This was written about the epic Phish Millennium Concert Festival that took place over the course of three days in Florida. I was 20 years old, had never seen Phish in person, and fourteen years later, still can't believe I was a part of this celebration.
A giant balloon, the size of a large beach ball, floated towards my head. Thousands of people were screaming, there was a hot dog the size of a small Buick on the stage, and a lot of glitter.
A giant balloon, the size of a large beach ball, floated towards my head. Thousands of people were screaming, there was a hot dog the size of a small Buick on the stage, and a lot of glitter.
Most of my New Year's
experiences prior to this point had been admittedly tame. They involved my parents' house, a nice
dress, bruschetta, and counting down with Dick Van Dyke. Noisemakers were passed out at midnight,
archaic ones we blew into, or twirled around to make loud clicking and grinding
noises, and I would inevitably end up in a cardboard hat with HAPPY NEW YEAR
written on it in glitter. For the
Millennium celebration, I had wanted to do something special.
Enter
Phish, my generation's answer to the Grateful Dead. It was my little sister Nicole's
suggestion. "You need to loosen
up," she said. "Think of it as payback for never breaking in mom
and dad for me," she brought up, referencing my goody-two-shoes high
school career, complete with sober existence and actually heeding my parents'
rules about leaving doors open to whatever room a boy and I were hanging
out in.
Nicole,
on the other hand, was a free spirit to the core, and had spent the previous
few summers on "Phish Tour," an annual summer trek that involved
following the band around the country, setting up shop at the shows, and
bartering handmade wares for tickets, food, and, well, other handmade
wares. I had spent the previous few
summers taking college courses, playing for soccer championships, and generally
prepping for the future instead of embracing the present. In a display of unbridled idiocy, ambition,
and spontaneity, I agreed to my sister's suggestion, and was determined,
through my trek to the Everglades for
Phish's Millenium Show, to embrace the moment, and experience an adventure
first hand instead of vicariously.
The
trip had started out in a promising fashion, as I'd left the tickets on my
mother's countertop in New Jersey, and realized this oversight somewhere around
Parsippany. After some grumbling on the
part of my boyfriend, Jeff, and his buddy Josh, we hightailed it back to the
tickets before beginning our 23 hour odyssey to Florida. 16 hours in, Somewhere around
mid-North Carolina, I brought up stopping for the night. Josh and Jeff were insistent that we drive
straight through, in case traffic were to hit when we reached Big Cypress
Indian Reservation, a marshy area of the
Everglades with warnings about what to do in case of alligator attacks every
few yards.
"Do
you remember Woodstock?" Jeff shouted over the truck noise, his jet black
hair blowing in the wind from the open window.
"Yea-
but Ali and I arrived early, we really didn't hit any traffic," I yelled
back as a semi sped past the car.
"Exactly,"
Jeff said. "I got there a few hours
after you, and we sat in SIX HOURS of traffic.
Cujo had to take a piss out the window on some poor drunk guy."
"Had
to?" I skeptically raised an eyebrow.
"Hey,
he passed out. You get what you deserve
if you can't defend yourself and are stupid enough to lose consciousness on the side of
the road," Josh answered from his perch in the back seat. Josh was wearing sunglasses, even though it
was dusk, to protect his dilated eyes from the waning light.
I
rolled my eyes. "Okay, we'll drive
as far as we can. But if you get tired,
we stop."
"I
promise." The boys smiled at each other and I knew all was lost. I fell asleep in Charleston, and woke up
outside of Orlando.
"Is
that Mickey Mouse?" I asked, my contact lens-covered eyes adjusting to the daylight.
"It
is," Jeff responded, biting into a handful of potato chips.
"You
drove through the night, didn't you?"
The
boys nodded in the affirmative and the trip continued. We did beat most of the traffic, and only
ended up in a line for little over an hour.
