Halfway through the east coast leg, I realized there was a familiar pocket of the crowd that was missing. It didn't take me long to put a finger on it: the southern frat kid.
White hat turned backwards that either represents the school they attend or an SEC establishment that they have zero affiliation to, such as the University of Georgia or Alabama. Fresh New Balance sneakers right off the shelves. Mid-calf Nike socks, white as their cocaine. Khaki shorts with an unfavorably short inseam and either a fresh lot t-shirt or a vintage polo, presumably from dad's closet.
They weren't up north, at least on this tour. Now, before you go all, "Stephen, you're a judgmental asshole" on me, let me explain. It comes sheerly from observation. I think if anything it contributes evidence to fraternity's southern prominence in university culture.
Some know the music well, some know the party better. Some heard a Phish tune in the sin-laden basement of their frat house. No matter how you slice they pie, they make up a piece of social diversity at Phish shows.
All these thoughts were somewhat dismissed when I was slammed into on the lawn at SPAC on Sunday night by a dude who would need a solid defense to exonerate himself from indicted on charges of tanning bed usage. As he stumbled back to his unknown base on the lawn, I took mental notes.
He was sporting a backwards ball cap with a highlighter tank top and biceps, comparable in size to my thighs (something I'm very proud of). Below the waist were athletic shorts with lacrosse emblem above the left knee (crucial detail). All that mass of man was supported on tan flip flops.
"The northern frat look," I exclaimed inside my head!
It had to be. Followed behind him was Eric, his buddy with identical attire, but was a few months behind in the weight lifting category. The back of Eric's highlighter tank marketed the grand memories that were, "Spring Formal 2016."
Nailed it! They were wasted, but it was their first show. We got to talking at set break for a few minutes and they were proud of their novice inception into the scene.
People often cast judgments on what a Phish crowd looks like. Maybe I just did? I like to call it observations but I could hear the argument that I'm just mitigating my self-incrimination.
The truth is these folks would fail if given a lineup of 10 people and asked to identify attendees. Sure, there's the dirty hippie sporting dreadlocks, but next to he or she is the adjunct professor at a local university.
Then there's the 16-year old whose mom dropped him off at the venue entrance. She's picking him up at 11:30 p.m. on the dot no matter what song their still playing.
The goal here is to identify the diversity that does exist. There's great socio-economical diversity at Phish despite what you may believe. The frat kid, whether from the north or south is one that I find extremely noteworthy.
-Stephen
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Sunday, July 10, 2016
"Did they play Cities?"
In Phish culture, you learn to want 'The Jam.' You want the ability to excitedly say you were present that tour when they jammed that tune. You know, like they really jammed on it, man.
Before you continue, I'll forewarn you that this post pretty much surrounds roughly 30-minutes of Friday night's show in Mansfield, Massachusetts at the amphitheater formerly known as Great Woods.
I hate missing the opener. I feel as if I've lost some battle if I haven't made it inside by the time they come onstage. From Portland's post, you may have read about getting familiar with knowing when they'll actually come on stage. It's a true feeling of defeat if you lose that game. There's prized Phish content being missed.
As we filed in Friday night, it was apparent they were on stage. It was 7:41 p.m. with 7:00 p.m. ticket time. It was a "Party Time" opener. My shoulders relaxed. While it serves as a great opening tune with a funky beat, the sole lyrics are, "Party Time." I wasn't devastated. Glenn, Michael, Josh, Matt, and myself slithered into the relaxed crowd on a cold, overcast night in southeast Massachusetts.
A supposedly capacity crowd (sold out) had many empty pockets. Glen and I had lawn seats while the three others had pavilion tickets. Thus starts 'stub down' process. To enter pavilion seats at most venues, you must present to an usher proof that you're supposed to be in the seats and not a character up on the lawn. To stub down, two people enter the pavilion and take their seats. Then one exits with both ticket stubs and grabs a cohort off the lawn and present the usher with both stubs. This process is pretty much fool proof as long as you don't act like a fool. We've all done it before and Friday was no different story. It was seamless.
Frontman Trey Anastasio ripped the opening chords to "46 Days," a 21st century ripper that displays their rock & roll capabilities. Following the first chorus it dawned on me---it was my 46th Phish show. I smiled unto myself and grazed over the crowd for personal affirmation to why I do this, why I see Phish. The set blew by as they burst through "Bathtub Gin" and laid down the best, most expansive "How Many People Are You" to date.
