Sunday, December 23, 2012

Life During War Time (*)

They traded blood, bled, leapt hurdled, in war, toiled
Thundered subtle, explosions rubble erupt and boils
Flanked frigid conditions, crossed covert, admission where seas froze
Invaded nation’s capital, caravan arriving in droves

Misfit miscreants they flicker like a fire fly
they can stimulate the facts til they simulate a lie

left the cocoon in ruin, spurned from the flame of confusion
tapping the light as a wheel in the spoke promising fire then exhaling smoke.


Embracing the action, mere fraction of faction, poised penitent pose
In assassins pace, soldiers faced fetid burnt skin loose hue of rose
Pre-emptive mental lapse, hands clasped elapsed fast as fingers exposed
Attack from treetop canopy lands enemy, as battalions camp quiet below


Misfit miscreants they flicker like a fire fly
you can stimulate the facts til you simulate a lie

left the cocoon in ruin, spurned from the flame of confusion
tapping the light as a wheel in the spoke promising fire then exhaling smoke.



Slow pace laced the forest base as night slid its shade in slow
Bowed down, fertile feeding ground, sound sleeps, insurgency grows
Arose from the closed fence tense, electrical events stamps it closed
Bloated hose grows, distorted rubber clothes expand simmer, repose


Misfit miscreants they flicker like a fire fly
you can stimulate the facts til you simulate a lie

left the cocoon in ruin, spurned from the flame of confusion
tapping the light as a wheel in the spoke promising fire then exhaling smoke.



Escape to the south, weather reaps, pouts cloud laden maiden of old.
Mouth dry, estuary high, water fall, fallen blows multi bullet holes
The sun rips grips the tender tips of their eyelid down to their toes.
Over fortnight flight, escape the passing plight, packed up and drove


Misfit miscreants they flicker like a fire fly
you can stimulate the facts til you simulate a lie

left the cocoon in ruin, spurned from the flame of confusion
tapping the light as a wheel in the spoke promising fire then exhaling smoke.



Lengthened evening light highlights final plight, compete with those
Whose feet stayed dry under fire fight, contrite and festering wound grows
To an aching stench, bottled bench water and henchman clench their toes
Cramps, limit the stampede anxious repeat of goose steps aligned in tight knit rows


Misfit miscreants they flicker like a fire fly
you can stimulate the facts til you simulate a lie

left the cocoon in ruin, spurned from the flame of confusion
tapping the light as a wheel in the spoke promising fire then exhaling smoke.



Years turn years, tripped memories and cradled fears as time lifts, sinks and woes
Lacking feet and such, much, touched the hearts and must fuss with heroes
Flowers, laid at monument head, rows symmetrical as the life it shows
What the carnal cryptic gust, ashes spew ashes, withers to dust as the saying goes.

All Things Considered (*)

All things considered
I've had some lessons to learn
bridges to burn,
fences to mend
seas to churn,
ends to meet, rules to bend
i'v been sailing tides til they turn
All things considered
the world is bitter small
determine the splinter
with large heights to fall
enter the dragon
cautious to imagine
lights in flight, all in all
to crawl, odyssey of withdrawal
beg knees to the floor
bruised feet kick the door
as it swings shutting out opportunities for more

(refrain)

All things considered
I implore
keep arms stretched out for your
next chance to draw
conclusions from a war
mind mental strains
thinking that invasion's a cure
of minds that are pure
primary colors rising from the shore
create a fortress of solitude, demanding attitude
waves crashing along a different lattitude
asking questions like how you do
when answers teeter further from the truth
stepping out of my own telephone booth
worries tear me apart like like a lions tooth
guiding the way the way, sayer soothes
quicker than greyhounds wearing running shoes
showing my foes up with my stutter move

All things considered
I have shivered in the cold
stamped this font bold
waded oceans, cast form and mold
sold lies, with dry eyes despite ties
to the truth I uphold
with pedestal tipping foundation toppled
drop form foundations are old,
minus celsius causing cracks to unload
fervent faces a tear laces the folds
currently some cry, but boo hoo
the who do, that you knew
ghostly shadows, magic witch voodoo,
they use true views on this blown fuse
explodes, is rewired and turned loose
thru nightly news, peruses, causes chilly blues, it's curved clues
are what I use when I choose to move on to my next groove.

But all things considered
he hasn't withered, though we, murky in the dithers
people purported, supported, so he slithered
like a snake in the garden
mere immortal imparted
scaly as a lizard
knowledge denied us by This Lord
After one bite, spit out and saw the light,
didn't need it to discover that its in here
Now cast to the edge
as the apple sped
certain he delivered
us to sin, and now we want to be let back in
but instead cast out in this blizzard.




Media-ocracy (*)

Now that I've Battened down the hatches
patched up these holes with patches
removed all the pins from their latches
and though I've just run out of matches,
so flint and friction can't fashion
a blazing inferno reaction
you shouldn't be knocking my actions
I've formed a marvelous faction
bought a large patch of land
for really nearly a fraction
of the price they were askin
all because of
my smoke and mirror distractions
and because the economies static

It's at night that I invite
all the riots you incite
with your fires burning bright
stoke the passions to excite
casting words that we recite

So now you know what all the facts is
Veering towards these fabulous
action packed reactions
deteriorating mental lapses
here to capture all your tracks in
careful sewn tight packages
turn these thoughts into actions
into visible mental images
succinct visionary visages
glistening burning bridges
after removing all their hinges
on destruction based binges
I've carefully glimpsed in images
on projected high definition televisions
from the back of those hatch back GEO Prizms
trunks lifted to bass box collisions
but don't take my advice
given in these sessions
cause my PHD
is more show and less discression
an honorary degree
given by economists when we were in a recession
they were blindly wasting all your savings
call it aiding and abettin.
But if we wager with them their the victim
the SEC doesn't have it in them
so see the true villains off to Prison
so their back trading for their millions


It's at night that I invite
all the riots you incite
with your fires burning bright
stoke the passions to excite
casting words that we recite



This set it and forget get it addiction
turned paid programming affliction
"as seen on TV" dis-ease of invention
clever technical suspensions
of realistic consumer
reality based obsessions
got to have it ten seconds
and still we have yet to learn our lessons
store it up for post apocalyptic
consumer protections
but when doomsday comes a knocking
God will be kicking all their heads in.

