Something Phishy about Anastasio's appeal June 6, 2003 - Chicago Sun-Times By Anders Smith Lindall Phish frontman Trey Anastasio's current tour, a 10-date jaunt in support of his newly issued double-disc live album "Plasma," touched down this week for two shows at the Chicago Theatre. I attended Wednesday's gig, and I tried to like it. I tell you this because jam lovers seem to enjoy few things more than bemoaning the lack of respect their heroes receive from music scribes. Critics, they say, are biased against jam bands and relish serving up knee jerk slams to the genre. So I assure you, friends, that this is not a knee jerk slam. Biases? I don't have a shelf of battered Dead tapes, but I've seen my share of shows in the jam universe, from the obvious to the obscure. I prize pop's magical three-minute max, but appreciate the creative bursts possible through long elaborations on a theme. And there's plenty of hugely popular music that I don't enjoy, but understand its appeal. Rap's 50 Cent is morally bankrupt and marginally talented, but I can grasp the attraction, for some, of his "dangerous" pose. Darryl Worley's hot-country hit "Have You Forgotten?" is despicably manipulative, but as simple popcraft it's scary good. In Trey's world, I can see the allure of a beatific hippie grandpa like Jerry Garcia, who built a cult of personality as much as a fan base. But after giving my Wednesday night to Anastasio, I still don't get his draw. The secret's not his rampant genre-hopping. Sure, "A Simple Twist Up Dave" set a smooth-jazz groove to a burbling, world beat rhythm. Tijuana Brass horn licks gave "Curlew's Call" a kitschy Latin vibe. And the bass lines in "Alive Again" were undeniably funky. But the total effect of all these tastes wasn't quite like artful fusion cooking. It was more like putting eight different vegetables in a pot and boiling them to mush. It's not his voice or his lyrics, which are only an accessory to his sound. With the exception of the pleasant, loose-limbed and conventional "Sweet Melinda's Dream" in Wednesday's first set and the three solo acoustic tunes he played late in the second set, verses were just the things he hurried past to get to the jam. His singing seemed more unremarkable when Jennifer Hartswick put down her trumpet to sing bluesy harmonies on several songs or lead an encore of Led Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused." Anastasio's appeal is not his personal magnetism; his stage presence consisted of shuffling his feet, shaking his head and mooning around with a look of slack-jawed bemusement. Neither is it just the sense of community he fosters among fans. After all, there's camaraderie at a bingo parlor, too, and we don't hang out there. Most damning of all, even Anastasio's guitar work is indistinct. He's got chops but no soul, and with Wednesday's big band, he was too quick to blend, letting other players carry the groove while he meandered through plain, repetitive licks. No, Trey lovers, this is not a slam. I admit that perhaps I just don't get it. Or maybe, just maybe, the emperor has no clothes. Article Copyright © 2003 Chicago Sun Media