When Phish returned to the stage after that song-focused first set, Mike had a yellow scarf wrapped around his neck. I was secretly hoping it was there to keep his head from floating away in the middle of a particularly spacey trip. Anastasio revved up the rollicking "Chalk Dust Torture," and an arsenal of cow-patterned balloons exploded from the center of the crowd. Trey's guitar evolved into a humpback whale, searching for mates across a swirling sea. Then Mike dropped "the brown noise," clearing the air for a short, gentle section prior to the final uptempo groove. By this point, I had accepted my view of the stage. I was listening to the music. Surrendering to the flow. "Mike's Song" developed into a funk rock piece that just begged to be made into a "Frankenstein" monster.

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