A minute or so into the fan favorite, "Cities," Anastasio had a guitar malfunction. As the three other members kept the rhythmic beat going, he flipped back reaching for his older guitar. Guitar tech (yes, Phish fans even know the names to stage hands/technicians/lighting directors as if they're members), Brian Brown quickly emerged helping Anastasio switch chords into the new guitar while retrieving the effected. Anastasio took the time to announce him to the crowd as 17,000 people roared in ovation for his technical skills setting up the guitarist night after night for sonic success.
I can't remember ever seeing Anastasio have a technical problem until last night when he apparently broke a string.
If it wasn't unique "Cities" up to this point, Anastasio hopped on drummer Jon Fishman's, Marimba Lumina, an electronic drumming apparatus. Bassist Mike Gordon took to Anastasio's guitar as they took the Talking Heads tune to a spacey place.
It's great to see Anastasio experimenting more regularly in the last few tours, knowing it's coming from a sober, musically-driven vantage point. In his drug-induced days of the drum kit ('95-'97) or keyboard ('99), the novelty was there, but the quality was often lacking.
Set I ended with an a cappella tribute to the late David Bowie, belting "Space Oddity" for the second time this tour.
Up to this point on the east coast leg of the tour the jams have been steady but nothing had really entered too, too unfamiliar territory. "Moma Dance" Sunday night in Saratoga for me had been the exploratory highlight of my time on tour. "Ghost" began the set right at 9:30 p.m.. Nearly 12-minutes in I could see Anastasio was going to abort prior to the unknown. Even from far away after all this time, you can read his body language. He seems anxious to a point. He'll start looking around at the other band member and then to his pedal board as if he's scouring his creative mind to decide what's next.
The opening lines of "Light" protruded the PA system. The near 20-minute improvisational track that ensued left the five of us reaching for our jaws from the concrete below. A perfect Phish jam that encompassed so many of their strong iprov aspects.
"Best jam of tour," people exclaimed!
We wholeheartedly agreed.
A second set "Wolfman's Brother" was a sign this set could be 'the one.' Exiting the song's structure, they slid into a gritty vocal jam. Just moments later, silence. For a second or two I looked around to see if maybe it was my hearing. They had blown the PA system. The band finally exited the stage signaling they'd be back. Here was when everyone started scheming. A little blimp in the game plan is always where Phish has strived.
"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro," Hunter S. Thompson once stated.
We were convinced they'd creatively work themselves back into Wolfman's when the PA was remedied. After about 10-minutes, the stage lights came back on and the band emerged as Anastasio swung into, "Chalkdust Torture."
Blasphemy! The energy was lost in my opinion. The vast 35-minutes of space funk through "Ghost > Light > Wolfman's" they had neatly layered into the set had fallen to the wayside.
They closed out the set with some straight forward hits and encored with The Beatles', "I am the Walrus."
Just another eventful night with Phish! Onward toward Hartford....what's this city known for? Didn't they have an NHL team at some point? Am I continually paying Comcast more money by attending seemingly all their venues in New England. I think I'll spend the afternoon in Providence, RI and get to Hartford just in time for the show.
In the long run, I'm really striving to find the city for me. Portland is high on the list. Philly is dirty. Boston has always had my heart. Brooklyn though....! We'll see, but it'll be somewhere.
"...I will find myself a city to live in," Talking Heads.
Before you continue, I'll forewarn you that this post pretty much surrounds roughly 30-minutes of Friday night's show in Mansfield, Massachusetts at the amphitheater formerly known as Great Woods.
I hate missing the opener. I feel as if I've lost some battle if I haven't made it inside by the time they come onstage. From Portland's post, you may have read about getting familiar with knowing when they'll actually come on stage. It's a true feeling of defeat if you lose that game. There's prized Phish content being missed.
As we filed in Friday night, it was apparent they were on stage. It was 7:41 p.m. with 7:00 p.m. ticket time. It was a "Party Time" opener. My shoulders relaxed. While it serves as a great opening tune with a funky beat, the sole lyrics are, "Party Time." I wasn't devastated. Glenn, Michael, Josh, Matt, and myself slithered into the relaxed crowd on a cold, overcast night in southeast Massachusetts.
