Phish in the Nineties: What a Time It Was

My passion for the music of Phish led me to become a radio host, and for over 20 years, I’ve gotten to do what I love. So when the band recently wrapped their 92nd through 96th shows at Madison Square Garden, a five-night stand built entirely around their early-Nineties run, it brought me right back to discovering them for the first time. Each MSG night pulled only from that era’s songbook. Trey Anastasio, Phish’s frontman, even dressed the part, working in period-specific looks featuring T-shirt designs he hadn’t busted out in years. Their songs, their stage antics, their banter, their flair for celebrating the full breadth of their history — it was a personal reminder that this band was never just a band. It was a life choice.

I’d heard of Phish in high school. I lived just down the road from the Capitol Theatre in Port Chester, New York, where they played in 1991. My camp friend tried to get me to the show, but for some asinine reason, I declined. When my buddy excitedly explained Phish’s “secret language” and trampolines, it just didn’t compute. Ten points from Phishindor. 

Shortly thereafter, I left the cozy confines of suburban New York and headed out west to attend journalism school at the University of Missouri. Strangely, it wasn’t until I joined a fraternity in the middle of the Show Me State that I was bitten by the Phish bug. I was walking down the hallway of my house and out of my friends’ room when I heard music blasting through their open door like I’d never heard before. It sounded like a circus. It told a story. It was breathtakingly beautiful and stopped me dead in my tracks. It was “Esther,” off Phish’s first studio LP, Junta.

I entered their room feeling quite befuddled. As if in a trance, I joined them on the sunken cushions of their tattered, tapestry-covered couch — and, contrary to popular belief, a ginormous bong was not involved (this time). Then they put on “Icculus,” followed by the bouncy, multi-movement “You Enjoy Myself.” I couldn’t believe music like this existed, let alone that it was created by four guys not too much older than us, from the Green Mountain State.

I had a working knowledge of the Grateful Dead, but this was so much different. It was whimsical and ballsy, both at the same time. Dali-esque imagery, surreal and almost nonsensical when you broke it down word by word, but somehow the landing stuck. Led Zeppelin could write about the darkest depths of Mordor, but this was accessible, absurdist poetry from the heart. And it wasn’t just the words. Each band member was a virtuoso on his instrument, four guys creating something compelling on their own, but fitting together like a super-sonic Tetris puzzle. It felt like a giant soul hug. 

That day changed me. In due haste, I went to Streetside Records and bought Lawn Boy and A Picture of Nectar (which had just come out). I melted the digital grooves off both discs, only to soon discover the majesty of their live shows. I met a guy several years older who worked at Cool Stuff, the local headshop in town. He was a taper, and I’d go to his house off-campus and spin tape after tape. He was a great sherpa into the live Phish experience.

My first chance to see Phish in concert was in April of 1993 at the now-defunct American Theater under the shadow of the St. Louis Arch. We loaded up my car and braved a three-hour drive through a torrential electrical storm to get there. When we arrived at the 1,200-person theater, we sauntered up close, about 20 feet from the stage on “Page Side,” where keyboardist Page McConnell sets up shop. What a show!

Looking back, I didn’t realize how blessed I was for a first-timer, one even longtime jaded vets would envy. At one point, Trey brought out his friend Roger, the same guy name-checked in “AC/DC Bag,” and Roger proposed to his girlfriend right there onstage, followed by a massive version of the song he’s referenced in. The Phish spike was in my vein, and I needed more. 

That summer I traveled across the Midwest in the storied month of August ’93, when Phish seemingly had that “aha!” moment, realizing they could take any song and reconstruct it on the spot into new improvisational masterpieces. I found my tribe: recognizing people from city to city, a common bond, a language we understood. 

As the Nineties went on, my love affair with Phish continued, and I traveled to the farthest reaches of the U.S., dozens of shows from Maine to Oregon, Atlanta to L.A. My best friends and I made memories that still have us laughing today.

Towards the end of the decade, Phish did an album signing at Tower Records in Manhattan for their new LP, 1998’s The Story of the Ghost. The line was thousands deep and circled around the block. When I finally entered the store armed with my new merch ready to be signed, it was my first time face-to-face with the band — people I knew but had never exchanged a word with. As Trey signed my album, I finally had my chance to say something. I asked him to please keep pushing the envelope. He stopped signing, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “I’ll do my best man. I promise I’ll do my best.” 

Nearly 30 years later, he has kept his promise. And in some ways, so did I. That band from Vermont gave me a blueprint: take chances, stay improvisational, and, to borrow from one of their compositions, keep what’s important and know who’s your friend. That first encounter with Trey stuck with me, and I found my way into a career in music that still feels like a dream come true. It all traces back to a frat house in Missouri, a song called “Esther” (played on the final night of their MSG throwback run), and a decade that changed the trajectory of my life. 

Jonathan Schwartz hosts a daily show on SiriusXM’s Phish Radio. Find him on Instagram at @thegeneralofjam.