Tough to fathom fans hooked on Phish November 18, 1997 - The Denver Post By Mark Harden Group's music lacks substance I just don't get it. Do we miss the Grateful Dead so much that a band doing a merely passable imitation, with a few new moves mixed in, can come a few thousand short of selling out McNichols Sports Arena two nights in a row? Don't get me wrong. Phish, which played Big Mac Sunday and Monday, seemed to please its fans greatly at Sunday's show. The noodle dancers in the row behind me were so excited, they took turns clobbering me in the back of the head. People were leading crowd chants before the Vermont quartet even took the stage. Whether the good feelings were brought along by the fans, or induced by the widespread non-medicinal usage of hemp, or actually created by the music, I can't say. But other than cuddly vibes and a wispy nostalgia for the days of the Dead, Phish's performance produced little real emotion. I have no idea what this band was trying to say. I could see where a 45-minute set by Phish at an outdoor festival on an August day would have been pleasant, in a wild-rice sort of way. But at 2 hours and 25 minutes - not counting a 45-minute intermission - I caught myself developing a fascination for my watch. Through alchemy or a pact with the devil, the band has spawned legions of rabid Phish-heads who trade concert tapes like heirlooms. At Sunday's show there was even a fenced-off pen behind the soundboard where fans set up microphones atop a forest of poles and taped away with the band's consent. It's a disease common among followers of jam bands - and Phish sure loves to jam, often for no good reason. In a few cases Sunday - the encore, "David Bowie," being a good example - the "songs" consisted of handful of repeated words or phrases followed by about 10 minutes of desultory guitar or keyboard dittering. Guitarist-singer Trey Anastasio is a proficient player, but his leads ambled along without taking us anywhere. (Still fresh in my mind is the summer's Allman Brothers Band show at Red Rocks, where the master of this sort of thing, Dickey Betts, took us on a white-water rapids run with his guitar for a paddle.) Phish also loves to have fun, and there's nothing wrong with that. They harmonized on the barbershop-quartet standard "Hello My Baby." They speeded up the bluegrass standard "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" until it sounded like the Chipmunks on speed. And I found myself enjoying "Old Home Place," a bluegrass shuffle featuring nice harmonies, and a jazzy mid-set instrumental showcasing a simmering keyboard workout by Page McConnell. But such moments were oases amid a musical Mojave. The shrill sound mix, particularly in the first half of the show, didn't help matters. Not that Phish didn't mix up styles considerably. There was Dead-flavored reggae, Dead-flavored boogie, Dead-flavored funk, Dead-flavored jazz, Dead-flavored folk. In the show's second half, starting with "Timber Ho!," all the songs were linked like a hippie "Abbey Road." The most excitement came when a fan climbed onto the stage and did a victory dance. Somebody should have handed him a pen. Maybe he could have written some decent songs. Article © 1997 The Denver Post Corporation