~Meniscus Archives~
Autumn 2004
Issue #5
September-November 2004

Issue #5 Home


This is the End My Phriends
Jon Heinrich
For every Phish fan, the first show blew our minds, and the second show hooked us for life. Now, 21 years later the moment ends—its over. Phish has called it quites.But their legacy and music lives on in a thriving counter culture and a generation of music lovers.

The Motet
Music for Life

The new album by the Boulder-based jazz and funk band displays propulsive percussion that defies categorization.

Show Review:
Still Want More?
Phish, Chula Vista, CA- 7/8/03

i.e. The funniest review you'll ever read.
"I've reached the point in my Phishing career where the boys could just wear diapers, sit in kiddy pools filled with lima beans on stage, and punch handicapped Ewoks with brass knuckles and I would be thoroughly satiated..."

CD Reviews:
Perpetual Groove-
All This Everything
King Chubby-
Infradig- Kinetic Transfer
Harbor Nights


Still Want More?
Chula Vista, CA

Author Unknown


Published 9/255/04

Set I: Guyute, Horn, My Sweet One, Tweezer, Limb By Limb,
Fast Enough For You, Frankie Says, Taste

I’ve reached the point in my Phishing career where the boys could just wear diapers, sit in kiddy pools filled with lima beans on stage, and punch handicapped Ewoks with brass knuckles and I would be thoroughly satiated. My God, man, you must take what they give you and go for the glory, no matter how much your homie complains about a weak song list, weak bladder, or weak drugs.

That being written, holy goddamn shit I didn’t realize C Orch C 23 on your ticket meant – YOU’RE THIRD ROW, CHUZZWUZZER!!!

As I stared directly into the scrunched crotch of the balding keyboardist, I felt the tickly prickles of millions of wet willies on my extroverted vagina when Jon Jon gurgle-whispered, “I’m bouncing like a newborn elf, I can’t remain inside myself…..” as the sonic surgeons sliced open the Coors corpse with a bumpin’ Guyute opener.

So fun to hum in the Southern California sun. As it stood, Horn kept up my horniness. I looked back and noticed that everyone I could see in the crowd was performing the WORSHIP HEADBANG – wherein they bow and bang their heads in unison to the unmistakably yummy-rugged, rock riff. The seasoned worship headbangers convulsed with one and/or two arms held in the air in Black Panther, ‘fight the power’ fist form. It was just like a Billy Graham experience but without the ferocious brain washing and homicidal hillbillies.

A spunky My Sweet One stimulated memories of the incarnation years where I looked up ‘herbivore’ in the dictionary because I always got herbivores mixed up with omnivores and doubted the accuracy of the lyrics. Obviously, herbivores just ate herbage hence “their food didn’t ever run” thusly they “ate well”. Those bisexual omnivores will suck down anything. Wow, I sure do love interracial, bisexual lesbian porn.

At this point, the gentleman in front of me vomited into an empty beer cup. He exploded at the end of My Sweet One right when the boys paused after singing, “from far awayyyyyyy”….(pause)….puke guy pukes…..”I say your naaaaaame.” That name was RALPH and it smelled like a lot fish taco.

When the closest security dude got distracted with a gate crashing Johnny Patchwork, the puke guy just chucked the cup of fomenting yak over the barrier in front of the stage. This regurgitorious episode reminded me that I needed to eat the UNDULATING CHOCOLATE STARS I purchased in the parking lot by the water rides and gushing slides. Damn that was a great afternoon….

I shat in a Burger King to-go bag in between a Jeep Cherokee and an Isuzu Amigo in order to avoid catching crabs in the Port-O-Poo. When the puke guy apologized to everyone around him, I told him my shitbag story and we shared in a moment that only two men who ejected waste into disposable paper goods in public could appreciate. Indians and Mexicans are so exploited in this country....

Gadzooks! So the boys shock the monkey and bust out a rambunctious Tweezer that reminded everyone in the crowd who forgot their baby seal skin hoodie that it was going to be cold, cold, cold, cold, cold.