A supposedly capacity crowd (sold out) had many empty pockets. Glen and I had lawn seats while the three others had pavilion tickets. Thus starts 'stub down' process. To enter pavilion seats at most venues, you must present to an usher proof that you're supposed to be in the seats and not a character up on the lawn. To stub down, two people enter the pavilion and take their seats. Then one exits with both ticket stubs and grabs a cohort off the lawn and present the usher with both stubs. This process is pretty much fool proof as long as you don't act like a fool. We've all done it before and Friday was no different story. It was seamless.Frontman Trey Anastasio ripped the opening chords to "46 Days," a 21st century ripper that displays their rock & roll capabilities. Following the first chorus it dawned on me---it was my 46th Phish show. I smiled unto myself and grazed over the crowd for personal affirmation to why I do this, why I see Phish. The set blew by as they burst through "Bathtub Gin" and laid down the best, most expansive "How Many People Are You" to date.
A minute or so into the fan favorite, "Cities," Anastasio had a guitar malfunction. As the three other members kept the rhythmic beat going, he flipped back reaching for his older guitar. Guitar tech (yes, Phish fans even know the names to stage hands/technicians/lighting directors as if they're members), Brian Brown quickly emerged helping Anastasio switch chords into the new guitar while retrieving the effected. Anastasio took the time to announce him to the crowd as 17,000 people roared in ovation for his technical skills setting up the guitarist night after night for sonic success.
I can't remember ever seeing Anastasio have a technical problem until last night when he apparently broke a string.
If it wasn't unique "Cities" up to this point, Anastasio hopped on drummer Jon Fishman's, Marimba Lumina, an electronic drumming apparatus. Bassist Mike Gordon took to Anastasio's guitar as they took the Talking Heads tune to a spacey place.
It's great to see Anastasio experimenting more regularly in the last few tours, knowing it's coming from a sober, musically-driven vantage point. In his drug-induced days of the drum kit ('95-'97) or keyboard ('99), the novelty was there, but the quality was often lacking.
Set I ended with an a cappella tribute to the late David Bowie, belting "Space Oddity" for the second time this tour.
Up to this point on the east coast leg of the tour the jams have been steady but nothing had really entered too, too unfamiliar territory. "Moma Dance" Sunday night in Saratoga for me had been the exploratory highlight of my time on tour. "Ghost" began the set right at 9:30 p.m.. Nearly 12-minutes in I could see Anastasio was going to abort prior to the unknown. Even from far away after all this time, you can read his body language. He seems anxious to a point. He'll start looking around at the other band member and then to his pedal board as if he's scouring his creative mind to decide what's next.The opening lines of "Light" protruded the PA system. The near 20-minute improvisational track that ensued left the five of us reaching for our jaws from the concrete below. A perfect Phish jam that encompassed so many of their strong iprov aspects.
"Best jam of tour," people exclaimed!
We wholeheartedly agreed.
A second set "Wolfman's Brother" was a sign this set could be 'the one.' Exiting the song's structure, they slid into a gritty vocal jam. Just moments later, silence. For a second or two I looked around to see if maybe it was my hearing. They had blown the PA system. The band finally exited the stage signaling they'd be back. Here was when everyone started scheming. A little blimp in the game plan is always where Phish has strived.
"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro," Hunter S. Thompson once stated.
We were convinced they'd creatively work themselves back into Wolfman's when the PA was remedied. After about 10-minutes, the stage lights came back on and the band emerged as Anastasio swung into, "Chalkdust Torture."
Blasphemy! The energy was lost in my opinion. The vast 35-minutes of space funk through "Ghost > Light > Wolfman's" they had neatly layered into the set had fallen to the wayside.
They closed out the set with some straight forward hits and encored with The Beatles', "I am the Walrus."
Just another eventful night with Phish! Onward toward Hartford....what's this city known for? Didn't they have an NHL team at some point? Am I continually paying Comcast more money by attending seemingly all their venues in New England. I think I'll spend the afternoon in Providence, RI and get to Hartford just in time for the show.
