his life-sized cutout of Mr. T.
And after a rollicking great day bouncing from one of these wonders to another we still had a whole music festival to enjoy! Down at the concert pitch the band started off the weekend with [i]Possum[/i], a silly-singy-dancy fan-favourite that had been penned by the band’s only former member (Jeff Holdsworth. I wonder if he was there in the crowd somewhere? If so he would have been easily invisible among the 70,000 in attendance; I don’t think even the deepest Phish fan knows what he looks like. Heck, if we had room he could have ridden down with us…apparently Holdsworth has been living in Ottawa for years). Next up was a big favourite of mine, Frank Zappa’s [i]Peaches en Regalia[/i]. To be honest, I don’t think Phish even comes close to doing the song justice but I sure do love that they have the chutzpah to try. I sure do remember them launching into the song on this day but then, I’ve only seen Phish play it a handful of times so every performance remains precious. Despite the fact that – like I say – they don’t really do the song justice.
It’s curious now that I’m looking at the setlist online…looking at the rest of this set I’d almost have to agree with snarky Billy Joel’s assessment of Phish as “a glorified cover band”. After [i]Peaches[/i] was [i]Moma Dance[/i], then [i]Torn and Frayed[/i] by The Stones, then [i]NICU[/i] and [i]Bathtub Gin [/i]followed by David Bowie’s [i]Life On Mars?[/i], then another pair of originals ([i]My Friend[/i] and [i]Wolfman’s[/i]) then Ween’s [i]Roses Are Free[/i], another original ([i]Funky Bitch[/i]) and then a final cover song, Bob Dylan’s [i]Quinn the Eskimo[/i]. That’s five covers songs out of a twelve-song setlist (it’s a stretch to consider [i]Possum[/i] a cover song but if you do, then it’s half and half). They started off the second set by jamming into a Talking Heads tune, but after that it was all Phish.
Curiously, my biggest memory from the evening (if it was indeed this first night of music) was returning to our campsite after the encore. For some reason I had arrived alone, but our campsite next-door neighbour was there (a super-nice guy from…was it New Jersey? who tried his level best to keep in touch with me afterwards but I let it slide and now I don’t even remember his name), and he was grilling up some sausages. They were special sausages, he made them himself I think, or he bought them from a special butcher or some such thing; one of those “…best sausages in all of Joysie…” sort of things. Anyway, he was talking them up hard and asked me if I wanted one. “Sure!” I answered. When he handed me the bunned delight he held up a squeeze-bottle of mustard. “You just can’t eat it without mustard!” he declared.
Now, I am so very anti-mustard you’d be excused for thinking that eliminating the condiment’s existence from the face of the planet was my life’s work, but somehow…some way I was inspired to just say “yes”. And (if you can believe it; I can’t) I stood there and ate the whole thing, mustard and all. I didn’t gag, I didn’t puke, I didn’t die. I didn’t like it either. But I ate it, and with a big old drunky Canada Day-sized smile on my face too. M’lady came back in time to watch me finish it off, which she did with wide-eyed consternation. It’s a feat I have not attempted since.
*For the record, there are eleven “finger” lakes, but really, the whole area around the lakes is rife with weird names. A quick glance: Canadice, Hemlock, Conesus, Penn Yan, Romulus, Stanley, Adrian, Spencer, Howard, Wallace, Tyrone, Willard, Italy, Naples, Genoa, Geneva, Atlanta…
I would find it odd to spend my life saying “I live in Howard” or “I come from Romulus” or, even worse, “Actually, it’s Atlanta, New York.”
**I must say, my nationalistic pride has taken a bit of a wallop over the years as it had gradually been replaced by knowledge, solemnity, and a deep desire for reconciliation. For me July 1st was always a joyous drinking holiday wrapped up in a red maple leaf. Now it is a day of reflection and celebration of the culture and people that were unceremoniously buried beneath that flag.
***Did you know that George Washington Gale Ferris Jr. rode on William Somers’ “Somers wheel” (which was patented as a “Roundabout”) a full year before he patented his own “Ferris wheel” (which was popularly known as a “Chicago wheel” at the time)? More importantly: Do you care?
http://www.toddmaonout.com
Review by toddmanout
Happy Canada Day, America.
Such was the dichotomy of gusto and subdued disappointment (not to mention misplaced nationalism, literally) as I emerged from my tent on July 1st, 2011 on the outskirts of the Watkins Glen Speedway just south of New York’s Finger Lakes Region*. Of course it was a Phish festival (Superball IX) and of course I was with m’lady, for it takes exactly this sort of confluence to extract me from my home city on my favourite annual holiday**. We had a quartet of great friends along for the ride – we had rented one of those Thule roof racks to make the one-car squeeze possible – so I suppose I had brought a nice little chunk of home along with me, but still…Canada Day in America? Ah well, no better place to make the best of it than at a Phish fest.
As we had all come to expect, the band and the fans alike had gone the extra mile to make the weekend as fun as possible. There were installations all over the place; mock buildings, balloon sculptures, some nifty pinball-related chunks of art, and was this the year they had a bunch of scientists wandering around with clipboards? Then there was the ubiquitous Ferris wheel***, the fun concession stands (Beers of the World was so, so wasted on pre-IPA me), and my buddy BDunn with his life-sized cutout of Mr. T.
And after a rollicking great day bouncing from one of these wonders to another we still had a whole music festival to enjoy! Down at the concert pitch the band started off the weekend with [i]Possum[/i], a silly-singy-dancy fan-favourite that had been penned by the band’s only former member (Jeff Holdsworth. I wonder if he was there in the crowd somewhere? If so he would have been easily invisible among the 70,000 in attendance; I don’t think even the deepest Phish fan knows what he looks like. Heck, if we had room he could have ridden down with us…apparently Holdsworth has been living in Ottawa for years). Next up was a big favourite of mine, Frank Zappa’s [i]Peaches en Regalia[/i]. To be honest, I don’t think Phish even comes close to doing the song justice but I sure do love that they have the chutzpah to try. I sure do remember them launching into the song on this day but then, I’ve only seen Phish play it a handful of times so every performance remains precious. Despite the fact that – like I say – they don’t really do the song justice.