After the gravy Tweezer gave us all a fun, pube-plucking-palooza, the boys became unglued in mid air and landed to reform into a hellacious fit of improvisational sprinkles and toe-tapping tarantula toots with a spirited Limb By Limb which seemed to extend into the zone of whispering ogre belches and visionary jizm shisms as Mike’s modulus offered symphonic hellos and festering Uncle Fester-esque bellows.

Fast Enough For You was next and I do love FEFU but I also knew I was about to enter the haunting realm known as: THE PISS OF NO RETURN.

Everyone has done this. It’s where you go to relieve yourself and end up conversing with the catsup dispenser for three hours about the uncertain sexual orientation of E.T. You end up missing most of the show but still proclaim to any and all who inquire about the quality of the concert: “It was the best show ever!” I was not going to be that guy tonight.

So I had to be one of the tricks who bolted during FEFU for the funnel and urinal cakes. I wish I could have told everyone I walked in front of, that I really enjoy this tune but shucks, I was reaching The Piss of No Return!!! Then they would have understood my plight flight.

I felt them all thinking, “that poser can’t take a slow song; he doesn’t get ‘it’; he’s not on the otha level”. Actually, I bet some of them were thinking – “Am I chewing bubble gum or is that my supple tongue?” or “Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Damn, am I tripping? Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow. Fuck, I gotta work tomorrow.”

I returned to the living room just in time for a sweetly demonic Frankie Says. Mike’s falsetto voice was on point during the “I lost my mind, I lost my way….” part.

As we were relaxing, I noticed the bubble machine lady a few rows behind me frantically trying to reload her bubble-blowing device. In her haste, she tried ripping off the plastic seal of a new bottle of bubbles with her teeth. As she tore it open, she accidentally splattered some of the toxic, joy juice in her mouth. She spat into her half full beer, realized her monumental error, shrugged her shoulders, immediately downed the contaminated saliva-laden concoction, gave the thumbs up to her bewildered buddy, reloaded her bubble machine, and maddeningly cranked out a pulsating plethora of bubbles all before Mike stopped singing his falsetto lines: ”…I’m bound to lose, you don’t know where I am….”

They then tore up Taste like a tantalizing, woodland tiger named Woody would tear up that timid turkey Tiger Woods if Tigger told Woody the titillating tiger that Tiger Woods threatened to thrash Woody’s tepid wang worm and wontons. All in all, it was the best set I've seen in quite some time
and I've been to every Phish show that has ever occurred.

Set II: Down With Disease, Vultures, Secret Smile, Harry Hood> Carini, Discern, Waste
Encore: Bouncing Around the Room> Tweezer Reprise

Down With Disease commandeered the second set and innocently took us into a virtual zone of trip hop and pop locking. Or at least it did for the kid next to us who was spastically breaking it down in Funkytown until the security guy cleared the aisle. The kid lightheartedly challenged the guard to a Soul Train style dance off wherein other members of the crowd encircled the two competitors in a boisterous sphere of dazzling dance.

The security guy gathered himself, took a deep breath, and did the old Kid ‘n’ Play, one legged, jump rope wherein he grabbed his left leg with his right hand and jumped through the appendage loop with his right leg. Everyone cleared the aisle and kept it clear for at least three minutes to show their mad respect! Unreal!!

Much more must be said about this DWD. These Vermontonianite knuckleheads teabagged the entire crowd with veiny, bubble scrotum notes that twisted into mental zones that have never been explored like a shady uncle grabbing his naughty nine year old niece’s no-no zone at noon for the first time.

At one point, Trey wandered over to Page and communicated with his electrified wood, as if the guitar was saying: “Yes, yes, Yes! No!!!!!!!!! Yeeeeesssss!!! Yes, yes, yi-ye-yi-ye-yi-ye-yi-ye-yi-ye-yi-ye-yi-yeeesssssss, motherfucker!!” and “Damn, I hate trick bitches who throw glowsticks at me. I’ll blast the next busta who tries to gaffle me with my nickel-plated neena, yo!”

Vultures was great to see from the third row because of the fast-paced vocal parts wherein everyone in the band sings different lyrics at the same time. From this point of view, you can actually see who is singing what part. But there was one lyrical stanza in the middle of Vultures that Trey sung which was not repeated again in the song. He steps up to the mic and sings in a decidedly more evil voice about Sado-Masochism or coprophilia or something. It sounded like: “Don’t over extend yourself when you get down and dance/that’s when the Devil loves to make you shit your pants.”

