Lemonwheel Journal (A Phish Story)

August 31, 1998

The fact that two weeks has elapsed since the end of the Lemonwheel, (heretofore referred to as simply, “the Wheel”), is a good indicator of how long it has taken me to recover from the extravaganza. Actually, I would’ve done this sooner, but I chased after a hurricane last week, but that’s another journal entry.

Why I love the band Phish

I should begin by describing how I gained the most fulfillment interacting with my fellow Phish fans. Simply enough, I just started a running tally of what everyone’s zodiac sign was. I figured this would be a good group to study---a bunch that packs up for a long drive to partake in a weekend-long party with a bare minimum of rules and six sets of fantastic music, at the least. Indeed, a lot of the people I asked had been on the road for well over a month following the band around, indulging in one of America’s finest adventures. Anyway, I ended up polling well over seven hundred people, most of whom were extremely friendly, enjoying a good buzz, or both. Had I not had some excuse to start a conversation, I would’ve encountered a fraction of the people I did and had a lesser time as a result. Interaction with this crowd is especially rewarding because, like the band, the average I.Q. of the fans is higher than with your typical rock and roll crowd. Not a lot of Camaros in this parking lot, if you know what I'm saying...

My favorite thing about most Phish fans I speak to is that they seem to be acquaintances from another life or something. It seems like we’ve picked up a conversation right in the middle, even though we’ve never met. That’s as close as I can come to describing the brotherhood that the souls who love Phish share, I think. It’s this feeling, coupled with what I’d call sonic intoxication that compels many to follow the band, see multiple shows, and live in a little sub-society for a while. Sonic intoxication would be when the band reaches a peak of energy or inspiration while playing that is, in a very real sense, shared with thousands in the audience. The music is so perfect and the moments so sublime that they produce an adrenaline rush, a goose-pimple inducing euphoria that’s very much like a drug. Like a crack-head looking for the next rock, a true Phish fan will gladly travel the miles to the next city to catch that next buzz, having a blast along the way to boot. Some bands will provide sonic intoxication now and then, which is nice. The thing about Phish is, they deliver it every single time because they are a freak of nature. As I like to put it: they are either “on”, or they’re “fucking unbelievable”. Four musical geniuses with very similar goals, on the same musical page with uncanny frequency. The most remarkable thing is that the consensus among those in the know is they just keep getting better. How far can they take this? How much better can utterly sublime near-flawlessness get? How many different ways do I, the writer, have to put it before I’m satisfied? (I guess I’m making up for all the post-show moments when I couldn’t put it into words). Nevertheless, I digress---this is supposed to be about the Wheel…

More Sprecifically...

So, for those that remember what a Phish parking lot was like, (no cops), back in ’92 or so, imagine that times fifty. Seeing that this was a decommissioned AFB, the swath of land that played host to this party of parties was about three miles long and one mile wide. At one end was the concert area, which was perhaps a quarter mile from the first area that one was permitted to pitch a tent. The distance from the first campsite to the last one may have been two miles, but suffice it to say I couldn’t see the other end of the party from the top of an RV parked at the front. This space was a sea of tents, parked cars, RV’s, and two or three “main streets”, former landing strips for B-52 bombers now playing host to those vending nearly everything imaginable. There were also numerous unofficial stages for up and coming “jam” bands, including “23”, “Hypnotic Clambake”, and “Deep Banana Blackout”.

Not to be omitted are the several “dance floors”, basically RV’s with a P.A. and a dude spinning funk and disco tunes for the passerby that soon became the party. But the best part of all, (for the recreational drug user, that is), was that the whole thing was basically an open-air drug bazaar. 60,000+ people and essentially no cops made for plenty of buying and selling of what have you, (although I never witnessed crack or smack changing hands). It’s funny how it can become routine for someone to walk by stating what particular substance he has for sale or actually hold it up in the air for inspection and save his breath. I was told that midday Monday was the time to be there because dealers were selling their wares at clearance prices because they didn’t want to all the way back sitting on a powder keg, so to speak. Wonderfully outrageous! Of course at a gathering of this size, with basically no rules, you’re going to have fights---except I never saw or even heard of one the whole time---very cool indeed. This camping area seemed to be the coolest place in the world to party---then I went into the concert area…

The main ballroom...