Click of the channel conniption fit I can't handle
while depicting the angle of that box on the mantle,
this controller I handle, shut out the lights and the banter
now lighting this room with a candle,
cause I need all the power to display the televised vandals
to tell me what I can fix with the twist of the wrist,
caught in the midst of this suspenseful trist,
that lands us back in the mix
of the hollywood grind, finding our vision going blind
circular ocular binds that now can't tell the day from the night
once cast back into the light, hoping the pixelated delight
will avoid a much needed respite. despite the shutting of eyes
no-doze to keep up the fight, committing unthinkable crimes,
again is it day or the night, the blinds have shut out the light
but I don't care if its right, cause I've got this cabled supply.
HIgh-definition in site



Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Shambles

I've rambled roads just to scramble outside in the cold
and living in Shambles preambles what's told
of wretched and heartached in fables of old
where the actor just fails to carry the load

But I pick myself up and I'll turn the next bend
where one road begins, they say, another does end
and the last thing I wanted was to be here again
but the first steps the hardest in the midst of the rain

My worries don't fade with the shade of the clouds
and the voices speak loudest when they come from my mouth
but I wouldn't seek shelter from meancing doubts
cause the voice seeks the choice that I'm worried about

But I pick myself up and I'll turn the next bend
where one road begins, they say, another does end
and the last thing I wanted was to be here again
but the first steps the hardest in the midst of the rain

So in shambles I scramble for the thick of the storm
but the shadow in the distance takes a meancing form
and I searching for blue skies where the wind gust are warm
and the outcasts accepted the miscreants swarm

Mt Fuji

I've been avoiding disaster,
trailing crafty as ever
upping the ante,
sleight of handing the master
mistakes that talk tough,
crack up
and laugh at her,
suspects sure to grapple the laughter
that after
the night's tryptych light strike
might stand up and matter
Confused, what you say
in that way may trigger disaster.
I'm as overdue as Mt Fuji
this lava flowing through me
my eruption all consuming
people flee in frenzy
my destruction will up-end thee
tectonics plates are truly
the catastrophic heathen bully
with trampling feet,
mobs turn unruly
unrest the population
thier main stay relation with
the doom we
prevail on those below our trails and hills
ruin will soon be
the morning after
as crafty as means taking over my laughter
sung down hill and faster
storming rain in the hereafter

My Partial Autumn

Oh, and again with those dandelion hips and a now crushed tulip plant, when will they ever learn. Curtsy for the courtesy, to a young chap, chaps wearing and flirting with you young Mol. And again, as you bent down, the lowers of that flowing dress muddled and muddied in the dirt, transpired to convert the pink laced bottom to evil brown, and mitigating black; oh the coniving, territorial dirt from the ground whence it came! But you flirt factitious and and then facetious you ask, how do we all do; who's for the truth, baby, it's your fire, I hope you don't get burned.


Oh and

thoughts quelled at the pass beyond summer's last vacant face; out which beyond, one falls over edge to maiden space! I might have lost once, and was crushed by the weight of frayed sunlight, yet in it's grasp I was trailed to peaceful slumber atop dusty, wood floors. In my minds eye, hurling now, I spied two dogs from my periferal, in my position, hands and knees, the crackle of a record player, churning just out of ear shot, the melody a myriad of folksy melange, a jaunt from the side shutters me, they two, growling, tugged for my waste, snarls turned moist, as their noses pressed my cheeks, I laughing now upside down, in infant duress, hopelessly smiling. I lay waiting as this time shrivels, quakes and turns to rubble as ash, molten, glistens and breaks. I then listened, eyes squinted to pain, for footsteps and creaks, the autumn crush of dried leaves, blown through the front door, and the smell of fire now smoldered, the tea kettle pierces a light hum of silence, and cool drives in more leaves, as I turn to an open door! At dusk in fall, as night appears it's darkest, before lighting to the moon's basking glow. The night seems to blush as it's presence is met, and before

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

long beach ramble


Before the Quatro de Julio Jones Beach show my girlfrien and I wandered over to Long Beach to catch some rays, trying to take advantage of the beautiful day, the festive nature of things and utilize our tour run for more than just phish shows.
     
      We roll into Long Beach and after skillfully navigating the parrallel and perpendicular streets that run all the way to the high rises that line the beach proper, we eventually score a choice spot a block and a half away from the boardwalk.
     
      Knowing we might have to cough up from dough in order to bask in mother's nature's bathtub, we sauntered towards the water, and thought we had found stealth way onto the beach, when all of a sudden, a kid (who looked more like a homeless person at first, begging for change) looked up at us and began to speak. (I was certain we were being petitioned by a lost soul for a few spare schillings) But no, this person was the beach monitor, sitting next to a closed kiosk, surveying the passersby, for their beach passes. We offered to pay her via plastic, but she pointed to her kiosk, windows boarded shut, (on the fourth of July, mind you, the busiest day of the year) and she said to go to the next block over, where the boardwalk started and they could help us.
     
      As we meander to the beginning of the boardwalk we assume that Long Beach has tapped into the times, and one of these shack-like kiosks will be able to swipe our plastic bar-code VISAge of currency for admission into the wild great yonder. As we enter the boardwalk, coming to the next Boardwalk-Beach-Kiosk Troll, (think more like Gandolf,"you shall not pass" or some dystopian travesty of the mind) we are reminded again that we needed a beach pass and could not saunter onto the hot and sandy without coughing up like much denaro. The Kiosk-Beach patrol pointed their trollie fingers into the distance, informing us that we might find a plastic bar code releaser of mucho denaro in the near-by hotel.
     
      Acquiescing to, what seemed like, our only course of action, we wander past troll after troll of beach hawking patrolli-ness, each kiosk adorned with reminders that platisco-bar codian, trans monetary swipers are disallowed. We passed a total of fourteen of these, along with spandex wearing roller bladers, muscle beach clad work outers, bikers with attitude, little kids having lost their way, until finally, and I mean sun blazing in the name of holy heat blasted on the fronts of fore heads, devilishly hostile heat- finally...we reach the hotel. I casually assume my position in the twirl-a-tilter door way, move passed the front desk, fear and loathing style, trying not to draw to much attention, and in the back alley section of this supposed four-star establishment of lodging, I waited behind another plastico-bar codian, swipe wanter, (btw, I am referring to a Debit Card) whose swipe into the bar code taker was ill met, and machine reeading the dreaded waiting for authorization, flashing non-calming notations about being out of receipt paper. I tippy-toes away from the soon to be hostile bar codian swiper lady, and out the tilter-twirl door, back into the devils den and looked at my girly girl like, idunno cakes? Whatchawedo now. Cause btw, all my words were melting before they left my mouth and sounded smooshtogetha!
     
      We opted for plan A, there being no plan B; we already traveled the multi kilometered baordwalk of devilish delight, thus we needed to procure a proper working plastico-bar codian, swipe mecahnism, receivr with which to properly acquire our rupies and money-types. Up the many blocks, beach to our back now, towards the boulevard and we make it to destination commerce. A BOA sits across this multi-lanes avenue and I lead the lady friend across the street to the first plastico venue I can find. We swipe our plastico for the entrance to the vestibule where the plastico receiver sits, AC'd and cool, much like how heaven must be, us outside this vestibulean arean, in the devil's carnal pit and stomace acid of sun rays all flung down on us and eating our skin. Well, the plastico swipe just to get near the real bar coder reader-then-dispenser is being rude. Not being one to still give up, I try to enter the other side, and lo and behold, no other door.
     
