'Twas a Tuesday night at The Comcast Center in Mansfield, Massachusetts, formerly known as the Tweeter Center, and originally known as Great Woods. The ampitheater is a classic of wide concrete slab dance platform rows and keen videography projected across two screens (nice touch: no missing pixels). Premium beer (large “glass,” 12oz.) was $11.50, making four beers equal to the ticket price, no matter which of three sections you’re in (floor/seated-but-on-the-roof’s edge/lawn). Seas of estranged young hippies and hipsters wandered the asphalt and dirt lots under moderately-stifling heat for hours surrounded by trees, for all sorts of pre-show adult picnics. Parking lot neighbor karma had me sandwiched between four cars worth of New York undergraduates excited to drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and a fella whose BMW gleamed brighter than any part of the Phish light show, and whose window tint was darker than any I had ever seen. The driver was a nice guy, interested in knowing “what I’m eating” before the show: and Charlie Sheen thought he was ‘winning.’ For all it 'twas, however, the performance by Phish confirms that the venue itself deserves to have the word "Great" continue on in its name-- and that Phish, in its post-3.0 manifestation continues to find moments of greatness, arguably more moments than ever, since their reunion/debut at Fenway in 2009.
It was the edgiest “Llama” opener ever, built on a dramatic overtempo, a "Llama" that clipped along suddenly before us in the gleaming Massachusetts evening: Great Woods still is, and will be for as long as it stands, a beautiful park, in the delicately-wooded sense of the word. A quite dank “Moma Dance” pronounced the party that was going to be this show: groovy, heavy, and made of deep cuts. Page took to the Clavinet with ease and power in a not-embellished jam—and lingered long enough for Page, Mike and Fish to part together a brilliant little funk jam, one that would have rivaled any moment of the recent Jazz Fest back in Burlington, Vermont (and, no one is calling for Phish to, like the all-star cast at the Flynn Theater last weekend, perform a Halloween remake of Miles Davis’ “Bitches Brew”).
From this, the “Possum” that followed somehow topped what I saw last year—begging the question as to whether or not they’ll actually always sound better to my aging ears. But this was constructed on bassist Mike Gordon’s best bluegrass sensibilities, and Trey heard the vintage call outright: this possum was struck and was Old and In the Way, electrified, as if channeling the vibe of some long-ago Great Woods noodling of Jerry Garcia. Did “Possum” grow too silly? Did Mike’s slappin’ breaks near the number’s end go comedically over the top—is such possible? “Cities” followed, and Page’s multi-tasking ability became a new and obvious point in The Sound of Phish 3.0. Rhetorically thinking of Memphis, “home of Elvis and the ancient Greeks” as the David Byrne lyrics rolled along, Page played chords across his piano, Clavinet, Hammond, and, strikingly, a beautiful and well-placed passage on the Rhodes. The buildup included Page striking his distorted and chunky Clav in Trey’s typical beat-keeping spaces—perhaps as close to a keytar as the bespectacled and frizzy-haired keyboard genius will ever get.
And then the real fun began. What, after such a rollick through his toys in “Cities” (only the Yamaha synth went untouched), what on earth drove Page to bust out and start chomping through Lennon’s power ballad “Instant Karma?” Moving from verse to chorus and back again, Page used the full length of his piano to drive home the descending/ascending chords, and Trey and Mike looked at each other and laughed and joined in. The crowd may or may not have known who wrote the lyrics “we all shine on/like the moon and the stars and the sun,” but they sure knew how to sing it. Sounding more like a confused George Harrison, Trey found an odd line that took something of a fifth-is-the-root-note solo; by the third and final chorus he had mastered the nuance of the lead vocal across his fretboard and the crowd reeled with the band, enjoined in the ambition and frivolity of such stage time—for they were with us, shining on, like the descending sun and ascending sliver of humid June Massachusetts moon, on and on and on and on and on.
