[We would like to thank Tedd Kanakaris (@teddkanakaris) for recapping last night’s show. Tedd is owner of Sandpiper Wealth, an advisory firm named after two great songs. He plays keyboards and tells stories about and for the Phish community on Instagram @teddkanakaris -Ed.]

There’s little Phish fans crave more than a first. A breakout tune. An unusually deep jam. A never-before-played venue. Whether that first is personal—your first “Fluffhead”—or a collective moment shared by 13,000, we live for those thresholds: new chapters written in real time. The band's debut at Forest Hills Stadium had that gravity. This is hallowed ground—once echoing with the grace of tennis legends and the screams of Beatlemania—now poised for our debut.

In the lead-up, anticipation buzzed with a curious mix of reverence and logistics. Could a venue landlocked in Tudor-style urban luxury—and boasting zero parking—deliver a proper Phish experience? Would the lack of a traditional lot dull our tribal pre-show rituals? Would the band tip their hat to Queens in some unexpected way? “Harpua” into something, anything, by the Ramones? As fans traded predictions online and in line, small but delightful details began to fill in the picture: Page McConnell, a secret Mets fan, would throw out the first pitch at Citi Field on Wednesday; Mr. and Mrs. Met would be on site, repping the right borough—but the wrong sport. It was also “Pollock day”, for those lucky enough to secure a print. And with a curfew looming at 10:00 PM sharp, an unusually early 6:00 PM (well, 6:30PM) start time commenced.

The day unfolded like a surreal scavenger hunt. Most of us arrived via the Long Island Railroad, where ticket checks happened after disembarking—as if entry to Forest Hills itself required one. We all walked Burns Street, flanked by train tracks and members of the West Side Tennis Club playing on clay in their tennis whites. Inside, the stadium revealed its quirks: fake green turf lined for tennis underfoot, a vintage scoreboard announcing “Phish Sold Out,” and a food vendor wall along the right side. I learned a quick lesson—don’t hop on the first beer line and settle for the small Stella cans because here’s adult-sized craft beer deeper in.

Reaching your seats—or the bleachers—meant passing through ear-popping pressure tunnels of elite soundproofing, presumably designed to muffle both the music and the cries of local NIMBYs clutching their pearls. I overheard more than a few fans walking in and out saying, “Whoa, I can’t hear anything in here!” The stadium, built in 1923 for much smaller people, offered narrow tunnels and interior walkways that made brushing shoulders inevitable. And the steepness of the rear bleachers—without even the false security of a seatback in front—may have inhibited dancing this first go. In other words, we’re getting used to it.

All of this—history, novelty, mild confusion, and irreverent joy—set the stage for something rare: a night that felt like both an initiation and a celebration, at once new and old. I loved everything about it.

The show kicked off with a solid “Moma Dance,” with Mike taking some early liberties on bass—playful, loose, playing out. Mr.and Mrs. Met then make an appearance on the floor, dancing stage right, inducing some laughter and cheering from the crowd. (Let’s Go Mets). The band seemed immediately comfortable, despite one glaring obstacle: the sun, which was absolutely blasting them in the face.

Here’s the thing—professional tennis courts are aligned north to south to avoid giving one player a solar advantage. With Phish positioned on the east side of the court, however, the sun took sides—and it wasn’t theirs. While much of the crowd settled into the cool comfort of the shade, Trey and Mike had their retinas roasted like marshmallows, and Kuroda’s meticulously crafted light rig may as well have been unplugged.

And yet, they pressed on like pros. “Moma” flowed into a crisp, flawless “Rift,” the band settling in as if they’d been playing this sun-drenched tennis bowl their whole lives.

“Sigma Oasis” broke the set open into the ethereal—not overly technical, but spacious and emotional. Trey reached upward with short, fluttering phrases, energy building atop textbook Page chord syncopation. Then they dropped into a darker, crunchier undulation, with Page meandering across the Whirly. Emerging from that sonic dust came Fishman’s snare, snapping the band—and the crowd—into lockstep for a slow and groovy “Possum.”

Page took the first piano solo, assertive and inspired, absolutely owning it before handing things back to Trey for a classic controlled build into that high-octane peak/release “Possum” goodness.

Next up: a cow-funk “Wolfman’s Brother,” Mike slappin’, Page clavinetting—deep in the pocket through the first 8 minutes. Then Trey stepped in, leading a lift-off into major-scale chordal crescendos. It wasn’t the tightest “Wolfman’s” ever, but the second half cooked—and really, dare I say anything was “off” in this first set? The sun was in his eyes.