      So after careful consideration we eventually find ourselves a devil;s hot yard, outside typo-swipo for our bard code and plastic to be swallowed, and we have to stand a good five feet, leaning over this not so existent like counter, as if we were really leaning over a counter, because some baby, probably the lost soul on the boardwalk had changed hisself in front of this year card swiper receiver!?! Many, it stank, and the heat, and suns rays hit us like devilish finger tips ripping off skin and causing for all sorts of discomfort, along with a fee for having to smell this dirty used diaper and because of this typo-plastico-card swiper reader receiver not being of my personal institution, I had to pay even more.
     
      But, now, head strong, pockets full-o-denaro and it being quatro de julio so we spearhead back to the beach and blister sun style as we approach the troll, this time with guns ablaze, and pay off this dirty tramp with our gringo dollars just to burn our souls and our soles and eat sand, and salt and finally burn our bellies in the sun of the long beach in Long Island.
     
      Ironic Twist of Fate:
      The following day, post Phish 7/4/2012, we go back to the beach to utilize our $24 beach cards purchased by the beach-pa-trols, and decide to enter from the un-assuming entrance, we attempted to wiley our way past the previous day, well-before we even had our beach passes. I expected to see the Pa-trol sitting on the ground, Kiosk closed, due to it being an off day, not Quatro De Julio, of course, and my eyes light up as we come closer to the kiosk. The doors of the kiosk are open, the troll-trols are inside, keeping cool with their Zune machines in their ears, and hipster clothes on. There is a signage of sorts hanging from the now open window of this-here kiosk..."No Paper money accepted!" then a long curcuitous cord extended out of the kiosk and dissappeared into the abyss, and there at the end of the electro-cordian connective tissue of a life line, was a plastico-typo-bar codian swiper. So the first kiosk I went to yesterday, that was closed, had it been open, would have only accepted by plastic-bar code! The same pa-trol, from the prior day, recognizing our daisy faced, visages looked from her pa-trol gear and shrugged. Oh Welly well!

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Saturday, October 27, 2012

Passage At Sea

I look back upon the wandering
life I left sqaundering, pondering
the path I blazed in this trampled dream
expound upon memories that intently seem
farther from memory, extra-sensory
parts of whole but split at the seams
ripped from the middle and torn far from me
hard for me, interconnected arteries
that hardly seem part of me
and when there is fog it is hard to see
the mist that surrounds it is haunting me
taunting me, i'm fragile though agile, and its calling me
like I've parted the ocean but then turn to see
the waves coming over to swallow me
the shadows they cast seem to follow me
my voice shrieking hollow in mutiny



in this instant my life seems to abandon me
certainly, vicious attacks seems a certainty
fervently, urging for solace not sympathy
impotent limping to higher ground, to shore from sea
blazing the trail I grasp avidly, screaming back at sea
salt stinging cuts, blood traces tears so its hard to see
latent, I bellow in agony, patiently grasp for air to breath
but my eyes deceive, idly biding their time for me
creating images I can hardly see
mirages create barrages of ships at a sea
their passing bows narrowly missing me
the end of this night blows her kiss to me
wishful thinking, beacon blinking just out of reach
and the outlooks bleak,
the siren voices grabbing hold of me
tap my soul to bleed, lapse of judgement gleams
as the waves swallow me into eternity.


Sunday, September 16, 2012

Puma Passion


Matthew Golia
Branch Manager
514 Bridgeport Ave 
Shelton, CT 06484



Dear Puma,

My name is Matthew Golia and I have been a fan of your product line since 1995 when I was a young boy playing basketball in your Puma Super Baskets Mid in Navy Blue. At the age of 15, with my peers gracing the court with Pump Action sneakers, Air Bubbled souls, and mounds of leather, plastic and suede weighing them down, I graced the hardwood, sans sock, with my foot and ankle wrapped in an Ace Bandage sporting my Pumas; I felt as if I was harkening back to the days of the mid 1900's, when an Athlete's style sprung from their moves made on the court, which in turn brought attention to their feet, not the other way around. It is that minimalist, yet timeless style that I feel has helped Puma to endure, while cultivating a mass following with unique takes on the color palette, turning heads with it's brimming style. As I have grown into adulthood, shifting further from day dreams of the playing in the NCAA Tournament, and being a top five pick in the NBA draft, I find (like many) that iconic images of my past,stir up such positive memories, and help that youthful energy and passion rise back through me. 

It is with that thought, coupled with the fact that my hoop dreams (ala Arthur Agee and William Gates) have dissipated into the ether, that I write to you proposing an idea for new line of clothing and possible focus for  sponsorship for Puma. Many woman and men, who once sacrificed their very body and soul (insert blood, sweat and tears cliché), now are part of the corporate work force. Many of these positions entail nearly as much movement, if not all day activity, where the necessary flexibility, durability, comfort and, above all else, style are integral to looking your best, performing at a higher caliber, while maintaining an overwhelming sense of well-being. Many of us, while passionate about our specific sport, did not make it to the "big show", a vast majority, though many of us played high school and collegiate sports, entering into the work force after school, and have to settle for intramural teams, pick up games, and the pangs of watching others at professional sporting events. Our dreams though, have not died, and we bring the same fire and attention to detail, motivation and teamwork to our corporate professional positions.

I work as a manager for Enterprise Rent A Car in Southern CT. Our dress attire is suit and tie for men, every day of the week. There is certainly a lot of style out there, but there is limited versatility and ruggedness available to me. This ensemble is truly a professional presentation to our customers. In a time, for many companies, when casual Friday has bled back into the work week, Enterprise Rent A Car holds its stance as a corporate professional company. My position not only entails that I present myself well manicured and sharply dressed to these customers and local accounts, as well as to my employees, but necessitates that I am always on the go, picking up customers, delivering cars, moving between different offices, and sometimes stepping into our wash bay to clean cars perform other basic maintenance procedures. Moving between these two wholly different aspects of my day to day responsibilities, my clothing is put under nearly as much stress as I am. I consistently blowing through the elbows of suits and shirts, wearing the bottoms of my pants, and interior lining of my suits. (In our procedures for checking customers in and out of vehicles, it is necessary to bend to an umpire position at all four corners of the vehicle; and we check in nearly 20 cars per day). 

Recently I was turned onto your Golf clothing line as leisure wear. The durability of the apparel is necessary for the movements of an active athlete. The style and corporate look is necessary to be presentable on all golf courses across the world. The similarities abound…and those professionals who would be your target market, are all of the high school and collegiate athletes like myself, who still close their eyes from time to time, and propel themselves back into that youthful enigma that was once them, on the court, or field, or on the bench, drenched in sweat, cheering their team to victory. Imagine the excitement each day, the passion and drive that would be elicited from these same professionals, bringing with them to work, each day, adorned in the same athletic brand, now corporate professional outfit that fueled their youth. Imagine a Tie line, or Button Down Dress Shirt, affixed with small Puma emblem; a durable dress shoe, with rubber sole which cushions the foot. Imgaine a suit, made with a more durable, yet light weight material, that moved with the person, and not against them. Imagine the excitement of the prospects of the day, the tasks and responsibilities that these corporate athletes must complete and follow up on every day; Imagine the youthful exuberance and drive to succeed that would be harnessed from a clothing line that linked the athleticism of their youth with the critical analysis and problem solving of their adult lives. Imagine!