Mike Gordon can play bass so well that he had time to stop and wipe his brow during passages of “David Bowie,” and if it were not for Great Woods’ ample camerawork and simulcast, I wouldn’t have this example of professionalism and musicality forever engrained in my consciousness and aspiration. While the historic riffs and interplay in “Bowie” rank as some of the finest technical examples of Phish’s catalog, this “Bowie” was a different kind of vehicle, one of smooth transformation and ease—the kind of jam band music most stereotyped as being fueled by laziness or intoxicated silliness. This “Bowie” was not that, but its space jam did abandon its own funk for a more typical 4/4, ending in the night’s most characteristic electric-guitar-goes-dweedle-dweedle-dee-way-up-high moment. What followed was appropriate: a song I thought might be from a Mike album, but may as likely be a deep cut from any of the last half-dozen studio works (phish.com tells me it’s “Rhymes”)-- and I find out it's an Al Green cover, and I realize it's the night's palm-reading, a telling of Things to Come. Why would a 2011-2012 holiday run not feature some soulful legend, and make New Years' Eve some collaborative and Funkadelic east coast run? Maybe; maybe not. Between now and then will come-- with any luck-- a truly Bowie-inflected Halloween, and we can all dress as the Spiders from Mars.
For the last rally of the first set, “Divided Sky” may have been picked because of the band’s view of rising wisp of orange moon between the crowd and the roof of the pavilion; it may have as likely come as an old friend’s request (this was, for all intent and purpose on this tour, THE Hometown Show). “Divided Sky” inspired especially wild dancing from much of the crowd, as Page, near the end, attacked his piano with new ferocity—not afraid to break it, it seemed. Set One closed with “Stealing Time…,” which featured Mike’s ability to recycle and refresh a Black Sabbath riff, with special tonewheel organ backup. The sky divided, the houselights rose, and that brief moment of near silence, when the empty space attacked us and the trance had been temporarily suspended—and, as with the best shows, the intermission felt just long enough to be relaxing, long enough to come back refreshed, with new smiles.
The clav player, the humbled guitarist, the bluegrass-groovin’ five string electric bassist, and the drummer in his trademark gown returned to the stage agrinnin,’ as if on their Simpsons appearance in the 1990s—but we were in store for something much more interesting than Simpsons theme teases within the “Run Like an Antelope” that would come to serve as the set closer. Running the familiar lens of Grateful Dead comparison, set two’s opener, “Back on the Train,” may be Phish’s “Not Fade Away”--because it appears to be only two chords, which implies and indicts each tonal player to make a specific and unique set of improvisational decisions. From brief atonal nonsense to excellent moments in which Page’s distorted Clavinet took over the guitar chop, the set opened in a bouncy, jubilant, and carefree vibe.
Page’s affinity for the Velvet Underground may not have worked too well at coolin’ it down back in Worcester, but the “Rock and Roll” that happened at Great Woods may have truly saved some souls, in its best Lou Reed sense, and may continue to do so, in perpetuity, via digital download. What would Lou—or better, what would Lester Bangs—say about this once-crunchy rock serving as the ten minute foundation for an expensive 21st century second-set-as-it-gets-dark mega-venue jive? (Bangs, if he were alive, would probably never leave SXSW). Phish played “Rock and Roll” well, and out, and long—and while Fish’s beats seemed nearly ahead of their time in every sense of the word, inviting the interesting chaos that brought the jam to a close. The noise was wholly appropriate, perhaps a nod to the song’s author and Metal Machinehead Lou Reed himself. Even Page got into the act, using his Yamaha analog synth to achieve one of the lowest filter sweeps in all of Phishtory—well done, especially as backing up the only hints of a genuine and nice feedback noise generated by Trey.
And then—to bring it back to the thesis, having spaced out well and briefly—came the true and forever notorious show highlight. I saw my first “Mango Song” in 1996, at my first Phish show, and don’t believe I’ve caught one since—until among this magical second set. “Mango Song,” in all its south-of-the-border rollicking glory, seemed balanced, even, and especially paced: having appeared on their first major release, this fun remodel of an old living room of a tune dotted up some eighth notes in the bass, bumpin’ the dancing crowd along into the Massachusetts night. The harmony vocals were amazingly spot-on (well practiced, guys!), and the piano was especially keen on kickin’ back in specific groove: Page provided two distinct piano solos, from Liberace to ragtime. What would push along this already-enchanted second set, after we all bopped along to such a great and happy groove?
