[We would like to again thank Alaina Stamatis (@Farmhose) for recapping last night’s show. Find her on the socials @fad_albert and at www.fadalbert.com --Ed.]

You could say I went to Forest Hills to get drunk and talk really loudly and a Phish concert broke out. I barely had a buzz on at 6:26pm when the band emerged at the famed Tennis-stadium-turned-summerstage and opened with “Free.” We’ve all seen this song open a show a hundred times, easily, so I saw no problem in shouting into my wife’s ear nonstop. I asked her if she knew that Bob Dylan played here in 1965 and before she could answer, I launched into a super detailed account of the show as it was remembered by the bassist who played with Dylan on that fateful date.

“It was Harvey Brooks! He played bass for Dylan at his first Forest Hills show and went on to lead an illustrious career as a studio bassist, appearing notably on Bitches Brew and the Doors’ the Soft Parade! He’s interviewed in that book by Ray Padgett!” I yelled as “Free” continued. “Anyway! So, Harvey Brooks says as soon as the drums came out people started booing, and then Dylan went electric and a handful of people stormed the stage! Dylan turned to Brooks and said, ‘Keep playing.’ There was a grass court down there and a small platform for a stage, not at all like what we see today! And a few guys got tackled trying to ruin the show, and one dude managed to reach the stage and pull Al Kooper’s stool out from under him! He was on keyboards!” My wife murmured something unintelligible and I crushed a can.

“Back on the Train,” was next, which is appropriate because we all had to get on a train to get to the show. I leaned over to my buddy and started recounting my subway route, projecting my voice so he could hear me clearly from six inches away. Chris Kuroda’s LEDs were flashing because it was so sunny onstage that his light beams weren’t showing up. Once, “Theme from the Bottom,” started, I was reminded of the subway rats who count on us to drop food waste onto the platform and train tracks, rather than “toss(ing) away stuff you don’t need in the end” in the proper receptacle. I tried to explain this to the couple sitting behind me but they just looked away.

“Nobody wrote serious rock and roll songs until Dylan did! Nobody!” I yelled at my wife, which prompted a nearby fan to clap in time with “Cities,” right near my head. I guess not everyone wanted to hear my take on music history. I took out my phone. Good place to get some scrolling done! 43 years ago, Trey Anastasio saw the Talking Heads perform this very song at this very location with the Dude of Life, according to the Dude on Facebook. Shutting my mouth for thirty seconds gave me the ability to recognize how cool Trey’s guitar tone was on this song. His guitar escalated to a soul-affirming shred, a brief, heal-the-world peak. This was Trey’s protest song. I figured now was a good time to drop an emoji in the group chat even though everyone in the group chat was at this show.

The boys were all wearing sunglasses, which I only noticed during the opening notes of “Divided Sky.” The sun was setting behind the stadium walls, causing the line between light and shade to follow along the edge of the stage. “Divided Sky” is usually a great song to chomp over because the composed portions tend to be more atmospheric than overpowering; however, last night, the expressive pause of “Divided Sky,” was exceptionally long, which elicited an extended ovation, with a cheering war between sections. I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts as they dribbled from my mouth!

The clarity with which we could experience Mike Gordon’s bass was unbelievable! On “Timber,” he was immediately vibrating my very core. A giant lobster balloon circulated the venue, and somebody threw an inflatable sex doll into the VIP area, because as adults the music was not stimulating enough and we needed sensory objects. I didn’t know what the next song was but I could tell it was new; back in the 1960's we would’ve been allowed to “boo” and heckle the band for such an infraction. Nowadays we display our distaste for innovation by exiting, so I announced, “PISS BREAK!” and then ran into the walkway.

The stairway down to the concourse was a "bass trap" with such heavy sound insulation that the show suddenly became muffled. This means I missed the crunchy minor jam of “Ether Edge,” and the insane amounts of tension building onstage. Did Trey tease Dobie Gray’s “The In Crowd,” or was it just some good ol’ fashion sentimental shred? I wouldn’t know because I was in line to get another drink and Forest Hill’s soundproofing (to appease its neighbors) was working overtime.

I also missed the sustained-note therapy of “Squirming Coil,” in which the audience cheered for the line “Little Jimmy’s off to camp,” because they too have shipped off their offspring, thus affording them the opportunity to attend a jamband concert on a weeknight. And of course I missed Page McConnell’s soaring clean piano first set outro. This was a night to celebrate Page's throwing of the ceremonial first pitch at the winning Mets game earlier today, and I was missing it.

Setbreak was more of the same. I wanted to talk about how Bob Dylan debuted “Desolation Row” here and how his young audience laughed at the punchlines of the lyrics like it was a comedy show, while people accused me of being a “close talker” and “annoying ass.”