In the long run, I'm really striving to find the city for me. Portland is high on the list. Philly is dirty. Boston has always had my heart. Brooklyn though....! We'll see, but it'll be somewhere.
"...I will find myself a city to live in," Talking Heads.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Meaningless Excitement
The dream of the 90s is alive in Portland. The smell of patchouli protruded the storefront as we sipped our nitro coffee's, sweating in the 90-degree heat. Brian cracked the door to Mexicali Blues, a head shop located steps away from a busy Portland sea dock.
Brian had given me a Grateful Dead "Stealie" sticker with a depiction of the state of Maine some years ago. That sticker lives loud and proud on the head unit to my speaker set up and I was back to pick up a few more.
I was safely in Maine for the next few days, feeling comforted by the presence of such a familiar face and voice. Brian can make any nervous traveler calm with his broad knowledge of the world. I was a little on edge after driving through the outskirts of Boston and up I-95 where 85 mph in the right lane is apparently slow.
A 7:30 ticket time inside the Cross Insurance Arena meant roughly a 8:05 p.m. first note time. To concisely elaborate on this, over the years you get to know the band pretty well. You remember curfews at certain venues. It gives you a good gauge on when you need to file into the arena or amphitheater. Portland was slightly different though. Being an all general admission show, there was more incentive to go in early. I was solo for this show, making it easier to move around without the aspect of friends in different spots. It dawned on me that I hadn't been close in some years.
After spending my first 5-10 shows on a mission to be as close as possible, it was evident that it wasn't 'the' place to be. Hot, angsty, sweaty men bumping into you turns out to be far from desirable. After spending 30 or so minutes traversing the compact, but vibrant lot scene across from the arena in the heart of downtown, I made my way in.
I was immediately hit with a heatwave upon entry. 'Ah, yes, a small hockey arena featuring poor ventilation filled to the gills with people already wet from a sticky from a hot day in Portland.' Makes sense. As I nestled into my tiny space of concrete roughly 10 rows back, dead center, it was 8:08 as house lights dropped. In a pleasantly surprising manner, the floor Wednesday night was spacious and relaxed. The sound, near perfect.
It was as if the band had looked at their extensive catalogue and picked out the songs that hadn't made it in to a set this tour. "Grind," "Cars, Trucks, Buses," "The Sloth," "Billy Breathes," and so on. A novelty first set, far from predictable, distant from breathtaking. A glimpse of 90s Phish 'fer sure, dude.'
The second set erupted with arguably Trey's favorite song, at least by body language, "First Tube." This gave way to, "Tweezer" > "Guyute." "Mike's Song" kept the energy afloat. A newer tune, "Tide Turns" fanned off the sweat-glistened crowd. It didn't occur to me that the energy wouldn't ever pick back up. "Devotion to a Dream" seemed ill-place and redundant as a 'cool-down' note. "Wingsuit" was solid, yet too slow for a now struggling second set. They struggled to begin and get through "Bittersweet Motel," a bummer for it being it's first placement in four years.
As they began "Fluffhead," some hope returned until the funky beginning was interrupted by a drug-induced fan who made his way on stage and into John Fishman's drum cubicle, grabbing a stick and slapping symbols as security dragged him away. A less than stellar "Weekapaug" concluded the second set.
An encore of "Contact" > "Tweezer Reprise" sent folks out with a bang.
My words are critical, but that's ok. It was my favorite show experience of tour thus far. Sometimes, they don't sync up, and that's why you buy a ticket for the next night. You never know when the show of the year will take place.
Stephen
Brian had given me a Grateful Dead "Stealie" sticker with a depiction of the state of Maine some years ago. That sticker lives loud and proud on the head unit to my speaker set up and I was back to pick up a few more.
I was safely in Maine for the next few days, feeling comforted by the presence of such a familiar face and voice. Brian can make any nervous traveler calm with his broad knowledge of the world. I was a little on edge after driving through the outskirts of Boston and up I-95 where 85 mph in the right lane is apparently slow.
A 7:30 ticket time inside the Cross Insurance Arena meant roughly a 8:05 p.m. first note time. To concisely elaborate on this, over the years you get to know the band pretty well. You remember curfews at certain venues. It gives you a good gauge on when you need to file into the arena or amphitheater. Portland was slightly different though. Being an all general admission show, there was more incentive to go in early. I was solo for this show, making it easier to move around without the aspect of friends in different spots. It dawned on me that I hadn't been close in some years.