There have been times when my mind has rambled to a consistent murmur, and my thoughts seemed to formulate to some whole entity of an idea. That idea, followed through to fruition, would elicit some projection of the future that would be better shaped by the ideas my mind was in the process of calculating. Most of those thoughts, never form to a solid mass, and drift away in the atmosphere, incomplete. But my passion for this idea stems from my inability to believe that what's past is truly passed. I bring a grit and determination to work every day, yet there doesn't seem to be an outfitter that can keep up with me. But most of all I want to bring the memory of dribbling up the court, setting the play as the general on the court at point, back to life. The cross over dribble, bringing my defender into a screen set by my big man, him, rolling from the screen and my arm extending out past his defender, curling the ball around, and a bounce pass towards the bass line (the quintessential pick and roll), my big man grasps the ball and with one dribble, lays the ball into the hoop for lead and win. Daily, with my team at work, we weave the same plays, the organization and sales drive that keeps our customers happy and our branches profitable. There is an inextricable link between the past and the present; I want Puma to be a part of that link! 


Sincerely,

MG

   

Fire

With these words I ignite fires,
recited to majesties and sires
by jesters in their courts
required to incite riots,
their humor, anger thwarts
tends to smolder funeral pires
But its my desire to perspire,
in this lyrical attire
like a top hat,
and my pumas
the statics hectic
now sinking in the mire
I shock like I'm electric
stammer like I'm wired,
perpetually inspired
like a groove that requires,
a little hi hat but no driver
by the likes of the mainliners
that shoot through my desires
like blood coursing through the veins of the those that sit higher
floods forcing their stream through the levies and the bayous
but my label is not dated and I will never expire.

this Philosophical misfit, gets mis-fit, and mis-hits attempts a quick fix
he uses bandaids on liquid, like insider trading for stock tips, he gets dismissed
as a lyrical conniption fit, unfit for this gig, is mis-judged and blows his lid
bliss follows en suite and leads to him quitting his engagement, gets black listed

I'll certainly give it til tomorrow, pay you back the dollar that I borrow
the one you didn't know, I borrowed, cause I won't borrow it til tomorrow
the sorrow, it scars though, like a hard blow to the stomach, its a body blow
leaves a scar though from incisions in the skin that cuts deep but looks shallow
blood pools from the cut, almost blue on the skin, feigning a grin, laughing cause it heals slow

(KRS) one time,
the sun's lines,
cast shadows on the fault line,
burned like terpentine,
poured on an open wound,
and we're resigned
that KRS one time to act matter of factly

(Run DMC) me,
with these white lines,
cut so purely,
unrefined, mystically devine
gets my lips to rolling,
in double time,
trolling the blood that is boiling
through (RunDMC) me

(Snoop)dog days,
these long days,
a sharp haze,
of nights gaze, the purity plays exactly
cataclysmic catalyst
enigmatic addict,
is active and ecstatic
of (Snoop)dog days of the holy

Devine intervention,
sublime sensation,
creation from the apple,
that fed Eve,
threatened Adam
They had em, out on a limb,
back against a wall,
empty within,
limited in sin, quite serpentine
quick to quench the thirst,
brimming without,
lacking with doubt,
fear from thought that threatened

Enter Satan, saint-misbehaving,
his eyes shifty and hands shakin,
concocting stories, like the doubt he was baking
earth quaking, catastrophic events he was emanating,
debating with the ages, the question of the waking


DC(ARE)U KIDDING ME!


DC(ARE)U KIDDING ME!

      Opening day for sports fans pales in comparison to any organized religion. So for those of us that covet Phish's music with the intensity equivalent to sacrilege, Tour Opener couples the excitement of gorging after a long and spiritually cleansing fast, with the pit of the stomach excitement of the Christmas Day!
     
      My mind's cogs and sprockets, wound to precision, become a proving ground, and I lurk these battle grounds for memories of past tour openers. I hold the Island Tour Opener as the first of life stand of shows, and while I try to not compare 1.0 with it's ladder day brethren, I will employ the same Logic that helped me "wrassle" my way through a Philosophy Degree: use similar data to compare (so that your thesis can be summed up in less than 100 pages)
     
      Bethel Woods set the stage for a weekend of improvisation that, we thought, would be a new beginning for our beloved four horsemen of the apocalypse. What a stark contrast to one year ago. Bethel Woods was relaxed, open air, breathable, breathtaking, expansive. If I was to tweak out, this is where I want to lose my shit! Worcester on the other hand: Dark, dank, Cavern-esque, smokey, eerie! (D)ark (C)avern (U)nrelenting!
     
      Buried Alive set the tone, and throughout, even with the Dark themes presented, the tease factor was in full effect, and these subtle nuances poked fun at what was otherwise a pathway to Mephistopheles. There was a certain context to the music, a maneuver that held as its precept, that once in the thick of the grime and smoke filled caves of the inner reaches of ones own dungeons, out from whence we came was a moment of clarity that then brought the house to its knees with jarring beauty.
     
      It was later on, walking away from the venue that a new friend made the point, (you don't try to talk when you eat, just chew and enjoy, well I chewed every morsel to it's fullest potential, and wallowed in the musical palette that this show expressed in droves.
     
      Second Set Focus:
      Carini's opening heavy metal riffs started these fists to raging. I knew I was going to battle for the ability to breath, and the boys challenged my mental and physical stamina by truly weaving the best of patience and unveiling, with brief melodic interludes, that segued back to the sound of fury! Out of Carini came a strategic flight on the back of Falcor. Minutes unwound and engrossed the crowd to a fevered pitch, where in their most intense moments, lulled the crowd to a staggering quietude. When Page sprinkled the opening of Taste, and confirmed the band's next progression, we had come from a vastly different starting point. Moments like this (fluid segue, when that arrow pointing to the next song, is worth its inked imprint) stop me in my tracks. It wasn't an ambient traipsing through one door into the next. I never knew I had been transported through a portal, I was simply at TASTE. Coaxing the jam into a Norwegian Wood Fusion, I found myself yearning for What's The Use. Using the ambiant theme out of Taste as a fitting start to Ghost was a telling sign to the thick mire the band has lulled us into. The thick molasses groove that never quite sped up, was a far cry from the speed racer that had been wound up inside me.
     