It’s curious now that I’m looking at the setlist online…looking at the rest of this set I’d almost have to agree with snarky Billy Joel’s assessment of Phish as “a glorified cover band”. After [i]Peaches[/i] was [i]Moma Dance[/i], then [i]Torn and Frayed[/i] by The Stones, then [i]NICU[/i] and [i]Bathtub Gin [/i]followed by David Bowie’s [i]Life On Mars?[/i], then another pair of originals ([i]My Friend[/i] and [i]Wolfman’s[/i]) then Ween’s [i]Roses Are Free[/i], another original ([i]Funky Bitch[/i]) and then a final cover song, Bob Dylan’s [i]Quinn the Eskimo[/i]. That’s five covers songs out of a twelve-song setlist (it’s a stretch to consider [i]Possum[/i] a cover song but if you do, then it’s half and half). They started off the second set by jamming into a Talking Heads tune, but after that it was all Phish.
Curiously, my biggest memory from the evening (if it was indeed this first night of music) was returning to our campsite after the encore. For some reason I had arrived alone, but our campsite next-door neighbour was there (a super-nice guy from…was it New Jersey? who tried his level best to keep in touch with me afterwards but I let it slide and now I don’t even remember his name), and he was grilling up some sausages. They were special sausages, he made them himself I think, or he bought them from a special butcher or some such thing; one of those “…best sausages in all of Joysie…” sort of things. Anyway, he was talking them up hard and asked me if I wanted one. “Sure!” I answered. When he handed me the bunned delight he held up a squeeze-bottle of mustard. “You just can’t eat it without mustard!” he declared.
Now, I am so very anti-mustard you’d be excused for thinking that eliminating the condiment’s existence from the face of the planet was my life’s work, but somehow…some way I was inspired to just say “yes”. And (if you can believe it; I can’t) I stood there and ate the whole thing, mustard and all. I didn’t gag, I didn’t puke, I didn’t die. I didn’t like it either. But I ate it, and with a big old drunky Canada Day-sized smile on my face too. M’lady came back in time to watch me finish it off, which she did with wide-eyed consternation. It’s a feat I have not attempted since.
*For the record, there are eleven “finger” lakes, but really, the whole area around the lakes is rife with weird names. A quick glance: Canadice, Hemlock, Conesus, Penn Yan, Romulus, Stanley, Adrian, Spencer, Howard, Wallace, Tyrone, Willard, Italy, Naples, Genoa, Geneva, Atlanta…
I would find it odd to spend my life saying “I live in Howard” or “I come from Romulus” or, even worse, “Actually, it’s Atlanta, New York.”
**I must say, my nationalistic pride has taken a bit of a wallop over the years as it had gradually been replaced by knowledge, solemnity, and a deep desire for reconciliation. For me July 1st was always a joyous drinking holiday wrapped up in a red maple leaf. Now it is a day of reflection and celebration of the culture and people that were unceremoniously buried beneath that flag.
***Did you know that George Washington Gale Ferris Jr. rode on William Somers’ “Somers wheel” (which was patented as a “Roundabout”) a full year before he patented his own “Ferris wheel” (which was popularly known as a “Chicago wheel” at the time)? More importantly: Do you care?
http://www.toddmaonout.com
, attached to 2012-07-08
July 8th, 2012 was the final show of a three-night run of Phish at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center in Saratoga Springs, New York. I’ve seen the band there several times before, it’s a nifty venue in a cool town less than five hours from home so I’m happy to get down to SPAC whenever I can.
Though I’ve seen Phish over a hundred times I am certainly not qualified to properly critique their shows; not compared to actual fans anyway. I just don’t pay enough attention to the music. Don’t get me wrong, when I do listen I generally love it but I get so wrapped up in the different venues, the crowd, and just the overall scene that sometimes even the greatest jams are merely musical wallpaper for my wandering mind. These guys have such an identifiable sound that to me a set can just seem like one big Phish song (as opposed the upcoming Tahoe [i]Tweezer[/i], when the set pretty much was one big Phish song).
In short: At any given time I’m likely the most experienced newb in the lot.
That said, I can expound on the Saratoga Performing Arts Center to no end. Set in a beautiful park a relatively short walk from the town’s main drag, the outdoor shed is nestled in the woods surrounded by lush greenery and heritage buildings. The rare design of the amphitheatre features a bouncy balcony that unfortunately obscures the view from much of the lawn but adds much to the uniqueness of the venue, with it’s extra-high ceiling and ramps emanating from the back of the balcony. No matter where you sit inside the pavilion the view is just band, fans and trees.
To think that this disproportionally large concert hall was built in the mid-60’s…well, it must have been envisioned as the Hollywood Bowl of the northeast or something, an iconic, singular auditorium that would ultimately become an attraction in itself. Whether or not it succeeds as such is up for debate but it’s definitely one of the best outdoor concert venues in that part of the continent.
So long as you’re not on the lawn, that is.
And as for the town itself, if the horse-racing culture or the healing spa waters don’t draw you in maybe the quaint downtown with it’s numerous pubs and restaurants will. There’s also an auto museum and the national dance museum and countless other attractions in the area.
And if none of this is enough, Saratoga Springs is where the potato chip was invented. ‘Nuff said: make the pilgrimage.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
July 8th, 2012 was the final show of a three-night run of Phish at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center in Saratoga Springs, New York. I’ve seen the band there several times before, it’s a nifty venue in a cool town less than five hours from home so I’m happy to get down to SPAC whenever I can.
Though I’ve seen Phish over a hundred times I am certainly not qualified to properly critique their shows; not compared to actual fans anyway. I just don’t pay enough attention to the music. Don’t get me wrong, when I do listen I generally love it but I get so wrapped up in the different venues, the crowd, and just the overall scene that sometimes even the greatest jams are merely musical wallpaper for my wandering mind. These guys have such an identifiable sound that to me a set can just seem like one big Phish song (as opposed the upcoming Tahoe [i]Tweezer[/i], when the set pretty much was one big Phish song).
In short: At any given time I’m likely the most experienced newb in the lot.
That said, I can expound on the Saratoga Performing Arts Center to no end. Set in a beautiful park a relatively short walk from the town’s main drag, the outdoor shed is nestled in the woods surrounded by lush greenery and heritage buildings. The rare design of the amphitheatre features a bouncy balcony that unfortunately obscures the view from much of the lawn but adds much to the uniqueness of the venue, with it’s extra-high ceiling and ramps emanating from the back of the balcony. No matter where you sit inside the pavilion the view is just band, fans and trees.
To think that this disproportionally large concert hall was built in the mid-60’s…well, it must have been envisioned as the Hollywood Bowl of the northeast or something, an iconic, singular auditorium that would ultimately become an attraction in itself. Whether or not it succeeds as such is up for debate but it’s definitely one of the best outdoor concert venues in that part of the continent.
So long as you’re not on the lawn, that is.
And as for the town itself, if the horse-racing culture or the healing spa waters don’t draw you in maybe the quaint downtown with it’s numerous pubs and restaurants will. There’s also an auto museum and the national dance museum and countless other attractions in the area.
