Tripping at a Phish Show: A Un-Psychedelic “Experience”

I can’t believe I haven’t yet told you the story of the great Phish show debacle of 2024!

Such a sad tale it is.

I caught the 2024-07-21 Xfinity Center Phish show in Mansfield, MA, with my dear friend Scott (whose contributions to my appreciation of music, Phish in particular, are chronicled here). 

He picked me up at my place for night two of our four-show mini-tour. 

“Can you believe we’re still doing this?” we said to each other incredulously and gleefully. The band continued to innovate, magically remaining musically relevant and sophisticated long past the point when most bands would be considered a nostalgia act. 

Mike, Trey, Page, and Fishman, the four members of the band, were pushing 60 years old, and they kept showing up with enthusiasm, so Scott and I, now in our late 40s, continued to show up enthusiastically as well, 30 years since our first Phish show in 1994. 

Over the years, we’ve developed certain show habits, among them is the mutual understanding that we bolt the moment the encore ends. You see, we take great pride in getting to the car ahead of the crowds, thus avoiding post-show parking lot gridlock.

Now, Scott is in the best physical condition of his life. He’s a runner. He eats well. He’s nimble. There’s a bounce in the guy’s step, and nothing animates him more than the energy of a show.

Me? I haven’t aged quite as gracefully. 

My BMI suggests that I should lose a few pounds, and I’m not as active as I was. I want to blame 15+ years of SSRIs for exacerbating the hereditary phenomenon my extended family affectionately calls “the Bornstein belly,” because antidepressants are known to cause some weight gain, but so does overindulging in treats before bed, so I guess the ball is in my court on that one.

The show was fabulous. Sometime after 11 pm, the boys took their final post-encore bows and, per our custom, Scott and I were off to the races.

Scott athletically wove through the crowds of inebriated, danced-out concert-goers like a bird flying through a dense forest. I was holding my own, or so I thought, until I tripped on an uneven patch of pavement and dove, superman-style, directly into the asphalt.

I knew it was a bad fall as soon as I hit the ground, and the sound of dozens of people simultaneously gasping pretty much confirmed my assessment. 

There I was, flat on my stomach, dazed, but acutely aware that I had suddenly become “that guy.” 

If there’s one universal truth, it’s that nobody wants to be “that guy.”

Here’s a question for you: When watching an action movie, do you ever find yourself thinking some crazy nonsense like, “Dude, if I were in that situation, I would totally jump off the train, roll down the embankment, and bolt into the woods! I could totally pull that off!” 

Having recently held the title of “that guy,” I’m here to tell you that, no, you could not pull that off. 

You’re full of shit; the same shit that you would involuntarily deposit in your action-movie cargo pants were you to actually find yourself in such a situation.  

And, listen, I get it. You want to feel like you’ve still got it. 

We all want to feel that way, but have you taken a bad fall recently? As an adult? 

It’s radically insulting; a complete affront to both body and mind. It’s the cold, hard reality of human fragility slapping you across the face. 

Now that we’ve cleared that up, back to the story:

When my body stopped sliding across the pavement, the palm of my left hand looked like hamburger meat, torn up and bloodied, and one of my knees was scraped up and sore. Adrenaline and embarrassment, though, are powerful allies in moments such as these, and I somehow managed to get back on my feet and limped the rest of the way to the car. 

I poured some water on my hands, fell into the passenger seat, and we took off.

First of all, we made incredible time.

I had ridden my bike to the previous day’s show, so I had already memorized a route through the backroads that allowed us to avoid the backed-up highway traffic, and my house was only two towns away. 

Even with the searing pain of my palms, I couldn’t help but smile as we pulled into my driveway, knowing that 95% of those in the venue’s lot were still very much in the lot. 

Scott gave me an approving nod, with raised eyebrows, also tickled by our teleport-like escape from the lot. We confirmed the basics for the next day’s Phish show, this one at Mohegan Sun in Connecticut, a much longer trip, and he drove off into the moonlight, Rhode Island-bound. 

What happened next was something that only middle-aged married men who insist on reliving the glory days can fully appreciate: 

“How was the Phish show?” Carrie whispered, only half-awake, as I tiptoed into the bedroom. 

“I AM *NOT* TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT!” I screamed defensively…to myself…in some far corner of my mind where even my subconscious might not hear it. 

“I fell,” I said sheepishly. “I’m okay. I think. Go back to sleep. I might end up at urgent care in the morning.”