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Mid-Atlantic
Regional Report
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Edited by Anthony Coloneri
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Thank You Mr. Walther -- A Review of Grassroots Music Festival
Popular music in our culture these days has become a sham. Look at the
newsstand. Turn on the TV. Put on the radio. All you hear is pre-packaged
slop in fancy packaging, with no hint of originality or ingenuity. But,
as with any large cultural movement, it will eventually meet its demise
in the form of backlash and upheaval. There are voices from the fringes
that demand change. One of those voices is Tim Walther.
Walther is currently the head of the aptly-named Walther Productions, a
company he runs out of the Baltimore area. He began as inauspiciously as
any other music fan out there, though. He graduated from James Madison in
1989 and then jumped around doing a number of jobs: cook, toy salesman,
restaurant management. Then he looked to his ear for direction (which
already separates him from most people in the music business these days,
who tend to look at their wallets first) and began the arduous struggle
to become a part of what he really loved: music.
The work of Tim Walther has definitely paid off, as evidenced by the
recent Grassroots Music Festival held in Cockeysville, MD. The lineup for
the festival wasnt only incredibly stacked with big-name artists, but it
was held at breath-taking Oregon Ridge Park. The home team batted first,
with Baltimore natives Lake Trout opening the show, followed by Jamie
Masefields trio, Jazz Mandolin Project.
I got a chance to ask Jamie about his thoughts on the festival, and his
ear-to-ear grin nearly said it all: "I think its great . . . I think were
kind of coming back full circle to people enjoying pretty creative
music." Creative music abounded during JMPs set, which included a
particulary rousing rendition of "The Milliken Way," and a number of
tunes from their Blue Note debut, Xenoblast.
Continuing the mandolin exploits was the David Grisman Quintet. His
lineup includes some of the most talented and varied artists I have ever
seen assembled. Extended solos showed the amazing abilities of DGQs
classical guitarist Enrique Coria and percussionist Joe Craven, who both
received due ovations from the crowd.
Of course, with all of these great artists in one place, you cant help
but hope for some cameos, and no one was left wondering for long. Grisman
brought out Bela Fleck to play with him on his tune "16/16", combining
for an awe-inspiring show of talent. Going back and forth, lick for lick,
Bela and David looked to be enjoying themselves as much as the audience.
They followed with a stunning version of "Arabia," a longtime DGQ
favorite, to close their set.
Bela and his band followed DGQ, and the new additions to the lineup, most
notably Paul McCandless on oboe and Sandip Burman on tabla, showed us why
they caught Belas attention. The festival was actually only second time
the new crew from Belas latest release, Outbound, had performed any of
this material in front of an audience. They were actually still
practicing and exchanging idea in the press room, instruments in hand,
just hours before they went on. Any conjecturing that they would be a
little green were quickly laid to rest. Highlights from their set
included Jeff Coffin leading the band with a funky front line on the very
brassy "A Moment So Close." Although Victor Wooten seemed to play a
little subdued (no spinning basses or flashy solos), his playing is
always far from ordinary. Victor is unquestionably one of the greatest
modern electric bass players, and he shows it every time he plays. His
thick funk lines seemed to dominate the flow. The boys then romped
extensively through the composition "Hoe Down" to say their goodbyes.
There were two bands left and everyone in attendance had already gotten
their moneys worth.
Maceo Parker, the showman of all showmen, brought his entourage on stage
and immediately brought the crowd to its feet. He ran through a lot of
the new material from Dial M.A.C.E.O., including the especially funky "My
Baby Loves You" and "Rabbits in the Pea Patch." Maceo is definitely funk
musics equivalent of a Baptist minister. He actually got off of the stage
at one point to come down to the audience and coax the crowd into singing
the chorus to "Shake Everything You Got." The juxtaposition of Maceos
clean suits and the crowds hemp necklaces was the last thing on anyones
mind. You just cant help but move to his music. Bruno Speight, Maceos
guitarist, evoked some due respect for Maceos back up group.
Maceo left the stage, but he wasnt done for the night.
Medeski, Martin and Wood took the stage and immediately dropped sonic
bombs of downright scary sounds that eventually settled into an
unfamiliar tune. Most likely, these unfamiliar tunes will show up on
their next studio album, The Dropper. They began the next number and
settled down into a fixed groove, and who else but the great Maceo Parker
stepped out in front to join them. Now, anyone who has seen these two
bands perform knows that they handle themselves very differently on
stage. MMW are impossibly entranced within their music, probably not even
aware of the crowd, while Maceo cant help but make sure he has everyones
attention. Different, styles, same result: great music. This crossover
was nothing short of breath-taking. Maceo just grinned back at the guys
laying it down for him, then eventually put his sax to the mike and blew
the hell out of it. It was short but sweet. The rest of the set lived up
to precedent Maceos early appearance set, with sparkling performances of
"Start/Stop," "Wigglys Way," and a moving "Hey Joe" to close it.