After spending my first 5-10 shows on a mission to be as close as possible, it was evident that it wasn't 'the' place to be. Hot, angsty, sweaty men bumping into you turns out to be far from desirable. After spending 30 or so minutes traversing the compact, but vibrant lot scene across from the arena in the heart of downtown, I made my way in.
I was immediately hit with a heatwave upon entry. 'Ah, yes, a small hockey arena featuring poor ventilation filled to the gills with people already wet from a sticky from a hot day in Portland.' Makes sense. As I nestled into my tiny space of concrete roughly 10 rows back, dead center, it was 8:08 as house lights dropped. In a pleasantly surprising manner, the floor Wednesday night was spacious and relaxed. The sound, near perfect.
It was as if the band had looked at their extensive catalogue and picked out the songs that hadn't made it in to a set this tour. "Grind," "Cars, Trucks, Buses," "The Sloth," "Billy Breathes," and so on. A novelty first set, far from predictable, distant from breathtaking. A glimpse of 90s Phish 'fer sure, dude.'
The second set erupted with arguably Trey's favorite song, at least by body language, "First Tube." This gave way to, "Tweezer" > "Guyute." "Mike's Song" kept the energy afloat. A newer tune, "Tide Turns" fanned off the sweat-glistened crowd. It didn't occur to me that the energy wouldn't ever pick back up. "Devotion to a Dream" seemed ill-place and redundant as a 'cool-down' note. "Wingsuit" was solid, yet too slow for a now struggling second set. They struggled to begin and get through "Bittersweet Motel," a bummer for it being it's first placement in four years.
As they began "Fluffhead," some hope returned until the funky beginning was interrupted by a drug-induced fan who made his way on stage and into John Fishman's drum cubicle, grabbing a stick and slapping symbols as security dragged him away. A less than stellar "Weekapaug" concluded the second set.
An encore of "Contact" > "Tweezer Reprise" sent folks out with a bang.
My words are critical, but that's ok. It was my favorite show experience of tour thus far. Sometimes, they don't sync up, and that's why you buy a ticket for the next night. You never know when the show of the year will take place.
Stephen
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Green Grass & Green Monster's
I exited my car Monday afternoon, and immeidately knew it was the eighth inning. It could be because I turned WEEI, the Red Sox radio network on the radio as soon as I believed the frequency would transmit or maybe it was because you could hear more than 30,000 people singing their hearts out to, "Sweet Caroline," the late-inning anthem.
I was over 200-miles withdrawn from tour. It was much needed. A cleaner sccene, with a cleaner vibe. No one was trying to sell me a gooball for a Sunday night lawn.
I did a quick, bike hot lap around the circuference of Fenway Park before posting outside my sister, Whitney's apartment accross the street from the park.
Fans in jubilation after a come-from-behind Sox victory on Independence Day against the Texas Rangers spilled out into the streets. This was a refreshing take for me. If you know me, you know I struggle with drugs. Before the aformentioned becomes the sub-hed in the Boston Globe, let me elaborate.
I struggle with people's rampant and binge-style drug use at Phish shows. It's never been my thing, and quite frankly, I hope that it never will be.
As I've discussed in previous posts, one must employ a certain degree of defense in their Phish fanhood. I'm a full believer that you can't truly like something unless you poke some fun at it.
I love Phish jokes as much as the next guy, but when it's genuinely someone's impression that the epicenter of Phish's circus is drug usage, I lose my cool.
Pot? Yes. That's everywhere in every scene. Overpriced beers? Duh. Flasks absorbed into a bodily orphice to get passed security? I've seen it. I often opt for the two-beer squeeze (two beers sandwhiched between your thighs--pays off to ride your bicycle everywhere...!)
Harder drugs such as blow (cocaine), K, acid, etc.? Sure, they're out there, but they don't often come to you. You must go to them. That is why I attempt to shed the nasty drug label that often rests next to Phish's musical lure.
I heard a story Thursday night in Brooklyn that truly spoke to me. The girl had no idea the deep meaning I took from it. In a true Long Island accent, she burst into story about how her boyfriend informed her he was bringing cocaine to the show they were about to attend.