The stage was pretty much normal size, but it was dwarfed by the sound system, which included four speaker towers in strategic spots in the midst of the crowd. This afforded those in the 1,000th row sound as good as someone on the 10th. I also noticed that as I walked around the concert acreage, the sound from the stage was pretty damned good no matter where I was. There were ample concession stands on either side of the masses, although the prices seemed way too high compared to those in the lot from the gypsies. The cool thing was that the inside food stands were staffed by locals---lots and lots of locals that Phish probably cut a nice chunk of cash, not to mention the tip jar take. (I should mention here that the weekend was estimated to pump $25,000,000 into the ailing local economy). There was a Ferris wheel off to one side that had a seemingly endless line, but at least those in line had a Phish show to entertain them while they waited. The best part of the concert venue, besides the band, of course, would be the “Garden of Infinite Pleasantries”. This consisted of a number artist-influenced displays, for lack of a better term, that were big fun for the child-like state that is brought on by a good LSD trip. There was a big space with thousands of stackable rocks that lent themselves to various “sculptures” of balance and creativity. Not far from there was the “drum circle”, which featured various steel household items and such that were pounded on in rhythmic fashion during all of the time the band wasn’t on. It was tough to get a spot in that area, I noticed.

There were 12-15 ft high dirt mounds, which afforded a view of the proceedings, along with a terraced, much higher dirt hill that allowed one to be seated and observe. The “Garden” followed a Far East theme, with various gondola-type structures and a little pool with trippy effects and goldfish. Mounds with thatched tree-fort style mazes competed with a long canvas-covered caterpillar big enough to sit in for the shadow-watching tripper’s affections. I think there also was a big sandbox, as well, but that could’ve been a hallucination on my part. In summation, the Garden was certainly the coolest place to enjoy a good psychedelic trip. The “toys” were fantastic and the company, other "phans" in "mind-expansion" like you read about, made it the perfect setting for those in like condition.

But what about the music?

The actual shows were excellent, as usual, with a few twists for good measure. I was amused at how the weekend became a stern endurance test, testing both one’s physical fitness and buzz-planning skills. Many were those that simply slept through entire sets--- in the venue. Not coincidentally, quite a few people popped a beer for breakfast. I would be interested to know how many “man-songs”, i.e. the # of songs played multiplied by the # of people passed-out, were missed. This was not all bad, however, as the chatter from non-phans was greatly reduced due to people being just plain partied-out. Anyway, the first day was highlighted for me by an amazing “Slave to the Traffic Light” that was punctuated by a glow-stick war---thousands of glow-sticks in the air at any given moment. The night’s regular sets were capped-off by a searing rendition of the Rolling Stones’ “Lovin’ Cup” and then my personal favorite, “Halley’s Comet”. Trey then announced that there would be an unprecedented fourth set of improvisational, Brian Eno-like ambient sounds as soon as hundreds of candles, made by concert-goers, were brought to form a circle around the band on the stage. I had a commitment to try and meet Beau, my travel-mate beginning in Atlanta, outside the venue after the show, so I headed out. In fact, I was supposed to meet Beau after the first set, but completely forgot after I ran into some acquaintances from Atlanta and got baked. Anyway, I stayed at the Info board for a good amount of time and then, in an utter lapse of psychedelic judgement, succumbed to the lure of the RV disco dance floor that was a bit down the road.

(I hereby blame most of this on the asshole that sold me the bogus ecstasy. This threw off my entire buzz plan, because I was going to X Saturday night, get to sleep relatively early and then trip really hard on Sunday. Seeing that I lacked the discipline to see all three sets Saturday in a sober state, I decided to hoof it all the way back to the car and do less than one hit of the “jerry prints”. This turned out to be a rocket-ride, which was good and bad, but plan skewering in any case. In retrospect, I would’ve just gotten really baked, (as hits off a pipe are always readily shared here),and been done with it.

Strategic skirt-chasing error

Anyway, don’t get me wrong, the disco didn’t suck, but I lost track of time there and missed the “ambient jam” back at the stage. The DJ was hot, spinning James Brown, Stevie Wonder, and KC, among others. I was completely grooving, loving life as women actually started hitting on me. One was a fine blonde with a group from Penn St., who started working it with me, which got the attention of a Helena Christensen look-alike that was playing hard to get until this point. The blonde was soon castigated by her rhythm- challenged boyfriend, who started giving me shit. “Listen buddy”, I explained, “I’m not your problem. Your girlie with the wandering eye is your problem!” I then concentrated on the other one, who I soon determined to be an Aries with much style. We were hitting it off wonderfully, but, like an idiot, I decided to attempt to make it to the “Ring of Fire” jam before I figured out where this thing with her was headed. She was sad to see me go, but, in retrospect, not as sad as I am to see me go, if you dig. Anyway, I made it as far as the nitrous tanks a ways up the path whereupon I, ironically enough, got my wits back and returned to chase after the sweet young thing back at the dance floor. Alas, she was gone, but at least I had a big balloon of laughing gas to ease my pain.

