[We would like to thank Willie Orbison (@TwelveThousandMotherfker) for recapping last night's show. -Ed.]

There are a few things every .net recapper must have when attending a show: an open mind, a positive attitude, and a pen. And though I had two of the three as I made my way into one of the grandest venues in Phishdom last night, I spent the first half hour of my journey through the cosmos looking for something to write with.

When I asked a few of the kind people working behind cash registers – or, more accurately, chaperoning the robots we actually do business with – the looks on their faces betrayed a level of incredulity usually reserved for questionable dance moves or our attempts to communicate at setbreak.

“A pen?” I might as well have asked for magic beans. But I already had those in my pocket.

Anyway, a very stoned maitre’d at one of the restaurants on the concourse hooked me up, and I was officially ready to rad out with my pad out (that’s not a phrase) on a beautiful, if cool, evening in Los Angeles.

It’s been a tough start to 2025 for us Angelenos, but like baseball’s Opening Day or whatever that groundhog does in Pennsylvania, Phish at The Bowl is a welcome harbinger of Spring and sunnier days ahead. And despite a tragically truncated shakedown that sounded more like a warzone with all the exploding balloons, spirits could hardly be higher as the phaithful drifted up the hill and into the majestic old amphitheatre.

Speaking of old, I’ve been seeing Phish for over twenty years now, and besides still being objectively sick, the ritual has become for me a way of marking time. For whatever reason, I’ve never been able to properly go on tour, so the band comes into my life like a comet on a wide orbit. My first show, I didn’t have my driver’s license yet, so my best friend and I took a Greyhound Bus from NYC to SPAC. My last show was two years ago at this very same place, and it was the first after my son was born. I remember being freaked out to leave a fragile little infant that night. This morning he asked me “How was the Phish, Dada?”

The Phish was good, son. The Phish was good. Let’s get into it.

After five indoor shows, including two mid-week bangers at the hot box of Bill Graham, “46 Days” was a comfy, stretch-your-legs kind of opener that got the blood flowing in all the right directions. The band seemed to relish the fresh air and the natural expansiveness of the place, taking their time to warm up and dial in the sound, inviting us to sit ourselves down when we’re ready to stay. Oh, we’re ready, Phish.

“Rift” was next. A classic first-set energizer, this version lacked the floor-rumbling intensity that shocks and persuades souls to ignite at arenas like MSG, but it got the heartrate up nonetheless – especially for Trey, who seemed to be kicking himself into gear with that semi-cheerleadery, one-knee-up flamingo hop he does.

One of the larger questions of the evening was answered when the band dropped into “The Moma Dance.” Up till now on this little Spring Fling of ours, there hadn’t been any repeats, and with the omission of “Tweezer Reprise” from Wednesday night’s show (more on that later), 3 out of 4 dentists were speculating whether they’d go the whole tour without repeating a song. But Trey, like Mike once upon a time, said no. Which, in my humble opinion, is a good thing. Phish has nothing to prove, obviously – so why not give the people what they want!

To that end, a collective “hell yeah” resounded off the ancient Bolton Canyon walls as Trey ripped into “Chalk Dust Torture.” I will never not be transported to the dark, incensed dorm room at Middlebury College where I heard this song for the first time. It rocked then, and it rocks now – and according to Trey in that recent New Yorker profile, “in some weird way, it’s my fucking all-time favorite Phish song.” Same, dude. Same. This rendition clocked in at over 14 minutes and, as @zzyzx noted about “Kill Devil Falls” in his Seattle1 recap, carried soaring echoes of the immortal 7/10/99 “Chalk Dust.” Good stuff.

I’m embarrassed to say I wrote “New Song” for what came next. Upon closer inspection, this song is called “Evolve” and it’s not even that new. I’m gonna chalk my lack of awareness up to having a toddler and being out of the loop for much of the last couple years. And to be honest? Not my favorite! I was way more interested in Page’s jacket, which looked kinda like if Beethoven was in Top Gun. Aspirational fashion, as always, from a certified Bald GodTM.

Up next was “Stash,” much to the delight of the two dudes in the row in front of us who broke out a coordinated patty cake-style, coordinated 1-2-3 high five for the CLAP-CLAP-CLAP moment. Kudos to them. At some point during the song, though, there was – and I’m 100% serious about this – UFOs in the sky above us. Ask anyone who was in Section L2, we all saw them. They looked like a series of planes flying one after another in close succession, but guess what: PLANES DON’T FLY LIKE THAT. Look it up! Anyway. Maybe so, maybe not.

