Concert-goers were treated to a gorgeous sunset between sets on Saturday night at the Phish festival. Photo by Jennifer Hersey
COVENTRY — The final Phish festival was for some the culmination of an era, their youth.
The band that epitomized our college and early adult years was breaking up. This would be their last show ever, and we all had mixed feelings about that.
As Trey Anastasio said after relating a story about living in a cabin in West Charleston and writing some of their songs there, “This feels very full circle.”
It had been several years since I had attended a large gathering like this. Immediately it was overwhelming, the sweeping motion of the crowd, feeling it was a wave that could easily drag you under, much like the ocean. The smells were pungent — mud mixed with cow manure mixed with incense and food cooking mixed with sweat and pot smoke.
Then came the opening bars of the first song and I was 22 years old again, losing all apprehensions, swaying with the music with the sun on my back. I looked around at some of my oldest friends surrounding me and a huge smile spread over my face. I couldn’t get over the idea that we were all here, all together, and practically in my backyard.
It was all the more special because of what it took to get there.
The Commons, generally a gathering area at Phish festivals, left much to be desired this weekend. Fans had to trudge through deep mud to head across the Airport Road and get to the concert field. Photo by Jennifer Hersey
We had decided to wait until Saturday morning to go in, having heard over the radio that fans were urged to wait until crews had a chance to clean up the muddy fields. Saturday morning brought bad news from Phish’s Mike Gordon — they weren’t letting anyone else into the show because of the abyssmal parking areas.
One friend, Anthony Semirale, had flown in from Portland, Oregon, for the show. He, in particular, was not happy about the announcement.
“People who follow the rules lose,” he said.
I had not planned on using the VIP pass handed out to media people, but upon hearing this news, we knew it was our only chance to get inside. In order to use the pass, we all had to load into one car. We emptied my Jeep, quickly loaded up some gear, and left early that morning. Surprisingly we had no trouble getting through the gate and into the camping area. Had we known how easy it would be to get in, we might have planned a little better.
Nighttime in Coventry was a little more eventful than usual this past weekend. Above are hot air balloons, a Bread and Puppet oversized mask, and the ferris wheel. Photo by Jennifer Hersey
Arriving at the camping site, we realized that we had brought one tent, one sleeping bag, two gallons of water, a half-gallon of vodka, and a bag of wine. No food, hardly any clothes, no extra shoes, no plastic bags. Amber Mannix of Cornwall, New York, even forgot to bring money.
Driving in to the site, we suddenly realized what we were getting into. At previous shows, the sites were laid out in an organized fashion, people directed concert-goers to camping sites, and locations such as The Commons were easily accessed.
Not so in Coventry. The “roads” that the production company built for the show did not hold up to the steady rains of Thursday and Friday. The camping fields fared worse. We saw RVs deeply embedded in mud and a Jeep Cherokee that looked more like a Honda Civic, since most of it was absorbed into the mud.
We found a nice spot on high ground where we could set up a tent and remain somewhat dry. By the time we got in, the porta-potties were already rather disgusting, a condition that did not improve over the weekend.
Despite the hardships, the excitement in each of us was palpable. This was the last big hurrah, our final opportunity to be part of something so
Julie McDonald of Lincoln, left, and Amber Mannix search for missing friends before heading in to the concert. Photo by Jennifer Hersey
immense, so wonderful, and to us, so important.
We headed into the concert grounds Saturday evening through a huge mud pit. A situation that would have brought some people to tears elated this crowd. The footwear of choice was galoshes or, for those without proper footwear, plastic bags bound with duct tape. The brave went barefoot.
It became a total free-for-all. No one at the gate was actually checking wrist bands, or bags for contraband. Even the "Mounties," the mounted security force provided by Phish, had little luck moving people.
The concert grounds, a huge natural amphitheater, were covered with art installations. We decided to use the porta-potties inside right off the bat while they were still fresh. Julie McDonald of Lincoln, Vermont, came out saying, “The porta-potties were so nice that I wish I had more to do in there.”
Within minutes the ground in front of the stage was covered with people who were in turn covered in mud. As Phish played “I’ve been wading in the Velvet Sea,” I heard Steve Rappeport of Farmington, New Hampshire, singing in my ear, “I’ve been wading in the mud and pee.”
Bailey the dog is no dummy. He came prepared with his own plastic bag galoshes. Here he is finally on his way home. Photo by Amber Mannix
Between sets a few drops of rain fell on to the concert-goers, creating quite a scene — people rushing around, circling in a panic, digging out rain gear, and heading for shelter. Steve said, “The herd is disturbed.”
Before too long we realized that we had lost one of our own to the throng. Anthony had disappeared when no one was looking. We caught another glimpse of him later on, his back completely coated in mud from doing “mud angels,” only to lose sight again. We found him the next day only to find out that he had decided to climb into the soundboard area and had been forcibly ejected from the concert grounds, his wrist band revoked.
The show itself was not well received by fans who follow Phish closely. It appeared to them that Trey Anastasio had a little too much fun prior to coming onstage and was having trouble playing the guitar. At points they were not playing together, and a band that generally plays tightly was sloppy. I overheard in line for food, “They were talking about the Coalition of Dads and how they love their fathers, then Trey proceeded to play the worse solo of his life.”
Others felt differently. It wasn’t as much about the quality of the music as the idea of the show. Trey became very emotional during the second night of music. He cried and spoke about how much this has meant to all of them. He thanked the hundreds of people who wanted to be there so much they walked in. He was back in Vermont, and it clearly was exactly where he wanted to play their last show.
Just before the fireworks exploded in the sky, Phish played their last song, “The Curtain,” written right in West Charleston many years ago. They played no encore.
Back at the campsite, covered in mud, feet and backs aching, still no one wanted to go to bed. Steve said, “My body is so painfully, painfully tired,
Pilot Mark Gagnon took photographer James Palmisano over the Coventry concert site on August 14. This shot shows the scope of the event. Photo by James Palmisano
but my mind is so painfully awake.”
The party was just beginning. The sound of fireworks exploding and the shhhhhhh of nitrous oxide (called “hippie crack”) spilling from its tank into balloons filled the night air. Cars lined up trying to get out before the big rush were halted until morning. Drivers began an impromptu jam session of horns.
We all looked around at this moment, this experience, these people, this city built for one weekend and realized it was all coming to a close. As Monday morning rolled into sight we were almost relieved that we were stuck inside for a little while longer. That way it wasn’t quite over, yet.