(It occurred to me at this point that there sure were a bunch of kids that were clearly not here for the Phish shows hanging around. A lot under 21, with the crooked caps and baggy pants enjoying the no rules party and sending off something other than a kind vibe, if you will. I assume that these are primarily the scum that ripped people off, but more on that later.) I then spent probably another hour dancing, (once to an amusing Neil Diamond version of “Cracklin’ Rosie”), until it occurred to me that I had almost no energy left to move my feet.

Indeed I think at this point I’d reached my physical limit. To explain this dilemma, I would first point out that I saw two NYC sunrises and drove many hours in the past three days just to get here. Friday was spent walking extensively about the scene polling for zodiac signs and dancing a little then, too. I should point out that it’s easy to walk miles and miles without really thinking about it when the scenery is so utterly amusing. Saturday consisted of frisbee-throwing, miles and miles of walking, and of course three sets of Phish. At the end of my rope, I made it to my tent only to find that I couldn’t get to sleep directly because of the late hour of my dose-dropping, (curse you, bogus X dealer!) I finally got to sleep after as eventful a day as I’ve ever experienced.

Shut the fuck up, he explained!

The following morning came soon, and I briefly thought that I’d been picked up by a tornado and transported to a trailer park in New Jersey. Such was the feeling one got from the VERY LOUD people in a camper across the way. A very foul-mouthed bunch with a thick N.E. accent had unfortunately decided to openly debate trivial matters, most of which culminated with one guy laughing in a fashion that could never be duplicated in print. If it wasn’t so amusing, I would’ve been pissed off because I was awakened the morning before in similarly rude fashion---that time by a loud generator for some clown selling coffee. Anyway, I once again hit Main St. to get something to eat and help people sell stuff while taking my poll. I enjoyed going from group to group, like a party orphan, meeting more interesting people and being a carnival barker of sorts at the same time. I helped one girl sell water with the slogan: “Hydrate that hangover!” A guy selling fruit plates benefited from me loudly proclaiming the benefits of vitamins from fruit to enhance today’s acid trip,(or “spin”, as local parlance had it). At one point I smoked some kind bud with some dudes from NYC and soon thereafter lost my precious “tally board” with over seven-hundred marks on it representing zodiac signs. Luckily I had counted from the day before and had that total, but there was a new control group today, (people from NY and points south) and those numbers were gone. The consequences of smoking weed!

Back to the show...

Made it to the final afternoon session before I realized I had lost the chart and at this point my anxiety was mounting because I still hadn’t found Beau. I was his ride back to Atlanta and, besides that, I missed hanging out with him because there’s something to be said for sharing this experience with someone you can talk to about it later. Just because my old concert crew had all gotten real lives wasn't going to stop me from seeing this band. On the other hand, it can be very restricting to go with friends because you tend to just stay in your little cocoon and not intermingle nearly as much---thus missing out on a lot.

Anyway, the first set, second day was played to an exhausted Garrett, (me). I Spent a lot of time wandering, hoping to run into Beau, and a lot of time sitting on my ass alternately cursing myself for tripping last night and the bogus X dealer. I met a totally beautiful Capricorn from Montana at one point that had an interesting take on the weekend’s proceedings. She liked the concerts O.K., but didn’t enjoy just hanging out in the camping area with all the down time. The girl partied, too, which made it all the more odd. I guess one man’s party is another man’s paint drying, huh? I tried to tell her that it’s a joy to be around all these people that are so cool and in such a fun atmosphere. She countered that the scene is like this basically all the time in Montana, thus boring to her. I think I need to visit Montana! Made it to my feet for “Possum”, one of the band’s real party numbers, which was nice. It was clear now that I wasn’t the only one exhausted in this crowd. For the rest of the evening the band might’ve thought they were losing it a little because the normal rabid response from and energy exchange with the crowd was noticeably muted. I suspect this may factor in to the theory that these tour-ending extravaganzas, (the Ball, the Went), have great set lists but aren’t the best shows, (relatively speaking, of course). I just got a kick out of how Phish could just rip a song and it was all people could do to say “Yaaay!”