It still amazes me to this day how well constructed the concert was. I
saw six unbelievably talented bands play, drank Magic Hat, hung out amid
gorgeous scenery, and then left the parking lot in less than three
minutes. It would be hard to ask for a better Saturday.
The musicians seemed to have just of good as a time as well. The Wooten
crew was checking out the lawn, Jamie Masefield was out on the field
watching DGQ perform, and I watched David give an autograph to a ten-year
old kid and then chat kindly with the parents. There was no pretense
there; things were open and friendly.
Tim Walther said that he gained a lot of interest in the production
business from his attendance at Dead shows, especially the feeling of
community that was generated by the music and the crowd. He refers to
what he saw then as a "family-type atmosphere." If that is what Walther
set out to create, I would like to be the first, and definitely not the
last, to congratulate him on reaching his goal. Even if you could care
less about these notions of sharing and caring, and dismiss them as
idealistic hippie nonsense, you have to admit this about Walther: He
knows how to put on one hell of a show.
Walthers next venture is the 5th Annual Autumn Equinox, which takes place
from September 21st to the 24th in Capon Bridge, WV. Some of the
headliners for this ridiculously packed lineup include John Scofield,
Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, Galactic, David Grisman Quintet, Gordon
Stone Band, All Mighty Senators, etc., etc. For more information, go to
www.walther-productions.com. Yeah, and if you happen to see Tim Walther,
thank him for bringing it all together.
Attacked by Puppy Beasts (and other recollections of Camp Bisco 2000)
PRELUDE: A few hundred people, bathed in blacklight, are standing,
silent
and
motionless, their heads tilted slightly upward, gaping at a gigantic screen.
Their stillness, and their identical stunned stares as the blue light of the
screen flashes across their faces would lend the impression, to the casual
onlooker, that they are an army of brainwashed soldier-clones in some sci-fi
universe, enthralled by the image of their beloved Big Brother, soaking up
his words like a colony of starving sponges. I am one of these people. And
though I am in Philadelphia, and it is the first newborn hours of the year
2000, I have indeed been sucked centuries into the future and most of the
way
around the globe. The story on the screen has possessed my mind, and it is
burrowing its way ever deeper, clenching in its teeth what must be the most
euphorically mesmerizing music I've ever heard, grinding me away lobe by
lobe
until I too am one of the vegetables, my rigid body frozen, the only
movements I make tiny leaps of the eyes from the screen to the four cloaked
musicians behind and back. And occasionally to the cotton ball, glued to
the top of an orange mesh baseball cap, dancing its way, carefree, through
this long-awaited night...
August 26th, 2000 - Ski Sawmill, Morris, PA
"Bill Stites, drink tequila!!!!!"
I don't respond.
"Volker Skrzeba, DRINK TEQUILA!!!!" The voice grows more insistent (if
such is possible).
"MARC BROWNSTEIN, DRINK TEQUILA!!!!!" It is now an ear-splitting pained
scream, a klaxon conveying across the campground the urgent alarm that the
world, or at least the weekend, will come grinding to a messy halt if
*someone* doesn't drink tequila, NOW.
"Who IS this guy?" The man who was underneath the cotton ball almost 8
months ago looks over his shoulder for the source of the commotion. The
answer, Marc, is that he, like you, is a person I never would have expected
a
few months ago to see here, a person who obviously, were there any justice
in
this world, would be at this place on this day, but the circumstances of
whose life have interfered, making his attendance, like yours, unlikely at
best. And yet you both sit here with me today, and I couldn't be more
glad.
Marc, and all of Camp Bisco, meet Head.
11 days after the Disco Biscuits improvised their unforgettable
soundtrack to the Japanese animated classic Akira, Marc sent a brief
message to his band's listserv. He had been fired. After a musically
groundbreaking but emotionally catastrophic fall tour, the rest of the Disco
Biscuits had decided that they could not continue as a band with Marc
playing
bass, that despite the enormous strides they'd made in the previous
tumultuous year it would be best if they began searching for a new bassist
who could someday fill Marc's shoes. The fans were shocked. Despondent.
Incensed. Tears were shed, boycotts were proposed. It seemed unbelievable
that after THAT, that year, that show and most of all that set, they could
do
this, they could turn their backs on all they'd built, that they could turn
their backs on US... Except for the fact that most of the most devoted fans
had seen or heard things in the previous months that made it clear exactly
how possible it was, such a thing would be - should be - unthinkable.
The ensuing six months were an interesting, tense, experimental time.
Shows were played. Songs were written. Bassists were auditioned. Those
who
kept up faith did so by remembering that this was a time of transition, and
that the transition would be over, hopefully, soon. And yet, always lurking
on the horizon was a reminder of all that was lost and all that had yet to
be
proved - Camp Bisco.
