The Pink Balloon

I-85 North
Leaving Atlanta, Georgia; in transit to Charlotte, North Carolina.

The rushing skyline of a new American city... static, J.R. "Bob" Dobbs and the invisible... mayhem, the Residents, and the sublime... a meaty salad lubed with dandelion dressing... a greasy hamburger with one or two interesting topics and an unoriginal secret sauce... a dessert to warm the tummy and leave it happy into the night...

On the outskirts of Atlanta right now, shooting rapidly towards the skyline, Turner Field on our right, the flickering lights of Saturday night glimmering in the near distance, a SubGenius ranting on the Hour Of Slack on some low 90s FM station, and the first subpar show of tour hovering placidly in our recent memory.

The city on our left, and we move though traffic loops with demented Doktor music as the soundtrack, white lines getting sucked in rhythm under the tires, more freeway loops and public transportation terminals, bank buildings and post-modern high-rises, arenas and hotels, all pointing off at obtuse angles aimed towards distant stars, red lights/brake lights clicking on and off in front of us.

The night is easier than last and I apologize for any incoherencies that might've been pounded out in the ensuing delirium last night. I'm more awake right now, wired on the possibilities of a four hour drive to North Carolina, ready to deal with whatever weirdness the night may present us. A shower, meal, and a semi-full night of sleep cured whatever was in my system yesterday. We got to the lot early, and I chain drank Gatorade, letting the frozen sugar crystals soothe my throat. I met a seer, who conveyed to me that strange things were afoot.

While I was barking and hawking flyers and magazines like a third-rate carney, a man approached me. I was wearing an In and Out Burger tee-shirt. The man, tired eyed and sweaty, was either drunk as hell or in the midst of a genuine revelation. He told me that he personally founded 15 In and Out franchises in the San Diego area and that, at one point in his life, he was the second fastest cook in the In and Out Corporation, once skilling up 309 hamburgers in one hour. He said strangeness was abound, and I believed him.

He screamed and cried and hugged me. I tried to press an Electron flyer into his hand, but it seemed to be numb, gripped in some religious paralysis that wouldn't allow its fingers to close around the slip of paper. Whatever his prophecy meant to him, it didn't play out in the show this evening, which was the first of the gigs to leave me with a less than euphoric feeling going out.

The show started promisingly enough, with a strong first set. The band came out and began, for about two seconds, Cities which - just as the audience seemed to react - switched rapidly into the Moma Dance -- which was extremely good. Both last night's Character Zero and tonight's Moma Dance contained interesting improvisation, which featured the usual cresting pyrotechnics from Trey, but also a more responsive rhythm axis of Fish and Mike. Though the jams retained feels very specific to their respective tunes, there seemed to be a kind of potential invested in them that has never really been present until recently. They were jams, as opposed to just solos; albeit jams that stayed close to their points of origin.

Likewise, the Runaway Jim stuck to its gun in the same way that the Moma Dance did. Unfortunately, Jim is not supposed to do this and it resulted in a pretty boring tune. I did make an interesting discovery this evening, though, which provided for a rewarding experience, even during the more boring moments. Somewhere towards the end of Moma, a large pink balloon landed on my lap. I held it for a long moment, feeling Mike's bass. Suddenly, the pulse I was feeling in the rubber connected with the melody I was hearing coming out of the speakers. It was a powerful connection.

Suddenly, I was able to hear and feel Mike at the same time. Mike is a very odd bass player. His biggest influence - audible and otherwise - is Phil Lesh of the Dead. Phil, while certainly capable of providing a capable rhythmic foundation, is more melodic than anything. A lot of Mike's playing is in this same vein. In recent years, though, Mike (and all of the members of Phish, for that matter) has embraced the traditional role of his instrument. The result has been a greater fusion between rhythm and harmony. Holding tight to the balloon, literally feeling the bass part while listening to the notes that filled it out, was a huge learning experience. The next time a balloon lands on you at a show, I highly recommend trying it.

 The Tweezer provided for the highlight of both the set and the show. The jam began with Trey laying back just about all the way, toodling occasionally on his keyboard. When he does this in big jams, it works in the same way that his mini drum kit did back in 1995 and 1996 -- it allows for other members to lead. While in 1995, this usually meant Page, more recently, it usually means Mike. The jam progressed through several sections, including a ska-like hint at Tweezer reprise, as well as a demented ambient theme -- which seems to be a direction they're moving in this summer (see the 6/23 Rock and Roll). An improvised ending worked logically and concluded the jam in a graceful manner.

The second set was, on the whole, quite schizophrenic and - while it was (mostly) well played - alternated between not-very-creative improvisation and flashes of good stuff. The set-opening Birds Of A Feather flexed its muscles briefly, and began to move towards the outer rim, but never quite got there. Likewise, the Run Like An Antelope failed to ignite -- like most versions of the past two years, in my opinion. While the song peaked in the manner of a textbook Antelope, the band seemed reluctant to let go of the basic arc, whose deviance usually provides the most interesting part of Antelope's tension and release.

My Sweet One was marred by a collective brain fart on the part of all four band members, with the possible exception of Page. After they recovered, though, the solos blazed. The high energy of MSO was eventually carried over into Carini Had A Lumpy Head, whose ending jam twisted brutally in several directions and was ended way too soon. The Squirming Coil and Prince Caspian were unfortunately boring, with mostly uninspired playing. The jams were low in energy and seemed to tread in long-covered territory.

The middle two songs of the quadruple encore - the In-law Josie Wales and Driver - were sublimely gorgeous and managed to at least put a nice cap on the second set. The first set was quite delectable, while the second set was kind of bland: an extremely filling (and quite gourmet) salad, a greasy hamburger as a main course, and a piece of tiramisu for dessert.

We just crossed the border into South Carolina, listening to the Residents' 13th anniversary concert, the road continues to tumble on, on the verge of the entering the zone where the car is still and the highway moves around us like ocean. Soon, we will hit that and drift on the morning current into a safe harbor somewhere in North Carolina.

Jesse Jarnow can be reached at jesse.jarnow@oberlin.edu or by his homepage.