[FunkyCFunkyDo reminds you that in spite of the facts that his ensuing opinions are irrefutably accurate representations of the show, inarguably precise analysis of the show, and among the funniest things you’ve ever read (related and unrelated to the show), they do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the all-volunteer staff at phish.net or The Mockingbird Foundation. This is because even though you/they all suck at Phish, no one sucks at Phish more than Funky.]

For your convenience and reference: phish.net’s song histories | setlists | jam charts.

The following is a comprehensive list of all the places I have slept after a Phish show: on the grass under my old 2007 Honda Civic, on the grass next to my old Honda Civic, inside my old Honda Civic; in a camping chair, in a tent with more rips than seams, under a tarp I made into a “tent” somehow/kind of/not really, in a real tent, in a fully-enclosed 10x10 EZ-Up “bedroom” I made with tapestries, bungee cords, duct tape, an air mattress, and reflective fabric to keep the sun out (#protour); on the floor of a very suspicious Las Vegas Motel 6, in an actual bed in a dingy Las Vegas hotel, in an actual bed in a mediocre Las Vegas hotel, in an actual bed in a pretty nice Las Vegas hotel; in various New York hotel rooms that were smaller than your phone; in assorted banal hotels/motels/Air BnBs; in a highly-suspect Air BnB that was most likely run by criminals, in a perfectly-beige Air BnB that was most likely run by Mormons, in a swanky-as-fuck Air BnB that was most likely run by swingers; on a friend’s floor, on a friend’s couch, at my aunt and uncle’s house, at my cousin’s condo, at my brother’s house, at the literal former McDonald’s CEO’s mansion on Lake Geneva (thanks Cactus Crew, #premiumprotour); at the airport (kind of), and, of course, like all good Phish fans, there have been quite a few nights where I have not slept at all (#eliteprotour.) Oh, and there was that one time after my very first Phish show (2.14.03) when I was 16 years old and my oldest brother (RIP Ryan) bought me a golfball-sized gooball from the nice gooball man in the parking lot, who clearly and deliberately instructed us to split it amongst friends, and my brother immediately overrode the nice gooball man and told me to eat it all – which I did – and details are fuzzy on where I slept that night. That’s where it all began, mom and dad. Sorry not sorry.

Why was all that relevant to anything at all? Because being a Phish fan who lives in the Pacific Northwest means you don’t get to sleep in your own bed after seeing Phish. Being a Phish fan who lives in the Pacific Northwest means you sleep in one of the aforementioned places listed above… or worse, and definitely not ‘or better.’ You spend a lot of time, money, energy, chi, vibes, hopes, dreams, nightmares (read: second set “The Line”), and vacation days for those shoddy and sometimes-life-threatening arrangements. AND YOU LIKE IT. Builds character. Adds lot cred. Creates strong wook alliances. All the necessary things to survive Phish tour. And they all paid off tonight in Portland, Oregon, where, after seeing my 106th Phish show, I got to sleep at home in my own bed for the very first time.

Jah Provides.

Now, if you’re thinking, “Maybe Funky was hoping for “Sleep” or “Drift While You’re Sleepi…” no. You stop that. Right now. The thematic, poignant, sleep-related/non-show-related, non-sequiturs cease after the second paragraph above, as I wrote them not for your sympathy or pity, rather, as hilarious, anecdotal reflections on the life of a PNW Phish fan. Told you this was going to be the funniest thing you’ve ever read. To quote George W. Bush’s very large banner, “Mission: Accomplished.”

Regardless, what I really came here to do is to get down, get naked, and get into a fight with Merriam Webster about just how far I can push the limits of the English language when it comes to describing a Phish show. Plus, no one likes “Drift While You’re Sleeping.” So stop sucking at Phish, that’s my job. Now let’s get to the music. Finally.

Phish takes the stage with Mike on bass, Page on keys, Trey on guitar, Fish on drums, Jesus on lights. Mike looks fabulous. The band launches into “46 Days” with Fish pounding on the toms, clearly signaling he’s ready to rock. Early in the jam Mike drills down into the earth, allowing viscous dark oil to seep out onto the Moda Center floor. Trey trudges behind Mike, tunneling into the subterranean vibe of this version, but quickly floats the jam into wispy clouds of mist and dust. Trey’s thematic playing is now reminiscent of “Slave to the Traffic Light,” as the music billows warmer and fuller into a clear blue sky, and eventually explodes like a firework back into “46 Days.”

