Farewell, Phish, and fellow travelers

By J. Patrick Coolican
Seattle Times staff reporter

ALDEN PELLETT / AP Fans react as the band Phish starts another song in the first set at the Phish Festival in Coventry, Vt., earlier this month. The communal experience is one of the things devotees of the band will miss the most.

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Seattle Times staffer and hardcore Phish fan J. Patrick Coolican made the pilgrimmage to see Phish's last show in Vermont last week. Here's his take on the end of the phenomenon.

When I saw my friend JD at the final Phish show, I knew the weekend had finally begun. I belted out his name and could see him pause, hearing a familiar voice. Then he recognized me and ran forward, enveloping me in his bear hug.

He had traveled to Vermont from San Francisco, I from Seattle, though neither of us knew. We'd seen Phish together at Alpine Valley in the summer of '98. Covered "Ramble On." Great show.

Another friend, known in many Phish circles as The Mayor, was at that one, too. A year later I ran into him at the Alpine show. I'd needed a ride. He was at the beer tent. Holding court. The Mayor! Had a good laugh about that one. An amazing "Tweezer."

These were the moments that made the Phish experience what it was, the feeling that events like this weren't random at all, a feeling that you were part of something larger than yourself, at a time when religion and nationalism were either pathetic, fascistic, or both.

For 65,000 fans in Coventry, Vt., who slogged through Biblical rain and soupy mud for the last show ever, it really sank in like our feet did in the muck. (Man, hope that's just mud.)

It sank in during the first night encore, "Harry Hood," when Trey Anastasio, guitarist, and Mike Gordon, bassist, were perched on a special stage, facing one another during that classic slow-build jam. They looked as if they were in a lover's embrace. And they were.

It sank in watching the bedraggled masses streaming up the road — like refugees, everyone said. They'd walked 15 miles, some of them, because of the mud and traffic. Carrying backpacks and blankets, looking so weary. People took them in, adopted them. Gave them food and water.

It sank in during "Down with Disease," as the glowsticks rained down from the sky and everyone jumped with childish glee.

And I keep waiting for the time
 
when I can finally say

that this has all been wonderful,

but now I'm on my way.

It sank in when Page McConnell, keyboardist, tried to sing "Velvet Sea" and I thought he flubbed the verse, but actually, he was sobbing. Couldn't sing.

It sank in during "Glide."

And we're glad glad glad that you're alive.

It sank in when Trey broke down and sobbed while he was thanking everyone in the band and all the fans.

It sank in as I realized the lyrics, which can often seem like so much gibberish, were perfect this time.

As he saw his life run away from him,

Thousands ran along

Chanting words from a song.

And it's been sinking in ever since, the sad recognition that it's over.

J. Patrick Coolican: 206-464-3315 or jcoolican@seattletimes.com