Back on Earth, the telephone was ringing, and surprise surprise, it was the “Wolfman’s Brother.” To me, it doesn’t get much cozier than bouncing around inside a “Wolfman’s Brother.” No matter where in the set, where in the world, what day of the week... like a good houseguest, he’s always welcome, always a good time. This version was no exception. Maybe the song is a sonic embodiment of its inspiration, the one and only Jon Fishman, who may I say is only getting more and more handsome as the years go by. Kudos to him, too.

Oh, what’s that I hear? A first set “Harry Hood?” Guys, you shouldn’t have! But alright, I guess we’ll take it. Thank you, Mr. Miner. Like a bubble from a wand, stepping into a “Hood” jam is one of the true peaks of the Phish experience. There’s a feeling of anticipation, of weightlessness, of comfort and peace and joy that comes from being inside that piece of music for a few minutes, and in a lot of ways, it’s the feeling that keeps us all coming back. Despite all the terrible shit that may be happening in the world, right now, here, in this song, you can feel good. Good about "Hood."

The only problem with “Hood” closing out the first set is that you can’t leave early to get a jump on the bathroom line. It’s a small price to pay, though – especially when you get to overhear snippets of conversation without context: “That was just like the livestream!” “I knew ‘Evolve’ cuz it was on the album, but what were all those other songs?” “Has anybody seen my kid?”

It takes all kinds at a Phish show, and all those kinds have to pee.

When the second set kicked off, I once again sheepishly wrote “New Song” with that pen I was so generously gifted by someone who now that I think about it probably wasn’t actually the maitre’d … I owe the Hollywood Bowl a pen.

Regardless, I now of course know this song to be “What’s Going Through Your Mind,” and besides reminding me of the seagulls from Finding Nemo, I couldn’t help but feel awed by the fact that this song was completely new to me. Despite my devoting waaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy too much of my adult life to what the great Harris Wittels called “being good at Phish,” I blink and I feel like a n00b again. It’s a testament to the unyielding creativity of this band and their absolute refusal to rest on their laurels.

A turn-on-a-dime segue into the second “Carini” of this tour sent the seventeen-or-so-thousand of us in attendance into a head-banging, stank-faced reverie. Though not quite as epic as the one from the other night, this “Carini” achieved liftoff and launched us into the thick of a heavy-hitting second set.

“Carini” gave way to “Light,” a 3.0 favorite that was a part of a “Chalk Dust” sandwich a few nights prior. This “Light” shone brightly on its own, with the band and Kuroda pushing each other to greater heights and distinct melodic spaces. I have in my notes that Trey “starts mooing and nobody knows what to do.” While I don’t think that’s literally true (though I really can’t be sure), there’s an interesting moment about ten minutes in where Trey introduces a new musical idea and it takes a beat for the rest of the band to lock back in, but when they do, it sends the whole thing to the stratosphere. From there, it sounded like they might be moving into “2001,” but Trey had a different odyssey in mind.

“Mercury” is a shining example of the classic Phish aesthetic: a winding blend of composed sections and improvised sections that evoke a very specific mood through unique melodies and impressionistic lyrics. I’m also just a sucker for space stuff (see UFO’s above), but I remember chasing this song in Vegas in 2016 when it was still fresh out of the oven, and it’s extremely cool that now, almost ten years later, the novelty has worn off and the song is just another gleaming feather in their collective cap. Plus, who doesn’t love a Fishman Marimba Lumina solo?

And then, in what has always felt like a natural pairing to me, the “Mercury” jam melds into “Piper.” Honestly, I could hear “Piper” at every show and be happy. And though this version doesn’t scale the heights like some of its forebearers, her words were still words that I sailed upon. But rather than going deep into a jam, Trey slows things down to go deep in a different way.

Like so many of the songs from Trey’s Ghosts of the Forest project, “Life Beyond the Dream” hits differently than most other Phish songs. Maybe it’s the memories it conjures in him about a lost friend, but Trey’s singing is rarely better than it is here. Sometimes you can tell he’s trying to force emotionality – and hey, who doesn’t – but in so many of the GOTF songs, he’s connected in a way that resonates effortlessly. If we gotta go ballad (and we must from time to time), there are few more affecting than this one.

Finally, from Ghosts of the Forest, we go to “Ghost” to close out the second set. It’s not the heaviest or spookiest “Ghost” you’ve ever heard, but it feels fitting with the energetic, ethereal mood of the evening. I don’t have much written down in my notes here, which is always a good sign, but I remember looking across the Bowl at the thousands and thousands of people packed onto this hillside, locked in, together, grooving, and could count the number of cell phones glowing on one hand. As a wise man once said, "What a blessing."

An encore of “Possum” and that dangling “Tweezer Reprise” ensured that there is indeed much, much more in store over these next couple nights. Because with worries about repeats out the window and everything back on the proverbial table, this weekend promises to be a proper party. I’ll see you guys there. Let me know if you need a pen.

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