“Moma Dance” is an entirely standard-good version, complete with Fish hitching his beat a couple times in the opening jam, and Page flirts with a riff from that filthy 2.26.03 version, but otherwise that second jam never materializes.

“Cities” didn’t miss a beat from the final note of “Moma Dance” and the locked-in Portland crowd erupts to show our appreciation of this fantastic call. A mellow interlude-jam in between the sections of lyrics shows us patience and focus, but as we move past the lyrics, the outro jam skulks like a black cat at night, hunting a familiar theme in a darkened alley. Fishman teases the “Plasma” beat, pulls back, loads up on his haunches as he and Trey pounce fully onto “Plasma” for a seamless (so much so that it almost seemed planned) -> “Plasma.” Fantastic work here.

The black cat is back on the prowl as “Plasma” stretches and slinks around dark corners, lurking. Fishman drips snare rolls like spots of shadows against a dimly light velvet veil. Trey haunts the jam with ghostly noises and spectre tones. The jam forages into a more mystical world now, with Page swirling seaweed with a new (to me) submerged, oceanic effect. Fishman slices the beat allowing water to flow into the spaces between the music, the weight growing heavy, dragging us down into murky depths. But Trey buoys us to the surface with a triumphant riff, and we break the water’s edge with splashes of foamy whites and turquoise blues. The wind is fully at our backs as we ride the crest of a perfectly formed wave, surfing with frictionless motion over tropical tones. The waves breaks back into “Plasma” as the song formally concludes.

An entirely fine, well-placed version of “Bouncing Around the Room” connects us to “Sigma Oasis.” A normal, happy Trey leads us out of the lyrics as he attempts to layer in staccato riffing. Too much trying, not enough doing as the band takes a backseat to Trey, clearly letting Trey drive for a riff that works. He finds little traction and the jam is left without a map and without direction. But wait! Trey once again revisits a quasi-staccato theme. Mike catches on and bounds into the jam, taking the lead with playing that sounds like rabbits bouncing over tall grass. We’re chugging now - ch-ch-ch-chugging as the shuffling rhythm morphs into an iron locomotive, careening down a heavy wooden track through a desert nightscape on a night with a full moon. There is nowhere we can go, or need to go, except forward and faster. Full steam ahead into the indigo blue abyss, Mike shoveling coal onto the jam as frenzied acceleration launches off the tracks and into the moonlit desert sky. Weighless tons of iron are effortlessly thrown into the sky and we collide with a constellation that is the “Sigma Oasis” chorus, and the song comes to a conclusion as conqueror of worlds. What a ride!

“Run Like an Antelope” waltzes into the set as Mike and Trey flirt with each other in the opening segment. I had to squint real hard to be sure Mike wasn’t actually flirting with me, and I am not convinced that he wasn’t, but I didn’t let this double negative stop me from thinking I just may have a chance. Jah provides. The jam grazes in the African savanna, picking off little notes like blades of grass. The herd of musicians onstage feels no threat, no caution, yet, but quickly this changes. The herd grows wary, as angst and alert flood the jam. Panic now, as Phish breaks into a chaotic sprint, charging away with haste from a dangerous, closing predator… each step coming closer to danger, so close, TOO CLOSE as the band is running out of options for escape until - STOP! - ::deep breath:: They reach a clearing of sudden safety. Panic ebbs, high fives commence, and we revel in a jam we may have heard a hundred times before, but always worth experiencing live once more.

“Say It To Me S.A.N.T.O.S.” closes the set with a giant exclamation point for all in attendance, all except one special friend at the show, for whom this song was actually a giant middle finger. Jah provides.

It’s halftime which means it’s time for two things: 1. To experience existential overload while wondering if that inanimate object is actually breathing and sentient or if it’s just the heroic dosage of hallucinogens you ate three hours ago, and 2. To test an old Portland myth. Legend has it that if you enter the bathroom of any Portland music venue while holding a copy of the Original Phish Companion, turn off the lights, spark a doobie, look in the mirror, and say JENNY SIZZLER three times, the historic Portland Comedy-Jam-Rock-Juggernaut will appear at your pet’s bar-mitzvah or your daughter’s quinceanera (but not both). “Who the fuck is Jenny Sizzler,” you ask? Pants: discouraged. Innuendo: rampant. Laws: discredited. Bunnies: everywhere. Beyond those tantalizing teasers, all I am allowed to tell you (for legal purposes) is that they were the Playboy Mansion house band in 1999 and 2001 (the band spent much of 2000 touring various jails), and that their concerts traditionally end with local law enforcement arresting someone in the band (connect the dots to 2000). Keep in mind your cover charge pays their bail. It’s a fool-proof system, so try it at the afterparty – I bet you’ll be pleasantly surprised!

