by Martin Acaster (@Doctor_Smarty)

Like most people, I spent the bulk of the day on Saturday wondering how in any way the experience of the previous night could be surpassed. During the face-fucking of the Friday night show I was blissfully unaware that I was getting pranked. Certainly the setlist sequencing seemed odd, jams of unusual duration were emerging from the stage and splattering each of my sensory orifices with heaping dollops of creamy goo, but I did not know that Phish was sending me a coded message. If I was any kind of historian, I may actually have reviewed what happened last year at Dick’s before venturing out here. I’m not, so I didn’t, and the subliminal message was completely obscured by the music that it evoked. Obviously first night of Dick’s means there will be a gimmick show. But what would night two hold this year? Very likely just an average great Phish show. There had to be a let down.

Unlike the rest of you I was faced with the added burden of knowing that I would have to sit down and compile a recap of the show. Whatever Phish came up with, it was my turn to share the deep thoughts it evoked in me. Considering the masterful job done by Mr. Bertolet in distilling the essence of the first Dicking I knew I would at least have to attempt to bring my “A” game. I wasn’t sure I was up to the challenge. In fact, I was feeling a great deal of performance anxiety. As I sat and pondered these things gazing westward toward the Front Range, I felt I shared a moment with the band. Anything short of the previous night’s orgiastic bacchanalia, as expressed in my own words would just be disappointing for us all.

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