"Tequila makes you a bandito." Head is lounging on one of the world's
most comfortable collapsible camping chairs (courtesy of MJ) as though it
were his throne, his arms crossed contentedly, the bottle of Jose Cuervo in
his right hand. He and I met in Boy Scouts in 6th grade. And now we are at
camp together again, though obviously camp of a much different (better)
sort.
Earlier Marc had said he looks forward to the day when the Biscuits see
their first big wave of fans who never listened to Phish or any of they
other
bands the Biscuits get lumped in with, whose first exposure to improvised
rock 'n' roll is a Basis or an I-Man, not a Tweezer,
a
Ghost, a Dark Star or
a Timmy Tucker. And so I said then, and I say again now: Marc,
you
should
definitely know this guy.
Everyone who's reading this knows someone like Head - the guy who HATES,
fervently and unreasonably, anything and anyone that could possibly be
called
"hippie." And yet he chose to come here to Camp Bisco, to give a chance to
the band that his two best friends have spent the last year and a half
chasing around the nation, to see if he could come to understand what it is
that keeps us coming back, keeps us pushing our endurance to the limit,
keeps, frankly, controlling our lives.
The sun is setting over the Poconos as Baltimore's Lake Trout claw and
stomp their way through, of all things, a cover of Ministry's
Stigmata.
Nad cracks a sick grin as the opening power chords of what is perhaps the
closest thing to an anthem the genre of industrial music can claim erupt
from
the stage like a volley of mortar fire. Nad is clad, as always, in all
black
and Doc Martens, has listened to Ministry since early in high school, and
this weekend he will see his 6th and 7th Biscuits shows.
Phish crowds cheer in recognition for Good Times Bad Times and
Peaches
en Regalia. Dead crowds gave it up for Lovelight and The
Weight.
Today
a respectable fraction of the 2300 people who have driven to this rather
remote part of Pennsylvania this weekend are watching a band that will soon
appear on the Phish tribute album cover a song by a group whose most famous
album is entitled The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste and has an
X-ray of
a human skull on the cover. This appears like a contradiction, or at least
a
dichotomy, but why should it be? Where is it written that rock musicians
interested in group improvisation have to draw their inspiration from
bluegrass, funk and classic rock?
At a festival last summer one of the most obsessive Biscuit fans
observed
that "the difference between the Biscuits and all the other bands here is
that all these other bands are playing in 1999, and the Biscuits are playing
in 2015." I'm sorry, Max, but you were wrong. The real difference is that
the *Biscuits* were playing in 1999 and all the other bands were playing in
1979, or perhaps, to be charitable, '89. It doesn't make the Biscuits
futuristic to incorporate elements of trance and heavy metal into their
sound; anyone who *doesn't* in this day and age I think has to answer some
serious questions about where they've been for the last decade or so. The
Biscuits are not revolutionaries, or at least not for that reason. Hell,
Ozric Tentacles were doing something not too dissimilar from what the
Biscuits do 10 years ago. They merely represent a changing of the guard
that
should have happened a long time ago. They have brought the idea of jamming
from the past back into the present, revitalized it and left in their
wake a
batch of great young bands, steeped in menacing sounds and electronic beats,
bent on nothing less than world domination.
Jungle Canvas's Danny Tha Wildchild spun the sunset away, opening his
set
with several minutes of funky, technically impressive scratching, then
laying
the needle to a body-movin' mix of jungle, Chicago house and the Jackson 5.
Biscuits lighting designer Matt Iarrobino got behind the board and gave us
all a taste of what tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of dollars of
lights,
were going to do to us for the rest of the night, at the command of perhaps
the most artistic mind in the business. Spiral patterns spun on the ground
and the trees, floodlights swooped and dove through the sky, sculptures in
the field were illuminated from below by slowly changing colored
lamps...
Me, I was back at the campground with Head and Volker. Volker, whose
last name is
pronounced 'SKREE-bah', is a sweet, mild-mannered, square-looking guy in his
30's who has been a Biscuits fan for a few years (pretty impressive,
considering they played their first college gigs about five years ago) and
hails from outside Dusseldorf, Germany. This will be his first show - the
BIP'er,
Evan Leon, webmaster of obsessive fan site discobiscuits.net, took it upon
himself
one day to buy Volker a round-trip ticket to the States, taking for granted
that the Disco Biscuits community would chip in and reimburse at least most
of his expense. Donations were slow at first, but for the week leading up
to Camp, and the weekend at Ski Sawmill, people he didn't even know were
approaching Evan and handing him wads of money, and he ended up making a
relatively small investment for the sake of making possible one of the
greatest rock 'n' roll introductions of all time.