And if none of this is enough, Saratoga Springs is where the potato chip was invented. ‘Nuff said: make the pilgrimage.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2013-07-19
On July 19th, 2013 I woke up in a cheap motel after much too little sleep and completed my drive to Chicago. I arrived to a city full of traffic, as most travellers to Chicago tend to do.
Sometimes seeing that many cars gives me pause (pun intended) – it makes me think about just how big the world is. Funny, I don’t get that sensation when I’m standing in a crowd of people, but cars are another thing for some reason.
I was in town for three nights of Phish so there were a lot of people to meet. I had been invited to stay with a friendly couple who of course had invited multitudes. When I arrived I found the party in full swing; handshakes and hugs were being thrown around like loose change in a penny arcade. Friendships were reignited or made outright, snacks were snacked, drinks were drunk and soon we were too.
When it came time to go we left en masse like some demented kindergarten for tie-dyed adults as we were led almost holding hands to the subway. I remember someone had loaded up a subway card and he zapped us all in. I thought that was pretty classy.
The show was on Northerly Island, a museum park on the water. The stage was set up big and tall on asphalt that was marked with lettered rows. I really liked that; you could easily find your way back to your spot by following the grid painted on the ground.
The band started and all was happy-happy-joy-joy. As the first set plowed on one could see an ominous darkness approaching from behind the city’s skyline, but no worries, from where me and my crew stood it was a lovely evening. The day had been brutally hot but the beer lines were quick – even at setbreak – and when the second set started I doubt anyone in the crowd imagined the show would soon get canceled due to weather.
Early in the set Trey started into [i]Prince Caspian[/i] when Page tried to get his attention. “A major storm is imminent,” Page tells him and then us. “We’ll be standing right backstage and hopefully we’ll be back on soon.”
Then a stagehand took the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a storm coming. Hopefully it will blow over quickly and the show can resume, but for now we all have to evacuate the grounds immediately!”
Blink, blink, went thousands of eyes. Nobody moved.
Five minutes later the same guy comes back onstage.
“Okay everyone, we must leave the venue RIGHT NOW! Phish is 100% not coming back onstage tonight!”
That got people moving.
With a collective shrug we all started out of the venue towards a thousand homes. Huge raindrops started falling; sporadically at first and quickly increasing. As we were heading out through a break in the weather a thought occurred to me.
“Coventry,” I said.
“What?”
“At Coventry they told us all to go home too, but the show went on after all. What if we’re being Coventried again?” I implored.
That gave us pause as we all remembered. This wasn’t the first time Phish had told us to leave. So we all stood there allowing forces to pull us in different directions. Meanwhile the drops got fatter and more frequent. Unspoken, we all agreed to race for cover within earshot of the venue and bolted.
We found ourselves jammed into a concrete roofed area near the marina, squished in with about a hundred and fifty others. And then the rains came, and they came hard.
Huddled together, dry and drunk and watching it pour down, somewhere behind me a sole voice began. “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide…” and then someone else joined in, “…No escape from reality…” The next line caught a few more people and the next a bunch more, and by the time we got to the “…easy come, easy go…” part we were all in, 150-strong and singing our hearts out. We even sang the solo together à la Wayne’s World. It was glorious and something I’ve tried again without success.
By the time the rain started to let up it was clearly too late for any more Phish so back into the subway we went. When anyone mentioned how lame it was that the show had been cancelled I would try to convey the horror of watching the stage collapse on top of Cheap Trick at The Ottawa Bluesfest.
I was fine with them cancelling. As far as I’m concerned with a three-night run there’s little reason to sweat it if one of the shows goes a bit wonky. That’s what the other two nights are for.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On July 19th, 2013 I woke up in a cheap motel after much too little sleep and completed my drive to Chicago. I arrived to a city full of traffic, as most travellers to Chicago tend to do.
Sometimes seeing that many cars gives me pause (pun intended) – it makes me think about just how big the world is. Funny, I don’t get that sensation when I’m standing in a crowd of people, but cars are another thing for some reason.
I was in town for three nights of Phish so there were a lot of people to meet. I had been invited to stay with a friendly couple who of course had invited multitudes. When I arrived I found the party in full swing; handshakes and hugs were being thrown around like loose change in a penny arcade. Friendships were reignited or made outright, snacks were snacked, drinks were drunk and soon we were too.
When it came time to go we left en masse like some demented kindergarten for tie-dyed adults as we were led almost holding hands to the subway. I remember someone had loaded up a subway card and he zapped us all in. I thought that was pretty classy.
The show was on Northerly Island, a museum park on the water. The stage was set up big and tall on asphalt that was marked with lettered rows. I really liked that; you could easily find your way back to your spot by following the grid painted on the ground.
The band started and all was happy-happy-joy-joy. As the first set plowed on one could see an ominous darkness approaching from behind the city’s skyline, but no worries, from where me and my crew stood it was a lovely evening. The day had been brutally hot but the beer lines were quick – even at setbreak – and when the second set started I doubt anyone in the crowd imagined the show would soon get canceled due to weather.
Early in the set Trey started into [i]Prince Caspian[/i] when Page tried to get his attention. “A major storm is imminent,” Page tells him and then us. “We’ll be standing right backstage and hopefully we’ll be back on soon.”
Then a stagehand took the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a storm coming. Hopefully it will blow over quickly and the show can resume, but for now we all have to evacuate the grounds immediately!”
Blink, blink, went thousands of eyes. Nobody moved.
Five minutes later the same guy comes back onstage.
“Okay everyone, we must leave the venue RIGHT NOW! Phish is 100% not coming back onstage tonight!”
That got people moving.
With a collective shrug we all started out of the venue towards a thousand homes. Huge raindrops started falling; sporadically at first and quickly increasing. As we were heading out through a break in the weather a thought occurred to me.
“Coventry,” I said.
“What?”
“At Coventry they told us all to go home too, but the show went on after all. What if we’re being Coventried again?” I implored.
That gave us pause as we all remembered. This wasn’t the first time Phish had told us to leave. So we all stood there allowing forces to pull us in different directions. Meanwhile the drops got fatter and more frequent. Unspoken, we all agreed to race for cover within earshot of the venue and bolted.
We found ourselves jammed into a concrete roofed area near the marina, squished in with about a hundred and fifty others. And then the rains came, and they came hard.
Huddled together, dry and drunk and watching it pour down, somewhere behind me a sole voice began. “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide…” and then someone else joined in, “…No escape from reality…” The next line caught a few more people and the next a bunch more, and by the time we got to the “…easy come, easy go…” part we were all in, 150-strong and singing our hearts out. We even sang the solo together à la Wayne’s World. It was glorious and something I’ve tried again without success.