      What stood out this far into the show was the ability for any band member at any moment to stand at the forefront and lead the group in a four part conversation, led by each of them. The intent ear with which each band member listened, was so accessible to the crowd. Plays on notes, and roles down scales were mimicked by each band member. This tease and yet all out assault on every note, phrasing, and song played was what grasped me with such vigor.
     
      And Mike was next. After grappling Falcor's white shag hair and riding his mythical back through this second set, the groove set in and the dance party was underway. Trey stepped back and presented more patience at letting his band mates lead the conversation, and I found myself second guessing when he might take control. (Where in the past few years, I heard myself, many times, asking him to step back.) When Trey took control, he did with vigor and attention to not be over-bearing. (Midnight Rider and Dead-Esque themes in this section of the show) So when Trey took the reigns and steered the four headed horse to If I Could, it was with my backing that tell us where we were headed next!
     
      If I Could was the 8 minute display of orchestrated beauty that could be attributed to Trey's off-season antics with conducting. Listen to Page here play a series of notes rolling over each other. Hell F'ing Yeah!
     
      Stepping from the DCU center after a strong finish, Hood that could do no wrong, with more patience from the crew, and a wonderful nod to the fact that summer tour started in doors with Cavern, I could not find the words at the time. That is because I was still chewing and digesting. My new friend's advice was spun, and only hit home later. Tonight, I learned patience.
     
      MG Out!

BETHEL WOODS: PRE-APOCALYPTIC GAMEHENDGE


BETHEL WOODS: PRE-APOCALYPTIC GAMEHENDGE

      It wasn't until Memorial day of 2011 that I first encountered Bethel Woods. Built on the historic original site of Woodstock, I was introduced to this venue as the opening run of Phish Shows 2011. One week before the shows I scored a room at a bed and breakfast, the Lazy Pond, in nearby Liberty NY. This review begins with the back roads winding entrance to the back side of the venue, veering through the roads of Upstate New York that fell in love with during college many years ago.
     
      As this was a three show run, and allowed us to really settle into our temporary home, we revelled in the beauty of the campus the bed and breakfast was built upon. Strolling around the multi layered facility, we interacted with other fans, fraught with anticipation of Phish's opening run for the summer 2011.
     
      Arriving at the back entrance of the venue, we were forced to traverse the back roads for a while until the lots began to open. We decided, on day two to get there early because of the advice from some friends we had made the night before: Upgrade your tickets!!!!
     
      Somehow at the venue, if you have tickets (non-mail order) for the lawn, or even rear pavillion, you can (based upon availability) upgrade your tickets to tickets that are re-released. I waited at the box office/will call for about two hours, walking back and forth from the venues gates, to the window, to find out if they re-released tickets. After two hours of no luck, I ended up purchasing two lawn seats that released for a friend who was hauling it up (or down rather) from Albany and was ticketless.
     
      After meeting him in the parking lot, we wandered for a while then made our way to Venue entrance, greeted every so cheerily by all the members of the staff at Bethel Woods. Everyone who worked there, and the police who helped to facilitate all patrons through the myriad of paths that led to the venue proper.
     
      We made our way to the venue entrance and, in a last ditch effort, walked to the window where the gentleman, the one we bugged for two hours about upgrades, was sitting. He nodded that he remembered us, we handed him four tickets, and he took them back, charged us $40 US Dollars and we were in luck: Section 5 Row J, end row seats!
     
      This venue is created for the fan to enjoy both the musicianship of the band and the stunning beauty of the rolling hills of upstate NY. What makes this area perfect for the venue is that the amphitheater proper is but one dimple in a myriad of dimples that speck the landscape. When you enter, the venue is clean, and the path way, much like the paths running as veins through a golf course, veer up, over and down, until all at once you stumble upon the grassy lawn and amphitheater.
     
      Upgrades abound at this venue, and you don't need to upgrade outside the venue, you can enter in and upgrade at mysterious kiosks that are sprinkled in random sections of the venue. To the left and right of the stage, veering out, there are eatery sections, which, coupled with the hill top eateries, makes for most autonomous units of snacking at any venue ever.
     
      To the right of the stage, facing the stage, there is a tent with multiple micro brews, and seldom any lines. Drinks and bathrooms, food and seating area, there is so much in terms of amenities, this venue makes it peaceful to relax and enjoy.
     
      During the show, the venue security is very relaxed, though getting inside the pavilion is like trying to enter into fort knox. You need a stub! This is where security should be har nosed. The wings off the covered amphitheater, on both sides, allow for dancers to regal in the excitement of the show, much like the walkway ring underneath the theater covering.
     
      There is no poor view from this venue. You can be far off in the lawn, or back row of the reserved; doesn't make much difference. The first night I had the front row of the back section of the venue and it was masterful. I snuck under the railing, with no hassles and had a very open forum for interpretational dance.
     
      My final point of this review, and I urge everyone to attempt a show here, is wandering back to the top of the pathway that leads outward into the evening air. First off, the evening in upstate New York, after a blistering hot day, is glazed with dew. If you can time it right, Phish will be playing Loving Cup, while you twirl through an open field, embraced by moon light, and knowing that the world, at least for the moment you are in, is made better, by the place that was created for your amusement.

SKIN IT BACK, AND WHAT DO YOU HAVE, A WARM GUN...


SKIN IT BACK, AND WHAT DO YOU HAVE, A WARM GUN...

      Phish began their east coast return in style and much of what is conjured of Little Feat is that gritty primal urging instinct to something that feels wrong yet so right. (Heroin comes to mind, or just the act of shooting up- sorry for the buzz kill) But when Happiness dropped, presenting the same theme as Kin it Back, just in a completely different platform, I was all smiles. I had to skin back (yup, i went there) my expectations after what seemed like, and was a four minute Tube, hoping, like the Halleys that dropped later, we were in for a loop session and start stop jamming that lingers on the forefront of my mind as soon as the opening lyrics of that song are sent hurling from the stage. But with Trey working off effects alla Camden 2009, that jaded sound that lulls one in and makes them feel invincible and vulnerable all at once, we were certainly in for a fully formed entity compact into that four minute realm. And though Happiness is a Warm Gun definitely made me feel special, so many years after the initial time this song was played, and beyond that Mike's Groove, followed by the teasingly simple Halley's bled into Axilla, bled into Ya Mar, into Joy, and I thought the set was ending. And then Jesus, Jesus, oh how that bloody bloke left Chicago, in need of some saving, and Paige's solo gave way to smoking guitar, which foreshadowed the second set Walk Away scorcher yet to come, Number and Golgi just solidified this longer than ever first set! Something happened, but what? Huge gaps between songs 2000 plus in the first four songs! Set Break boiled up more anticipation then the last few weeks since Worcester, brimming to explosion.
     
