[We would like to thank Michael Ayers for recapping last night’s show. -Ed.]

Reviewing a Phish show is a bit like trying to rate dreams—some nights you wake up inspired, others leave you squinting into the haze wondering what just happened. The line between transcendent and “just fine” can be razor thin, and sometimes you’re handed a setlist that feels like a spiritual test more than a musical journey.

But last night? Last night, the clouds parted, the heavens opened, and God—clearly a fan of tightly wound jams and whimsical segues—shined down upon me and said, “You, my child, shall have the show.” And lo, I did.

Before the show even began, my friend and I found ourselves deep in conversation with the couple seated in front of us—bonding over one of life’s great mysteries: an odd vegetable that came with my friend’s meal from the food truck parked outside. Nobody was entirely sure what it was, but the woman guessed it might be a radish. Turns out, she nailed it—it was a Daigo, a bright yellow pickled radish. My friend insisted I include this moment in case she happens to read this… because credit where credit’s due: she called it.

The divine favor continued from the first note, as the band kicked things off with a bouncy and groove-heavy “Wolfman’s Brother,” setting a mischievous tone for the night. Right out of the gate, the follow-up “Tube” revealed Phish wasn’t playing it safe—an unexpected jam unfolded like a funky detour that no one saw coming but everyone welcomed. Then came “Roses Are Free,” and rather than fading into the usual singalong, it blossomed into another jam session, rich and exploratory. By the time “Maze” stormed in with its frantic interplay and fiery solos, it was clear: the band was locked in and intent on making this more than just a routine ride through the catalog.

Next came “Bouncing Around the Room,” the eternal palate cleanser of Phish’s catalog. Reviewing this song is a bit like rating different brands of water—sure, there are subtle variations, but you’re mostly quibbling over the same few drops. It’s beloved, but rarely reinvented. Honestly, nobody has a ranked list of “Top 10 Bouncing” performances. At best, there’s a short list somewhere with three entries… and the third one made the cut just for showing up.

Then, in a sudden pivot only Phish could pull off, we got “Nellie Kane,” a bluegrass gem that brought the temperature down without slowing the momentum. It was a reminder of the band’s acoustic roots—and frankly, a nudge that we could use a lot more bluegrass in the rotation. Trey plucking out those twangy lines felt like a postcard from the countryside, even if we were still dancing under the stars.

“Kill Devil Falls” came crashing in like a divine decree—clearly, God wasn't about to let the energy dip after “Nellie.” The jam didn’t just stretch, it burned, with a sense of purpose that turned the song from a reliable rocker into something downright celebratory. The final stretch of the first set leaned hard into vintage territory, and it felt intentional—as if the band was tipping their hats to the diehards who live for those classic tones and textures. “Sand” arrived with swagger, its groove simmering beneath tight interplay and rhythmic precision. It never spiraled off course, instead showcasing a laser-focused jam that crackled with intent.

Then “Fluffhead” landed with the kind of rousing energy that makes you glance around and say, “They’re really doing it tonight.” The composition-heavy classic didn’t just appear, it triumphed—every note felt deliberate, especially Trey’s playing, which was dialed in like he had an old map of ‘95 tucked in his back pocket.

It was the kind of setlist that could’ve been ripped straight out of a 1.0 tape archive, but the execution was unmistakably modern: polished, energetic, and locked-in. This wasn’t a nostalgia act—it was a reminder that when Phish reaches back, they do it with purpose and precision.

My friend and I made the pilgrimage to the merch stand, successfully scoring one of the coveted prints before retreating to refuel our beverages like seasoned veterans. But the real intermission highlight? A fellow fan’s merch-line revelation that deserves its own encore.

She’d just wrapped up her purchase and was about to rejoin her crew when her eyes landed on the stack of posters still sitting on the back table. You could see it happen in real time—the slow dawning of realization: they have posters… followed by a wide-eyed internal scream: THEY HAVE POSTERS. With a swift pivot that would’ve made Fishman proud, she beelined back into the queue, forsaking group reunion for that sacred square of ink and paper. No hesitation, no regrets—Tube and (poster) tube wait for no crew.