By the time the rain started to let up it was clearly too late for any more Phish so back into the subway we went. When anyone mentioned how lame it was that the show had been cancelled I would try to convey the horror of watching the stage collapse on top of Cheap Trick at The Ottawa Bluesfest.
I was fine with them cancelling. As far as I’m concerned with a three-night run there’s little reason to sweat it if one of the shows goes a bit wonky. That’s what the other two nights are for.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2013-07-20
July 20th, 2013 was day two of Phish’s three-night run on Chicago’s Northerly Island. I was the first to wake up of the ten or so of us staying at a friend’s house so I got dressed and explored the neighbourhood. I found a cool coffee shop and filled a couple of to-go trays with big hot drinks.
I found my way back to the host house and delivered my bounty to the gradually growing crowd of sleepyheads that ultimately collected in the living room. Someone checked the ‘net and discovered that Phish would be playing an extra third set that evening to make up for having to end the previous night’s show early due to high winds and driving, drenching rain.
The day went by quickly. Our host Katie had planned a boat cruise for us which would end at the venue, but wind on the water had cancelled it so I spent the day jamming (there was a Martin D-28 upstairs) and learning a few nifty nylon tying tricks from Katie’s husband Kim, who was a knot-tying enthusiast. What a nifty hobby. More useful than playing guitar and about as lucrative.
This would prove to be the least eventful evening of the run (by far) and it’s no surprise (to me at least) that the action of the first and third nights created a memory vacuum that eliminated much of the to-and-fro of this middle night.
I recall being very impressed that the paved ‘floor’ section of the outdoor venue had a lettered and numbered grid painted on it making it very, very easy to find your way back to your spot. “Let’s see, we’re at N30…okay, here is K35, now L35, M35…bam! N35!” Now head towards the stage past N34, N33, etcetera until there’s your crew, right where you left them at N30. It’s a great system and every venue should should paint similar grids on the floors. Using the floor grid we managed to watch all three shows from precisely the same place each night.
Before the concert started the customary question was posed: “What do you think they’ll open with?” I thought the question was absurd. Could they possibly open with anything other than the previous night’s aborted [i]Prince Caspian[/i]?*
Of course they couldn’t (I would have done the same thing, especially if it had been a different song), and about thirty thousand of us shared a little laugh with Trey as Phish started the night where they had left off the night before before carrying on into an extra-long first set. There was a good little rain during the second set but nothing we couldn’t dance off, and by the end of the third set everyone was dry again. And happy. Almost thirty songs and they still had plenty of heavy hitters left over for night three.
Mid-show there was a bit of schtick when the band pulled a half-dozen people up out of the audience and onto the stage. The group said they started out as stormchasers and they eventually came to be following the band. It was pretty funny though it soon became obvious that there was a put-on being put on and whattya know? there was. Finally Trey introduced the group as members of the local Second City troupe and the band got on with the show.
After the concert we hopped the now-familiar subway route back to our host home where I spent the next several hours being introduced to String Theory: The Remarkable Art Of Rope-Tying. I tell you, it’s amazing what some people can do with a piece of rope. It’s like origami, but with rope.
*“Last night was the best [i]Caspian [/i]ever,” or so went the standing joke-of-the-day about one of Phish’s lesser-loved songs.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
July 20th, 2013 was day two of Phish’s three-night run on Chicago’s Northerly Island. I was the first to wake up of the ten or so of us staying at a friend’s house so I got dressed and explored the neighbourhood. I found a cool coffee shop and filled a couple of to-go trays with big hot drinks.
I found my way back to the host house and delivered my bounty to the gradually growing crowd of sleepyheads that ultimately collected in the living room. Someone checked the ‘net and discovered that Phish would be playing an extra third set that evening to make up for having to end the previous night’s show early due to high winds and driving, drenching rain.
The day went by quickly. Our host Katie had planned a boat cruise for us which would end at the venue, but wind on the water had cancelled it so I spent the day jamming (there was a Martin D-28 upstairs) and learning a few nifty nylon tying tricks from Katie’s husband Kim, who was a knot-tying enthusiast. What a nifty hobby. More useful than playing guitar and about as lucrative.
This would prove to be the least eventful evening of the run (by far) and it’s no surprise (to me at least) that the action of the first and third nights created a memory vacuum that eliminated much of the to-and-fro of this middle night.
I recall being very impressed that the paved ‘floor’ section of the outdoor venue had a lettered and numbered grid painted on it making it very, very easy to find your way back to your spot. “Let’s see, we’re at N30…okay, here is K35, now L35, M35…bam! N35!” Now head towards the stage past N34, N33, etcetera until there’s your crew, right where you left them at N30. It’s a great system and every venue should should paint similar grids on the floors. Using the floor grid we managed to watch all three shows from precisely the same place each night.
Before the concert started the customary question was posed: “What do you think they’ll open with?” I thought the question was absurd. Could they possibly open with anything other than the previous night’s aborted [i]Prince Caspian[/i]?*
Of course they couldn’t (I would have done the same thing, especially if it had been a different song), and about thirty thousand of us shared a little laugh with Trey as Phish started the night where they had left off the night before before carrying on into an extra-long first set. There was a good little rain during the second set but nothing we couldn’t dance off, and by the end of the third set everyone was dry again. And happy. Almost thirty songs and they still had plenty of heavy hitters left over for night three.
Mid-show there was a bit of schtick when the band pulled a half-dozen people up out of the audience and onto the stage. The group said they started out as stormchasers and they eventually came to be following the band. It was pretty funny though it soon became obvious that there was a put-on being put on and whattya know? there was. Finally Trey introduced the group as members of the local Second City troupe and the band got on with the show.
After the concert we hopped the now-familiar subway route back to our host home where I spent the next several hours being introduced to String Theory: The Remarkable Art Of Rope-Tying. I tell you, it’s amazing what some people can do with a piece of rope. It’s like origami, but with rope.
*“Last night was the best [i]Caspian [/i]ever,” or so went the standing joke-of-the-day about one of Phish’s lesser-loved songs.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2013-07-21
On July 21st, 2013 I woke up in Chicago ready for night three of Phish at Northerly Island. I walked to the local coffeeshop and brought back a couple of trays of java for the crew. Eventually we all got up and around, consumed sufficient amounts caffeine and started the day.
We all shared a communal barbecue that took up most of the afternoon and finally it was time to head to the show. The crew split up to take a variety of transportation modes into the city-centre, me and a half-dozen others ended up on the subway again.