      Set two, like Miner specified a few times in past reviews, conveniently, was filled with a highlight of summer, a highlight reel, and contender for top summer jam, a far and away bombastic couplet, (or triplet) of Golden- bloody-Sand, or (Chalky Golden Sand), which proceeded to venture into type two and type three jamming, areas relegated to area 51, the ether as it were, where all of our conspiratorial dreams go to be forgotten. When the ship landed twenty five minutes later, we had come through loops and funk, ambiant jamming and groove based improvisation that fueled my dancing shoes, and the legs attached. A deep in the second set Wolfman's->Walk Away appeared and blew the walls off the wall free Jones Breach(freudian slip) setting, and when everyone had given up on the set, in the VIP area, with Trey swatting the Bug-call, helped to cripple the crowd, (as Bailey always says, just wait five minutes, everyone will be rocking) so I got some dance space back. Yours truly was in blissful awakening. Fluff, Wedge, gave way to lightning in a bottle, complete with Miko- Gordo call and response. And as Zero was launched, I was left dreaming, boiling this one down to one of those shows (cooking down) I was so uncertain of, even in it's birth, existence, and completion, but knew my evening had been enhanced once again. I love this band, and I love that tonight they sent me on a fucking trip, once again, with nothing more than ambiance, and musical instruments! (oh yeah, and some ninja like skill!)

JONES'N FOR THE FUNKY BITCH


JONES'N FOR THE FUNKY BITCH

      I wasn't surprised when I got to JB, all wide eyed and mind staring at the phallic symbol that rises from the atlantic coast. Beyond the second lots rising dune, and brush, Shakedown blossoms with gnarly characters that, in my day to day life, I would most likely reject, like myself, from my own store front sure that they would "shake me down" for the keys to my chalice! Quite the adventurer, I wandered to the female dominated port-o-let, line where I was met by hostility. Boys can do it outside according to these female centerpieces. Cordially I wandered to the ocean, intent on baptizing myself with the Atlantic's sperm laden rip curl. Mass bulk chronicles of the ocean's capturings, having risen from the murky depths, flooded the shore, and page's key work could do nothing to keep them from blogging the scene with their tweets, face book status changes, my space updates, and neo-natal intensive care unit fiascos. Life was but a bundle of joyous excuses for being out-whitted by the gnarliest of cocaine cowboys. World turns, head spin, my leg is broke and here goes another hour of my life!
      Peace!

THE BAND WHO STEPPED INTO YESTERDAY...AND BEYOND


THE BAND WHO STEPPED INTO YESTERDAY...AND BEYOND

      Tonight, honestly, I wasn't sure what was going on...in a good way! My girlfriend and I had two songs apiece we allowed ourselves as wanting to hear at JB. (we haven't done the SPAC choices yet) and mine were Tube and Alumni. I don't know what it is about the song, maybe the connection to school (pretty sure Trey exclaimed in muted fashion "...from Goddard!") So when I thought my sun-burned viasge would need to sideline himself for most of this show, having expended more energy from my body the evening before, then in the last few weeks, and meandered the boardwalk of Long Beach, then sizzling under the mid day sun for the afternoon, and my dancing legs showed up again, I knew this evening would be special.
      
      Let me preface, yours truly did not bring cash to Long Beach, walked the boardwalk from its beginning, to the Alegra Hotel, whose ATM was out of order, then to a BOA whose kiosk would not open, it was nearly an hour after we arrived, feet blistered and clothing soaked, that we finally hunkered down in the sand for really expensive hour in the holiday sun!
      
      Happy Fourth, quatro de julio, and welcome to Phish's house; Jones Beach got owned tonight. Alumni->Letter->Alumni, Head Held High got the crowd moving and positioning myself between VIP tent and Taper Section throughout the show, I was able to meet my spacial needs at the drop of a hat when need be.
      
      The first set seemed to have a surreal flow, but KDF is where things began to take off, and while there was certainly a relief song occasionally, KDF has solidified itself as premier Type I track, that can occasionally hit type II and certainly is a rocker, Trey came party tonight, and unlike the minimalist approach, the role which he assumed, and which almost propelled him further to the forefront, his presence was felt, and he showed his leadership starting with this KDF. And though the Bowie was short, there was a conciseness to it that while not being a 20 minute rager, with a three minute tease intro, it got to the point; something that Phish has been able to do more and more frequently. Meandering jams, where notes are played for notes sake, and not for their placement in the midst of the tapestry created are a seeming thing of the past. And no, the gumbo didn't get jammed out, but the latter part of this set that wouldn't end was just straight up fun. Punctuate with Star Spangled Banner and the first frame did not disappoint. Theme-wise, Hold your Head up, or hold it high, and Hotel-Motel-Holiday inn, seemed to resonate. The former certainly a nod to the fact that any true fan in the venue need not fret at the almost always clean playing of this group of college buddies on stage.
      
      Frame two saw a bass bomb onslaught finalize an early Tweezer. Moving from plinko funkiness , Boogie on gave way to yet another unique and complete Tweezer, that extended from the song proper, and saw Trey expand from the central theme with a vengeance, starting off with that Wacka wacka signature that he has added to this song this era, Tweezer, after being infused with some space age Trey loops, stepped from the freezer, and expanded initially on a type I movement, with searing licks from Trey, branding this version like a well cooked steak, grill lines neatly emblazoned into its sides. But as the song began to drift from its roots, a sound, very reminiscent of 4.0 emerged and fusing all eras, complete with Space Age Loops, bliss seemed to formulate from the ether, and I swore I heard Uncle Sam exclaim from his watery grave. Trey cued Twist into the virtual Wurlitzer that was this evening and what came next just floored me.
      Again, Trey at the helm, this single minded ship navigated the musical spectrums, working away from Twists main theme, flirting with very Dead-esque territory, blissful in it's creation, like the birth of this nation, Phish brought magic from the mid summer sky and I swore Uncle Johns Band was somehow cued to this playlist.

      Instead, Taste appeared and gracefully took center stage, Trey leading the pack, and thematically, it all worked. Quinn followed, and did not disappoint. (I am kind of through with -> denoting songs seguing into each other though...if the band rambles into another song, that should be denoted elsewhere, in a different way, because, while there was little in terms of stoppage, they did not fuse songs in each of the latter instances where certain sites denote "->") That is to say, these songs moved fluidly, in my opinion, and just as a seeming late set Bowie entered into the first set picture, Rock and Roll materialized as if to say, you have no clue what we are up to; the band masters of their own domain. Sprinkle on a very tight Hood, as well as a very inspired, albeit straight forward, Slave, and through the Sleeping Monkey (my girlfriend could leave it, where I could take it, at this juncture) and it may have not been the perfect game I am anticipating will arise from these final run of leg one shows, quatro de julio did not disappoint!
      
      PS I told the boys "where it hurt" and that was in terms of song count, so they acquiesced, and threw down 33 in total. JK, J f'ing K!