On a related note, here’s a link to a lawyer. He’s de-barred in most states, but he’s GOOD: Lionel Hutz, Esq.

Our existential dread has lifted, the Sizzler seance has completed, and Phish takes the stage for set 2. Jesus still on lights. My god, the lights - they were so divine in the first set that Stevie Wonder turned to Helen Keller and said, “Damn.” She vigorously nodded in agreement. An Easter miracle! Jah Provides.

[Author’s aside: At this stage of my esoteric novella you are probably thinking, “WHAT THE HELL IS ‘JAH PROVIDES’ ?!” Well, like 99% of Phish fans, I was once a young, privileged, white kid who discovered marijuana and rebellion and Phish nearly simultaneously. Blew our minds, all of it. Amidst and congruent to this discovery came our introduction to reggae, Bob Marley and, not too later on, the revelations of Rastafarianism. Red-eyed, Funyun-eating, Coke-can-smoking, shwag-buying teens found our new god. That god, of course, was Trey (Mike for me, actually). And Jah - the Rastafarian entity who tests the Rastafari through slavery, economic injustice, and racial oppressio… oh. Hmm. Problematic in hindsight for us young white kids. Innocent and well-intended, but still…

…well, perhaps, having a curfew, being grounded for breaking said curfew because we got too stoned smoking shwag out of a Coke can and earning a smaller-than-we-wanted allowance to buy the schwag was the plight of us, the adopted pale Rastafari. Perhaps, Jah tests us all in different ways. Perhaps, I am full of shit. Perhaps, I speak the truth. Why not both?

In any and all cases, Jah provides for us the mindset to volunteer ourselves into a spiritual and shared understanding that is bigger and more purposeful than ourselves, yet entirely our own personal experience. Even Trey does it. (We are now validated, peace be unto Trey!) So when Jah Provides, what I mean is I recognize the good fortune, the irony, the privilege, the luck, the community, the love, the fun, and the humor of (and within) us young-at-hearts who are still chasing Phish shows and jams, years and decades later, just as we did when we first discovered that special something that was (and is) so much bigger than ourselves: a Phish show, a world beyond worlds. That same special something that was (and is) so intimate and personal that it still feels completely our own: a Phish show, a world existing exclusively within our minds.

The paradox of this dichotomy is no better articulated than by this Tom Robbins excerpt from Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, “I believe in nothing; everything is sacred. I believe in everything; nothing is sacred. Ha ha ho ho hee hee.” We believe in Phish, and when we expect nothing from them is when we end up getting everything. Hey, maybe they’ll play “Ha ha ha” tonight. Oh, the irony – OH, THE PHISH SHOW!]

Set two begins with a less-than-warm-welcome for “A Wave of Hope.” And Phish makes us pay. Quickly. Casual confidence is the theme of the first section of extending jamming. Bluesy chords from Page drive the jam into hotter heat and Trey steps on the accelerator. Jesus’s lights become moth wings; giant, slow flaps of luminous beams that lift the band and crowd into space. We flutter through the nebula, peacefully unaware that Trey is about to morph into a black hole - sinister, dark effects, pulling us into his menacing abyss. Quickly we fire out rockets and we blow past Trey’s event horizon, as Fishman turns on afterburners to ensure our safety. We reach a courageous point in the jam, but we must heed to caution. Red lights flash: DANGER! DANGER! We withdraw into a rocky asteroid’s chasm to observe the cosmic tempest around us. Trey, still searching us out on his guitar, looking to deliver the death blow. Target: acquired. Trey shifts into an attack position ready to blow us out of our hiding spot on a freely floating space rock, but it is Fishman who creates a force field around us with dense percussive rhythm. Trey and Mike send coded signals to each other, wondering how to break down our defenses. Mike, ever-present in this battle, bombards notes of highly combustible rocket ballistics as we venture deeper into the cosmic unknown. The battle quenched, the jam pleads for and feins at “No Quarter” before finally sublimating into “Twist.”

“Twist” gives us a slightly-above-average version with passages that salsa dance around “Oye Como Va” and into two solid, consecutive peaks. A perfectly fine compliment to the interstellar vortex from which we just escaped. A bouncy, fun version which will ultimately be forgotten over time, but one that will indeed offer surprise if you ever stumble upon it in the future.

