A Phish in Water
Mondegreen Phish Festival
One week left before my final year of university, I needed something to escape the chalkdust torture rapidly approaching. Phish’s Mondegreen music festival reared its psychedelically colored head and there was nothing else for me to do but make my way there. Having seen a couple Phish shows before, I thought I knew what to expect. I in fact did not.
Upon arrival, there was a somewhat confusing lack of signs and I asked my Uber driver to drop me off in a parking lot, assuming I was close enough. As it turns out, that was false, and I asked about five people in vests where to go while getting nice and hot and sweaty before one directed me to about a mile down the road to rideshare drop off. I figured it was either give up or start moving, and there was no way I was missing the music, so I humped it down the road in what I’d consider impressive timing to find nothing but another vested man sitting in a folding chair. It was about this time that giving up didn’t sound so bad, so I laid on the grass in the shade and commenced waiting for divine intervention or something to that effect. Luckily, at nearly that moment, a man pulled up and asked if anyone knew where the ticket pickup was, which I had just happened to pass on the way to my giving-up spot. I offered directions in exchange for a ride, he told me about the difference between resin and rosin as we blasted the ac, and we became fast friends as we made our way in a couple circles before finally managing to enter the campgrounds. And I could only hope to explain to you the things that were going on in there.
Never have I seen such strange people in a crowd so unbothered by that strangeness. Fluffheads abounded. And it wasn’t just one or two. It was nearly everybody. One man pulled a vacuum around because apparently this band plays a damn vacuum every once in a while? A drum circle was forming in which one person was using a guitar as a drum by banging on it. Woodland fairies drifted through the crowd alongside wizards with dreadlocks and top hats. Even the accountants and Wall Street sharks paired their polo shirts with patterned and atrociously bright high socks. If anybody was more confused than me, it was the venue security. Because not only was this single handedly the weirdest crowd I have ever seen, it was also the kindest. People did what security asked without hesitation and said thank you after and belly laughed when they were made fun of. People complimented the wackiest outfits they saw and wore shirts that said “Funky Bitch” with rainbow fanny packs. Complete strangers stopped by our campsite to talk if they liked a vibe or a sticker or a joke heard in passing. The grilled cheese from the guy in tie-dyed overalls with a camp stove down row 1828 was the best one I’ve ever had. It was quite literally generations of hippies of all different types, clean-cut and about as far from clean as it gets, but they all had in common that craving for when the music grips your soul and the rest of the world fades away. They all had a passion for this band that brings people together in a way I would hesitate to say I’ve ever truly seen before. It was birds of a feather flocking outside, bare feet stomping in the dirt as everyone found a space to be exactly who they are and a little extra on top of that. This was more than just another music festival. It was a no man’s land, one connected by pure joy and kindness that dripped through the seams, thick as honey.
Inside the festival was a city hall constructed entirely of cardboard to the left, a ferris wheel to the right, the stage in front, and a heliograph behind. Vendors and hammocks watched over by T.J. Eckleburg-esque eyes staring from the trees. People could wander through and get a Phish-themed tattoo, spend a couple hours at a spa, and pick up the Daily Greens, a goings-on newspaper for the festival. Then the concert started and people packed in around the stage for what seemed like miles. But everyone left ample dancing space for themselves and their neighbors, as the night would soon warrant.
The Moma Dance, an iconic Mondegreen, was only the first night opener, and already the energy was high. I’ve also never seen a crowd boogie like that - everyone was moving, from the smallest head bobs to the more common full-body flails. The set list was never the same, and the music flowed and tripped over itself and spun in the air above our heads. The sun went down and everything lit up, purple trees and spinning prisms, transporting us into an alien world where the only thing there was and could ever be to do was dance. The only thing to do was laugh as the band pulled out trampolines and started bouncing on them and playing. Who even does that? Glow sticks illuminated the ground from below and the best light display I’ve ever seen unfolded before my eyes. Ten minute songs became all too short as the stage picked up my mind on a wave of energy and carried it towards the band. Each night was a celebration of being alive, a strange and wonderful carnival built just for our delight.
And I can’t forget the secret set, which Trey announced into the microphone by telling a man not to go back to his campsite after the last set of the night, then proceeding to tell him not to tell anybody. What followed this amusing exchange was the most insane and breathtaking musical display I’ve ever seen in my life. A jam, one song, that was over 50 minutes long and crescendoed multiple times. And as if that wasn’t enough, the band decided to cover the entire stage in white strips of fabric to create a flowing projector screen. Scenes from a stag deep in a foggy forest to fairy cottages to rushing streams dissolving into sparks twisted and writhed on the screen, keeping time to the music while captivating me completely.
A child’s eyes see everything bathed in awe because the world is so new to them. The mundane is extraordinary, time slows down because novelty and wonder collide in the smallest things. My eyes took in so much beauty from the spinning lights and music that something in my chest ached and I felt as if I was returning to something deep inside me that I had forgotten about, growing roots back into Mother Earth and letting the residue of the mundane that can so often blend the days together into a drudgery wash off of me in the flow. Time slowed down as I could only just experience what was going on around me. A writer only has so many words, and none I could use come close. For someone who is always crafting poetry in their head, I was speechless.
Phish is weird. A tinge of strangeness, a sprinkle of festival-wide irony, cat yowl samples during one of the songs, people in frog hats and spacesuits and neck to ankle in bright red circles. But throughout the four days, I found out that I’m weird. Well, I’ve always known, and dare I say so has everyone around me, but here my weirdness could skip and play like a child in a field of flowers and creeks and snails. If you manage to get past the (large) initial what-the-fuck-ness, you’ll find a community of people with jokes going back decades, a pure and genuine love for each other and everyone they come in contact with, and the kind of weird randomness that unwittingly pulls you out of the everyday until you surrender to the flow, and makes you a part of a love bigger than yourself.
You might find just where you belong. It creeps up on you. That’s the whole point.
Sincerely,
Esther