JONES BEACH VIP


JONES BEACH VIP

      My girlfriend and I got in to the show on the 3rd early, so there was no line in that congested culling of attendees that first night, just smooth sailing, and ease of use entrance going. So after peeling ourselves away from the bed of our Pick Up Truck Tour vehicle, complete with beach chairs, roller cooler, and a cool 10 knot southerly wind, we meandered the lot, climbed the sky bridge, deftly tackled the port-o-lets (females still angry at the male usage) and approached the Bovine-like culling of humans into a gated threshold we needed to avoid.
      
      This is where the VIP tent tickets ($50) comes into play. We asked a laniard adorned woman what our tickets could do prior to getting into the Venue and she points to the VIP overhanging walkway over to the left of the venue, away from the herding of cattle into frisking lines. We sauntered on over to the smiling crew of worker, wished them a happy quatro de julio, and briskly strutted into the venue, well in advance of the many people crying from the prodding of electrified johnny sticks!
      
      Once in the venue, the dry campus of Wantagh, those of us, like an ancient secret we won't let out, have our tickets de-chadded and are whisked away into the alcoholic oasis that is the VIP tent! Now, let me tell you, hot dogs come in two's, beer floweth from the chilled mouths of spewing taps, and part of the grounds are carpeted with sod like grassy substance that one might use if creating a putting green in one's own back yard, of one's own million dollar mansion. There are even chilled port-o-lets, benches in field's that seem lightyears from the stage and venue proper. There is a widows-watch that perches over the standing room only, which I did not feel comfortable getting to the edge, embarrassed I might feel like some corrupt politician, gawking at his constituents, losing their faith and vote.
      
      Jones Beach VIP, (I may add more later, alter my vantage point as I know I need to do it more justice) is the only way to see a show at JB. Whether it be Bieber or The F. Scott Fitzgerald Ensemble, Modest Mouse, Pink, Kenny Chesney, Adam Levine of Maroon Five, Brittany, Milli Vanilli, or any other high grade performing artist, do not see them in the venue proper...though you have access to that as well!

PRESSURE COOKER


PRESSURE COOKER

      JIm started off with that old school feel, and while the jam that ensues mid way, typically type one, didn't sprout much past that, Ocelot took that type one jam and extended it with that bluesy saunter that this song exudes bellowing through the amphitheater, or Sonic Sauna, as it were last evening. The heat was turned up once Tube dropped, and thinking, after JB I that I wasn't gonna here this song again, until maybe Dick's, I was thrilled. the groove started early, and with Trey bending those notes into a growl, the band hooked into a four minded onslaught that immediately catapulted into Psycho Killer. With flashbacks of Hartford 09, I knew that this was special, and that the night was early. Bringing the song to fruition and letting it drip into the ether, Tube cam back swiftly, and the band really growled this one out to it's close.
      
      Set one fire continued to burn through the opening frame, as the boys moved from zany antics, immediately into Stash. Continuing the onslaught, the internal jungle turned swampy and the deeper the we dove into the heat of the song, the murkier this venue got. Watching sweat roll from my brow in drops mixing with the humidity of the venue, the joint got down right grimy before the band finally wrapped up their jungle expedition.
      
      Needing a breather, the band strewn together some cleanly played tracks to ease, at least, this humble narrator, and before slamming into the last of the improvisational numbers of the first half, Corinna gave Trey a chance to lull the crowd into an emotional high, patiently nailing his solo, with the intensity and precision of a samurai, channeling through his weapon a balanced act of art and destruction. Not letting the totality of the first sets energy die, LUOLMA sprang force as if form the head of Zeus, struck like a thunder bolt, igniting the quietude of our surroundings into a frenzy, At the end of this first half, drenched in sweat, beaming from my upper balcony seat, I was left to marvel in the virtuosity, as well as the communal experience, the weapon the crowd wielded in their excitement at the playing of each note, of each crescendo, of each rise of musical excitement, and basked in the mid set glow, almost worried I may not make it through the second set.
      
      II
      I was taken aback with the CDT set two opener, not upset, but again, having JB flashbacks and took a double take at my surrounding, realizing in the ever increasing temperature that I was not near the ocean, but instead surrounded by a sea of green and the only water nearby were the already spoke for hot springs, Gideon Putnam had staked his claim on over 200 years ago. Stretching out the ending section of CDT, those sonic loops and other worldly sounds emanated from stage, and the opening licks of Carini rang through the veiled stage, heat, and revolving rhythms dissipating into the rafters. Stepping away from the song proper, the band had a sudden mind meld and surged into new territory yet again, jutting out just beyond previous versons of Carini, and as the band wielded their way through the nether regions, Sand's gritty opening announced itself on stage, and if the brimming anticipation and excitement were equated to discomfort, juxtaposing the brilliance of the stage performance, we were trapped on a beach, wet and hot, rolling around in the sand.
      
      With jams that knowingly will come to head with their demise, this jam held onto its own, not allowing any of the members of the collective band end its existence. A few times, I bit my tongue, hoping the rhythmic, onslaught and dip into the beyond would remain forever, all of trapped in the dungeon of this venue, aware that we were experiencing blissful torture. AMAZING.
      
      Where Roses seemed it would spawn another godly amalgamation of everything the band has cerated over almost 30 years (at least about that according to Fishman, nay Friar Tuck) Punch yielded that Punch that kept the intensity thriving. The crowd was in the hands of, not the band, but the higher energy that Trey speaks about, and intends to channel each night he steps on stage; and much more powerful than any drug slung on lot (even Bath Salts) this energy drives the collective whole mad. I admit, I was spastic in my motions as my feet tramped below me, attempting to keep my flailing arms from striking the family next to me. (I could not stop the sweat from careening off me to various onlookers...my bad.
      
      So now comes the second helping of blissful perfection, Sally. Sally ebbed and flowed like the springs that exist somewhere below us, drifting from the vocal escapades and looming in the murky future, the music blossomed into some serious 4.0 creativity. I bridged it for aerobic relief, and thank goodness, because as Sally forged the limits of her existence, Ghost came through as an apparition of Perfection. Is this the perfect game the band was pitching. If we are talking straight energy with whole band interplay, combining both jam based gems, forged from the natural pressures of the earth, and solid showmanship, couple that with excitement, grief, fear, anticipation, deliberation, amalgamation, painstaking patience, and a shit load of humidity; then yes!
      
      And Suzy, an Antelope to rival JB's Antelope, and, oh, oh, oh, oh, Loving Cup...this show just wrapped it up, like a christmas present on christmas eve, opening prematurely by an over-zealous little child. (And it was his first pair of Air Jordans, III's in black) MY GOD, I am witnessing the dawning of the age of...(fill in the blank)
      
      Peace!
      
      PS let's hope the posters arrive tonight!

MSG'S FACE LIFT...AND THEN SOME!


MSG'S FACE LIFT...AND THEN SOME!

