Posted by @JohnManBand in the SBIX Essay Contest.

Theater of the Mind

When I was younger I used to sit out on the back porch on summer nights with my father listening to an old transistor radio. At night we could pick up stations from far away – somewhere in upstate New York, sometimes even Canada. It had to do with the ozone-skip, my dad explained, the way the AM stations bounced their signals off the ground. Though he’d grown up with television, my dad was nostalgic about the golden age of radio and spoke of the “Theater of the Mind” in which the listener imagined his own movie based on what he’d heard. I guess he passed on some of that aural appreciation to me. I like to listen.

This past 4th of July weekend I sat out behind my own house, listening – enjoying what may soon replace the American summer vacation: couch tour. The sounds of The Bunny on Live Phish’s stream seemed to be broadcasting from a mysterious and distant land, a land called “The Super Ball.” The Bunny obliterated my interest in local radio. I kept it on all weekend. As long as the internet connection held out I’d be okay, and it was more reliable than AM.

In many ways it was almost as good as being there, but until we’re offered the benefits of a live video stream, the view from couch tour will consist of little more than a Twitter feed and occasional YouTube clips. I had to fight the urge to scour the internet for more details because it was nice to just listen. Listening leaves a lot to the imagination. And there are plenty of benefits to couch tour – no bathroom lines being high on the list. Although I have to admit, it just isn’t the same throwing glow sticks around the living room by yourself.

Saturday afternoon, this constant stream was interrupted by what sounded like a commercial for a local storage company. The New York accent, the awkward delivery – it had all the makings of a local radio ad.

"Store your stuff,” the voice said. “It's the American thing to do." Not having had the benefit of actually seeing the storage unit in Ball Square, and assuming Phish didn’t need the advertising revenue, I chalked this up to sketch comedy.

"We've even got places for all your secret stuff," the voice said. When I heard the commercial again later in the night, I noticed something else: "We're open late for all your storage needs."

In the realm of couch tour, phrases like “Ball Square” and “U.S.A. Self-Storage” had transformed from mere concepts into actual things, with discernable features.

“Secret stuff?” “Late night?” I should have known.

When I read online that security had erected barriers around the U.S.A. storage unit in Ball Square, I had that feeling you get when you hear a punch line to a joke that you wish you would have guessed but didn’t. What would I be doing if I were there? I wondered. Would I know to go to the storage lockers? Would I be relaxing at my campsite or hanging in the pinball lounge? Checking Twitter updates on my phone? I may not have even heard the crazy commercial. Was it simply in the air, word spreading from crew to crew? Were there now secret set expeditions in which fans looked for clues, traded maps, stayed out late to hunt for strange sounds?

I felt a tinge of anxiety – like I needed to get down to Ball Square. Like now. It was around 1am, so I stayed put on the couch and listened from inside a pair of good headphones as crowd sounds faded in. I always loved that, hearing the crowd in live recordings. It painted an atmosphere, gave you a ground to stand on, took you there. In my version of “there,” Phish had somehow obtained Hollywood-grade UFO’s and were apparently bringing them in for a landing. There were sounds, though not what I would call musical sounds – a swelling, like a storm coming up, a distant rumble followed by a crackle. Like maybe somebody was collecting rain from a hole in the ceiling.

As the otherworldly sounds took over it became clear that the band had begun unloading the secret set. And this was no Flatbed Jam. They had packed some serious gear into that storage shed. Everyone seemed to be on delay. I imagined electronic drums, an army of synthesizers. I turned down the lights, sat back on the couch and entered the stream. Something would start to take shape, the drums picking up, everyone getting into a groove, and then it would fall back into a sort of dovetailing chaos. It sounded like they were about to make something very big levitate, like they were attempting to build a bridge across a rolling sea – first some clanging, then everybody moving along together, then each doing their separate job. Sitting there in the dark I felt almost floated, and nearly an hour later, when Sleeping Monkey finally emerged, it was as if from a dream. With its ghostly vocals, it took shape briefly and slithered by. Gradually, I realized the presence that had come to visit was gone. The Ball Square Jam was over. Bunny Radio resumed. But there would be more Phish the next day.

Afterward I read online that some had grown tired of standing around staring at a storage locker and wished they’d been listening to this jam from the comfort of home. I felt pretty lucky to be where they wanted to be. Although they were where I wanted to be, in a way we shared the same space – the space created by the music. Our two worlds collided, in surround sound. I clicked on a photo of the storage locker someone had uploaded, but it didn’t look as I had imagined it. Sometimes the thought of a thing is better. The music painted pictures that only those who closed their eyes could see.

But I know. The feeling’s not the same.

The next night Trey filled everyone in on the story, how the band had gotten caught in that storage space years ago and had been using music to escape in their minds. The entire festival, Phish’s entire career, was all in their minds, as he explained. It was all a projection. They were imagining us all along. And the poor guys were still trapped in that storage shed.

Trey’s tale of the storage space reminded me of something I hadn’t thought about since it was assigned reading in college – Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. It’s the one in which the prisoners in the cave perceive the shadows on the wall to be more real than the people casting them. The couch tourist is similarly bound, deprived of a full range of senses – only instead of shadows I perceived musical phrases and sounds. Listening became my primary focus, the music my only reality. Maybe I was able to listen more closely, to be a better listener. I had to imagine the band, the entire festival.

But when the music stopped I went back to being on my back porch.

Couch tour doesn’t need to consist of browsing trending topics and awaiting updates. You can just turn down the lights, sit back and listen. Like Plato’s prisoners in the cave and like Phish in the storage space, on couch tour I’d gotten used to the shadows and found something fundamental – a reality of forms contained entirely in my mind. It’s peaceful to dream these dreams, and although nothing can exactly replicate the experience of being in the crowd sweating it out for three days with thousands of other people, it’s a reasonably affordable alternative. I get to make my own grilled cheese sandwiches for one, and I also get to play with all my stuff – which I’ve got more of than I do places to store it.

Storing stuff and getting new stuff to store will most likely continue to be the American thing to do. We sure don’t neglect the physical experience, but whether through reading an essay or listening to a transistor radio, living the life of the mind has its benefits. If every show were broadcast like The Super Ball, the only real drawback to couch tour might be that I don’t have lighting designer Chris Kuroda in my head.

But then again, maybe I do.

If you liked this blog post, one way you could "like" it is to make a donation to The Mockingbird Foundation, the sponsor of Phish.net. Support music education for children, and you just might change the world.