By Steven Shepard

Around 44th and 6th I readjusted my beige beach cap and viddied the purple neon of Radio City Music Hall in the distance. My stomach began to grumble but it wasn't food that I was craving. After all, in the morn, I had scoffed down a plate of eggey-weggs, and throughout the day I had managed to quench my palate with all kinds of pastas, soups, and sandwiches. I was a stuffed bastard indeed, but I was still hungry. Phish was a mere seven blocks away now, and I began to catch the scent.

What I wore was a green sport coat that may have been a bit taut on the shoulders, and a matching pair of green slacker slacks on my legs. Although I did at one time (for about two seconds or so) desire a puffy shirt, I went with a basic, white collared shirt to provide the ensemble with a solid foundation. Of course, my feet had the running shoes on. If the urge to do a few laps around the venue struck me, I would be well equipped.

Five blocks from the plush pink lights, the Captain, my traveling companion, fired himself up a Cancer. The Captain, whose costume consisted only of gaffs and bad puns, had been given the sweet and lowdown on what to expect on this enchanted evening. He had been told about the letter from Radio City on Phish.com. The Captain doesn't read you see. He's much too busy stepping over and lying to the good people to make his booty during the week. A lap dog genius like that has no time to read. But I did him the favor anyway, and declared that he should be prepared to have the Cancers out of the mix for the night. It was about respect, it was about love, and it was about Red Rocks. It was my turn to stuff home a Cancer before the show started.

Obviously, I'm a weak bastard. Everytime I spark a Cancer I wonder why. They smell narsty. You ever catch a glimpse of swirling cancer smoke through a sun-lit window? It's putrid. If you look close enough, you can even see the face of The Man laughing at you. He's already won you know. You smoke his death, you get his cancer, and you pay his country club dues. And on and on.

But on this night I had made a choice. Radio City wanted us Phishy folks to come in the celebration of the music and experience the venue. They asked that we keep the carpets and chairs clean and not smoke. However, we were able to bring in our water bottles. The Captain of course immediately began getting twitchy when he heard. It would be a travesty if he wouldn't be able to spark of New Jersey's finest dirt herb during the show. How would he enjoy it? Homer forbid, he gave himself over to the sounds. But I knew you intelligent bunch of Jambands bastards would understand what this letter meant. It meant we could fill our heads with whatever was deemed necessary as long as we kept the proceedings tidy. That meant the Cancers were to be kept to a minimum.

In 1996, a bunch of ticketless pinheads stormed the town of Morrison, CO. The venue, probably due to some misinformed media pressure, put the kibash on any future Phish shows there. Now, this whole Red Rocks catastrophe came before my time. But this is my time. I once heard the only thing you'll ever truly own is your time. Now go ahead and fill.

It's like real melancholy to think that Trey won't be able to bounce his ass off the red rocks. Page's unique brand of genius will be absent as well. Mike would've stood on stage like a cactus, (Thank you Mr. Eisen), and together with Fish, they would've sweat out a groove for us all to swim in. Under the Colorado stars, it would have been religious.

But giggling and bubbling along with Phish's fragrant sounds during the second set at Radio City, I began to grin. I grinned because I didn't have to stare stageward through a fart fog of creamy brown-tooth. I grinned because "Down With Disease" was electric. I grinned because I took a stroll around after it was all over and didn't see any Cancer crumbs on the carpet. All I saw was a velvet sea of love and appreciation. I grinned because we had learned.

As to the music, Jarnow described it for you much better than I could. It kicked and I danced. I was giggling around like Cosmo Kramer with gonorrhea because that's what they gave him. The Captain even got to booggeying a bit in his own way. He kept the finger-pointing to a minimum and shook that ass. It was fun, inspiring, and enough to fill my tummy until the Hartford gigs. I'll look back on Radio City and never forget that it was my first Phish show. I'll also never forget the taste of the Cancer that I fired up when the doors closed behind me, and I was out in the New York City air.

Steven Shepard writes because the words will outlast us.