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.

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