I climbed out the front passenger side window, and, using the seat as a
foot board, swung myself onto the roof of the Chevy Tahoe. There was a line of
cars as far as we could see, and I sat atop the SUV, holding my sister's foam
butterfly on a stick that she made me promise to bring. Sheila, as she was affectionately called, had
accompanied Nicole to every Phish show since 1998, and since Nicole was flying
down and didn't trust the airline to deliver Sheila, I was in charge of
her. I was going to hold Sheila up while
I walked around the acres of grounds, and hope that Nicole would spot her so we
could meet up. In the days before cell
phones, this seemed like an extremely innovative plan.
The string of cars zigzagging behind us was a sight to behold. The
two-lane road wound through the swamps, and was lined on either side by marshes
of tall reeds and low grasses. Horses
waded in a creek the color of mud, while hippies from across the country
converged and conversed. A band set up
on the side of the road, and people emerged from their cars, dancing to enjoy
the time while their vehicles inched along. A
girl skipped by blowing bubbles, and a few guys in tie dye, with scraggly
beards, meandered past.
We
were armed with tents, bug spray, and pamphlets we'd been given at the entrance
to the concert, that contained yet more warnings about keeping our limbs away
from alligators, and a slew of other creatures I was eager to avoid tangling
with. Reading the notes on what to do
in case one of us did get involved in an encounter with a snake, spider, wild
boar, or gator, I figured someone had to be the responsible one in a sea of
miscreants.
Around
my body was a patchwork wrap dress made by Nicole, held up by a curtain tie
from my mom's house. Why that curtain
tie was in Tahoe is still a wonder to me, but I was grateful, since it kept the
dress from dragging along the ground and causing me to trip.
As it turned out, we didn't need Sheila, just a strong sense of observation. While wandering past the makeshift ice pyramid (literally sheets of rectangular ice piled on top of each other), I spotted my sister's boyfriend, and after some screaming and joyous jumping (and one of her friends poking me to ensure I wasn't a hallucination), I was taken to Nicole, who happily reunited with Sheila, and was able to call my mom from a pay phone by the ferris wheel to let her know I had found my little sister.
As it turned out, we didn't need Sheila, just a strong sense of observation. While wandering past the makeshift ice pyramid (literally sheets of rectangular ice piled on top of each other), I spotted my sister's boyfriend, and after some screaming and joyous jumping (and one of her friends poking me to ensure I wasn't a hallucination), I was taken to Nicole, who happily reunited with Sheila, and was able to call my mom from a pay phone by the ferris wheel to let her know I had found my little sister.
By
New Year's Eve night, the smell of ganga, like a skunk at its perfumed best,
mixed with the body odor of thousands and dominated the clean air. My hair was permanently wavy and stuck out at
odd angles, the result of being slept on in a bun to cushion my head. I was sweaty, oily, and wearing my third
patchwork dress of the trip. My sneakers were caked in mud from wandering into the woods the night before
to embrace the makeshift drum circle, and my wrist had a tan line from the
plastic green bracelet given in exchange for half my ticket at the entrance.
I
spent much of the concert on New Year's Eve with Nic, Jeff, Josh, and my friend
Ali, who had flown into Miami by accident, taken a cab to the concert, and was
wearing a cardboard sign around her neck that said "Need Ride to Miami-
Will Barter With Hugs." The sign
was decorated with polka dots, and her hair was held back by a bandana and a
glow in the dark necklace she'd found at the show the night before. After some
discussion of how to enjoy the long drive north, we decided that we should
attempt to hit Universal Studios before heading home. In order to pay for this venture, I suggested
we eliminate the excess food from the back of the car. "Are we ever really going to eat all
those treats our moms bought at BJ's?" I asked.
Jeff
shrugged, "Probably not. If you can
sell them, go for it. But if someone tries to trade you for their baked goods, just say no. The guys down there were selling brownies, and I have a feeling they weren't the bake sale kind " He pointed at
Josh, who was lying on the ground, his mouth covered in chocolate, staring up at the streetlight.
"It's
moving man. I swear, it's waving to
me," Josh answered.
I
rolled my eyes and took the Rice Krispie's box, hung it around my neck with the
curtain tie (it was extremely versatile), and filled it with goodies. Nicole stuck Sheila's wire through the
box. "Ambience," she
explained.
