by Jesse Jarnow

May 21, 2000
In transit: New York City to Huntington, New York

Radio City Music Hall, New York City, New York

Key word: classy... Schweppes' Ginger Ale and timelessness of good taste... sharp corners and the temple of a forgotten time...

Radio City Music Hall is one of the only surviving movie palaces of the glorious golden age of the silver screen. Walking into the lavish building, it is easy to forget that, at one point in its life, movies were shown there: beautifully constructed glimpses into elaborate fantasy worlds. A somewhat archaic word, once used - often in the pejorative sense - to describe the experience of seeing a film is "escapist"; a deliberate break from humdrum reality. The means and mechanisms involved with such an escape were once somewhat formal and ritualized -- like a church.

Through the years, though, the experience of going to a movie has been somewhat denigrated, until the only reminders of what once was occur in wistfully fantastic animations that often precede theatrical trailers. The truly fantastic film experience often happens either in spite of the theater or as an act of the theater -- seeing OmniMax films on positively dwarfing screens. Rarely do both happen at once.

It is easy enough for Phish shows, or even live music in general, to become commonplace. They're an addictive band that encourage careful listening. One becomes familiar with the norm soon enough, and it often takes an extra something to jolt that. Phish shows have also become highly ritualized in their own ways, in sweaty sports arenas and vast summer sheds. The age of seeing Phish in posh theaters passed before my time. When the chance arose to see Phish at Radio City Music Hall, it seemed like a cry for an earlier time.

It also held in it the innate possibility that no matter how special the night was on a physical basis - acting as an exception to the rule, like an OmniMax film - it wouldn't necessarily be the same thing as being special for what it was musically. The first night of the Radio City run being done, it was a pleasant film projected splendidly. It was comforting in the same way a new Woody Allen film can be: it was well made, not much new was said, but what was said was phrased well and just possibly provided some interesting twists on old themes.

The scene outside wasn't nearly as ugly as it could've been. For the most part, people looking for extras seemed somewhat resigned to their fates. Most bargaining seemed to be fairly good-humored. Project Phormal added a nice edge to the proceedings. Classy. There was an air of playing dress-up: kids primping themselves up in adults' clothing. Entering into the venue, after a fairly smooth line outside, it was instantly worth it. Radio City is a classy joint. There's art inside, with little placards. Hell, the place itself is a work of beauty. Everything has a clean sharpness to it, the textbook image of ritzy early 20th century formalism.

The room itself plays with space in an interesting way. The ceiling arcs out from the stage, projecting in wider and wider semi-circles. From most points in the room, looking towards the stage, it looks as if the ceiling could shoot out forever -- soundwaves bounding infinitely through the universe. In that sense, it makes the room seem huge. Simultaneously, if one looks at any given point in the room, one's eyes will inevitably be drawn directly towards the stage. In that, it feels perpetually intimate. Even from the highest point in the uppermost mezzanine, one feels sucked without delay to the center.

The first set began somewhat predictably with a punctual reading of First Tube which - as a song - manages to encapsulate precisely the kind of jamming Phish is good at these days, the same way that Black Eyed Katy bottled the vibe from 1997. The problem with Black Eyed Katy is that it eventually ossified into the Moma Dance. Played later in the set, it did manage to show some of the groove that Phish practiced in 1997. At the same time, it only did so in amber -- unchanging and, therefore, only truly interesting as a remnant of an earlier period, rather than remaining fresh.

During First Tube, the song began to flex its muscles during the peak jam. By summer, the song will likely be at a crossroads -- it can either become a document of who the band was in 1999, or it can become a consistently vital piece of music. It can become an entrance point to the timeless space of improvisation or just a gateway to the past. It will be interesting to see how it develops -- whether or not the band will consciously try to curb the growth of the song or follow it where it seems to want to go.

The rest of the first set was somewhat schizophrenic, with seemingly random song calls that didn't necessarily flow from one to another in terms of energy or melodic ideas. All of the readings were solid, and all featured a fair amount of self-contained improvisation, but almost nothing stood out. It added up to an enjoyable set, but not one that busted any conceptions. Both the Squirming Coil and Limb By Limb had some interesting - though all too brief - brushes with textural jamming with particularly sensitive playing from Fish. Closing the set, the Character Zero seemed sort of out place -- an arena-rock song without an arena. As the jam began, the music began to take on an appealing new looseness coming as close as any version has come thus far to swinging.

Where First Tube doesn't seem to be sure about its direction, Gotta Jibboo seems pretty goddamn headstrong in its own. On the past bunch of versions, the band has gone out, into a deeply melodic space that seems integrally related to the song at all times, but also well outside of its perceived boundaries. It doesn't sound like Jibboo, but it quite obviously is. One obvious reason for this is the bassline. It doesn't change much, instead becoming an axis for all the jamming to rotate around, no matter how obtuse.

The groove is what the song was built on. It's a testament to Mike Gordon's growth as a bass player that he can hold down the center while Fish goes off with Trey and Page on melodic excursions. Like the chorus in Dylan's Simple Twist Of Fate, the bassline means different things in varying contexts. The bassline also adds a certain amount of tension to the jam, always providing a potential entryway back into the song proper.

The jam in Twist, which featured yet another rearrangement, worked in a similar melodic fashion as the Jibboo jam, only without the added tension from the bassline. While interesting, it failed to find an adequate substitute for the momentum provided by the Jibboo bassline. After a short drum intro, the new arrangement of Twist begins with a small jam that drops into the main theme. While dropping the powerful opening chords (and cool-ass bassline), it makes the song a whole lot more fluid. The jam itself had a quiet, earthier tone, much less rocking than the album version or the recent live renditions.

Both Down With Disease and Piper alternated between standard readings and fragments of high-energy, boundary-pushing improvisation. The jams were at their most effective when the band followed their impulses and stretched as far as they could go in any given direction -- often involving increases and decreases in tempo and volume. Each time, the music snapped back like elastic, if not into the precise song structures then at least into jamming specific to the identities of the songs.

The two highlights of the show came during quiet, more arranged songs: Dirt and the Inlaw Josie Wales. In both cases, the managed to achieve a wonderful balance between the instruments that seemed timeless but also identifiably Phish. It was here that Phish's music fit the venue perfectly -- confident, sharp around the corners, shiny, and classy as all hell. Exiting into the New York night, ambling down 50th Street past theaters and hot dog vendors, one can wait 'til tomorrow.