We were 6 or 7 people back, on stage right, when, in a cloud of
machine-blown smoke, Volker, incidentally sporting the baddest-ass print
shirt in at least the state of Pennsylvania if not our whole great nation,
strode onto the stage, a man on a mission. A
sick gleam shone in his eyes as he snatched a mic from Biscuits manager
Chris
Zahn.
"You asked for ze best?" He inquired of the thousand-plus of rabid
fans piled
on the mountainside. "You got ze best!! Ze hottest band in ze vurld....ZE
DISKO BISKUITS!!!" The smoke machines blew like a choir of trumpets as the
four band members filed onstage around him, to predictably huge cheers.
Volker lingered onstage, for that moment at least the king of Camp Bisco,
the
symbol and the mascot of a fanatical, masochistic musical community that
already spans an ocean, and will someday soon span more.
"That's phat!" Head screamed in approval, clapping. He had just
experienced his first b'gock, and
thus
begun his descent down a very slippery
slope. Watching a teutonic cherub introduce a progressive band
fueled by trance and jungle with a speech lifted from KISS had set some
small
part of Head's mind spinning, and had opened in him, perhaps for only an
instant, a door. It had made room in his mind for the possibility that, even
though they jam endlessly, even though most of their fans listen to Phish
(and many own sandals), the Disco Biscuits could still be a good band. As
Jon, Aron, Marc and Sam took their places on the stage I could see in Head's
eyes that he realized there might just be something in this music that will
speak to him, as it had already spoken to Nad and Volker and many other
unlikely conscripts into the Bisco Army. Without having to love Phish or
the Dead, without having to become a pacifist or a vegetarian, without
having to wear hemp, he could get into this.
Walking around Ski Sawmill that weekend you could almost hear the
collective sigh of relief echoing off the mountains: Marc is back, Marc is
back, Marc...is back. The Disco Biscuits are back. The band that, in the
last full show they played together, took us on that incredible journey to
Japan and the future, is back. The band that played what most who there
will tell you is the best set of music they'd ever seen, only to splinter
less than two weeks later, is back. And the man who, in addition to a
cloak, donned that ridiculous hat that night, the spirit, the soul, and the
smile of the Disco Biscuits, the man without whom this couldn't have really
been Camp Bisco, will, this weekend, again take the stage as part of the
band in which he belongs.
The only troubling part is, can it really get better from here?
I've long thought of jambands in terms of a progression toward a Platonic
ideal: each band that comes along has a little more history to draw on, more
and better music to learn from, and every now and then there should
therefore
come along a band that's a little better than any that came before, a little
better equipped to hit those rare, mystical moments of musical transcendence
were it not for which I wouldn't be writing this and none of you would be
reading it. And slowly, incrementally, the format and the formula evolve
until someday there will be a band that's capable, every time they're on a
stage,
of changing lives with sound, shooting up their audience with the perfect
musical drug.
Once such a band existed, those of us who are predisposed to
experiencing
transcendence through improvised music would, from the first time we heard
them, be helpless in their hypothetical clutches, like the mice with the
electrodes wired directly to the pleasure centers of their brains, made into
catatonic zombie-junkies by music, not only helpless to resist but
uninterested in resisting its powers.
I had assumed this to be a pipe dream, a sort of whimsical
musico-philosophical fantasy. But after what I witnessed at Camp Bisco, I'm
no longer sure.
I was attacked by hundreds of inflatable puppies, and watched them
violently smashed and accidentally dismembered by overzealous fans as the
band raged on, leering, feeding off the creepy scene they'd created. I saw
Munchkins Invade from over the hills as the Aquatic Ape swam with a school
of Humuhumuhunukunukuapua'a in front of us, and Bino, unflappable, turned
them into canvases for his spellbinding lights.
I saw Barber as Magneto and Lesser as Professor X, doing battle from the
stage to the soundboard and back again, pitying the poor unmutated humans in
the crowd who could only consume the amazing spectacle they create.
And I felt every jam, every song, as a razor-sharp, flesh-pulverizing
arrow, and I heard the shudder and moan of the target as each round launched
sank ever nearer to the bullseye - as the band inched their way closer and
closer, laying their fingers on that musical nirvana I'd long dreamed of but
never thought would really come. The question of whether the perfect
musical drug will ever be concocted may be moot. I think it's here.
They found the jungle in the twisted odd meters of House Dog Party
Favor.
I-Man, whose album version features, of all things, an acoustic
guitar,
was transformed into a sick trance-inflected dance party. They played the
sounds of the pyramids and the crop circles their crew had created for the
weekend.
