2019/12/3 Phish @ The Met Philly (SiriusXM Free Show)
First of all, fuck yeah!!! Ok, I should be better now, just had to get that out.
With undoubtedly their toughest ticket ever, Phish smashed expectations and delivered a show for the ages to its smallest crowd in twenty plus years at the Met Philly last night. There are so many moving parts that make a Phish show special, from the anticipation to the camaraderie to the setlist to the band, the crowd, the venue and the vibe, the list goes on. Check every box – last night was an all-timer! From the moment this show was announced, people started filling out sweepstakes entries and tapping every connection in their Rolodex. I was one of the chosen few, a lucky winner, Charlie Bucket with a golden ticket, won the old-fashioned way on a sweepstakes entry. I nearly lost my shit when I got the email with the subject “SiriusXM – Phish – EXCLUSIVE OPPORTUNITY” that continued, “Dear Marc, We’re excited to let you know that we’ve been able to add you to the guest list for this event!” I won the fucking lottery – OMFG!
Anticipation is part of the game, and this show was hyped to the brim. Promoted round the clock on SiriusXM, with phans clambering for coveted spots on the guest list, I somehow pulled the impossible feat and have been jumping out of my skin with excitement since getting notified just two weeks ago. You may recall, Phish was kind enough to host my 44th birthday party at Nassau Coliseum just two days prior, and it just blows my mind that 25 years after seeing them for the first time, Phish is still innovative and exciting and putting together runs that make me feel like a teenager. Dare I say, last night was perhaps THE best overall Phish experience of my life. Just like any other Phish show, this instant classic was as much about the people I shared it with as the band and the show itself. Every person I saw — from the friends I saw in passing (thankfully long enough for a hug) to my wife (who saw her first Phish show in 20+ years!!!) to my closest buddies that shared our pre-show dinner table and all the friends I met yesterday for the first time — was flying on positive vibrations as we were all feeling the good fortune of being the chosen ones.
The air was thick with heady vibes and goodness, but even more so with anticipation – that sweet sensation, the trickiest of emotions as it often backfires. The highest of expectations and a unique ticketing system requiring multiple check-ins, bracelets, and lines made the chances better than average that something would go wrong… but NOTHING did. Or, to be perfectly Phishy, Everything (was) Right. While some of the Met’s choicest locations were pre-assigned to those who pulled rank for entry, the rest of us utilized a first come first served system that worked surprisingly well. At 4:30, when I picked up my tickets, I was able to request GA floor as that was the best of what was left, and quickly put to bed some anxiety I had about getting a “bad seat,” as even small theaters have bad seats. This venue also has some poles that I did not want to sit behind or overhangs that I preferred not to be under. My fears were unfounded as we claimed an ideal spot, Kuroda and the soundboard three feet to my left, the stage just ahead and the beauty of this awesome theater and majestic chandelier in front of me and overhead, respectively. Also of note, I was protected by railing on three sides, giving me more than ample space to tally some life-affirming steps. Not gonna lie, I worked my fucking ass off last night and I’m still not sure if my wife was proud or horrified.
Entry to the venue was also seamless and pleasant and the staff at the Met has always been so helpful and friendly. Kudos to them for another great night. The room itself is best in class – like Carnegie Hall with none of the stuffiness, gilded balconies lining the walls and a slightly ramped floor for great sightlines, perfect sound blaring from the speaker stacks and bouncing off the semi-spherical ceiling with acoustic perfection. It was weird, there was almost a nervous tension that created a fever pitch of energy in the 3500 person hall. And any fears that the crowd would be like the lower bowl at a Ranger or Knicks game, stuffy corporate types wasting good space and admissions, was completely unfounded. There were phans in the room. Good ones. Excited ones. Lucky ones. With tangible energy radiating from their bodies, the crowd was amplified by a good number of standby fans who gained entry due to no-shows. Well played, Sirius, and Phish!
