I’ve spent the better part of my life avoiding this very conversation. It’s a devil's bargain — either betray my soul or my conscience. You see, I’m a Vermonter. Wasn’t born there. Didn’t grow up there. But I have a home there. And, moreover, it’s where my heart resides. I love the slowness of Vermont. It’s not-New York, not-Massachusetts and not-New Hampshire-ness. I love its food and its color and its winter, summer and fall. Honestly, I don’t even mind mud season. I love that it resists urbanity and that it demands sacrifice and community. I was married in Vermont and — not to be all morbid about it — but I hope to be there in the end, as well.

And yet, I have a Phish problem. Or, at least, for the last thirty years I’ve told myself that I have a Phish problem. This is in spite of my profound adoration for the state which birthed the band. In spite of my having (willingly) seen them perform multiple live times. In spite of being earnestly, if occasionally, wowed by the wizardry of their jams (especially “Bathtub Gin” and “Runaway Jim”). In spite of my admiration for their enduring friendship. In spite of my appreciation for their business acumen. In spite of me having dear friends who are card carrying Phishheads. In spite of me loving their Ben & Jerry’s flavor. And in spite of the fact that, in 1996, fresh out of college and newly employed by Elektra Entertainment, I was paid to write ad copy for “Billy Breathes,” the band’s sixth studio album. Yes — in spite of all of it — I don’t abide. Which, for most people, would not be such a problem. But I — a Vermonter at heart — have lived more than half a life struggling with an unrelenting pull between my soul (Yes Vermont) and conscience (No Phish).

It started innocently enough. In June of 1990, around the time of my sixteenth birthday, I snuck into The Wetlands Preserve to see this mysterious band from Vermont who — rumor had it — played the vacuum cleaner like it was a guitar and were considered the heir apparent to The Grateful Dead. And though I was not much of a Deadhead (as in, not at all), and while I was increasingly enthralled by The Clash and The Replacements and louder, coarser matters, I was also still just sixteen. Which meant that I was unformed, susceptible to peer influence, and titillated by the idea of smoking weed and going someplace half full of bohemian, dancing, hirsute college girls.

That was the first of five Phish concerts I attended. The last of which would have been in 1993 at The Providence Performing Arts Center. Those were halcyon days for the band — maybe not peak Phish, but certainly ascendant Phish. Those were also halcyon days for Lollapalooza and Alternative culture — when oversized hats, bell bottoms and hacky sacks peacefully coexisted with Doc Martens, Vans and mohawks. However, by that fifth show — that Providence show — lines were being drawn. Silly as it might seem now, Pavement was pushed to one side and Phish to the other. Long before The National and Kurt Vile and (yes) Pavement’s love of the jam was settled law, you could not love both sides.

Thirty years later, that edict sounds ridiculous. But, in 1993, it felt like the central matter of identity politics. A matter that you had to take a position on. Especially if you were nineteen. And especially if you liked Pavement and Sonic Youth and The Replacements — especially then. Which is why I chose Not-Phish. I chose Indie Rock for reasons that I can barely remember. For reasons that I am more than a little embarrassed by. And for reasons that I will probably never let go of. I chose it because I had a crush on a girl who loved “Daydream Nation.” I chose it because I didn’t like smoking pot. But I chose it, ultimately, because I really did not enjoy listening to Phish.

Publicly, I held to a less generous stance. I said that Phish fans were more interested in the culture than the music. That their tastes had been chosen for them by the H.O.R.D.E. That they were followers. That they were all a bunch of collegiate (like me), white (like me) kids who (like me) just didn’t know any better. That their positive vibes club was really a confirmation bias echo chamber. But it wasn’t just a culture war. I went after their music, as well. I said that Phish sounded like The Dead ruining Steely Dan while imitating They Might Be Giants (not totally wrong but also maybe not as bad as I made it sound). I said that Phish were Funk-ish without ever being Funky (I was wrong). That they were possibly great players, but that they were definitely mediocre songwriters (ungenerous, but also not totally wrong). And, when I really wanted to twist the knife, I’d ask why — if they were really so great — had they failed to produce a one great album. One indisputable masterpiece.

That was my stance. And I stuck to it for the better part of three decades. I stuck to it in the face of many friends who stridently disagreed. I stuck to it as I fell deeper and deeper in love with Vermont. I stuck to it despite the band’s obvious knack for entrepreneurship. Despite knowing that Phish were helping so much more than they were hurting. Despite that many of my favorite bands admitted to loving Phish. Despite that I found the bonds between Trey, Fish, Mike and Page — bonds that had survived time and distance and excess — to be genuinely touching. And despite that — deep down — I knew that a lot of my resistance was just bullshit.