The jamband of the next generation has arrived, they've fulfilled their
promise. The kids who'd driven in for Soulslinger and Odi, without a clue
who the Biscuits are, kids who'd never heard a jamband note in their lives,
were throwing down alongside us, clutching onto the free glowsticks and
water Megaforce Records was doling out. And, as each of these unsuspecting
ravers was b'gocked, Marc's wave, the next generation of jamband fans,
fashioned in the Biscuits' image, swelled a little bigger.
Akira, for those who don't know, is the story of a group of
adolescents who are being experimented on by some secret government agency
that is trying to draw forth from them superpowers. As the movie begins,
one of them, Tetsuo, is undergoing a transformation of some kind. He seems
to be losing his mind. Things happen in his presence that no one can
explain.
At first the shadowy scientists who have been manipulating him are
overjoyed.
But he grows angry, violent. He will not submit to their control. And he
is quickly, too quickly, growing more powerful. They take ever more drastic
steps in their attempts to restrain him. But he has become unstoppable.
The powers that be alter their mission: no longer are they trying to bring
Tetsuo back under their control, they are now attempting, by any means
necessary, to destroy him. But it is far too late. He is already more a
god than a man, and yet the transformation continues.
As the movie ends Tetsuo has left the Earth. Those still confined to it
can only speculate as to what has become of him, but we, the audience, are
shown the truth. Tetsuo has escaped his human form and become a new
universe, over which his consciousness rules, every atom of which is under
his control.
The music I heard at Camp Bisco came closer than I would have ever imagined
possible to telling Tetsuo's story in sound. The transformation (or should
I say tranceformation) has begun. It's been said before, but -
Look out below.
The
Benefit for Robert Walter's 20th St. Congress By
Dan Alford
The
Benefit. That is how history will remember the concert to raise
funds for Robert Walter's 20th Street Congress. The founding member
of the Greyboy Allstars' band had all of its equipment stolen in
New Mexico earlier in the summer, and in response, jam Mecca The
Wetlands Preserve hosted an ensemble of the most brilliantly talented
funkalicious groove droids for a marathon throw down jam, with all
proceeds being donated to the Congress. This is certainly not a
complete list, but the constantly rotating cast included Robert
Walter himself, Logic, DJ Stitch (Maui Project, Electron), Stanton
Moore and others from Galactic, Kraz from Soulive, members of Ulu,
Fuzz and Hope from DBB, members of Fat Mama and sax-man Topaz. They
bumped and swayed through a series of funk/fusion classics including
War's The World Is A
Ghetto,
Herbie's Hang Up Yer Hang Ups, a medley of Sly and Stevie tunes,
and Sissy Strut, among others. Most songs were stretched to their
breaking points with extended solos and great interplay, particularly
where Logic was involved. When on stage, Kraz often took the reigns
and directed the various solos, emphasizing the percussionists.
As Jambands.com's resident Soulive fanatic, I was particularly thrilled
when he lead one conglomeration through the end of the first section
from Steppin'. Another highlight was local MC Baba Israel's (see
Kristin Ciccone's article on Baba in last month's issue) performance.
Taking the mic during a full stage change, he unleashed some serious
beat box work that segued into a jam with the band where he turned
out some fine rhymes. It was easily the best performance that I've
ever witnessed and just one snippet from a night full of highlights,
high energy, and low down gritty jams. One for the record books
folks…
Phish by
Anthony Colineri
Mellow Mood was a nice surprise to start the show. This is the first
time they played this Bob Marley cover and it went over really well.
The sound was a little rough in the beginning but started to even
out towards the end of Limb x Limb. Limb x Limb was standard, nothing
too out of the ordinary as far as I can remember. It seems like
I hear this one at every Fall opener. "The shoulder that I leaned
on was carved out of stone." Well, the shoulder that I leaned on
was carved out of waves of color (compliments to Kuroda), and I
was starting to get reeled into the show once they belted out a
smooth, third song Ghost. Sometimes you just need a bit of funk
early on in the show to juice up your soul. This Ghost was a monster,
and for it to be sandwiched in the first song so early, I could
tell they were having as much fun as I was. At about this time I
was noticing how incredibly hot Trey's playing was tonight. For
a tour opener, I thought they were really tight and listening to
each other consistently.
Bouncin
was next. A solid version and always a fun tune in the first set,
especially when it's not overplayed. Hey, if the boys have good,
catchy tunes, they might as well throw them in the mix. Horse>Silent
in the Morning was another nice treat. The last two times I've seen
Horse, Trey has not played the beginning classical part. This is
my favorite part of Horse and was disappointed when he went right
into the lyrics. After a version of I Saw It Again (which I can
take or leave), the boys treated me to NICU, possibly one of my
favorite Phish tunes lately. It's so bouncy and fun to dance to,
and the lyrics are too catchy not to dig, so dig it. Leo was in
full effect as they wrapped up another fine version. After a short
pause, Fishman started the Glide drum beat and they were off. Trey
had a few flubs in the beginning of the song but the energy was
there. Axilla raged as always, and thought they could have ended
the set with a Taste, but was pleased to hear a solid Golgi close
things out. All in all, a good first set of the tour. The boys
were playing well together, much better than the last Fall tour
opener I saw in Vancouver one year ago.