She replied, "What do you think Trey (Anastasio, Phish frontman) would think of this?"
His face apparently morphed dramatically and as the story goes he agreed and renegued his promise to possess the white beast inside the spiritual land of Phish.
I've officially opened up years of potential dialogue with the last few lines. In December of 2006, two years removed from the band calling it quits, Anastasio was arrested on multiple felony drug charges in upstate NY. Long story short, he cleaned up his act and his life.
He credited his arresting officer with saving his life to this day. Some fans still joke that comment to this day. I have to turn the other ear to avoid going postal on them. Without his arrest, Anastasio may have died from his dependence of pills. My 44 shows would never have existed without his arrest. Frankly, most people making these types of statements would've never gotten the opportunity to see Phish without his indictment.
Phish took stage, clean, on March 6, 2009 in Hampton, Va., and hasn't looked back.
If you listen carefully, you can hear some of Anastasio's past lightly seasoned into some of their new material, joking mistakes, looking toward a bright future.
I, in no way want to cast the four members of this band as holy characters in the show of life. Their simply four men who play great music. Their music connects mysellf and others to a deeper meaning of life. They may serve as a catalyst of facilitator to spirituality for some, but surely aren't the pennicle.
Friday night in th middle of, "NICU," Anastasio belted out the lyrics, "Back on those days when my life was a haze." This song was in existence far before his drug problem, but as fans let out the usual roar of relation, I often wonder what goes through his mind during that three to five seconds.
He's been quoted in Rolling Stone as saying, "I fucking hate drugs. I really do."
I wonder if he can look back on his past in some degree of humor when lyrics like that pertrude his vocal chords?
This is no call to action. I'm not telling anyone to refrain from ingesting odd combinations of drugs with zero clue of how they will interact with our bodies. But maybe think about how grateful we are to all share in this experience. Respect is a two way street. The band respects us as fans, but is rampant drug abuse inside the confines of shows a way of respecting the band?
"We want you to be happy," they sing in "Joy."
Is it the music or the substance that makes you happy? Does one necessitate the other?
What would Trey think?
Portland, Maine calls. Maybe it's the lobster. It's probably Brian Prescott, one of my brother's from another mother who will play host to me for the ensuing few days. The road is slightly catching up with me---a scratchy throat and small yearning for a bed have me learning more and more about travel.
Phish tour rolls on though! I finally have booked my first hotel for the entire two weeks, Sunday night in Syracuse. I guess I feel like a grown up....?
Calls for tonight:
Stash
Tweezer
Mayyybeee a Mike's Groove.
Saturday, July 2, 2016
"Drop me a pin"
Green tunnels are an ideal remedy for urban entrapment.
Out of Brooklyn an on toward Saratoga.
Back at it on a Friday afternoon. A three-night run at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. There's a slight false sense of accomplishment on this tour. As I've mentioned in previous posts, going on full-fledge tour has been on my to-do list for some time now. Nearly a week in, I've covered 800-miles, catching five shows.
Twenty years ago, five shows could've required nearly twice the mileage. A quirky foursome out of Vermont didn't have the industry clout they posses in 2016. Booking a 25,000-seat venue for three consecutive nights wasn't very feasible. This meant not only the band, but 'touring' fans were on the move a lot more than they are today. It isn't far-fetched to tales of waking up early the morning after a show in New York and having to be in Kentucky or maybe Ohio that night to catch the next show.
For some reason, I am a little envious that it isn't like that these days. A couple mid-week shows sometimes in the same venue or if not in a nearby city followed by a three-night run in a different city. This is how tour functions now. To the band, and to fans this is obviously the most rational and ideal way to tour. I am not entirely positive why I'm in search of more of a challenge here. This tour has already taught me more and more about how to travel efficiently.
Next weekend will be a slight glimpse at what the old days used to be like. Friday night in Mansfield, MA, Saturday in Hartford, CT and Sunday night in Syracuse closes out the east cost tour.
'Drop me a pin'
To dive in a little deeper into 21st century touring, here are a few anecdotes from being a digital age tour kid.
Friday night following night one of SPAC, Sierra was missing. Douglas' girlfriend was nowhere to be found as we regrouped outside Gate B near the ticket office.