We had changed over to the Red Line and were getting close to the venue when something odd happened. Just as we were pulling out of Grant Station a guy jumped up and ran to the door, pulling the cord marked “Emergency Door Opener”. The door slid open and the guy jumped out as the train started to pick up momentum. Outside I saw him turn to the car with a smile, pointing to nobody in particular with a laugh. We all looked at each other and remarked that that seemed odd before immediately shrugging it off.
A moment or two later the subway came to a halt and powered down. Hmmm, we thought. Then the PA came on.
“Passengers, passengers!” yelled a panicked voice. “Everyone must evacuate the train!”
Huh?
The doors slid open revealing the dank, dark concrete walls of the subway tunnel. Again the panicked voice:
“Passengers, passengers, we have a medical emergency! Leave the cars and get on the ledge in the tunnel. Hold the handrail tightly and make your way forward to the next station!”
A medical emergency? Wouldn’t it make sense to keep the train moving to the next station so help could be on the way?
Unspoken, it was clear to me that this was a terrorist threat, and I assumed everyone else in my car that saw the guy jump out was thinking the same thing. Out on the ledge it quickly became clear that no one was moving forward or back. Hundreds of us were trapped in the tiny gap between the train and the wall, unable to move. Inside the train dozens of people decided to move through the train cars to the front of the line. They wouldn’t be doing that if they had seen the guy jump the train. I was pretty convinced that the authorities were pretty convinced that he had left something on the train that he shouldn’t have left.
I was pleased to see that we were a bit ahead of our car, and I determined that we were out of range of any projectiles. As the minutes went by I investigated alternate escape routes. My first choice was to get down on the ground, cross through the train to the other side, open the doors (at least now I knew how to do that), and jump out the other side where there was more room to escape (and the dangerous third rail). I also figured it wouldn’t be too hard to get on top of the train, but any smoke or chemicals would make that an unattractive option.
And still we stood. To the people’s credit if anyone was panicking they were doing it quietly, as I was.
Once again, the panicked voice: “Passengers, passengers! (yes, he always said it twice) Prepare to move forward. Remember to hold the rail tightly and KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE WALL.”
Okay, now have you figured out what happened?
“It’s a jumper,” I quietly told my crew. The guy leaving the train was just a coincidence. Someone is lying dead on the tracks and they’re going to make us walk by the mess. One fear melted into another, and still more painful minutes went by as the reality of the situation was left to sink in.
Thankfully a clearer head must have showed up, instructions were given to walk back to the previous station instead (a much farther but significantly less gruesome walk), which occurred almost immediately, and about thirty minutes after the ordeal began we emerged from the tunnel covered in soot and blinking in the stark daylight.
We took stock; we’re all here, we’re all safe, and we’re all pretty much calm and collected. We hailed a couple of cabs and booked it to the show, once again hitting the floor in time for the first note.
Given the handy markings on the floor we easily found the same spot we had been standing for the last two shows, which meant by the third night our crew had grown large.
The first set was interrupted by rain and once again the show was stopped. Trey insisted it wasn’t his idea while Page assured us they would be back, but as we stood there in the cold rain we were left to wonder, “Did he mean we’ll be back when the rain stops or did he mean we’ll be back next year?”
The rains finally abated and the band did indeed come on again, picking up [i]Antelope[/i] where they had left off. On the floor it was cold, and I remember one girl in our crew almost convulsing with frantic shivering. We huddled together and hugged her dry.
At the end of the night our crew divided and m’lady and I ended up riding the rails back by ourselves. Fortunately our ride was significantly less eventful than the ride in had been and we made it back to Katie and Kim’s place to find the post-show party well on it’s way. Kim taught me how to tie a nifty new knot, I did some more jamming, and somehow I managed to get to sleep while it was still dark out.
Small but significant victories, I suppose.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On July 21st, 2013 I woke up in Chicago ready for night three of Phish at Northerly Island. I walked to the local coffeeshop and brought back a couple of trays of java for the crew. Eventually we all got up and around, consumed sufficient amounts caffeine and started the day.
We all shared a communal barbecue that took up most of the afternoon and finally it was time to head to the show. The crew split up to take a variety of transportation modes into the city-centre, me and a half-dozen others ended up on the subway again.
We had changed over to the Red Line and were getting close to the venue when something odd happened. Just as we were pulling out of Grant Station a guy jumped up and ran to the door, pulling the cord marked “Emergency Door Opener”. The door slid open and the guy jumped out as the train started to pick up momentum. Outside I saw him turn to the car with a smile, pointing to nobody in particular with a laugh. We all looked at each other and remarked that that seemed odd before immediately shrugging it off.
A moment or two later the subway came to a halt and powered down. Hmmm, we thought. Then the PA came on.
“Passengers, passengers!” yelled a panicked voice. “Everyone must evacuate the train!”
Huh?
The doors slid open revealing the dank, dark concrete walls of the subway tunnel. Again the panicked voice:
“Passengers, passengers, we have a medical emergency! Leave the cars and get on the ledge in the tunnel. Hold the handrail tightly and make your way forward to the next station!”
A medical emergency? Wouldn’t it make sense to keep the train moving to the next station so help could be on the way?
Unspoken, it was clear to me that this was a terrorist threat, and I assumed everyone else in my car that saw the guy jump out was thinking the same thing. Out on the ledge it quickly became clear that no one was moving forward or back. Hundreds of us were trapped in the tiny gap between the train and the wall, unable to move. Inside the train dozens of people decided to move through the train cars to the front of the line. They wouldn’t be doing that if they had seen the guy jump the train. I was pretty convinced that the authorities were pretty convinced that he had left something on the train that he shouldn’t have left.
I was pleased to see that we were a bit ahead of our car, and I determined that we were out of range of any projectiles. As the minutes went by I investigated alternate escape routes. My first choice was to get down on the ground, cross through the train to the other side, open the doors (at least now I knew how to do that), and jump out the other side where there was more room to escape (and the dangerous third rail). I also figured it wouldn’t be too hard to get on top of the train, but any smoke or chemicals would make that an unattractive option.
And still we stood. To the people’s credit if anyone was panicking they were doing it quietly, as I was.
Once again, the panicked voice: “Passengers, passengers! (yes, he always said it twice) Prepare to move forward. Remember to hold the rail tightly and KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE WALL.”
Okay, now have you figured out what happened?
“It’s a jumper,” I quietly told my crew. The guy leaving the train was just a coincidence. Someone is lying dead on the tracks and they’re going to make us walk by the mess. One fear melted into another, and still more painful minutes went by as the reality of the situation was left to sink in.
