A case study in evil Phish.

Don’t be fooled by the accelerant whimsy of “Sparkle,” the grooving bliss of “Halfway,” the naked sentimentality of “Bouncing,” or the introspective literality of “Mountains.” Friday night at Dick’s was a fucking bloodbath.

The most common question in the late-night lot was, “What the fuck just happened?” As we cruised shakedown, a Japanese June bug flew into my friend Stuart’s forehead, and I’m pretty sure that’s a metaphor. Or an omen–only after the fact.

If “Wolfman” represents the classic shape-shifter, then it was a most fitting opener for this Jeckyl and Hyde of a show. “Sparkle” is the happiest saddest song in the Phish catalog, so you can’t say they didn’t warn us. The breeze-floating melody of “Esther” masks the chilling narrative of its lyrics.

The depth of the evil in the darkest jams is directly proportional to the puffiness of the cotton candy fluff that streams threadwise like an audio spiderweb from the soundboard’s flosshead. So after hints of the evil to come embedded in the “Gin” and “Stash,”by the time they arrived at “Bowie,” they were set to plumb the depths. The closing minutes of the first set stretched time in a discordant arpeggio as the doll pulled us down through the eerie green deep and the sinister cackle of the old Armenian man laughing echoed in our ears.

Anyway, if there’s a way to sell out to chlamydia, Phish has clearly figured it out.

Elizabeth called “Sand” thirty seconds before set break ended, but she couldn’t have predicted the twenty-five minutes of aggravated assault that would ensue. After a solid fourteen of straight jamming, at the point it would be natrual to transition into another song, the jam grinds for ten-minute of extra time. The Gordon lava was gloopy–sticky and viscous. The guitar licks were like chewing on glass. Fish’s kick drum channeling Kathy Bates in her sledgehammer phase. A slide down the neck and Page swiped at the jugular with a scalpel of futuristic robotic dissonance. It left a CSI homicide scene in each of 54,000 individual ear canals.

(For the record: Phish is playing their composed music flawlessly.)

In a similar fashion, “No Men” kicks into overdrive in the ninth minute, with some rumbling synthsizer thunder and flashes of guitar lightning, and continues speeding toward a climax that fades ever to the horizon as we extend our reach. When “Llama” is the mid-set come-down, you know you’re “in blood / Stepped in so far that should [we] wade no more, / Returning were as tedious as go o'er.”

Okay, perhaps “Mountains” is really the mid-set break, but it’s a mere respite as the band prepares another onslaught. “Scents” played the role of Gene Wilder’s Willie Wonka, its celebratory exterior a clown’s mask veiling fundamental questions concerning spectral colors in the void. The void. Always there at the end.

You’re welcome for the reminder. How about a nice breezy lullaby jam to soothe you there?

Was it lost on Phish the irony of the “Shine,” “Wilson,” “Split” closer? It’s like they wanted to remind us of how beautiful music can make us feel, like bring tears to your eyes beauty that you laugh when you realize you're crying which makes you cry more and laugh more until you release it all in a scream after the final note. And just when you feel best about music and life and the universe and all is in harmony, you have to go and ask us: “Can you still have fun?”

Which really makes us think.

And just as we’re lost, mid-thought, you throw us into the Great Pit of Carcoon that was the Dicks 2023 “Split.” I think we can all agree on the basic truth that evil Phish is the best Phish, and this SOAM was the apotheosis of all the hints of evil from throughout the show. Like Ash opening the Necronomicon and playing the tape of the professor’s translation.

Once the jam exited the song’s template, it plunged precipitously to rock-bottom and settled there for the final ten minutes of the encore, as the audience swayed, zombie-transfixed. Like a record executive straining through Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, you question what you’re listening to, and find there is no word to classify the music you’re hearing.

The jam punches you in the face, daring you to call it “music” one more time. When you insist it must be “music,” it punches you in the face two more times, and double-dares you… in that really menacing voice that the Christopher Nolan Batman sometimes used. It was the kind of music that inspires you to wander past midnight, studying cracks in the asphalt of a parking lot, asking questions impossible to answer. You can’t believe any band would have the chutzpah to end a show with such a descent into the portal. Filthy. By the end of it, all left temples were streaked with white hair.

Existing in this environment is so demanding.

Thank you Phish. Thank you to the entire crew.