Or at least partial bullshit. Yes — I made it well into my forties before I started admitting to myself that the problem was not what Phish was putting out into the world but rather what I was holding onto. I was holding onto nineteen year old me, who wanted to choose the other path — the one where I was as cool as Stephen Malkmus and where the “Daydream Nation” girl was not a daydream. In my defense, though, I was not alone. There were thousands (millions) just like me. Dudes who resisted Phish on principle but who could not reliably explain those principles. And in fairness, Phish were an easy target — the comic lavishness of their sound, the goofiness of their lyrics, the homogeneity of their fans, the stonedness of their scene. They were the sort of band that inspired polarizing reactions. You either loved them or you could not stand them. Nobody was ever like, “Phish, I guess they’re OK.” At least, nobody I ever met.

In middle age, however, I began to laugh at myself laughing at Phish. As the band members approached sixty and their fans followed not so far behind, it was hard to sustain my animosity. On the other hand, I also found it difficult to give in. And by “give in” I don’t mean following the band or downloading bootlegs. I simply mean, giving them a shot — availing myself to the possibility that they existed somewhere in between amazing and awful. For whatever silly reasons, my conscience would not allow it. But, fortunately, my soul prevailed. In late 2021, while driving to our very local, tiny, family owned grocery store in Waitsfield, I pressed play on the latest episode of Vermont Public Radio’s “Brave Little State” podcast. In each episode, the show answers a question submitted by and voted on by listeners. And, as fate would have it, the question that week was the question: “Why do people like Phish?”

As with most things Vermont, the inquiry was sincere. The asker was not suggesting that Phish were undeserving of likes. He simply wanted to understand the appeal from people with more knowledge on the subject. He plainly admitted to (a) not knowing a whole lot about Phish, (b) feeling like the older he got, the harder it would be to dive in. Suffice it to say, I found the question asker to be as courageous as the state was valiant enough to subsidize a podcast brave enough to search for an answer.

Courageous. Valiant. Brave. Yes. Yes. And yes. But, as revelations go, the responses were not so revelatory. Many confirmed what I had already assumed. Phans loved the community. They loved the concert going experience — the aisle, the familiar faces, the surprise set lists, and the special language that existed between the band and their audience. Also, they loved the playing — the improvisations, the virtuosity, the fearlessness of the unknown. And, of course, they loved the psychedelics — the interaction of music, stagecraft and brain chemistry. But what I did not hear on the podcast — the thing that I still doubt exists — was a single, living soul who thinks that Phish are fine. Just fine.

Listening to “Brave Little State” made me feel like a better man — like my Yes Vermont soul and my No Phish conscience were slightly more aligned. But I would stop short of calling it resolution. Something was still nagging. My feelings were still mixed. And I knew why. It was because I hadn’t done the work. As a young adult, I’d accused my nascent Phishhead friends of not doing their work — of letting the H.O.R.D.E. choose the music for them rather than them choosing the music for themselves. But I was not much better. I’d not honestly de-selected Phish. Sure, I’d seen a few concerts. Yes, I’d heard “Rift” and “A Picture of Nectar” wafting out from college dorm windows. And, of course, I listened to “Billy Breathes” a bunch of times as a professional obligation. But that was all a long time ago. And moreover, whatever attention I did actually pay was half-assed and with eyes rolled.

It was time to go back and do the work. If not now, when? And, based on what I’d heard on “Brave Little State,” it was fair to ask, if not me, who? Seriously — what middle-aged person would earnestly and intentionally reconsider Phish thirty years after they dismissed them? Maybe I would find it in my heart to love Phish. Or maybe I would hate them, but on the basis of evidence rather than pretense. Or maybe, just maybe, I would be the one person on earth who found them to be fine — just fine. I reminded myself that Phish loved Talking Heads and The Stooges and The Velvet Underground. I assured myself that I was ready — ready to start. Except, I had no idea where.

After an embarrassing amount of procrastination, I opted to begin with Phish 3.0. Which is to say post-breakup, post-Trey rehab Phish. I had already dabbled in 1.0. And 2.0 seemed, by definition, transitional. But mostly, I was interested in middle-aged Phish — the years after their hiatus, when they are all wealthy, when they are all parents, when there’s less drugs and booze around and when they have the freedom to make exactly the kind of music they want to make. As a teenager, I could not relate to thirty year old, prep school virtuosos. And when I was a young adult, I could not relate to aging Hippie stoner millionaires. But middle-aged dads trying to make the most of their third act? That I could handle.