“Scents and Subtle Sounds” (with intro!) slinks next into the second set. Beautiful. Heavenly. Rainbow sunbeams bouncing off spherical mirrors. The calypso seabreeze from the first set returns as “Scents” takes on oceanic tones. Trey loops a submarine “ping” as the jams builds and swells and peaks and triumphs! Handfuls of BULK CONFETTI, the pieces of those rainbow sunbeams, rain down on us in fully-manifested whimsical delight. The jam recedes like the tide into a placid, calm water before “Everything’s Right” abruptly splashes into the set.

The beginning of the “Everything's Right” jam is met with a raucous roar from the locked-in Portland crowd. This energy wave transfers directly into the band, as they sashay into decadent and highly-indecent funk. Oh, the FUNK! Mike is playing with pure sex appeal as we all check our loins for various types of bodily fluids. Send towels. Lots of them. Send cigarettes. Lots of them. Actually, send more, because we are sliding into -> “Boogie On Reggae Woman.”

It was at this point that your author throws down some of the most controversial dance moves humanity has ever seen: Walking Through Spiderweb at Night and Naughty Shower Lufa. Men look on in awe, women weep at the beauty. Event Security and adoring fans alike swarm around me, asking for autographs, lessons, and Plan B. I look upon them all with calm, confident eyes. They are hanging on my every thrust, my every shimmy, my every shake. Breathless, they wait in awe. Their eyes praying for a miracle. And then, without breaking rhythm, I say, “How dare you speak to me during ‘Boogie On.’” I dance on. They pass out. Most are now aroused. Some are now pregnant. Life finds a way because worry not, loyal reader, Mike guides us through nasty sexualized dance grooves to revitalize Funky's Fallen with a silky smooth -> "2001" (yes, that segment should read Everything’s Right -> Boogie On -> 2001, and yes, it is as sexual as it looks on paper. Believe me, this aint Playboy.). Funky's Fallen regain consciousness (and a new sexual identity) just in time to take a journey back to outer space. They have passed their first test. The next one will require goggles.

The slip into "2001" could not have been a more perfect call. Fish's unchanging, stoic rhythm between "Boogie On" and "2001" weaves together with Mike's relentless low-end lust. To properly describe this “2001” I will simply use this timeless quote from Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, “Everybody get naked! Come on, don’t be stuck up, it’s going to be great!” WELL WHY NOT?! THIS PARTY’S JUST GETTING STARTED! And that’s the story of how some of you met your spouse. Jah provides.

An outrageous crowd roar at the conclusion of “2001” was decapitated by “A Life Beyond The Dream.” It’s not that I actively dislike this song, it’s just that there were roughly 237 other songs that could have been played in this exact moment that would have landed better. But, I love my wife, who loves this song, and so I judge my wife, who loves this song and, in marriage, that’s compromise, baby! A heartfelt, humorous moment to share with her. The levity of a Phish show. I wouldn't have it any other way.

“Harry Hood” concludes the set in cinematic fashion. Our perfect climax. Our final charge. Our last hurrah. The jam starts like a single white feather caught in a warm summer breeze. We float through timeless space as I look out across the crowd, knowing that I have friends from all periods of my life sharing this moment with me. We are bonded by this music, always and forever. As the jam swells and grows, I am reminded of one of the most triumphant moments in artistic history. Indulge me, if you will (especially if you are a Lord of the Rings fan). The Moda Center is Pelennor Fields. The crowd is the Rohirrim. Phish is Theoden King.

“Arise, arise, Riders of Theoden! Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter! Spear shall be shaken, shield shall be splintered, a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor Harry Hood!”

If that doesn't get you fired up then I suggest checking your pulse for signs of life. We fearlessly ride into the peak of “Harry Hood” claiming anything and everything to be ours, if only for a few glorious moments in everlasting time. Fleeting time at a Phish show that is, and always will be, ours. Ride now, ride now! We overtake the peak in a culmination of unstoppable charge of joyful transcendence. We flood the grounds with victory and conquest. Ride now, ride now! We ride this feeling to hugs with our show neighbors, relationships with strangers we may never see again, and to our most-loved people, with whom these moments are made from the infinite. We ride this feeling into memory unvanquished by time, memories that will last beyond time. We ride into the peak of "Harry Hood."

The crowd ignites during the encore break, and we are acknowledged with a powerful closing combo of “Wilson” and “Slave to the Traffic Light.” While neither are noteworthy, they act as the perfect end point to a show filled with mastery, ascendancy, and achievement. A show in which we will revel and revisit for years to come as we proudly say, “I was there. We were there.” And we were. Because Jah provides.

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