The lights dimmed at 8:02 and a fucking roar ensued, the first of many from the rabid and amped up crowd. I honestly can’t remember better fan energy at any show in recent memory. And just as we were all ready to fucking explode and ride that wave, Trey, Page, Mike and Fish took to the end of the stage for the first “Hello My Baby” in 417 shows and 10+ years. The dichotomy between the a cappella offering and the latent energy in the room is exactly what makes Phish, well, Phish. It was a musical statement that said, “tonight’s gonna be special, but, like all things Phish, we’re gonna do it our way, at our pace, but with your best interests at heart.” It was fucking awesome. And then they retreated to their positions and grabbed their instruments and the “Tweezer” fest was underway. Talk about making a statement with a song, this one said, “Buckle up motherfuckers, game on!” And with guns blazing, the musical theme for the night was set. Even though I was well removed from the rail, I felt like Mike’s stage amps were cutting me to pieces as he and Fish were dictating the pace. In what was perhaps a nod to the cost of admission, “Free” was next, Mike still the early choice for MVP. At Trey’s urging, “Moma Dance” followed as our favorite ginger danced back and forth while Page and Fish got funky. Not to be outdone, Trey led the band back into “Tweezer” as the crowd realized “holy shit this is that show!”
“Blaze On” was up next, a smoking hot rendition that left me sucking wind even before Leo wailed away on the keys. As the foursome brought the song to a satisfying close while Kuroda dazzled the house with white light moments, I wondered where we were headed next (nothing was impossible on this night). Trey and Mike must have wondered the same thing as they engaged in a rather lengthy discussion about the next one (or maybe they were talking about what snacks they would have at intermission). In due time, the first notes of “Jesus Left Chicago” rang out (five year 186 show gap) and the room exploded yet again as Page found the grittiest gear in his arsenal for both his tone and his voice. The most notable “Kill Devil Falls” that I can remember followed before, what else?!?!, Morefucking”Tweezer”?Yes,please > “Yamar”gave Page another chance to flex his muscles, Trey dancing as admiration dripped from his face while the keyboardist really dug in. Some sweet guitar licks from Trey before “Drift While You’re Sleeping” closed the first set. I didn’t want to like the Drift – the ghost of my college past would have put something else (anything else) in its place – but the Ghost of the Forest had other thoughts so without hesitation I willingly obliged. This was a perfect set of 2019 Phish: a capella, funk, blues, calypso, throwbacks, rarely played goodies, singalongs, Ghosts, Tweezer, Tweezer, and more Tweezer. A. Perfect. Set.
A much needed break (time enough for my shirt to dry???) that gave me a chance to hydrate, recover, and pose like Rocky with a championship Phish belt, and the band took the stage again a minute before 10:00, opening the second set with “Chalk Dust Torture.” While I fully expected this song to be played tonight, those expectations didn’t lessen the impact of hearing this oft-played classic live. Quite the opposite actually, as the second set was off to a ripping start. Some additional floor space seemed to have opened up at intermission, and I was surely the hardest working phan in the room with plenty of room to dance as big and hard as my furiously pumping heart desired. How could the band repay my effort? MorefuckingTweezer!!!! into “Mike’s Song” would surely do the trick. Even as Fish seemed to be purposefully playing a half beat slow, the band was as powerful and gnarly as ever as they set up their first ever “Mike’s” > “Sparkle” combo. I was fucking gassed, sweat dripping from my face and shirt, but kept up with every single beat, Rocky at the top of the Philly steps. Fish steered the ship into “Ass-Handed” before a “Weekapaugh Groove” with some of the night’s stankiest bass lines piloting a full-band assault. That’s the most I’ve needed a ballad since Boston Cream, “Miss You” potentially saving me from dropping dead after the most intense 37 minute run of Phish that I can remember. I also can’t tell you the last time I took my shirt off at an indoor show, but it happened last night, my scarf reduced to a towel that mopped up my sweat — another of those moments that made my wife question the “Buyer Beware” warning on my +1.
“Waves” > “Twist” > “Day in the Life” was another triumphant stretch for Page, the four members of the band collaborating as one even as Page took an extended turn with the proverbial MVP trophy. And then “2001” happened, another song for the deserving of a historical footnote. Mike took the MVP trophy back as he continued to slay me with bass lines and effects as Trey played a chicken scratch rhythm over Page’s synth and Fish’s rhythm devils, the latter drumming like his dress was on fire. I was surprised to learn earlier today that this musical excursion was only 11 minutes, as my notes read “It’s still 2001???”
As the room was actually vibrating with love and {Kuroda’s} light{s}, “More” was a most appropriate and perfect set closer, another nod to the perfect imperfection that is 3.0. A gorgeous version of “Waste” was a beautiful warmup to the looming nightcap, “Tweezer Reprise,” so raucous that I feared for the safety of the gorgeous chandelier overhead.
A special show, played for an exclusive crowd, this was a Phish show for the ages – certainly an experience that I’ll treasure forever. Two perfect sets, one perfect show.
17,817 sweat soaked and/or shirtless steps.