Birds
started off the second set. Unfortunately I missed the beginning
of it, as I was distracted by the backstage pass I was given by
a good friend, but managed to sneak in there just in time to hear
Trey rip apart the solo in that song. Very high energy song to start
things off. I noticed that the verses are being accompanied by really
spacey background sound by the band, and then it kicks into high
gear once the chorus begins. It's starting to sound marvelous, just
marvelous.
Windora
Bug was next. When they started this one, I couldn't believe what
I was hearing. I always wanted to hear the boys play this. Mike
was meant to sing that low part, and he nailed it, of course. I
just love this song. It sounds like a cross between Makisupa and
Meat, but the chorus is just so damn catchy and fun. It sounds like
Trey is talking about a collective action, a generational movement,
but in a unserious sort of way, if that makes any sense. "We've
got the rules down now." I'm not a big fan of collective thought
without individuality, but the energy from those words just melts
my brain. Definitely a highlight of the run for me. Next up came
Bowie. The beginning section had a techno feel to it and seemed
like it lasted forever. It was definitely my favorite part of the
song. They could have created a new song just based on that jam.
Chicken Shack was a nice break in the action. I'm not the biggest
fan of this song, but they were playing so well I couldn't help
but get into it. Bathtub Gin came next and was well played. The
ambient jam afterwards with Fishman on vacuum was very spacey.
It was probably one of my favorites Fishman vacuum solos to date.
His sound just melted right into the rest of the band, and for once,
there was nothing humorous about his presence. HYHU usually sets
the stage for absurdity and a rare cover, but neither took place
tonight. I was pleased with Fishman's performance. Character Zero
was Character Zero; a rockin tune but not my favorite closer. Fire
was a great encore, my second one since 12/31/97, M.S.G.
Phish by
Anthony Colineri
Tonight opened up with an upbeat Possum. A great way to start the
show. Lots of energy was already being poured out into the audience
and vice versa. I was getting bombarded by giant balloons of all
colors and loving every second of it. Sometimes you just can't beat
the energy of an east coast show. My Friend My Friend was next and
kept things going nicely. Very tight version. I was having a blast
listening to Trey just rip apart yet another scorching solo before
giving way to the vamping chorus and ambient sound, which eventually
surrendered to one of the best Gumbos I've ever heard. For the second
consecutive night, their third song of the first set was so funked
out and grooved. Trey was in typical rock star fashion as he laid
down some funky chords that fit in perfectly. Mike just didn't seem
to want to stop playing the funk and I wasn't complaining. Gumbo
seemed to segue effortlessly into Maze, which again raged. Next
up, Boogie on Reggae Woman, was soooo much fun I ! didn't know what
to do with myself. Everyone around me was dancing up a storm with
big ol' smiles on their faces. It just felt so good to hear this
song.
Roggae followed and just melted my brain on the spot. Things were
rolling along nicely and this is the only slow song I wanted to
hear at this point. Absolutely perfect. Guyute was next, and although
I think I've heard 43 Guyutes in my last 50 shows, it was a great
version. The ending anthem was huge and it seemed to move the building
a half step closer to exploding. I thought for sure they would end
after this, but Antelope was a nice treat. Tom Marshall came out
to sing his lyrics, replacing spike with spliff, in typical Marshall/Anastasio
fashion. Every time I hear Tom say those words, I look over and
see a big cheesy grin on Trey's face. Long time friends goofing
off onstage in front of thousands of people. You just can't beat
that with a stick.
Second set started off with a Jibboo. The last version I heard was
7/4/00 at the E centre, which still cannot be touched in my opinion.
Tonight's version was tight and the jam was moving. I've heard this
song about 7 times in my last 10 shows, so it is hard for me to
be completely honest about each one without getting tired of the
actual song. But it's not like I was sitting down on my hands trying
to figure out the best route to get home without traffic. I can't
help but dance to this tune regardless of its consistency in the
rotation.
Curtain was next and, as I remember, was absolutely perfect. They
nailed each change and their vocals sounded so crisp at this point.
Next up came Sand, which sounded like First Tube in the very beginning.
I was pleased to hear them switch it up and play Sand instead. Things
were pretty standard all the way through the lyrics, but once Trey
started playing his keys and Mike kept the groove tight, I thought
I was in the middle of a cowboy and indian movie. Michael Ray decided
to completely bug me out and dance his way onstage, trumpet in hand.