Thankfully a clearer head must have showed up, instructions were given to walk back to the previous station instead (a much farther but significantly less gruesome walk), which occurred almost immediately, and about thirty minutes after the ordeal began we emerged from the tunnel covered in soot and blinking in the stark daylight.
We took stock; we’re all here, we’re all safe, and we’re all pretty much calm and collected. We hailed a couple of cabs and booked it to the show, once again hitting the floor in time for the first note.
Given the handy markings on the floor we easily found the same spot we had been standing for the last two shows, which meant by the third night our crew had grown large.
The first set was interrupted by rain and once again the show was stopped. Trey insisted it wasn’t his idea while Page assured us they would be back, but as we stood there in the cold rain we were left to wonder, “Did he mean we’ll be back when the rain stops or did he mean we’ll be back next year?”
The rains finally abated and the band did indeed come on again, picking up [i]Antelope[/i] where they had left off. On the floor it was cold, and I remember one girl in our crew almost convulsing with frantic shivering. We huddled together and hugged her dry.
At the end of the night our crew divided and m’lady and I ended up riding the rails back by ourselves. Fortunately our ride was significantly less eventful than the ride in had been and we made it back to Katie and Kim’s place to find the post-show party well on it’s way. Kim taught me how to tie a nifty new knot, I did some more jamming, and somehow I managed to get to sleep while it was still dark out.
Small but significant victories, I suppose.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2013-07-27
Whether or not one enjoys festival camping boils down to expectations. If you expect that you might enjoy sleeping comfortably through the night then perhaps festival camping is not for you. If you expect to lounge in bed comfortably anytime past 8:30am, or if you expect little to no fireworks set off in the general direction of your sleeping area, or even if you expect something as simple as a quick little hot shower in the late morning, well, maybe you’ll want to book a room.
Festival camping is generally for me. I just set my gearshift to the ‘Hi’ gear of my tolerance and keep my hat on. And I assure you, earplugs are an enormously useful supplement. New to me this year was an eye-mask. I turned myself into The Who’s Tommy for the night and it helped me get up on the right side of the air mattress come the early morning of July 27th, 2013.
M’lady busied herself making coffee after coffee and quesadillas for brunch while I sat around and did nothing but enjoy same. Eventually I grabbed a guitar and found a nearby tarp commune with jammers and beers. We rounded out the midday with some really excellent music and several cold beers in the hot, hot shade.
M’lady and I spent the rest of the afternoon hanging with our neighbour friends under their shade tent where we mulled the forest fire that had clearly been taking shape a few hills away, and all the thickening smoke it was sending our way.
Before we got too drunk the two of us extracted ourselves from the conversation and headed in to the venue. I wanted to get a poster and find a closer spot for the show than we had the night before. We got in early enough to get the desired merch but the terraces had long been cherry-picked, so we found a nice spot on the grass just above the floor area. We had a few hours to kill in the hot sun but we had the remains of a bunky umbrella-cum-parasol with us – picked up for free at a booth at the Ottawa Jazzfest – and margaritas and chicken strips with curly fries to keep us contented.
I left m’lady to take a stroll and sauntered up the hill to the very centre of the venue. As I was walking up the hill towards the barren spot I had selected in my mind someone else was walking down to the same barren spot. We both got there about the same time and sat down a few feet away from each other, the only two people sitting on the vast, raked lawn. We got to talking about the Dead and the Allman Brothers and general tour stuff. Ten minutes later we stood and hugged, I went back down the hill and he went back up.
Tour is fun.
Back at our spot m’lady and I got surrounded by a group that included two kids at their first Phish show with their dad. I asked them what they were hoping to hear; the ten-year-old says [i]Prince Caspian[/i] and his little brother wants [i]Moma Dance[/i]. Noobs.
As the show started the smoke coming in from the distant forest fire was palpable, and while there’s no benefit to having smoke in your eyes at a show, the haze gave significant substance to CK5’s light show. Even while the sun was still up his beams of light shooting into the audience became thick shafts of colour.
The first set was a bit of a sleeper – I blame the kids who got both their calls – but the show overall was pretty great. At one point the top of the mountain behind the stage (and across the river) was glowing red with fire; I’ve never seen anything like it. The band should have changed the lyrics of [i]Maze[/i] to Haze but I’ll forgive them, especially after the monstrous funk that was [i]Sneakin’ Sally Though The Alley[/i].
After the show I meandered up and down Shakedown looking to trade my extra poster for a night one poster but found no takers. I considered looking for a jam but realized that people are generally way too messed up after a concert to be able to make and/or appreciate acoustic music very much. Amplification rules post-show.
So I sat for an hour with a drink or two and marvelled at the fireworks. Every highway sign for a hundred miles in any direction had the fire risk arrow set at “Extreme” and there we sat in a massive field covered with dry, mowed hay with smoke pouring over our heads from the encroaching forest fire across the river watching everyone and their brah lighting off boxfuls of amateur explosions that cascaded down onto an unspeakable amount of cracklin’-dry combustibles.
It’s truly a wonder that there has never been a lot fire at The Gorge, squawks old grey-beard.
Driving out the next day I was shocked to see a wheelchair piled amongst one of the vast camping-area garbage piles. Someone certainly had a good show. I also remember literally driving through burning forest fires on-and-off all afternoon as we headed south away from The Gorge. That was something I had never, ever experienced before.
Thank goodness for air-conditioning.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
Whether or not one enjoys festival camping boils down to expectations. If you expect that you might enjoy sleeping comfortably through the night then perhaps festival camping is not for you. If you expect to lounge in bed comfortably anytime past 8:30am, or if you expect little to no fireworks set off in the general direction of your sleeping area, or even if you expect something as simple as a quick little hot shower in the late morning, well, maybe you’ll want to book a room.
Festival camping is generally for me. I just set my gearshift to the ‘Hi’ gear of my tolerance and keep my hat on. And I assure you, earplugs are an enormously useful supplement. New to me this year was an eye-mask. I turned myself into The Who’s Tommy for the night and it helped me get up on the right side of the air mattress come the early morning of July 27th, 2013.
M’lady busied herself making coffee after coffee and quesadillas for brunch while I sat around and did nothing but enjoy same. Eventually I grabbed a guitar and found a nearby tarp commune with jammers and beers. We rounded out the midday with some really excellent music and several cold beers in the hot, hot shade.
M’lady and I spent the rest of the afternoon hanging with our neighbour friends under their shade tent where we mulled the forest fire that had clearly been taking shape a few hills away, and all the thickening smoke it was sending our way.