      (Disclaimer, it does turn into a venue review...I promise!)
      I woke up one morning...in december...and I realized I loved you! My growing suspicions rumbled to a boil, spilling their froth from the still teetering lid of the cauldron that is MSG, on their way, dousing the jerseys and banners with their wicked slippery paws. Simple words, easy to utter; I am addicted. My name is Matthew and I am addicted to Phish. Who else feels this way; a massive wave of quiet abounds and I am left pantsed and alone in a crowd (with my 13 year old naked legs; pant legs crumbled like Obi Wan on the floor!)
      
      Night one was captured via my pen, moleskin notepad, and two rapidly fading thirty year old orbs of visual sensory; made new by curved lenses and forged plastic and metal-an archaic jerry rig if you ask me.
      
      1. The pen captures the set list. It's ink globules trickle from the bouncing pen's erratic movement stuck nestled in the neck of my smoke embraced t-shirt, and in blind-frenzy fashion navigate the extra-terrestrial bounds of tiny lined paper and perforated inner binding. Segue to the moleskin, the death of three moles needed to forge its Mordor-like visage that, in it's absence, makes me pocked with age and worries of its ill-fated demise...only to resurrect it's divine bodice and return my feeble appearance to normalcy.
      
      2. Rapidly fading orbs, criminally caged, in orifices destine to trap light and wear out the tuning of their visual stimuli!
      
      3. I am addicted to Phish. Was that more subtle. MSG, been transformed into disjointed portals to cavernous seating modules; pod-like with entrances leading to stairs leading to nowhere. No less than 10 times did people attempt to pass by me thinking the seats I hovered over, was a tiny stairwell, seemingly, to the set of larger stairs, which in essence were blocked by my seats. It made sense to escape to my domicile, section 109 row 20 seats 6-7. It was logically expected that beyond that which you could see, into a dense melange of smoke and (mirrors and) must/musk emanating from what one might find less appealing that Ringling Brothers in the deep south, come high noon; one could, once here, saunter stealthily through my seats into an open air, uncluttered set of stairs. Why I mention this? Simple, in the chaotic pretense just laid out, crammed between X-laden whores (ironically juggling two blue balls for fun) I did not whine, nor whimper, pout....in fact (interruption style) I defended this in my head to anyone who was willing to attempt to break the confines of my cranial dome-lair; ready to justify the forced-forged entrance to seats, harder to navigate towards than some free climbing treks attempted by professionals. The lay-out blows!
      
      But oh, how the music was affected. While Free rang in a welcome home, forged with Bass Brilliance, filter effected and rattling brains, balcony sections alike, and Glide welcomed our entrance to the band...and Possum welcomed 3.0 to the set list (this devilishly sheepish vermin, poised hell bent on infiltrating all setlists til kingdom come) It was Cities that brought the Storage and psychedelia to the Garden. Folks in Penn Station might have been scratching their heads at the reverberation which leaked it's way through the very pours and into the core of MSG. Bending out of the song proper, Trey signaled with his quick solo, that Cities was not going to end of it's normal accord, but rather mange out into the landscape of the upper decks, harkening to AC's Cities, and burgeoning more than a couple times to a 46 Days Segue, the band, led by their Air Supreme Mr Gordon meandered the cavernous halls of the New MSG before limping to a halt after a brief face to face with Pail Sublimity! The venue is responsible, in it's infinitely awkward facelift, for sucking the life from this growing beast of a jam out of Cities.

DICK'S NIGHT TWO: I THINK I'M STILL ME


DICK'S NIGHT TWO: I THINK I'M STILL ME

      I don't know where to begin...Many say that you cannot yearn for the past, as you get caught up in it, missing what is right in front of you; myself, like many Phish fans argue the merits, accolades, precision, quality, etc...of "past" vs "present" Phish, even when there isn't an audience. I certainly think about 1.0 Phish and, just like one's mind, unable to quiet a rousing, tangential string of thoughts, I certainly think about past Phish, when about to experience "New Phish".
      
      My point is: it's all that past experience, both myself, the bands, on and off stage, the mixture of music and zaniness, excitement, spontaneity, that has allowed this band to get where they are now (where I an now)and that place is somewhere between elysium and hades.
      
      Antelope errupts from it's low volume first notes, and as I begin to take in all the implications that this song selection means, I am immediately vibing with a massive wave of audience members, spastic and focused hell bent on taking in this high energy offering. While # line filled its set one 2nd at bat position, very type 1, once the opening licks of Tweezer filled the very thin Colorado air, I realized that my lungs (aged 31 years) were going to have to summon some of that 21 year old wind, cause we in IT. Coming out of the Tweezer proper, with an Ebenezer Dionysian chaos that just felt a little more Dionysian, Trey stepped back in a groove, and the entire band fell into this Lull that had the audience bathing in the mire. Harkening to Tweezer->California Love->Tweezer, this funked rhythm gave way eventually to Trey Led sequence that brought the song to its seeming full circled end...but alas, the song would traipse into the ether of effects, and summon from it's vapor Fluffhead. From here the set was played with vigor, incendiary guitar work, interplay, and standards, that while not extending outside their well packaged box, certainly were wrapped in a beautiful wrapping; bow on top; cherry on top. The energy abounded, and capping off the set with Faulty Plan, the audience, myself, found ourselves at set break, knowing that this band meant business.
      
      As set two commenced, and Golden Age's words echoed through the very fabric of the band, the fans, this time in Phishtory, coming out of the very palpable and visual lyrics of this song, the band wove a delicate piece of music, certainly bring a few musical thoughts to fruition. From the ether again, super sonic loops ensuing, and effects driven outro, Trey sounded the the beginning to Caspian, which I thought was going to be light, once GA had begun, having paired these two before, with great success. Caspian (whose segue certainly left a little to be desired) would not disappoint from here on out, and the band would over the course of 48 minutes and 9 seconds, draw from all that they had previously conceived of in the Golden Age of their entire Career. Light sprung from Caspian like Athena from the head of Zeus, fully armed and ready to wage battle for the domination over earth.
      
      What made this passage of music special, (mythic, uncompromising) was the patience that the band, but especially Trey showed. At one point, Mikes signature bass bombs, which typically hailed the inevitable segue into Boogie On, were thwarted by Trey, and this was the point where I knew this was the juncture, so many times, we fear when the song selection shifter is adjusted and the jam become likened to a late-term abortion. (Fully shaped, hear pounding, you get the picture) Well the boys were pro life on this one and battling through heaven and hell, they brought their musical musings to a very jazzy, completion.
      
      At this point they could have packed up for the weekend, but like Hunger Games, this one is a fight to the death, all must be sleighed. Pulling out strong versions of Boogie On and The Wedge (spoke to the gorgeous setting), the denouement was the biggest surpriser since the opening of the show; a late set Mikes->No Quarter->Groove! Capping the night with the same intensity where the show started, I was scratching my head trying to figure out what tomorrow brings...let's wait and see.
      
      (Picture to come, as I cannot get the photos from the smart phone they are stuck in)