I was completely floored by the possibility of this jam, and the
rest of the evening. His obscure horn fills and solos during Sand
were mind boggling and blended so well with the band. Mike was even
mixing up the consistent beat he plays and Trey eventually started
playing his guitar again. It was one of the best Sands I've heard
in a while. Again, the energy was not letting up.
Makisupa came next, with the phrase of the day being "Schwag." What
does that mean anyway? hmmmm....... Makisupa was not too long at
all, and the chorus at the end was not sung the way it normally
is these days, but it was still loads of fun. Next up came a slew
of songs which are pretty much designed for a horn section, or horn
in this case. Cars Trucks and Buses was well played, as Ray seemed
to nail this one all the way through. Page got his turn to solo
after Ray and didn't disappoint. Funky Bitch was next and again
Michael Ray was on his game.
However, it was at this time that I was starting to sense that things
weren't going exactly how the boys planned. At points during or
after Funky Bitch (including Sand), Ray simply stopped playing trumpet
at started dancing up a storm. He was moving his body in so many
weird ways, and it looked really cool, but I don't think they invited
him up there to dance. He was completely absent during Cavern, which
to me is the mecca of all horn tunes for Phish. It just didn't make
too much sense why he wouldn't play on Cavern. During the encore,
Harry Hood, Ray was onstage with a few members of the audience,
but still no trumpet. Apparently they simply didn't bring his trumpet
back out on stage during the song so he was just waiting around,
dancing his dance. I can't figure out why he wouldn't just get his
trumpet and start playing. Again, something wasn't clicking at all,
and it showed when the boys did not finish out the ending chorus
of Hood.
All
in all, it was still a great show. I can't remember the last time
I had so much fun at a phish show. Everyone was smiling afterwards
and headed to the bar in style. A great closure to a great scene
for myself.
Phish
By
Dan Alford
I:
Possum, My Friend > Gumbo > Maze, Boogie On, Roggae, Guyute, Antelope%
II: Jibboo, Curtain, Sand*, Makisupa*^, CTB*, Funky Bitch*, Cavern
E: Harry Hood* % w/ Tom Marshall * w/ Michael ray on trumpet and
boogie ^ key word "schwag"
This
was a tough show for me because it was the only one I was able to
do, so it has to continue to support me through the long hiatus.
(I'm not even going to think what I'm gonna do for New Year's, the
first in 9 years that won't include a Phish show.) But I love going
to shows in Albany; there is something about that little city, so
inundated with malls and a midwestern mindset, that brings out the
best in bands. I never saw a Dead show I didn't love in Albany
(including Ratdog shows, JGB, Scaring the Children, Furthur Fests,
etc.), and Phish has it's own tradition of stirring up in The Capital
District- those wonderful nights in 92 and 93 at The Palace, long
intense evenings of exploration and ecstatic Dionysian productions.
Last year on Trey's mini tour he stopped in the middle of his acoustic
set and said, "It's really great to be back here. I'm not just
saying that; it really is." That says it all. So if I was gonna
catch only one show, it oughta be in Albany.
Possum
is always a great way to open a show, and while nothing can match
the 12/31/91 at the New Aud, this one was solid with Page rising
up to complement Trey toward the end of the jam. My Friend, My
Friend was where things really got going- nicely done with the tempo
switches falling perfectly into place. The stalking rage of the
lyrical portion has always thrilled me and Trey's solo hit just
right- aggressive and searing. The post-murder bliss started to
drift farther and farther and it became obvious that there would
be no spooky squeal. The brief ambient interlude segued into a
tight Gumbo (my call for the night). Mike slipped in a few sliding
bombs during the last chorus, heralding a fantastic rolling jam.
While Trey was in the lead, it was with that noodling style that
kept the sound in a full band groove. It was great- why I go see
Phish.
After
a few minutes, or just a single minute, or possibly an eternity,
Mike stepped up and pushed toward Maze with a shove that no one
could deny. Page's solo groped about for a bit before seizing into
a single gigantic slab of glass. Trey's solo made up for that sharp
stagnation with a scorching, utterly clean progression and sound.
I'm usually a little iffy about Maze, but this one was hot and finished
off a fine jam segment.
Boogie
was slightly faster than most versions and stands above the ten
or so others that I've seen over the years. It was bright and happy,
bopping along with the goofy smile on Trey's face. Mike's ending
groove was also well done, as was most of his work throughout the
evening. Roggae is one of my favorites, a good cool down song that
capitalizes on the lightheaded buzz of dancing. Delicate and crystalline,
like a snowflake, it thawed into the swells of a river and reformed
again and again. Very nice, even though there was a bit of feedback
early on. Guyute seemed like an appropriate set closer, "I hope
this happens once again." Page stepped up again with some great
speedy piano just before the release, helping to make this a fun
filled version. But then Antelope started up, a bit quiet at first
but building up to swirling greens and purples. And from there
to insanity. The jam just kept going. It was out of hand, and
then became even more so, the energy overwhelming the crowd with
frantic white lights. Woooo! And from the wings stepped good old
Tom to recite his lines, closing the set. This one left me thinking
that when all is said and done, Phish is still the best band around.
