Phish at Randall's Island, July 12

It was a weird night. And this is a long post, but I have to tell this story.

Trying something different Saturday night, I drove into Manhattan and parked on a street nine blocks away from the ferry landing. Though it took a little while to negotiate the traffic getting there and finding the spot, I figured it would get me home more quickly, so I could get up and do a 16-mile run before last night's show.

I placed myself within the front few rows on Mike Gordon's side, determined to soak up the show, fully immersed in the music. From the predictable opener of "AC/DC Bag" to the out-of-control "Run Like an Antelope" closer, Phish showed again how the first set is not to be dismissed as a warmup.

When "46 Days" came crashing into the second song slot, it seemed it was going to be a balls-out rock set, and though "Free" gave us some more crunch later in the set, Phish's trademark left turns kept things more interesting than that. "My Sweet One", "Sparkle" (back in its usual first set placement), the pop cheerfulness of "Devotion to a Dream", and falsetto backing vocals of "The Line" brought happy vibes throughout the set. Interspersed, though, were some darker moments - the jams in "Free" and "A Song I Heard the Ocean Sing", plus the minor-key but optimistic "Halfway to the Moon". "Back on the Train" provided some comedy when a sloppy ending to a great jam led the band (with some audience prompting) to re-do the end twice more (neither time getting it right).

More than a year after its debut, I am still not a fan of "Yarmouth Road", but being uprfront and so close made for a good experience with the song. But that positive up close experience was to be short-lived, for now I present to you a tale of how some audience members can ruin your Phish show...

I staked out my spot early. That is just what you do. If you want to be in the front, you have to be willing to get up there and stay there for hours. No one likes the assholes that decide, when the set starts, to shove their way through the crowd and squeeze into the front, causing (a) less dancing room for all and (b) blocked sight lines for shorter folks.

I encountered two such groups of dipshits. The first was as set one was ending. A group of three dirtbags forced their way in front of me, one so close and with such disregard for personal space that I caught a mouthful of his disgusting hair. He was that close. I understand it is a rock concert and people up front are in close quarters, but to stand literally two inches in front of me, so within the span of seconds I went from seeing a full view of the band to seeing only the back of someone's head, with his hair in my mouth? Come on.

Having inched my way left around hair guy, I started the second set excited about "Punch You in the Eye" when out of nowhere, a huge Cro-Magnon of a man crashed his way, you guessed it, directly in front of me, his elbow connecting solidly with my head. Again, I shifted left, around his petite wife (I swear she was a foot and a half shorter than he) who proceeded to blab in my ear once "Carini" started about how it is her favorite song.

Why was she talking to me and not her husband about this? Clearly, she is the Phish fan and he is the muscle to get her up front for every show. I told her flat out that I did not like that tactic and that they ruined my vibe (I mentioned the elbow, too). She apologized, but really, what good was that? It is not like she apologized and then moved back. It is like stealing somebody's wallet, apologizing, then keeping the money.

But even that girl became my ally when I was faced with a whole new type of wack-job. When I skirted left, I found myself in front of two particularly short folks. I am five feet, 10 inches - average, I would say - and behind me was a girl that was five feet at best. I felt bad that I was now in *her* way, so I asked her if she had an OK sight line. She said she did, but the gentleman next to her, and not much taller, was clearly having an issue. He tried working his way toward me and I was more than happy to let him pass when he encountered two guys in front of us - one older (50s with a short grey beard and bald head save for the male-pattern friar tuck ring) and one younger (shifty looking and gaunt) who stood firmly with both feet on the ground and whom I noticed were watching the show with absolutely no expression. To their left was at least one other guy that seemed to be with them, and in front of them was a huge open space with three girls and two odd-looking guys dancing around in it.

I asked the two creepy guys if they could move a bit so the short guy could get in on some of that dancing room. They did not even turn to look at me. I asked again. This time they turned their heads, almost in unison, as if to say, "I heard you and I am ignoring you."