The second set kicked off with, “Punch You In The Eye,” and the place exploded. I couldn’t get a single person to listen to me. I had no choice but to undergo the totality of the concert from my incredible seats. The sun finally set and while dusk was still quite bright, Kuroda had regained all of his magic powers. This punchy "PYITE" dissolved into a siren loop and segued into "Ghost."

After a minor synchronization issue, Mike led the band into a shadowy improvisational valley. Trey worked to reclaim his influence but Mike held a locked groove that everyone seemingly spiraled off from in chaotic deviations, different paths to the same, subterranean sludge. Playtime was over. This was Desolation Phish. Nobody needed to inflate a sex doll when they had Phish to do it to them in multiple orifices. Page's synth was soaking the stage with waves and washes. Trey insisted on a major key shred but the rhythm section's undercurrent of grime continued to flow. Trey played the tiniest tease of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" to congratulate Page, and then was overcome by a "Wave of Hope."

At this juncture the stage lights looked like the holy mountain. Somebody bit the metaphorical head off of a bat as the band entered an evil Kosmiche groove the likes of which Mr. Crowley himself would have been proud to engage in sex magick. The stage went full purple for the late Ozzy Osbourne and the LEDs formed a face reminiscent of an Easter Island head. Trey couldn't keep away from the major key and Jon Fishman was egging him on with excitable polyrhythms. Mike suggested something more sinister and Trey took the bait. Page meanwhile was engrossed in his cerembrum-scrambling sequencer patterns. This was the true opposite of ASMR, in which Phish uses shrill tension to puncture your brain. Fish kept driving them past the point of no return and the tune swirled into "What's the Use?"

"What's the Use?" blasted my mind blank, my thoughts unintelligible and my mouth wholly unusable. Rather than a white noise machine, the band was an every-fucking-color noise machine. The stage went full black. Fish was hysterically rolling while everyone else was feeding back. Page's flourishes felt particularly vibrant in this cave. A balloon landed on a dudes head in perfect time. Couples hugged and swayed.

An earlier me would have heard the intro to "Ruby Waves" and escaped, seeking out a way to relieve myself and also become more intoxicated. My former self would have taken this as a cue to holler over the music. But this song is so often more intoxicating than any libation the venue can sell me for $15. And as for my bladder, I simply wet myself outright and trusted that the cool Queens breeze will dry me before the show lets out. Trey sang of "a ball of energy," and Page manifested it with his synths, instantly rewarding my good behavior. Page led the way, emboldened by his brush with sporting greatness, to a dazzling, digital realm. The rest of the band worked in support of his space mission, in true egalitarian Star Trek fashion. Trey's Languedoc did not gently weep; it whined and wailed and asked to speak to the manager of psychedelic synthscapes. Anything felt possible on the final frontier. Mike kept giving Trey ideas and Trey kept using them, or was it the other way around? Fish gave everybody room to freak out, and light plinko playing entered an almost calypso zone. "Ever think about how this song is about gnosticism?" whispered a spinning hippie man. I was almost completely dry when I needed to wet myself again.

Crescendos melted into cacophony and we found ourselves going "Backwards Down the Number Line." The call felt right and in-line with the, "We love you, Page!" theme of the night. Somebody grabbed the giant lobster balloon and made it dance along. I thought about, but didn't say aloud, something else that Harvey Brooks remarked about his time with Dylan at Forest Hills. "It took the whole set to get them on our side, but we did. By the end of the set, we had 'em." Phish too had us jumping up and down and hugging each other to a song we claim to hate. They closed the set with "Character Zero," which is standard placement because at the end of the day, the formula works. Trey was yelling the lyrics and the audience was yelling back. Curfew was looming so the boys truly only had time for half a wheatgrass enema backstage and then a one, maybe two-song encore. I fanned the wet spot on my cargos in anticipation.

They returned with 20 minutes on the clock to entertain us with Allen Toussaint's "Sneakin' Sally Through the Alley" in an arrangement from that plorb Robert Palmer, of course. I was fully prepared for the show to end there but the singalong continued with "Wilson." With six minutes until curfew the evening really could have ended there, but Phish rewarded us with a third encore: "Rocky Top!" There's a cool story about the couple who originally wrote the song, but I'll let Bob Dylan tell you about it. Before Page took his solo, Trey announced him as the NY Mets "relief pitcher" to much acclaim. Truly there is but one way to use one's mouth to be constructive during a show, and that is to aid in the greater good of the event. Trey wants you to sing, to woo, and to cheer, but otherwise, for the sake of everyone around you, please, shut the fuck up.

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