Checking in from the afterglow zone around Long Beach, still marveling and laughing at all that went down on Wednesday. Given the fuel-injected power of recent tour openers, nobody was expecting Phish to phone shit in, but I’m pretty sure nobody expected things to get quite that wonderfully weird, either.

Taking in the first set with Justin Bieber and his entourage? Can’t say that’s an everyday occurrence for me. Nor was the ghostly introspection of “Rock & Roll,” or the rocking party vibe of “Ghost.” Bottom line? You never know what you’ll get when Phish comes to Southern California!

In contrast, Phish and the Bay Area go together the way the Grateful Dead and New York City did for so long: predictably, like peanut butter and chocolate. Since the Warfield gigs in April of 1992, Phish has demonstrated its love for Bay Area fans by crafting dependably smart sets and delivering them with fire, and those fans have demonstrated their love for Phish by knowing their shit and getting down accordingly. Yes, it’s true: San Francisco crowds flap their gums too fucking much. But they’re also smart, seasoned music people, with ears that are even bigger than their mouths.

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