NIGHT OF A THOUSAND SOLOS

It all starts on the A train on a Tuesday, when a guy in a hemp necklace, sandals, cargo shorts, and a shirt that says “Gamehendge” turns to me and my friend to ask how many shows we’ve been to this week. At first I wonder what a Phish fan, or rather a “Phan,” looks like and if I look like one, but then I realize my friend is wearing a Jerry Garcia shirt. The two go on and on about how one night they got “Divided Sky” and “holy shit they played 'Moonage Daydream’ the other night” and generally share excitement about things I am not aware of, until we approach the 34th Street station where he turns to us and says, “Never miss a Tuesday show.” I find out later it’s an old adage of Phishheads adapted from “Never miss a Sunday show,” which applies to everyday people who actually work and don’t make a life out of following a band. Unemployment has a mantra.

We arrive at Madison Square Garden for my firstever Phish gig and head directly to our seats—there are only a few minutes until it kicks off so we put a little hustle in our step. Despite the quickened pace, I notice that virtually every single person I see is either in the same uniform as our Gamehendge friend from the train or wearing a robe or muumuu, carrying a bubble gun, or looking like they just closed a merger—and almost all of them, literally 95 percent of the people I see, are white, male, and over 30. And besides the aforementioned corporate types, they all look like either they’ve never had a job in their life or they are immeasurably, disgustingly, filthy rich, which as I write this is kind of the same damn thing. Now, I’m no stranger to male-dominant crowds—I love metal, fer chrissakes—but even at Iron Maiden or Judas Priest or something even more bro-y like Rage Against the Machine there are at least a few girlfriends at the gig. Maybe there aren’t many of those around these parts.