"Rice Krispie Treats, Granola
Bars! Two dollars, or three for five
bucks!" my voice carried over the notes, over and over as I meandered
through the gyrating bodies, dancing and arcing to the music.
"I'll
take three," a guy on stilts bent down and handed me a five dollar bill
before continuing on his way.
"Can
I have six?" a woman with dreadlocks and a pug pulled a ten out of her
bathing suit top and handed it to me.
"I'll
trade you this dress for a couple of granola bars.
It's made out of hemp," another dreadlocked girl, this one with
purple boots and oversized sunglasses offered.
The
food was gobbled up quickly, and I locked the proceeds in the glove compartment
for safekeeping. We headed over towards
the music as the sun began to descend, and staked our claim with blankets and handmade wool sweaters. Dancing around to the
lyrics of Farmhouse, we sang "Welcome this is the farmhouse/we have
cluster flies, alas. And this time of
year, is bad" in time to the music, while our hands kept the beat by
swatting mosquitoes. Nicole and I twirled
in circles, and with two guys dressed as Tigger and Scooby Doo,
respectively. Nicole held Sheila aloft, and the butterfly matched the sky behind the stage as it turned orange and
purple. In the setting sun, the
musicians almost appeared to be on fire if I squinted. As darkness descended on the crowd, people
started pulling out lighters and waving them in the air, and glowsticks and
glow necklaces were thrown like Frisbees.
"Wanna
go up in the balloon?" Josh asked, and I hesitated, thinking he might have had more tainted baked goods.
"He
means the hot air balloon," Ali whispered, pointing at the giant
multicolored spectacle behind me.
"Ah. Yes.
Yes, let's do that," I grabbed Jeff's hand and the four of us left
my sister and friends with our stuff, and ran off in the direction of the
balloon. We stood on line next to two
people covered entirely in silver body paint and metallic outfits, before climbing
over the rope edge and into the wicker basket.
"I
feel like Dorothy," I giggled to Ali.
"Welcome
to Oz," she smiled back, pointing down at the people who were
getting smaller and smaller by the second.
For a brief moment, I thought about my fear of heights, but reconciled
that the millennium only happens once every thousand years, and I should
embrace floating a hundred feet above the Earth in a giant basket. The wind was surprisingly cool as we floated
higher and higher, farther away from reality and solid ground.
I
could pick out our group, on my right near the stage, and Sheila bopping along
above the fray. As the craziness below
became more distant, geometric shapes began to emerge, and an order descended
on the fields and the people. The curve
of the stage, the rectangular campgrounds, the strong lines separating the
mowed down pieces of field from the wild wood border. There was such a tumultuous rolling energy,
and yet there was a harmony to it all, to the way the bodies swayed in rhythm
and the reeds along the edges of the grounds mimicked their movements. Within the rebellion, the calm organization
of it all permeated as people merged with nature and I felt at peace and at one
with the thousands below. In that moment, with the wind blowing us
higher and higher, I realized that even within chaos, there have to be
constants. There has to be someone to
record, and remember, and remind the other involved parties of the excitement
and insanity that they were a part of.
In my sober state, experiencing as much of good time my intoxicated concertgoer cohorts,
embracing all the joy and bedlam they were creating, I, Miss Goody Two Shoes,
was having fun.
"They're
playing 'After Midnight!" Jeff shouted, breaking my spell as strains of a
funk infused version of the Eric Clapton song lifted through the air. Below us, the masses of people realized the
same thing, and that it meant this was the last song before the end of the
1900's.
"Woo
Hoo!" we shouted, connecting with the revolution below, as a group of
people looked up and cheered, pumping their fists in the air. The balloon man, looking mildly bored, pulled
on his ropes and lowered us to the ground.
Jeff jumped out first, and lifted me by my waist. Making our way back through the people to our
blanket, a low growl around us turning into a roar, as a man in a
"Father Time" costume, complete with oversized costume head and three
foot long beard, pedaled a giant bicycle on stage. In time to his pedaling, a clock ticked away,
counting down the minutes until midnight.