I asked a third time and the old man said, "No." As I protested, he just kept saying, "No. No. No. No," even as I gently leaned on them to get them to part.

Meanwhile, Cro-Magnon's wife was working on the sketchy younger dude whom she said told her, "Stay away from our girls!" and pushed her back whe she tried to scoot around him. Perhaps he got a little scared that Cro-Mag would hurt him, so he softened a bit and talked with her.

From what he told her and what we could figure out, everyone in the group was related - the three guys formed the wall (perhaps there were even more farther left?) so the rail-thin girls dancing like they were doing ancient pagan rituals and the odd-looking dancing guys with the vacant eyes all could have more room than anyone else near the front. They were either inbred carnie-type weirdos or Manson-family-esque psychopaths. Or both. I tried hard to ignore all that, realizing I had completely missed the "Carini" jam and now "Ghost" was swinging into a full-on freakout jam, peaking and climaxing into waves of bliss.

Which gave me an idea. I would have liked to have taken the sketchball father and son (as we now determined them to be) by the necks and bash their heads together like Moe would do to Larry and Curly, but any physical act would probably get me kicked out and/or arrested. But this *was* a concert and people yell and scream at a concert, so with every peak of Trey Anastasio's guitar, I shrieked the loudest, most shrill scream I could, directly into their ears. They winced a bit, glancing at each other, knowing full well what I was doing. I kept this up through the gloriously climaxing "Wingsuit", singing and yelling and shrieking in their ear canals. But by the time the Velvet Underground's "Rock and Roll" was busted out (yes, the one or two token covers each show really feel like bust-outs these days), I had had enough.

It was too much work to be this passive-aggressive and though it was fun at first, it dawned on me that as my energy was focused on irritiating these loony idiots who were ruining my show, I still was not enjoying the show any more than I was before. I started talking with the folks behind me and a dozen others were as fixated on these crazies as I was.

I had to get out of there. I found the shortest people near me (including that previous girl) and helped position them to get the best sight lines as I started working my way back. When they thanked me, it was the first genuinely positive vibe I had felt during the set. I was leaving having done some good.

"Harry Hood" began as I danced my way to the open areas in the rear of the field. The relief of being away from the nonsense must have shown because people were smiling at me as I grooved by. I would pause here and there in an open spot and every time I made eye contact with someone, I felt a shared happiness. I could not believe I had waited so long to get back to where I belonged - where the true fans were, dancing and vibing in the field.

As "Hood" came to a semi-climactic close (good jam, but not soaring to its finish), the set ended. It was 10:30. Friday's show had ended by 11. I hung around the exit as the "Tube" encore began. I did not want to wait on those huge lines again for the ferry, so I moved through the exit gates and enjoyed the end of "Tube" from a distance. I suspected there would be another, and as "Joy" started, I continued toward the ferry, figuring that at 10:55, I was timing it perfectly.

A group of us boarded the ferry, where we could still see and hear "Joy" as it finished, satisfied that we were seeing the end of the show from the boat and that it would leave when the last chord was struck. The boat's engine fired up and...

"First Tube"??! We looked at each other in disbelief. Pulling away from the island, motoring south toward the stage during the E-minor section, then passing it during the A-minor part, I felt a weird sense of disappointment about not hearing the song lift into its A-major jam before we drifted too far away.

But on the plus-side, I was home shortly after midnight (as opposed to 1:30 on Saturday morning), and when I went to bed, it was with the thought that after all the weirdness of my experience at this show, I would do Sunday night, my ninth and final of this tour, the right way - dancing and revelling in a spot with clear sound, a decent sight line, and, most importantly, good people.


Set list:
Set I: AC/DC Bag, 46 Days, Yarmouth Road, Devotion to a Dream, Free, My Sweet One, Back on the Train, Halfway to the Moon, Sparkle, A Song I Heard the Ocean Sing, The Line, Run Like an Antelope

Set II: Punch You in the Eye > Carini > Ghost > Wingsuit, Rock & Roll > Harry Hood

E: Tube, Joy, First Tube