Phish 'n' Caviar December 31, 2003 - Orlando Sun-Sentinel By Mark K. Matthews The billing looks like a mistake. Phish. In Miami. Tonight. For New Year's Eve. Or, in simpler terms: Hippies invade the beach! The reasons for this oddity are many. Phish fans -- arguably this generation's answer to Deadheads -- follow their four pipers across the land with little regard for comfort, class or a good shave. To them, a happy life can be nothing more than a vegetarian gyro and a few sets of the super-jam-band's legendary guitar-and-keyboard sessions. Than there's Miami, where Scarface memorabilia -- bullets included -- can be found near advertisements for full-body hair removal. There's cultural diversity here, much more than among the Northeast-heavy Phish followers, but the elite "beautiful people" label remains. Compounding this potential culture clash is the simple tick-tock of time. Instead of one night of friction, Phish was booked for four nights, including tonight's New Year's Eve finale. It's a long time for houseguests anywhere, let alone in go-go Miami. "Four nights in one place means we can settle in, make ourselves at home," writes the editor of Surrender to the Flow, a publication aimed at the "tour kidz" who follow Phish for months and years at a time. But as the old adage goes, both fish and houseguests go bad after three days. New Year's Eve may be one night too many. An odd matchup In the thump-thump atmosphere at one of South Beach's more popular music stores Sunday, no one can be bothered with Phish's arrival. Not trendy enough. "My manager asked me if Phish was coming down, and I was, like, 'I don't know,' " says Cassandra Marker, a goth and industrial fan who says Miami's music scene revolves around house, trance and hip-hop. Only a handful of people care about Phish, the 25-year-old says, "the ones that get the Grateful Dead CDs. It's the same crowd." Phish fans question the pairing too. On a balcony Sunday outside the American Airlines Arena, midway through the first show, a few fans share a cigarette break and a discussion on why Phish came to Miami. They decide on warm weather and sun. But in the days leading up to the shows, at least one follower couldn't grasp the appeal. "All of the bars of South Beach reek of cocoa butter and bad skin -- that is, if you know someone who can get you in said club to smell the cocoa butter," wrote one Phish fan, who posted a long-winded rant on a Phish Internet newsgroup against the city in the weeks leading up to the Miami sets. "The place is overrated and can be downright dull and irritating if you spend more than a few days there." Phish's so-called "New Year's Run" isn't the first time the band has visited South Florida. Nor is it the first time that Vermont's Phinest have played South Florida for New Year's Eve. Four years ago, to ring in the millennium, Phish held a two-day concert at the Big Cypress Seminole Indian Reservation. The shows, which drew more than 50,000 people to the Everglades, were capped by a New Year's Eve concert that lasted until dawn. Phish purists argue the outdoor environment of the Everglades is closer to the band's roots than the neon lights of nearby downtown Miami. Miami is fine, one fan remarks during the first night's show, but this is New Year's Run -- a major tradition for Phish followers because of the band's penchant for insane stunts and wacky covers. To ring in 1995, the band floated to the stage -- riding a giant hot dog -- playing "Auld Lang Syne." At another New Year's Eve show, 79,627 balloons were dropped on festivalgoers, according to the fanatically researched Phish.net. This year, the band's frontman Trey Anastasio has already played the vacuum cleaner to the wild applause of a near 20,000-capacity crowd. But this New Year's Eve festival also caps several important milestones for the band. In early December, the band that formed at the University of Vermont in 1983 celebrated its 20th anniversary. In addition, this New Year's Run falls a year after the band reunited, following a two-year hiatus that left some fans wondering whether the band would ever come back. That's part of the reason why Mike Barbas, 30, drove from Rhode Island to Miami -- "the furthest I've come to see to them," he says. On Sunday night, Barbas is packed into a parking lot near the arena with thousands of other Phish fans looking for food and friends among the makeshift tent community across the street from the arena. "The festivals go all night," he says. "You camp out. You don't go anywhere. And if you're looking for grilled cheese, you'll find it here." The night before, a similar throng floods the thoroughfares of nearby South Beach, about a 10-minute cab ride from the arena. But instead of an "everyone welcome" attitude, many bars and clubs are outfitted with a rope and a line of people. At a gleaming silver bar beneath the Marlin Hotel on Collins Avenue, partygoers clump into groups as DJs spin "old skool" on the floor above. Outside, a man in a slick suit and a woman in a fur coat check guests before they are allowed past the silver rope -- despite the nearly empty bar behind them. They're crazy but nice Outside the arena, long after one of the shows has started, Jairo Rivera surveys the wreckage in the nearly empty tent community. Rivera, 15, is local and trying to make a buck manning a parking area near the arena. For now, the Miami native is taking a break, and a moment to dissect the Phish following. "This is a big family, a big community. They travel in vans with their dogs," he says. But they're calm, he notes, unlike the natives. "People in Miami will fight in two minutes. [Phish fans] are crazy, but they're nice," Rivera says. Others are less sure of Phish fans' goodwill. Before and after the first two shows, Miami police officers have trouble patrolling a busy street as hordes of fans continually try to cross between the tent community and the arena. It's frustrating, but one security guard says at least "they're not violent" like fans at Miami Dolphins games. Ron Malaney, who toured with the Grateful Dead for two decades, can't stand the "Phish kids." Like Rivera, Malaney is surveying the mess at the tent community. But the tie-dye salesman, who splits his time between the Great Smoky Mountains and Key West, is less forgiving of a parking lot filled with bottles, plates and plastic cups. "This would never happen in a Grateful Dead parking lot," says Malaney, 54, who follows the Deadhead way of putting used cigarette butts in his pocket rather than throwing them on the ground. "My generation, we were raised with respect. We respected nature. This generation grew up with their peers and their peers as their conscience. Maybe when they get to 35, they might be all right." No clash, just a party Near Malaney's tie-dye tent, fan Suzannah Cooper says she doesn't see a difference between the South Beach crowd and the Phish followers. Both like to party, and both don't mind being "out there" -- which is one reason why the 23-year-old rode a bus from Seattle to Miami, a 10-day trip for a four-day festival. "This isn't a culture clash," she says. "We don't notice if people are acting any differently." Neither does Mike Govein, who owns South Beach Couture, a fine Italian clothing store on trendy Washington Avenue. On the weekend before the festival starts, Govein is in his chic, pristine store, discussing Phish and fan fashion. "Phish. Phish. Yes, it's a good band. Yes," he says, a diamond earring in one ear. "They have excellent music." As for fashion, male Phish fans are in luck. The hippie look is back in style, especially jeans with stitches and patches. "Men are wearing things that they used to wear in the '60s," Govein says. "The '60s are coming back right now." Article Copyright © 2003 Sun Sentenial