Douglas was worried. She wouldn't answer phone calls nor texts. As thousands of people hastily passed us by the minute, it was nearly impossible to visually filter through the faces in attempts to spot her. We hadn't established a meeting spot if we got separated. Of course we didn't! We're millennials they say. We have technological boxes that hold the keys to the world!
We had been warned about getting lost outside SPAC. The venue sets within a state park within Saratoga Springs, a town that lives and dies by horse racing. We filed out of an unfamiliar entrance. Douglas repeatedly left voicemails asking Sierra to "drop him a pin."
Let's flashback 20 years again, August of 1996 in Plattsburgh, NY. Phish hosted Clifford Ball, one of their first large scale festivals that featured three nights of, Phish......and, well that's it. Nearly 80,000 fans showed up. Cellular phones were far from prevalent. Bulletin boards were the method for meeting. A 'meet up board' if you will. Here, fans would post status updates of where they were camping within a general vicinity and where they would be inside the show if all went well. The room for error was high. Maybe it would be better said, the chance for success was low.
Here's a hypothetical post on the board:
Stephen Proffitt: Douglas, Connor, Sierra, we're parked near tower F on the air strip, roughly 200 yards from the gate in between a white Astro van and a silver Ford Bronco. There's a New York Giants flag hanging high above the van. We're going Page side tonight hopefully near the soundboard.
I find a lot of people to be so unreliable these days, sometimes including myself because of the crutch our phones provide us with. You're always a few seconds away from completely altering the plan previously established.
I of course never experienced this but I think there's a level of value and respect to discuss it in our technologically-dependent worlds. After nearly 90-minutes, Sierra dropped us a pin on Douglas' iPhone. We started walking directions and found here within
Were people more reliable at shows and in life back then? I'd love to know. I have occasionally tinkered with this on my friend David. We'll decide to meet at the downtown coffee shop at a given time one morning. The plans were set maybe 20 hours in advance. No communication is allowed in between that time and the scheduled arrangement. It takes a certain level of reliability to make this happen.
Imagine if the success of your entire festival weekend hinged on one meeting spot, at a given time. Would you be there, or would you leave them waiting all night?
"I will stay here alone and without....someone controlled by the phone and tv, because what it's doing for me is fine."
-Stephen
Friday, July 1, 2016
No Tips Accepted
I will find a bagel in New York City this morning. This is my current thought although it has zero pertinence to the following post.
Over the last few years, I have developed this obsession over the concept of tipping. When is is necessary? I've kind of developed a disdain toward tipping because it's entirely a gray area.
A few weeks back inside a Richmond coffee shop, the barista swiped my credit card through his iPad POS (point of sale, or piece of shit, up for interpretation.) Many of these neat, food-oriented point of sales programs have a built in tip calculator. They do the work for you, yay! Not so fast. He swung the iPad around on its swiveled-podium as I elected to tip $1, assuming I'd have two hot cups of drip awaiting me after Apple's technology registered my gratuity.
Never assume. On the contrary, I was met with two paper cups. My face must've signaled utter confusion. He then used his finger to point at the carafe station at the back of the establishment. My head was spinning. I just tipped 20% to do arguably all the 'service' myself.
After explaining the entire incident to my David, my better male half, we entered this amazing discussion surrounding tip culture.
I am perturbed when I roll through a coffee joint and see a tip jar that couldn't support a six pack split amongst the entire staff. But our cultural norm is when you enter a bar, squeeze in between the reject who's never made it out of his hometown and the perfume-laden woman looking for a successful third marriage just to reach a frazzled bartender who hands you a tepid can of high life, a dollar tip is the norm.
Alcohol controls tip culture.
If your total is $3.36, you're not going to be the person who tips .64 cents, are you? You pocket that and remove a fresh dollar bill and leave it on the counter .
Please don't misconstrue my opinion, however. With a budget in a small town, I frequent three establishments. Anyone locally reading this will know those three, no need to rifle off names. I take pride in this because they offer great service.
There's not much better of a feeling of entering a local bar and the face behind the bar greets you by name and your normal beverage. This can't be expected everywhere, obviously, but this is service. This is being served.