"Hey. Hey- he's slowing down!" Nicole yelled,
and the crowd around us started clapping, encouraging him to move his legs, but
to no avail. His shoulders began to
slump, and his feet slowed their circles until they stopped. There was a stunned moment of confusion,
before Ali shouted "LOOK!" and pointed back towards the sound mixing
island in the middle of the crowd. A
giant fanboat was surfing through the crowd.
Within about thirty seconds, the edges of the boat fell away to reveal a
giant hot dog, and Nicole leaned towards me, "It's the meatstick from
their '94 show!"
"What
the hell is a meatstick?" I asked, confused.
"It's
a giant hotdog. And it. Is.
AWESOME!" Nicole shouted over the crowd noise, whose decibels at this
point were somewhere between my ears are bleeding and this is the greatest
night of my life. I decided that
hanging in the middle of a sea of mostly vegetarians was the safest logical
place for the giant wiener as the band jumped out of it and ran on stage. They appeared to feed Father Time something,
and then stepped back as he began pedaling with renewed vigor. The band grabbed their instruments, and
counted down with the rest of us from 10.
"…
3…2…1… Happy New Year!" I shouted, reaching my arm out and taking a photo
of Jeff and myself as we kissed to celebrate the new millennium. Confetti was thrown, giant balloons started
to fall, and the strains of "Auld
Lang Syne" wafted towards us from the two story high speakers a
hundred feet away. Nicole and I bounced
up and down while we hugged, and I took an photo of her reacting to a giant
firework exploding over the stage. Her
sequined top, layered over the patchwork skirt and corduroy pants, reflected
the flash and Josh blinked a few times and shook his head, a little
confused. A girl danced by throwing
glitter.
"I'm
the New Year's Phish Fairy," she explained, and bounded off, her wings
swinging behind her. In her wake was a balloon floating
away, so I ran to catch it. I laughed
out loud, realizing it reminded me of the blueberry girl from Willy Wonka-
perfectly round, and begging to be popped.
I just wanted to squeeze it.
"I want to take it home! I said to Jeff, who responded, "Baby, I don't think it will fit in the
car."
"But
I want it!" I whined, trying to
fit my arms all the way around one and failed miserably as it slipped out and
was promptly spiked by Josh.
"There
are some things that just need to stay at Phish shows," he smiled,
watching the balloon bounce off as he wrapped his arms around me.
I
turned to Nicole. "Thanks for
bringing me here," I shouted over the music.
She turned and smiled at me as another firework exploded overhead. She looked up thoughtfully, a moment of calm reflection in the insanity of the celebration. "Here," she said, reaching out and handing me Sheila, "You've earned her." I took the butterfly and waved her over my head, bouncing around to the notes flowing off the stage, and Jeff lifted me up and spun me around, the lights and colors and music flowing into me and out of the tips of my hair.
She turned and smiled at me as another firework exploded overhead. She looked up thoughtfully, a moment of calm reflection in the insanity of the celebration. "Here," she said, reaching out and handing me Sheila, "You've earned her." I took the butterfly and waved her over my head, bouncing around to the notes flowing off the stage, and Jeff lifted me up and spun me around, the lights and colors and music flowing into me and out of the tips of my hair.
It
took me a week to get all the silver specks out of my hair. I
read an article in Spin magazine a
month later that I cut out and added to the scrapbook containing the pamphlet,
my plastic bracelet, and ticket. It said
"Phish hosted what was, in effect, a pop-cultural Roswell: ignored by the
media, denied by the authorities, and far-freaking-out if you were there."
Far-freaking-out indeed. It was one of
the wildest, most bizarre adventures of my life, and left me with indelible
memories, an indomitable spirit, and the realization for the rest of my life
that some people will see hotdogs, and think of summer barbecues, while I will
forever think of four grown men floating towards a stage, and how many brownies
it must have taken to convince them it was a good idea.