Before we got too drunk the two of us extracted ourselves from the conversation and headed in to the venue. I wanted to get a poster and find a closer spot for the show than we had the night before. We got in early enough to get the desired merch but the terraces had long been cherry-picked, so we found a nice spot on the grass just above the floor area. We had a few hours to kill in the hot sun but we had the remains of a bunky umbrella-cum-parasol with us – picked up for free at a booth at the Ottawa Jazzfest – and margaritas and chicken strips with curly fries to keep us contented.
I left m’lady to take a stroll and sauntered up the hill to the very centre of the venue. As I was walking up the hill towards the barren spot I had selected in my mind someone else was walking down to the same barren spot. We both got there about the same time and sat down a few feet away from each other, the only two people sitting on the vast, raked lawn. We got to talking about the Dead and the Allman Brothers and general tour stuff. Ten minutes later we stood and hugged, I went back down the hill and he went back up.
Tour is fun.
Back at our spot m’lady and I got surrounded by a group that included two kids at their first Phish show with their dad. I asked them what they were hoping to hear; the ten-year-old says [i]Prince Caspian[/i] and his little brother wants [i]Moma Dance[/i]. Noobs.
As the show started the smoke coming in from the distant forest fire was palpable, and while there’s no benefit to having smoke in your eyes at a show, the haze gave significant substance to CK5’s light show. Even while the sun was still up his beams of light shooting into the audience became thick shafts of colour.
The first set was a bit of a sleeper – I blame the kids who got both their calls – but the show overall was pretty great. At one point the top of the mountain behind the stage (and across the river) was glowing red with fire; I’ve never seen anything like it. The band should have changed the lyrics of [i]Maze[/i] to Haze but I’ll forgive them, especially after the monstrous funk that was [i]Sneakin’ Sally Though The Alley[/i].
After the show I meandered up and down Shakedown looking to trade my extra poster for a night one poster but found no takers. I considered looking for a jam but realized that people are generally way too messed up after a concert to be able to make and/or appreciate acoustic music very much. Amplification rules post-show.
So I sat for an hour with a drink or two and marvelled at the fireworks. Every highway sign for a hundred miles in any direction had the fire risk arrow set at “Extreme” and there we sat in a massive field covered with dry, mowed hay with smoke pouring over our heads from the encroaching forest fire across the river watching everyone and their brah lighting off boxfuls of amateur explosions that cascaded down onto an unspeakable amount of cracklin’-dry combustibles.
It’s truly a wonder that there has never been a lot fire at The Gorge, squawks old grey-beard.
Driving out the next day I was shocked to see a wheelchair piled amongst one of the vast camping-area garbage piles. Someone certainly had a good show. I also remember literally driving through burning forest fires on-and-off all afternoon as we headed south away from The Gorge. That was something I had never, ever experienced before.
Thank goodness for air-conditioning.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 2013-07-31
On July 31st, 2013 I woke up hungry and hungover, having experienced a heck of a first night of Phish at Lake Tahoe that led well into the wee hours.
It was everything I could do to crawl out of bed in time for the full breakfast that comes included with the room. With just ten minutes to get myself downstairs to the restaurant I started clamouring for the room key and simply could. not. find. it. Through blurry eyes I searched and searched, and only my inability to feel anything at all kept me from utterly weeping with frustration.
I finally found the stupid key and booted it downstairs just in time to see them wheel away the final food tray. Now that I was up there was no going back down for the sleep I desperately needed so I went back to the room and made a peanut butter sandwich, puttered around, grabbed a newspaper, tried to type things on the computer and did anything I could to not feel like I should be dead, somewhat unsuccessfully.
M’lady woke up just before noon and decided she was as hungry as I was. It was her birthday so we called down for room service, a first for me. After waiting for an hour I called back and was told that not only had no order been placed, because we had called before noon there was no way someone would have answered the phone and taken our order.
I weakly asked how long it would be if we re-ordered. “We could have your soup and sandwich up there in about an hour, or you could just visit our restaurant.” Little did I know, the person on the other end of the phone was setting a trap.
As we approached the hostess at the restaurant downstairs we ran into some friends, so the five of us waited for a table together. When we were finally seated we waited even longer to be served. I noticed the next table over speaking to the manager. Something about waiting forever for their food. Strange, the place wasn’t that busy.
Then our waiter came out. I can’t help thinking now that perhaps he had never been in a restaurant before. Maybe he was raised by wolves?
“I’ll bring water,” he said. No, he didn’t.
“Oh, let me grab ketchup for you,” and he’s gone forever.
“Friends,” I declared, mustering my last remaining strength, “Our waiter is a pathological liar, and he may be trying to kill us.”
When the food finally came the guy says, “Who ordered the Mexican club sandwich?” Nobody had.
“That’s close enough,” I answered, ecstatic that there was now a plate of food in front of me.
“Oh, did you order the regular club?” he asked, reaching to take the plate away. “I can change that for you,” he lied.
Wild-eyed with hunger I literally threw my body over the plate like a hero jumping on a live hand grenade. “No! No! No!” I screamed. “Go away. You are not taking away anything!”
We still tipped. I so, so don’t understand tipping.
After lunch m’lady and I strolled down to the beach area for a bit of a sit-around. We ran into some friends from San Francisco and stayed as long as I could stand the sun. Then we went back at the hotel where I hit the free-drinks happy hour, but I assure you after the last night’s debacle I didn’t hit it very hard. Dramatically more sober than the previous night we crossed the street for another night of Phish.
The venue was a temporary stage thrown up in the back parking lot of Harvey’s Casino. The asphalt square measured about a hundred and twenty feet wide by maybe seventy five feet deep and was surrounded on three sides with seven rows of temporary, aluminium bleachers. Basically it felt like we were seeing Phish at the mall with a few thousand other people. It’s no iconic venue but I thought it was a great place to see the band.
The first set was great but it’s the second set that will forever stand out in Phish lore. They opened set two with their riff-fiesta [i]Tweezer [/i]and just kept at it. The song morphed into it’s standard jam and the standard jam turned into an exploration and the exploration turned into a really-listening-to-each- other game of follow the leader, and still on and on it went. Back in ’95 I saw them do an extended [i]Tweezer[/i] jam in Finger Lakes but I haven’t seen much like it since; they were gleefully going out on a limb and it was great.
Locked into a groove and all eyes on each other, at one point the band hit a shot and dropped out for a bar. Somewhere, someone yelled “woo”. Eight bars later another break came up and a few dozen people added their own “woo”. That’s all it took, we were all on board and everyone knew it. The jam now featured four musicians and several thousand vocalists, and it felt good. I suppose there will always be at least three hundred people that will claim to be the person that started it, but that doesn’t matter, we were all in this jam together. It was invigorating, it was exciting, it felt special, and clearly the band was loving it.