A solid “Stash” followed, particularly at 7:35 when the band settled on a pedal tone (staying on one chord), and Trey wove tension with a double harmonic scale—lending a hypnotic, Middle Eastern vibe. Have a listen.

“Blaze On” came next—a standard version to start, but it evolved into a meditative jam with Trey using his looper to great effect. “Monsters” was tight: high energy layered over a slow, soaring guitar lead—the kind of dynamic Pink Floyd would flatten a stadium with. I loved this one but the slowness of the tune had some people sitting. The sun had set for the band too, and Kuroda’s lights began to take over—drenching the stage in golden yellow. Trey was channeling something, and his vocals were strong too.

Finally, Set I closed with what felt like the first proper Forest Hills tribute: a roaring “I Am the Walrus,” nodding to ‘The Beatles' legendary concert here in 1964 - goo goo g’joob.

Set Two kicks off with the longest “Carini” ever (fact-check me, but seriously—28:49!). Much of it plays like a meditative wash: melodic waves cascading from Trey and Page, with Trey diving deep into loop city. At some point, “Carini” ceased to be a song and became more of a space to float in.

Then—Carini himself appears from backstage in a Yankees jersey and full-sprints across the stage, tackling Mr. Met in a cathartic act of borough supremacy… Kidding. That didn’t happen. But by the time we hit the 25-minute mark, I was in such a deep trance I genuinely forgot what song they were playing and that might as well have had happened—always a blissful moment for us to forget where we are, no?

Then came “Tweezer.” Nothing particularly special compared to Tweezers past, but its arrival sent the crowd into a frenzy. That familiar opening was a collective exhale—a nice “we’re really in it now” moment. I think we had finally learned how to dance Forest Hills without faceplanting.

“What’s Going Through Your Mind” (Mind Mind Mind) followed, a welcome surprise with great clavinet work from Page and more loop wizardry from Trey. I really enjoyed this one as did Ryan Hutson, Bill Deignan and Ken Erdogan - quick shout out to to my Gotta Jibrew crew in attendance.

A beautifully inspired “A Life Beyond the Dream” came next, Trey reaching toward the heavens before launching into a killer “Harry Hood.” Page, in particular, was on fire here—hammering beneath Trey with power and grace as they brought the set home.

The encore was tastefully chosen: “Slave to the Traffic Light,” bringing the energy down to the point where you could hear a pin drop—before lifting us into one last jubilant, celebratory peak. Then some “More”, literally – beautifully played by Page and Trey.

And then, as a perfect cherry on top, at 9:50 PM sharp, Trey ripped into “Tweezer Reprise,” bouncing around the stage for no more than ten minutes - just the way we love him. All buttoned up in time for Forest Hills’ strict 10:00 PM curfew followed by a bit of a curfew cheat, we all walked out to “Mama I’m Coming Home” played over the PA – many phans singing along.

Friends from all over, sitting in all corners of the venue, offered thoughts this morning—and I’ll share a few here. “The sound wasn’t good,” some said. (I personally thought it was great in Section 502—maybe sitting dead center between the line arrays made all the difference?)

Longtime friend Brian Vance, in true form, simply responded with: “Nooooobody.” As always, I agree.

It’s also worth noting the heavier undertone of the night—this show took place amid the sad news of Ozzy Osbourne’s death. As often happens, we found ourselves speculating: Would there be a tribute? A nod? While no explicit reference came until the post show walkout music, there was a subtle sadness in the air. Not disappointment at Phish—just the acknowledgment of a significant musical loss shared by many in that space. RIP, Ozzy.

But in closing, the most special part of the night for me wasn’t a song or a jam—it was my seat buddy: an 8-year-old girl named Whitney, from Rowayton, CT, attending her first Phish show with her mom, Lorin. They made the trip to “The World’s Borough” together, and while I spent the last few weeks cycling through excitement, concern, and overanalysis—contributing to an article for the Queen’s Ledger and convincing others that inconveniences are worth the Stadium’s charm (they are)—Whitney was simply… catching balloons.

“My favorite song of the night was ‘Harry Hood,’” she told me, “because of the glow sticks.”

“But I really wanted to hear ‘Meatstick.’”

This morning, Lorin shared: “Whitney had a blast at her first show. She especially enjoyed the people watching.”

Which I realize included me—overthinking, overanalyzing, and in the moment, missing the pure joy I came for.

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