Initially, I went to “Joy” — the comeback album. Their first album in five years. The first album since Trey got sober. Plus, that title — even if I hated the songs, I’d sympathize with the sentiment. But, after a couple spins, I realized that I was wrong. Not specifically about the album’s tone or my sympathies, but about where the third act actually began. “Joy,” it seemed to me, was like an exuberant, over-eager rebound album. The pink glow of sobriety was still too new. The hope too great. I should have known that it’s never the rebound — it’s the one after the rebound. And so, after a couple of days, I gave up on “Joy” and skipped five years ahead to “Fuego,” where I dove in and tried my best to figure out what I really thought about Phish.

The first thing I figured out was that all my hand-wringing was, of course, ridiculous. For all their goofiness and for all their virtuosity, their music is oddly amiable. The nine plus minute title track from “Fuego” is not indigestible, like Yes. It’s not dorky like They Might Be Giants. It’s not shrill like Blues Traveler. It’s not even writhing like The Allman Brothers Band. It’s certainly a little bit of all of those things but rarely too much of any one of them. There’s a roundness, fluidity and calm to their playing that signals “we’re OK and you’re gonna be OK.” Even on a song wherein they propose, “Freak out and throw stuff, world's greatest dad / Read a little book about Vlad the Impaler,” you never feel like you’re in too deep. You never feel unsafe.

Which brought me to the second thing: their voices. Nasal. Icy. Harmonic. Precise, but not in a perfect pitch kind of way. No matter who is singing or whether they are singing alone or together, Phish sounds like a barbershop quartet covering Soul Coughing covering Ween. Their vocals toe the line between completely goofy and barely pleasant. Their lyrics thread a needle between nonsensical and cerebral. But no matter who is singing or what they are singing, there’s a coolness about them. There’s always a distance between the singer and the song. And, in that distance, is room for irony or, minimally, emotional safety. Yes, there’s that word again: safety.

The third thing I noticed was the thing that most people notice first — the jams. And specifically, how much more at ease Phish sound when they are not singing. Given the limitations of their vocalists, this didn’t really surprise me. What did stand out, though, is the ways in which their jams take them out from their songs. They don’t function as extensions of a riff or explorations of a melodic theme or even transitions, really. Phish jams are standalone improvisational spaces. They’re free spaces. Spaces where things can get weird while still knowing that they will find their way back in the end. It’s where they sound most comfortable and where fans feel most comfortable. For as experimental and off-kilter as Phish can get, their jams are also ultimately safe spaces.

On the one hand, I should not have been altogether surprised by feeling safe in Phish’s hands. I had spent years deriding the safety of Phish — the idea that, in spite of their formal experimentation, everything else about Phish was radically safe. From their collegiate origins, to the homogeneity of their audience, to the echo chamber of the crowd — they had always suggested a kind of safety to me. But “Fuego” reveals a different kind of safety than the version that riled up my younger, less generous self. It’s safe in a way that sounds well earned — a safety achieved through sobriety, wisdom and perseverance.

By Phish standards, “Devotion to a Dream” is a remarkably conventional song — familiar Blues progressions, consistent melody, foot tapping rhythms. It is formally safe. But, more so, it’s the message that reassures us. Trey sings about yesterday, when everything was falling apart, and about tomorrow, when everything is possible. It’s a song of hope and rehabilitation. Maybe not literally. Or maybe quite literally. It’s not a cautionary tale or a lament, but rather a song of devotion. The least adventurous track on “Fuego” is meant to make us feel safe. And it fully succeeds.

Even on their departures — songs that sound least like Phish — “Feugo” provides relief. “Waiting All Night” and “Wingsuit” are spacey, ethereal and subdued. The latter has real Seventies stoner vibes. Patient, like Pink Floyd, and hazy, like a Vermont IPA — it takes its time. Meanwhile, the former is nothing short of gorgeous. With a Moog off in the distance, the band slowly, steadily repeats the title over and over, each time with a different response to Trey’s call. It sounds much more like Mercury Rev or The Flaming Lips than Phish. There’s no noodling. It’s not silly. It’s five minutes of minor chord waiting. But, the waiting is the revelation. The waiting is the sanctuary.

Once upon a time, I told myself that Phish had all the feel without any of the feeling. On some of their early records, and even in places on “Fuego,” I think that accusation still has merit. But not entirely. At its best, “Fuego” has feel and feeling. They sound like normal guys with a set of very abnormal skills. But that tension, between the familiar and the aberrant, is the appeal of Phish. Isn’t it? Ultimately, what they offer is a “safe revolution.” A place where weird is normal. And isn’t that the dream? To be able to experiment. To disrupt. To conspire. To succeed. To fail. And to be able to return home, safely. Isn’t that what we would have wanted for our younger selves? Isn’t that our job as parents — to create the space for our children to safely revolt? Isn’t that the answer to the question, “Why do people like Phish?”

by Matty Wishnow