Nothing better than Fall Phish in the Northeast. This may as well be submitted as fact for the Encyclopedias of tomorrow. It's funny and amazing what 9 years away from the table can make you forget, and what half an hour back can make you remember.
Phish playing at the Wachovia was like finding a phone number under the pillow, too tempting not to call back. 10 miles from my desk. I had to go. And I went in blind, expecting nothing more than the slight buzz I made sure swirled in my Broad Street appropriate plastic cup. Foolish.
"Chalkdust Torture" kicked off the evening, the band all-smiles and Trey sporting a Flyers jersey, and soloed it's way to a "Bathtub Gin" that had the effect of both parts, warming and intoxicating the crowd. Then, bananas. In response to an upfront fan wielding a giant sign, Phish dropped into "Cities", the rare Talking Heads gem, that included altered lyrics "Do I smell home cooking... it's only Thanksgiving." "Camel Walk" stunned the already stunned, and issued the 'buckle up' statement to the entire room, all of whom were having way too much fun to heed. The band was visibly enjoying themselves, riding the wave of simple swagger that perfection of these seldom played tunes offered. Full Review After the Jump.... Get Some
"The Curtain With" came next, the "With" orchestrated section offering proof of why Phish can be just as appropriate at weddings as at bachelor parties (Zev). When Fishman started the drumbeat to "The Wedge" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry again..... my unattainable mistress two shows in a row!?!? Then, as if toying with me personally, the boys dropped into "Moma Dance", the song that if I die dancing, I want to die dancing to. So good, so thick, and without hesitation; truly a full-bodied Phish tune. I felt like I was on Punk'd, some small puppet in a giant play. My body needed a break, but Phish had other plans, continuing my personal sonic spa treatment with "Reba". Sure, the lyrics are butcher-tarded, but the wizardry in the buildup to, and the precision in execution of, the quelled, euphoric arrangement at the song's conclusion is sparsely matched in the Phish repertoire. "Golgi" sped out next and provided a thought gathering instant, before Chris Kuroda's lights and the band's surge had the whole Center jumping like Dr J. A perfect way to end a phenomenal set, or so one thought, before the rookie "Stealing Time From A Faulty Plan" stole the title of set closer. Funny how a song about impending sobriety sounds like the white rabbit fucking Jimi's burning guitar..... but like most painful things, I enjoyed it. Set Break.
"Possum" tipped off the 2nd set with an unexpected kick. I've always found the structure of this tune to be a launch pad for the true qualities in each member of the and, and it proved true here. Trey roared, Page and Fish raced, and Mike almost laughed at how easy he could keep up before howling the refrain. Out of the ensuing fuzz, Mike exhaled the opening thumps of "Down With Disease", a song I usually cringe before, but am always willing to give a chance. After nine minutes or so of decent straight-forward rock, the tempo slowed and the music became more reactionary, with Page's fills and organ work spreading the band's sound out, slowing the music down and clearing the air, like an Etch-A-Sketch wiping the game plan clean, and then the slow exploration began, bending for three profitable minutes before winding into "Twenty Years Later", which sounds like jail time over achievement stuck in an elevator. Sorry Trey. Thank God you helped write "Harry Hood", the all-timer that unfolded next, thick with Page's sex-clavinet during the intro. "Hood" was chaotically elegant as usual, with the middle section slowed down to almost nothing while the godforsaken glowsticks reached upward towards Irving's banner, never coming close, but provided a stunning backdrop for Phish to pump-fake the crowd over and over, stretching the climax to third and fourth circles before fuzzily ebbing into "The Mango Song". Some songs are so beloved and so simple that they don't have to be molded and skyscraped into something they are not, and this proved true here, with this Page-led "Mango" raising the spirits of the room even higher without ever blowing it's lid. "Mike's" would do that, for me at least. I always look for the shadow from the light, the spit in the corner of the smile... so I when this jam out of "Mike's" pulled the covers over/under the appropriate level and starts moving in the darkness, I embraced it, spiraling into motions surely illegal in Virginia. While this exodus of tact was short, it was liberating, and percussed into "Simple" easily, every smile in the room overlapping and spreading. How can you not like nonsense deep into the second set of Phish? After the beblophones and skyballs settled, Trey and Page led a melodic interlude that I dismissed as wasted space. What I dismissed was actually a train headed straight for me. 
The equation of Phish doesn't unfold in the miles you've traveled or number of shows you've seen, or the zip codes you've criss-crossed, but in the friends you've made and the cities you've made them in, in the ability to treasure every second of it, to recognize the strength of the bonds buried into your DNA by this band, and to build upon it. And dance.
"Weekapaug" blazed out in natural succession, but not quite. After a frantic start, the band got a little bit lost after two and a half minutes, and abruptly changed tempos, basically starting over, before smoothing out the kinks and winding to the song's usual climax. The single encore of "A Day in the Life" summed up the night. Beautiful, chaotic, foggy, and genuine.
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