The Phish Bowl- Part 1
Over the years, I have forced my buddy Brolin to attend a variety of rokken concerts. We tried to start a mosh pit with 50-year-olds at Alice Cooper, almost got struck by lightning during an inland hurricane at Motley Crue, and got on stage with Andrew W.K. where I headbanged so hard I threw up. I was proud of Brolin for going to these shows and having fun, because he is a hipster who likes crappy, pretentious, indie garbage. We have clashed innumerable times over music, and there have been many battles in our War of Rokk vs. Emo Ear-Poop.
Because Brolin is generally cool about going to my shows, I have gone to some of his. This weekend, he dragged me to a Phish concert in BFE, Wisconsin. I hate Phish. I think jam bands are a cancer, a cluster of festering hemorrhoids plaguing the aching anus of the world. Their fans are generally filthy, voluntarily unemployed, and completely spaced-out, and you have to be extremely high to appreciate any of their 20-minute-long songs. Out of all the jam bands, though, Phish are the worst.
Everything about Phish offends me. Their posturing is an affront to even a veteran hypocrite like myself: they pose as fan-friendly while charging $45 for T-shirts and $13 for 16-oz cans of warm Bud Light. The personal appearances of the band members also invite venomous derision: the singer looks like someone even a D&D player could beat up, the bass player has the haircut of a registered sex offender, and their keyboardist looks like a fatter, sloppier version of the Guy on the Couch. And the songs…oh, the songs. Let’s just say I would rather work for a week in an African blood diamond mine and/or drink Susan Boyle’s used toilet water than listen to a Phish CD.
Despite all this, though, I still enjoy going to their shows with Brolin and his friends Rosencrantz and Baldwin. The entire experience is like wading into the urine-warmed kiddie pool of humanity, and it never fails to be a showcase of the disastrously unintended consequences of the 1960s. It is a wondrous and terrible experience, and you see things that will stay with you forever.
So when he offered me a ticket, I couldn’t refuse. This latest adventure, The Phish Bowl, is a celebration of the shameless fans of an unreasonably popular band.
Stay tuned.
And so it begins… Another longwinded twisted tale of adventures past. Even the Fratellis would be on the edge of their seats.
Ohh yeah… and just to remind you Karl, though not a but metal show, there were still plenty of toothless, meth addled, ex convicts to go around.
Phish does not discriminate against anyone with an extra buck in their pocket.
Karl,
The name and picture of Brolin and Baldwin had me rolling on the floor in a death spasm of laughter for 20 odd minutes. I felt like the weasels from “Who Framed Roger Rabbit”. Thank you my friend, I can’t wait for the next thrilling installation.