This led me to my search for dinner in the city Thursday night. NYC is one of the front running cities experimenting with eliminating tipping, altering prices to account for tip and divvying they money in a more equal manner amongst front and back of house employees. Having worked in two kitchens, I would concur in the need for change. Watching a waiter roll through for a dinner shift and net $150-$200 easily while kitchen folk are wrangling roughly $10/hour. Far from cool. This new trend is permeating through much of the food scene here, according to reports.
I cracked open the door of YUJI Ramen on a whim. I was met with a three-table restaurant featuring a low-hanging three-top bar. This was it. I was met with a neatly-arranged seat featured above. A tiny, ceramic mug filled with room temperature water. Two chopsticks, a soup-style spoon nestled next to a small sliver of stone.
A small card menu was brought over my right shoulder. $20 and up was inked alongside each of the 10 or so house specials. I swallowed heavily. A good chunk of cash for a solo dinner. 'Stephen, you're in f---ing New York, not Harrisonburg. This is not even expensive in context. Treat yourself.'
"Sir, would you like anything else to drink other than water?"
I grazed the menu and saw multiple Japanese beers, about $10/pop. My mind thought, $20 dinner, $10 beer, $6, $7, maybe $8 tip. Goodness!!
"Ummmm, I think water will do just fine, thank you."
::Mmmm this is great water!!::
One ball out experience isn't going to break the bank, just my frugal mindset.
I had unknowingly taken part in a dining experiment that is looking to rewrite the industry. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Stephen
WTU>
Atop a barstool in the midst of Philly happy hour, I was socially questioned, to state it mildly.
“What’s the point?!?!?”
These were the words of the bartender when he found out I was on the road for the next 10 days following Phish. He had just concluded an extended rant about a woman the night prior who informed him that she was attending both nights at The Mann.
Maybe that was my queue to keep my mouth closed, but I was somehow excited to top that by calmly interjecting that I’d be at the next nine shows.
This became the theme of the night.
As a fan of the band, you get used to needing an arsenal of justifiable reasons to spend so much time, money and energy—in no particular order on four middle-aged men from Vermont who happen to play music that a niche crowd adores.
Midway through last night’s second set, emerging from an unfinished, “Down with Disease,” Phish bassist, Mike Gordon dropped one of his well-known sonic bombs. Frontman, Trey Anastasio immediately swung his head left, hopped on his pedal board and hit the chord, signaling, “What’s the Use.”
This heavy, contemplative song is usually only seen once or twice a tour. How apropos.
I took the opportunity to graze over the sweat-glistening crowd underneath the pavilion roof. It was as if many people were like-minded all at one moment. Dozens of faces, stopped and took a second to absorb their surroundings.
Perhaps they had a similar thought as I. What is the use in this?
‘Don’t they play the same show every night?’
‘Why do you need to see them twice?’
‘That sounds like a waste of time.’
All the aforementioned serve as traditional judgements aimed at fandom.
Yesterday, I hinted at the learning the value in travel. Today, it’s all up in the air.
Last night’s show kept me on my toes to say the least. Everything seemed somewhat unexpected. Even in marketed uncertainty, you can begin notice patterns.
A first set Mike’s Groove with, “Farmhouse” and “Horn” as the meat within the book-ended staple. An hour-long second set had most folks slightly disgruntled as we looked at our watches or iPhone’s to realize it was only 11:03 p.m., 57-full minutes before curfew.
Most people who play ‘encore-hookie,’ leaving immediately following the conclusion of set two to save five minutes of traffic in the lot flocked toward the gates as usual.
As Anastasio silently practiced opening chords, meeting with Gordon and keyboardist, Page McConnell, you got the sense that whatever was on deck was unusual and he was timid on its initial perception to those left in the seats.
“Dear Prudence.” Holy Toledo. When I saw this come across the Minnesota setlist from last week, I could only think, ‘if only.’
They absolutely nailed it as McConnell beautifully hit every lyric while Anastasio took rhythmic role, truthfully my favorite thing he does, although it seems seldom.
If that wasn’t enough, a 15-minute, “Harry Hood” reminded everyone to never look toward the car until the band says so.
This blog was written outside of Randolph’s on a beautiful evening in Brooklyn, Tecate (w/lime, of course) in hand. An off night on tour is often needed so one can dip his or herself back into society for a dozen hours or so.
—Stephen
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