The Glowstick War

While some may say I haven't changed much since college, I would argue that I've come along way. I now eat fish, have my own bedroom and can be found most week nights in bed by a reasonable hour.

In fact, if you would have invited me to a Phish show 5 years ago, I probably would have pointed to my pink popped collar and said something along the lines of "The hippies lost faggot, why don't you just conform!" Then I would have stormed off to play some Eddie Money and engage in healthy debate about the true top 5 of Indiana University's sorority system.

And while I still have a penchant for the color pink, I've traded the Sperry's for some Chucks, the polo for some t shirts and I try not to use gay slurs unless I'm extremely intoxicated and I'm positive everyone around me is straight. Furthermore my taste in music has evolved. I've gotten fairly immersed in the whole electronic thing and pretty much abandoned all hip hop. When someone invited me along to a Phish show, my first feeling was general curiosity. I didn't really know what Phish or "Trey" were about. My idea of a jam band was a 17 minute version of "Crazy Game of Poker" or Dave ripping off a 20 minute "Two Step."

The concert was on a Monday night, and I was scheduled to work late so I did what any career-minded individual would do. I secretly left work to buy a ticket and then bitched about having to stay late until I was dismissed. (Don't try this move unless you are hands down the most popular person in the office.)

Armed with a 40 of IPA (not really a 40, probably more like a pint and a half) and one of those single serving wine cups from Shark Tank I set out for the Hollywood Bowl.

The Hollywood Bowl is really a magical place, if you ever visit, and they allow pregaming on site prior to entry. I slammed my white Zinfandel and guzzled down my large ale and started the walk up the large hill in which the large amphitheater is situated.

About a quarter of the way up, I could smell the distinct haze of marijuana. Half way up the hill I was stoned. And by the time I reached my seats I was on another planet.

When the band came up, it was a sense of jubilation. People dancing, smoking, drinking, having genuinely a good time. It's not the feeling of stress you get before going into a electro show, where you have 30 minutes to give yourself an all you can hoover buffet or 'how should I time when I eat this molly bro?' No this was just a diverse crowd that wanted to listen to some music and have an enjoyable Monday night.

The first thing I have to say about the music is that it was damn impressive. I had always thought that these Bonaroo type bands hopped around playing simple chords, singing about how great it is to live in a world with peace and love.

That is not the case.

These guys fucking shred.

By the time the end of the first act came I was about to finish my third spliff. Then these guys rocked a near perfect cover of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" and my face melted. Like it was like I was in some drug induced trance where everything in the world was perfect. Ok so I kinda was, but we all know pot doesn't count. It's legal here.

Then they took a set break, not for themselves I'm sure, but for the audience to recover from what had just happened.

During the break you realize that to some people it's not just a concert, it's a culture. Some post dubstep molly popping tween shares his bowl with a hippy that has been following Phish around for 30 years. A guy bumps into someone whilst not looking, both parties spill their beers, instead of a fight ensuing they become best friends while waiting in line to snag another. These are just good people. It's not a culture of rage, it's a celebration of life.

You know that feeling of awesomeness you get when you're at a crowded event and the beach ball is coming right for you and you hit it back in the air? It's fucking great right? Like no way is that beach ball hitting the ground, not on your watch. That's how a Phish show feels...the whole time.

By the time the second act started I realized I was starting to see more and more flashes of neon go past my periphery vision. An old timer behind me kept saying "Wait for it...almost...not yet..." I kept thinking 'wait for what?'

I didn't have to wonder for long. After a particularly saucy guitar solo, they came in droves...by the thousands. Glowsticks raining from the heavens. The Glowstick war was underway. An old Phish concert tradition, towards the end of the show concert promoters will dump bags of glowsticks in all sections of the arena, fans will bring in hundreds of their own, and the result is a neon cascade flowing down from the very back row, all the way to the front of the stage.

At times it can be frightening, the sound of a Glowstick launched from W20 gets some speed by the time it whizzes by your ear in G12, but perhaps it's the adrenaline because by the time I was hit several times in the back and neck I had realized that this is what it was all about. Hanging out with 17,000 good people with a good buzz whipping a few plastic toys around like little kids while we listened to a great American band rock the hell out.

It was actually initially reported that there was one casualty during the Glowstick war, but upon further investigation, a glancing blow knocked a girl out of a trance and she sat down for a moment to realize how much fun she was having. That's all.

The Glowstick war was one of those rare instances where there were no losers, as oft is the opposite is ordinarily true about the institution of war. But this one was different. The Glowstick was was won by everyone.

As soon as it had begun it was over, for most another successful Phish show in the books. For me, an experience I would not soon forget. But I have to say, I totally get it now. There wasn't a single face leaving that show that wasn't locked in an ear to ear smile. And while I'm not going to throw away all my material possessions and devote the next 10 years to following around a band, it reiterates to me something that has become increasingly clear the older I become.

You have to do what makes you happy and if that includes riding a beat up minivan cross country to listen to some old guys wail on guitars every night...fuck it, you've got it all figured out.