Phish phans get money's worth December 31, 1996 - The Boston Herald By Sarah Rodman Phish at the FleetCenter, Boston, last night and tonight. The scene is now familiar, thousands of Phish fans roaming in front of the FleetCenter, one finger in the air symbolizing the need for that prized ticket granting entry to the band's highly anticipated year-end shows. The lucky few who got in to the sold-out, two-hour-plus performance by the Vermont jam band virtuosos were surely not disappointed. With the crowd a never-ending roiling mass of shakes and shimmies all night long, the beloved quartet supplied the dance music with their patented eclectic mix of rock riffs, pop harmonies, country hoedowns, jazzy interludes, ambient noises and reams and reams of noodling jams that rose and fell with inspired soloing and cacophonous chaos. Phew. The first set burbled along nicely with snatches of southern fried boogie and Caribbean grooves leading up to one of the few tracks from the group's current album "Billy Breathes," the gentle acoustic "Talk" with guitarist-singer Trey Anastasio's lullabye-ish vocals and bitterweet lyrics of communication breakdown. The succinct song was a lovely break from jam-mania. One jam that lost its way, not because of band indulgence but major sound problems, was the bluesy vamp "Funky Bitch," which simply cut out about 10 minutes in. Anastasio took this opportunity to mime hilariously overwrought guitar heroics like windmills and drummer Jon Fishman affected a maniacal faux (or phaux) solo. Other first-set highlights included a raucous take on Led Zeppelin's "Good Times, Bad Times," with keyboardist Page McConnell tossing off an excellent Robert Plant vocal. The second set had its charms. "Take Her Home" was just the rock 'n' roll jolt the crowd needed after a long-ish break - in which a surprisingly healthy and lengthy wave broke out and the many homemade Phish flyers made excellent paper airplanes - and a funky "AC-DC Bag" highlighting Fishman's percussive dexterity. Yet more of this set seemed bogged down in jams that followed a predictable pattern of superb soloing, a frenzied build to the climax, then an additional five to 10 minutes of spacy droning. Certainly the group's chops are laudable, with special kudos to McConnell's consistently evocative keyboards, but unless you're a phanatic, the jams can get old. article © 1996 Boston Herald Incorporated