So we all woo’d through what turned into the seventh-longest live Phish song ever and with one big final night-ending “WOO” we were all back on the street. At every afterparty all the talk was on the monumental [i]Tweezer[/i]. It was a standout moment in the history of the scene and we were all happy to have played our part.
M’lady and I quit the evening around 4am just as a pickup Frisbee tourney was taking shape on the street outside of our friend’s rented house, and when we left the party we were in much better shape than the night before. Our noticeable lack of staggering got us back to our hotel in no time, where crisp sheets and soft beds were be the focus of the next handful of hours.
Woo.
http://www.toddmanout.com
Review by toddmanout
On July 31st, 2013 I woke up hungry and hungover, having experienced a heck of a first night of Phish at Lake Tahoe that led well into the wee hours.
It was everything I could do to crawl out of bed in time for the full breakfast that comes included with the room. With just ten minutes to get myself downstairs to the restaurant I started clamouring for the room key and simply could. not. find. it. Through blurry eyes I searched and searched, and only my inability to feel anything at all kept me from utterly weeping with frustration.
I finally found the stupid key and booted it downstairs just in time to see them wheel away the final food tray. Now that I was up there was no going back down for the sleep I desperately needed so I went back to the room and made a peanut butter sandwich, puttered around, grabbed a newspaper, tried to type things on the computer and did anything I could to not feel like I should be dead, somewhat unsuccessfully.
M’lady woke up just before noon and decided she was as hungry as I was. It was her birthday so we called down for room service, a first for me. After waiting for an hour I called back and was told that not only had no order been placed, because we had called before noon there was no way someone would have answered the phone and taken our order.
I weakly asked how long it would be if we re-ordered. “We could have your soup and sandwich up there in about an hour, or you could just visit our restaurant.” Little did I know, the person on the other end of the phone was setting a trap.
As we approached the hostess at the restaurant downstairs we ran into some friends, so the five of us waited for a table together. When we were finally seated we waited even longer to be served. I noticed the next table over speaking to the manager. Something about waiting forever for their food. Strange, the place wasn’t that busy.
Then our waiter came out. I can’t help thinking now that perhaps he had never been in a restaurant before. Maybe he was raised by wolves?
“I’ll bring water,” he said. No, he didn’t.
“Oh, let me grab ketchup for you,” and he’s gone forever.
“Friends,” I declared, mustering my last remaining strength, “Our waiter is a pathological liar, and he may be trying to kill us.”
When the food finally came the guy says, “Who ordered the Mexican club sandwich?” Nobody had.
“That’s close enough,” I answered, ecstatic that there was now a plate of food in front of me.
“Oh, did you order the regular club?” he asked, reaching to take the plate away. “I can change that for you,” he lied.
Wild-eyed with hunger I literally threw my body over the plate like a hero jumping on a live hand grenade. “No! No! No!” I screamed. “Go away. You are not taking away anything!”
We still tipped. I so, so don’t understand tipping.
After lunch m’lady and I strolled down to the beach area for a bit of a sit-around. We ran into some friends from San Francisco and stayed as long as I could stand the sun. Then we went back at the hotel where I hit the free-drinks happy hour, but I assure you after the last night’s debacle I didn’t hit it very hard. Dramatically more sober than the previous night we crossed the street for another night of Phish.
The venue was a temporary stage thrown up in the back parking lot of Harvey’s Casino. The asphalt square measured about a hundred and twenty feet wide by maybe seventy five feet deep and was surrounded on three sides with seven rows of temporary, aluminium bleachers. Basically it felt like we were seeing Phish at the mall with a few thousand other people. It’s no iconic venue but I thought it was a great place to see the band.
The first set was great but it’s the second set that will forever stand out in Phish lore. They opened set two with their riff-fiesta [i]Tweezer [/i]and just kept at it. The song morphed into it’s standard jam and the standard jam turned into an exploration and the exploration turned into a really-listening-to-each- other game of follow the leader, and still on and on it went. Back in ’95 I saw them do an extended [i]Tweezer[/i] jam in Finger Lakes but I haven’t seen much like it since; they were gleefully going out on a limb and it was great.
Locked into a groove and all eyes on each other, at one point the band hit a shot and dropped out for a bar. Somewhere, someone yelled “woo”. Eight bars later another break came up and a few dozen people added their own “woo”. That’s all it took, we were all on board and everyone knew it. The jam now featured four musicians and several thousand vocalists, and it felt good. I suppose there will always be at least three hundred people that will claim to be the person that started it, but that doesn’t matter, we were all in this jam together. It was invigorating, it was exciting, it felt special, and clearly the band was loving it.
So we all woo’d through what turned into the seventh-longest live Phish song ever and with one big final night-ending “WOO” we were all back on the street. At every afterparty all the talk was on the monumental [i]Tweezer[/i]. It was a standout moment in the history of the scene and we were all happy to have played our part.
M’lady and I quit the evening around 4am just as a pickup Frisbee tourney was taking shape on the street outside of our friend’s rented house, and when we left the party we were in much better shape than the night before. Our noticeable lack of staggering got us back to our hotel in no time, where crisp sheets and soft beds were be the focus of the next handful of hours.
Woo.
http://www.toddmanout.com
, attached to 1991-04-15
The SBD source for this show is ok, albeit a little flat. Annoying cuts throughout.
The beginning of Sloth is cut. Tape flip after a decent Chalk Dust. Cl. Forbin>Mockingbird features the now standard Gamehendge rap. Another nice Llama to wrap up set 1. Well played but pretty straightforward first half.
The debut of Wipeout starts off set 2. A solid Mike’s Groove follows suit. Groove has an atypical jam. Good stuff! Horn is a nice follow up. Another great Possum. Tape flip after Possum. Magilla cuts in. Fire rips per usual to close out the second set. Throw away encore.
Review by thelot
The SBD source for this show is ok, albeit a little flat. Annoying cuts throughout.
The beginning of Sloth is cut. Tape flip after a decent Chalk Dust. Cl. Forbin>Mockingbird features the now standard Gamehendge rap. Another nice Llama to wrap up set 1. Well played but pretty straightforward first half.
The debut of Wipeout starts off set 2. A solid Mike’s Groove follows suit. Groove has an atypical jam. Good stuff! Horn is a nice follow up. Another great Possum. Tape flip after Possum. Magilla cuts in. Fire rips per usual to close out the second set. Throw away encore.
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Review by toddmanout