It is impossible to merely “like” Phish. Over the years, I’ve found that mentioning the band leads to two common reactions. The first is a rolling of the eyes, followed by some sort of virulent, antagonistic comment. The second type of response usually consists of a high-five and a request to see my live bootleg collection. I am a member of the extreme right wing of the Phish-Loving Party (PLP). You are either with us or you are against us. If you hate the band, we’re coming after you with cruise missiles, insults against your intelligence and ad-hominem attacks against your family … dude.
For seven years I have had a relentless devotion to Phish. Okay, obsession might be a more accurate word. I have hung on their every note. Their music helped define me as a musician and as a person. I still believe that certain flashes of my earliest Phish shows were the most spiritual moments of my life.
I attended my first Phish concert on Dec. 29, 1997 as an awkward 14-year-old. During the show, I learned lots of important lessons: hippies cannot dance, sitting in the top row of Madison Square Garden will get any 14-year-old high, even if he doesn’t smoke pot, and, most importantly, I learned what perfection sounds like. I had discovered what would soon become the greatest influence of my young life.
Beginning with that night, I kept a book of statistics for each of the 25 shows I attended. I logged each song I saw performed and how many times I saw it, which first set openers I saw the most and which songs I had yet to see in concert. I was even tempted to note the number of veggie burritos I consumed at each parking lot, but I thought that might have been going too far. When I was bored in class, I would transcribe from memory the setlist of one of the shows I attended. Who knew when a fellow Phish-devotee might have approached me with the challenge: “What was the fifth song of the second set of your 17th show?” I had to be prepared.
Still, over the past two years, my love for Phish’s music waned. When the band announced it was breaking up after this past summer’s tour, I fooled myself into thinking that I had already made peace with its imminent demise. Phish was not nearly as good as when I saw it for the first time in 1997. Unfortunately, the band had devolved into a sloppier, less-inspired version of its former self. There were still parts of each show that were absolutely mind-blowing, but other parts did not move me at all. I wanted every moment to be mind-blowing, just like it used to be. I thought I did not need them anymore.
Shortly after Phish decided to call it quits, I left to spend the summer in Russia, knowing I would never see another Phish show again. I began convincing myself that I was over them. I knew I did not enjoy myself at their concerts like I used to, so I told myself the breakup was for the better anyway. Good riddance. However, just as in many long-term relationships, I got nostalgic, recalling how much happiness the band had brought me. I wanted one more chance to make my peace.
I returned to the States on the day of Phish’s final concert. I drove straight from the Philadelphia airport to a local movie theatre to watch a live simulcast of the show taking place in Vermont. I bought a $4 soda, sat down in a comfortable chair and stared at a giant screen for six hours. An authentic concert experience it was not, but it was just what I had wanted. When it came time to sing the lyrics to one ballad, pianist Page McConnell simply could not. He was crying. He kept trying to control his emotions, but he continued to cry. The phenomenon of Phish was nearly finished, and it hit every single one of us. I cried with Page, the 60,000 fans who made it into the show, the thousands more who were forced to turn around on the Vermont highway because of inclement weather and the 100 fans in my Regal movie theatre.
It finally occurred to me that Phish was not a group of immortal heroes. This show was not about how many flubs they played, our how good or bad their songs were. It was about appreciation, mutual respect and love. I cried with everyone because I saw how much the four members of Phish cared about what they meant to us, every time they took the stage. I cried because the most important piece of my life thus far was going away forever. I cried because I was at peace watching this all transpire before my eyes. Throughout the final show, I felt blessed to have had such a positive influence in my life for so long.
The lyrics to the final song Phish played were appropriately, “Please me, have no regrets.” Neither the band nor I have any regrets. From the time I stepped into Madison Square Garden as an awkward 14-year-old, to the time I sat in a movie theatre for Phish’s last note, this part of my life had now ended, and I could accept that. I would not have wanted it any other way.
Dave Salvo is a senior in the College. Heady goo balls are his comfort food of choice.