The
40-minute set break ended with a nice Jibboo. My first since it
"gained its independence on the Fourth of July," I found that the
boys really do have a newfound comfort with the song. The groove
was reminiscent of the Gumbo jam early on- a Zen state where ideas
come to fruition and dissolve as they are overwhelmed by others,
a cycle of waves. The tune lasted about ten minutes or so, and
was just the way it should be. Then, The Curtain. My first favorite
Phish fun factory, it is simply different from other works. When
it came back in rotation a year and half ago, I was ecstatic and
the three or four I've seen since then have all been wonderful,
this one being no exception. Absolutely glorious, tight and crisp
with Page feeding in funky fx at the end. At this point the concert
sort of stopped. It became more of an event than a musical performance
(which is not to say that there wasn't good music; it was just different.)
Sand
had a false start and I realized how important that intro is in
making your body quake and rock. It took quite a bit to get going
and then it bottomed out. I was waiting for something interesting
to happen when a mic stand was put on stage and Michael Ray walked
out in full regalia. He ripped a few lines here and there and then
went about his on stage antics. The song wound down with nothing
special taking place. Trey leaned over to Michael and then started
up a nice Makisupa with key word "Schwag," before launching into
a tune Michael knew well, CTB. This was hot, the best thing in the
set past Curtain. High octane all the way, Michael tore it up, and
Page set in on the piano with furious fingers- a stretched version
of an exceptional song. Funky Bitch aimed in the same direction
with hot solos but got out of hand at the end, and stumbled somewhat
at the close. Michael left the stage and Vermont's Phinest closed
the set with Cavern.
For
the encore they rolled into Harry Hood, possibly the best encore
song around. It does everything an encore should: prolongs the
show, covers a lot of ground, shows off their nimbleness and climaxes
perfectly. This one had a nice long intro with tweaked out sounds
and fine drumming. Michael Ray came on stage again but they had
taken his horn so he just sat down on the drum
riser
and listened. As the final ascent began, Trey reached down into
the audience and pulled up two people. He then grabbed three others
from back stage and had them all join Michael on the riser. Meanwhile
Page had taken the lead and was in the midst of creating a truly
blistering Hood. When Trey refocused on the song he just couldn't
keep up, so he let Page go unhindered. It was amazing right up till
the end, when Michael, who had finally received his horn, squawked
out a few lines, disrupting the flow and forcing the tune to remain
unfinished.
What
was best about this show was everything up to Sand. After that
it was fun but nowhere near the caliber of the earlier work. Everyone
was on the ball and Trey in particular played very crisp, clean
lines. If I have to have a show to last a year, this one'll do.
The
Spirit of 69 Remembered The
2000 Woodstock reunion went off without a hitch this weekend when
10,000 people showed up to relive the spirit of 1969. That is unless
you count the blistering thunder storms and knee deep mud that swallowed
the cars like quicksand, but as one 69 vet said "It wouldn't be
Woodstock without rain" And so it was. More reliable than the US
mail, The music never stopped.
The
lineup was as eclectic and diversified as it could be. With the
exception of a short, but sweet set by Country Joe Macdonald there
were no headliners. About 30 indie artists over 3 days and nights,
1 hour sets and lots of mud This was starting to look like nothing
special!
All
of a sudden the clouds broke, the stars came out and the moon shown
brightly as if heaven was waiting for the chosen ones. Who could
inspire Mother Nature to dry up for us, 4 young men from East Haven,
CT. Psychedelic Breakfast took te stage and the weekend!!! 3 songs
into their 1 hour set the boys from PB were given the Q to play
the night away. The field filled up w/ groovers and middle aged
hippies awe stricken at what they were seeing and hearing. 2 sets
and 61/2 hours later PB called it a night around 3:30 am. Another
Woodstocker was quoted as saying "now I remember the feeling I got
the first time I saw Hendrix take the stage" Just when you thought
the weekend peaked Sunday rolled around, the sun came out and you
guessed it, the Breakfast were asked for encore performance on the
other stage just in case someone hadn't heard them last night. Security
eventually had to assist our boys to their vehicles, because they
were surrounded with autograph seekers, and then it was off to the
city for a 2 set show at the Wetlands Preserve.
The
night was surreal to say the least and left me with a perma smile
that I'll be stuck with anytime I remember Yasgurs Farm!
For
a complete list of dates, pictures of the festival and contact info
visit their web site at www.psychedelicbreakfast.8m.com
or call the hotlines at 203-397-1382 or 203-468-0223
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