“Bug” is a special and nihilistic singalong I’ve never been fond of, but this take accentuated the positive, at least musically: between the piano and bass timing, the band’s balladeering skills, however lyrically meaningless, drove the crowd to belt it out, echoing against the flat metal roof and out into the darkness beyond the venue. The synergy between the band and the Boston metro audience firmly established, a chant arose from what seemed an upper section of the lawn: “Let’s Go Bruins!” It spread so quickly that Fish jumped in on the opposing claps with the kick. This too was beautiful, instant, and unexpected karma—as much as sought by any dredlock’d driver of any VW camper parked in the Great Woods lot. “Pebbles and Marbles” came with an especially wild instrumental introduction, one that might invite a useful guideline for the band: keep it fun and funny and joke around, because you’ll always return to the serious playing with a better attitude. “Pebbles” dragged on, but not without Page’s continued strategizing modern Deodato arrangements across all boards. If Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4” and “Saturday In the Park” were inverted and reversed, one may hear what Page was aiming for, again across all manner of keys—including a few handfuls of piano notes that were not subtle, not smooth, and beautifully uncharacteristic. Did this happen because Trey’s ego has shrunk to Clinton-era levels? One could hear in his playing: he had no need to be a brave and bold humbucking superhero, but aurally called upon and relied upon his bandmates to back up his careful and clever licks.
And these scant licks, halfway through set two, were only beginning of a slammin’ string of good choices: “Haley’s Comet,” likely a down-home request (written at Goddard College) from way back allowed the voices to again blend—with such effect that one may have to assume they’re taking group singing lessons. Also, in the studio it’s worth wondering if they’ve been practicing with a metronome, for all their ability to, as a group, embrace and accept the subtlties of any beat. What followed the lovely “Haley’s” would inspire and propel the guitar frontman’s smart noodling all the way to the encore. Like a traveling Wilbury just getting warmed up in the Massachusetts night, “Meatstick” included a full verse in Japanese, with synchronized dance moves against Page’s synth womps and Fish’s driving beat. Mike, before and after the dance, wanted to show off his finest funk skills—and inspired the crowd to boogie, if they hadn’t been already. There was little space between the close of “Meatstick” and the “Run Like an Antelope”—and those seconds must have felt even quicker from the stage, as the Groove of the night was surely underway. Trey busted out the “Meatstick” melody with ease against the smooth passages from the band around him, and the crowd went buck wild. In Trey’s band introductions—most often, it’s just “Marco Esquandolas”—he called out “Jon Fishman on cymbal!,” and we were entreated to 32 bars of eighth-note ride. If Page grabbed one handful of both black and white keys together during the eclipsing creshendo of “Antelope,” he grabbed fifty, displaying a new easiness and disregard for his fingers’ velocity, over his participation with the ongoing riff. “Meatstick” teases during the “Suzy Greenberg” encore were irresistible, even to Mike, who worked in some modulated variation on the “Meatstick” stepdown, echoing Trey’s slack-jawed joy at working in the familiar descending line. I look forward to the show on this tour in which “Contact” is given “Meatstick”-sized attention: for, in all their diligent and keen instrumental choices, could this—the summer 2011 tour—reignite the band’s understanding and embrace of the rock-fugue form?
Here’s hoping: for at the end of the tour, the buses will roll back to Vermont and deposit Trey, Mike, Page and Fish at the door of their studio, for a fall season of recording while the leaves change (Bach to where they once belonged, as it were). Here’s hoping their studio work this fall will be… even half as interesting and risky as their performance at Great Woods would suffice, because each band member appears freshly confident in their interaction with the group as a whole—not that any member of Phish was ever sheepish about changing up a jam, but that the conditions for such extend far offstage, and the elements of musical—or any—improv, it seems, is to directly involve life itself… life, or the good humor and silliness that comes in teasing something like the “Meatstick” theme against three other original compositions, to end a ‘hometown’ show, the audience roaring with appreciation for such in the summer night.
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