Too Young for the Dead? It's Phish Food for You February 8, 1993 - Newsday By Wayne Robins PHISH: PARTY BAND FOR A NEW GENERATION. Friday night at Roseland Ballroom in Manhattan, the first of two sold out shows this weekend. I'M STANDING at the bar in Roseland when a Phish fan in his late teens stumbles up to me, perplexed. "How old are you?" he asked. I tell him. The lower-middle double-digit number and my presence still don't register. "And you're here for the Phish concert?" I nod affirmatively. "Wow!" he said before he was dragged along by his friends. "I wish my dad would come to a Phish concert!" Chances are if dad, mom, even Uncle Lou and Aunt Sadie went to a Phish concert, they'd be in familiar surroundings. The colorful, sometimes tie-dyed T-shirts; the jackets tied skirt-like, worn by guys around the waist; the bare feet; the groovy laid-back vibes; the pervasive smell of hemp; the aura of camaraderie, even cultural unity - if you ever passed through the '60s, the scene at a Phish concert is deja vu all over again. Phish is a quartet from Vermont with roots in the Burlington bar scene and Goddard College, one of those unconventional small schools at which the '60s never ended. From their New England base they built a grass-roots nationwide following with virtually no radio or video exposure long before they were signed two years ago by Elektra Records. Phishfolks tend to be dedicated participants in their fandom: They stay in touch with each other through a PHISHNET computer network, and gather advance nationwide concert information from a telephone hotline. The model for all this is the road-goes-on-forever ethos of the Grateful Dead and their huge, loyal claque of Deadhead fans. In fact, Phish is part of a loose aggregation of Dead-inspired, philosophically related younger bands that also include Blues Traveler and the Spin Doctors. The key for all of these successful groups is the nearly mystical bond between band and audience that flourishes in their stage shows. Phish likes to quote Carlos Santana: "The audience is a sea of flowers, the music is water, and you're the hose." Friday night at Roseland, Phish provided a good three-hour soaking. The promise of adventurous improvisation between guitarist Trey Anastasio, bassist Mike Gordon, keyboard player Page McConnell and drummer Jon "Tubbs" Fishman is what keeps the concert halls packed. At first, Friday's show was a little disappointing, with Anastasio playing with more speed than soul. But the band found its touch soon enough on "Guelah Papyrus," with Anastasio floating on some Jerry Garcia cloud riffs, anchored by McConnell's modal, jazzy Donald Fagen chords. In concert, the poppycock words of non-performing lyricist Tom Marshall seem to exist to give Anastasio something to do between jams, which is a good thing: You don't want to be distracted by lines such as "Mindful of his larval craze / The rhinothropic micro-gaze". What puts Phish across is the ensemble's encyclopedic familiarity with riffs of all sorts, thrown together as casually as a dormitory potluck supper. There were touches of everything from Johnny Cash to Paul Schafer, from Doors to Vanilla Fudge, from Allman Brothers to Flatt & Scruggs. At one point, drummer Jon Fishman seized the moment by banging out a solo on a cardboard poster. Their versatility was reflected by the encores: a heartfelt four-part harmony rendition of "Amazing Grace," and a dead-on cover of the Rolling Stones' relatively obscure "Loving Cup." The best sustained musical moment might have been the performance of a song called "David Bowie," a 10-minute jam that consists of two lines of lyrics. Those lines are, in their entirety: "David Bowie . . . " and "UB40 . . . " Phish played with great congeniality but without too much bite. Anastasio can play with humor, but unlike, say, Jerry Garcia, he can never break your heart. Phish traveled sideways forever on Friday, but it rarely took you higher. The band members have their unpretentious charm, however, and it is to their credit that they don't overwhelm you with piscatoral iconography. Unless, of course, you count Anastasio's inordinate fondness for playing scales.