To follow up on the story/review from @CajunPhish about the Rhinoceros opener, this is a short piece written by Kevin Cassels himself about the moment that I thought was worth sharing:

"I’ve always had a strange feeling that Phish was much greater than the sum of its parts. A spiritual vehicle, if you will. When you experience those peak moments, a lot of thought goes into the whole concept of Phish in general, such as why they are so important to us. If you enjoy Phish for the right reasons, they seem like members of your family. That's why I get so discouraged when I hear of fans going astray because they saw two mediocre shows in a row, or they didn't get a Lushington encore. If your mother is being a pain in the butt, do you disown her, or do you stick by her side through thick and thin? Phish is family, and even at their worst, they are better than any other live act in the country. Phish becomes a family situation of greater proportions when you go on tour. Friends become part of the whole concept, as do memories on tour with those friends.

In 1996, I began taking my brother Phil to Phish shows. He was already into the band, but it was difficult to get him out of the house. My brother was very depressed about life. What in general, I don't know, but I know we all felt helpless trying to aide the poor guy. It was like pulling teeth to get him to agree to come to the Clifford Ball, but once we were there, I knew it was the cure he had been waiting for. There we sat on a hill overlooking the sunset, taking in the last few moments of a brutal Bowie jam. A few more shows followed, but by 1997, he had quit going. In fact, he had quit doing most of anything by that point. Deeply depressed, he took his own life on October 5, 1997. While I was at a friend's house playing music, he drove his truck to the top of a mountain and hung himself at sunset, with nothing but a pack of cigarettes and a Smashing Pumpkins' album in the truck tape player.

I needed Phish's music more than ever after a blow like this. It seemed the only place to get away from all the madness was somewhere deep within a Phish jam-the Hampton '97 Slave perhaps, or the 5/3/85 Eyes masterpiece. As with all tragedies, you never get over it, you just learn to live with it. For several months, I bottled up quite a bit of anger, quite a bit of pain, and a lot of self depression — a move that was very dangerous in hindsight, putting my own mental health at risk. I kept seeing Phish, and just about every song jerked a tear or two, but I always held back. The only other person I knew who held such emotional affinity towards a band was Phil. The way he felt about the Smashing Pumpkins was paralleled only by my affection for Phish, as he depended on the music, learned from it, and used it as a medicine or a drug in times of need. It was the last thing he ever listened to, the last song being Rhinoceros—a heartfelt epic with poignant lyrics and a powerful message. For some reason, he chose this as the last song he wanted to hear before he turned his back on the world.

As time went on and I began to actually understand that Phil was never coming back, my habit for holding my feelings in just increased, thus thrusting myself into my own mild wave of depression. Luckily, my wonderful girlfriend and I were weeks away from Phish's 1998 Deer Creek shows, where I assured myself everything would be better. The first night, I again felt a very strong connection with the boys, as they were a lot like my brother when they were kids-shy, self conscious, out of place. I held back tears for Lifeboy in an effort to avoid any pain I might have been feeling, lying to myself in order to stay happy.

The next night, I expected a nice NICU opener, or maybe a surprise Golgi, something exciting to dance to. Instead I heard feedback. A little puzzled, I began to hear a familiar tune, but I couldn't put my finger on it and neither could the audience. Then my stomach dropped. It was the Smashing Pumpkins' Rhinoceros.
Obviously, I broke down in an embarrassing display of tears and emotion, literally sobbing uncontrollably and making a scene. And it was exactly what I needed. Pure therapy and cleansing by way of the band, through the words of my brother, who I know was using Phish to speak to me that night. It was his way of saying, "I'm okay". Trey had a very prophetic look in his eye that spooked me to no end for the entire song, as if he knew what he was doing to me.

As the song ended, I sat down and tried to gather myself. Though moments ago I was sobbing with sadness, suddenly I felt brand new, like a new me had been constructed to go forward from this day on. So then came Halley's-the HAPPIEST Phish song of them all. The new me stood up and danced like mad with an ear-to-ear grin in a pure state of natural ecstacy. Not only was everything going to be okay, but I was now content and at a state of closure with my brother's death, probably because he spoke through Phish and assured me he was alright. That's the point where I knew that I would always give Phish my undying love and support, no matter what struggles they might go through. After all, they need us just as much as we need them-mistakes and all."

—Kevin Cassels