Finally found my long-lost pal Beau, who was waiting in all his red-, (literally partially dyed fire engine red) haired splendor. Relief was gained for both parties in the embrace that ensued. He soon bid farewell to the pal he’d made in the four-hour, (four-hour?!?) ATM line and promised to follow me like a puppy the rest of the time. He brightened my day by producing a new piece of cardboard on which to record zodiac signs, and I was a new man. Doubled, (should’ve tripled) up on the acid for the second set, more or less convinced that I was too depleted to have any hope. Alas, Mr. Hoffman’s grand invention did the trick, and I was spinning but good for the second set and beyond. As luck would have it, this is the set most agreed was the best one of the weekend. The energy was high and the music and humor top notch. I say humor because Jon Fishman, the drummer, got his day in the sun by taking a lounge singer turn as “Bob Weaver” and singing Marvin Gaye’s, “Sexual Healing”, of all things. This was followed by the show-stopper “Run Like an Antelope, during who’s intro I proclaimed; “this sucks!”, sarcastically, to nobody in particular. I got a big laugh out of a girl laying down in front of me, which was nice.

Anyway, I was somewhat distracted by a scene playing out before me involving a beautiful blonde Aries and a dude that had apparently just hooked up with her recently. The girl had a homely, portly friend that was playing the third wheel, whereas the guy’s friends had readily vacated to give him room to operate. The ugly friend would absolutely not let the blonde alone with this guy, and it was funny to watch. This was a perfect example of why “birds of a feather, flock together”, I think. Now, if the blonde, (did I mention she was a Goddess?), had a similarly attractive friend, someone, (probably me), would’ve stepped in and played “wing man” for this poor bastard trying to hook with her. At the very least, if her friend was hot, she would understand the situation and make herself scarce so the new pair could have fun. As things stood, Blondie was paying a price for hanging with someone not her appearance peer, if you will. Blondie is probably nice to a fault and the homely one may be the coolest girl in the world, but, subliminally, the blonde is learning it’s to her advantage to hang with other hotties. Very interesting, I thought, but I digress again…

The set break found me wandering among fellow trippers amidst the rock garden, watching people balance them. I wish I could bottle that time, because it was just so cool to hang out and talk to everybody---words can’t explain…Anyway, as time went on between sets, probably well over an hour, my buzz was wearing off and I didn’t have any more doses on me. It would’ve been too late to take more anyway, so I bit the bullet and settled in for the third set. At this point most people are utterly exhausted and I know I was wondering what could charge me up. How about an absolutely smoking “Sabotage” by the “Beastie Boys” to start with? This was a song they broke out, to great fanfare, in Maryland on this tour for an encore. Nobody, I mean nobody could’ve called this one! (That’s part of the fun of a Phish show, by the way, trying to guess the next song. They always vary from show to show, indeed they played something like 120 different songs on this 23 show tour alone, 491 songs in their history.)

There were a couple more energy charges left in this set, but I had a feeling the band was about as shot as the crowd because this set seemed a bit plodding. The show-closer was quite an eye-opener, however, as a very large parade-float style Elephant came to “life” on one side of the mass of people. It rose and spewed vapor into the air to the accompaniment of the drummer on the trombone, making elephant sounds after the band lit a very long fuse that traveled around the stage and out to the side. As the beast turned to make it’s way towards the exit, the best band in the land broke into a very long, fresh version of Henry Mancini’s “Baby Elephant Walk”. A massive fireworks display soon kicked in behind the stage, which made me feel for those right up front, who’s view was obscured by the stage. Quite a mind-blowing finale to a weekend that was almost beyond words. Again, however I cursed the fact that I wasn’t tripping my balls off at this point---next year, dammit!
By now it was nearly downright cold out, and I decided that Beau and I would leave tonight to get a jump on the masses. After purchasing some “gel caps”, (an intriguing form of LSD), for later use from a totally spaced-out chick that took way too much time producing them, I was in my car with my campsite in the trunk. Drove to get Beau’s stuff and then sat in traffic for maybe twenty minutes while exiting before hitting a steady stream for the lengthy drive to I-95.

Looking back on the whole experience, I’d say that if the Lemonwheel wasn’t the best time I’ve ever had, I must’ve been in a blackout for whatever beats it. No trip to an exotic beach can match this for a true escape from reality. God bless Phish for having the foresight to dream up such an event and actually follow through with it and pull it off. There aren’t many sure things in this world, but me being at next year’s gathering would be one of them---let me know if you want to come along!