Set two roared to life with “Carini,” the kind of opening choice that says, “buckle up.” The band wasted no time—dropping into a gritty groove and then, out of nowhere, teasing “Dueling Banjos” like they were soundtracking a backwoods chase scene instead of a mountain amphitheater. It was playful, unexpected, and brilliant. As the jam twisted and churned, my friend's wide-eyed expression reminded me: this was his first show.

And when “You Enjoy Myself” followed? That was my moment. I leaned in and delivered the obligatory welcome to the Phish time-warp: “This’ll be a long one.” It was equal parts warning and promise. YEM unfolded in all its layered glory—tight composed sections, funky vocal interplay, back into the jam section before segueing into Sneaking Sally Thru the Alley.

Phish kept the momentum alive with a deep-dish serving of “Sneakin’ Sally Through the Alley”—eleven minutes of groove-forward bliss that rode the line between sultry and celebratory. It wasn’t just a cover; it was a full-on exploration, with vocal interplay and slinky bass lines that made the whole amphitheater feel like it had slipped into a secret funk club.

Then came “Light,” which shimmered and soared with that signature push-and-pull—melodic lifts, ambient stretches, and rhythmic jolts that danced across the spectrum. Just as it started to dissolve, the band dropped into “What’s the Use,” and... well, the segue definitely raised some eyebrows.

Why? Because “Light” is typically played in B♭ major, while “What’s the Use” lives down in the murky waters of D minor. (Writer’s note: Thanks AI!) That tonal shift is like stepping off a sunlit trail into a foggy swamp—sonically jarring, but strangely effective. It wasn’t seamless, and maybe that’s the point. In true Phish fashion, they made the odd transition feel intentional, if not entirely logical.

The set’s latter half took an intriguing turn with “Pillow Jets,” one of only three nods to the 3.0 era all night—an intentional lean into old-school territory, no doubt. Still, the song held its own, offering a brief but poignant break from the deep cuts and classic jams. It was a reminder that Phish’s newer catalog, while less storied, can still carve out memorable moments when dropped into the right set.

Then came the unmistakable swell of “Also Sprach Zarathustra,” better known among fans as “2001.” It’s a cover, sure, but it feels like home—a cosmic dance party where Mike lays down thick lines and the stage lights sync up like a laser show in orbit. For you, this one hit different; knowing it’s a personal favorite made the bass drops feel heavier, the grooves stretch longer, and the whole stadium pulse just a bit louder.

The band barreled into “Possum” to close the second set, and it was everything you want in a closer—raucous, tight, and bursting with that good old-fashioned Phish mischief. The crowd knew it was the last big dance before the encore, and Trey fed off that energy with solos that refused to quit.

Then came “Stash”—a song that, frankly, I usually file under “respect more than love.” But this version? It was lights out.The tension-and-release was dialed in to perfection, and for once, the weird got wonderful. I caught myself fully locked in, forgetting all prior ambivalence. That’s the Phish twist: the one song you usually skip ends up stealing the show.

And then, with a grin and a nod to the setting, they launched into “Rocky Top.” At Folsom Field, nestled in the heart of Boulder, it was almost too perfect. The mountain anthem felt right at home, echoing off the stadium walls like a hoedown held in heaven. It wasn’t just on-theme—it was a cherry on top of a cosmic sundae.

From start to finish, the entire evening at Folsom Field felt like a well-oiled cosmic machine. The music was top-tier, but even the logistics flowed with unexpected ease—getting in and out of the venue was shockingly smooth, with post-show traffic barely registering. Fifteen minutes from stadium to highway? It felt like Boulder itself was giving us a nod of approval. The venue staff were welcoming, the vibes were high, and everything just... worked. It wasn’t just a concert—it was a full-spectrum experience that left me buzzing with anticipation for the rest of the run.

Last but not least: shoutout to the Nitrous Mafia for stepping into the 21st century—they take cards now! Smooth, convenient, and an almost guarantee that your info is being sold on the dark web.

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