I woke up one morning in spring and decided to look and see if Phish was doing a summer tour. At first, in high school, I hated Phish, but part of this was because my friend would invariably play me the most appalling songs, like “Makasupa Police Man” and “Slave to the Traffic Light.” Once I heard a live version of “NICU”; I said, ok, this is genius.
Like many bands, anyway, Phish cessation of quality output was approximately concurrent with the onset of free streaming, or “file sharing,” as was the initial portal into freebies around the turn of the century. Much like The Mighty Mighty Bosstones’ “All Things Considered” and Pearl Jam’s “Of the Girl”; most of Phish’s Farmhouse album seemed like a bittersweet swan song for inspired rock music. Or, per basic law of microeconomics, the artistic quality waned proportionally to the monetary price point.
I started to look at tour dates and then I started to think about various experiences I’d had with people in the last 24 months or so, since moving to Elkhart. A dude threatened to shoot me. A car full of black dudes harrassed me the one time I tried walking around my neighborhood. There was a stabbing across the street. A homeless dude tried to come up and talk to me when I was in my car one morning at 6:45. Phish seemed silly, which they are, by all accounts, but more in a sloppy, unfocused way, than a precise jamming for 10 minutes about an antelope sort of way.
For some reason, during this war in the Middle East, the economic crisis and neverending scourge of violent crime, I envisioned a grotto, at which various artist, like, say, Trey Anastasio, Jeff Tweedy and the guys from War, maybe, would meet and hold hands for a moment of silence. There would then be an ensuing concert, but it would consist of all sad, mournful songs, of which Wilco’s “California Stars” would be one worthy selection. Phish’s “Dirt” and “Sleep” from their bookend Farmhouse album would both fit the bill, as would Bonnie Raitt’s “Silver Lining” and maybe John Prine’s “The Moon is down.” Some Khruangbin would be most fetching as would an ensuing bongo jam session accompanied by that African vocalist who’s on Bela Fleck’s album Live at the Quick. But, then, we’re wedged in this schizophrenic society, as it is, so I guess it’s “Runaway Jim” ad infinitum.
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