I don’t know if it was part of the song or some dope freestyle but I know I wasn’t the only one clenching my chunk-chooking cheeks for the rest of the set. This is where it gets weird. Do not get me wrong. I like it when the band members stare at me. But when they do it for over five straight minutes – especially during a slower part of the jam – it just gets awkward.

I mean Trey was just blatantly gawking at ME all through Secret Smile. It was quite embarrassing for the both of us. In my head, I was like, “come on you Homer sexual, I’ll still be here after the show; concentrate on getting it on and banging a gong, man!!!” but I just could not summon the will to look away from His transcendent, twinkly, effervescent, giggling glow of apocalyptic gracefulness. (Dearest Trizzey: I know you are a fly-by-night cowboy but I am willing to make the sacrifice and take the emotional and physical abuse that comes from a one night stand. “Wherever you are, whatever you do, I’ll be right here waiting for you…”)

After Trey was done mind humping me (and probably a couple hundred other chumps behind me who thought He was mind humping them but were too stiggity stupid or stoned to recognize Trey was truly staring at me and only me!!), they pulled the Hood over our heads and gave us the funky cold medina! At one point during a piano-heavy part, God made some jerkass in the crowd throw a red glowstick that hit Page’s top right keyboard.

The smack was right on time with the beat and made me think about murder, garlic fries, and murder. Then I thought about how if people are going to throw stuff at the band they should throw something totally fresh like whiskey balloons or fancy hamsters wearing parachutes.

Carini was great because it fucking raged like a cranked-out tranny on Robotussin DM. From my fantastic vantage point, I got to see the real Carini ham it up and share a good laugh with the boys. I have only seen Pete in pictures but in real life, he looks like the bald trumpet player who holds the high notes until he is red in the face from the Max Weinberg 7.

During the diggity def, new tune Discern, some intoxicated twit was boisterously flaunting his “killer” mobile phone ringtone directly next to me. He kept playing it over and over for his meathead frat buddy. “Dude, guess what song this is! You know you know it, man, come on, dude! Here I’ll play it again for you louder, dude.”

I finally squashed this nonsense by gently stating: “Fuck your whack A-Team ring tone, you are totally bumming me and my girl out.” I motioned to the beautiful San Diego blondie next to me, who gave a look that said: I ain’t this motherfucker’s boyfriend; I don’t even know this fool but now that he said that, I do feel strangely attracted to his saucy, Caucasian ass and luscious beer belly. Maybe, I’ll give him a palmjob after the show...and then, ta-dowwww!! The boys dropped a heartfelt and well-played Waste to close out the set!

During the short break before the encore, I dashed to the pisser and was confronted by a young chap decked out in pleated khakis, hushpuppies, a long sleeve button down dress shirt, and a maroon cardigan. He asked me: “Is that IT?” He annoyingly said this as if he did not really enjoy (or understand) what had just transpired. He had black olives for eyeballs and a look of longing for his prep school chums.

I repeatedly replied: “The Mack Dad will make you jump, jump. Daddy Mack will make you jump, jump.” I incorporated the jumps into my flow. The prep school hippie jumped with me like a trained dog-faced douche bag. I reached out for a handshake, grabbed him by the hand with my own two hands, and said, “Welcome to the jungle. We’ve got fun and games. Oh yeah!!” – in my best Macho Man Randy Savage voice. I then bounced around the pavilion like a jack-a-ninny, half-trying to find the familiar faces in section 201 that were to take me to Shoreline – half-trying to feel the groove and bust a move without yellow coat interference.

The Tweezer reprise conjured up memories of Chula Vista 1999 where the boys ended the show with a maddening Tweezy Reezy. At the end of that show, my friend Jeff was shrizzooming so hard he thought I was black! I had to tell him: “It’s me, J. Rhodes! That cracker with an attitude! Get it together, brotha!”

“Dude are you really J. Rhodes? You look black and my friend J. Rho…whoa…the lights, the spinning lights…I’m gonna puke, man, oh shit….I’m gonna puke, man…” Just before he launched half-digested, fungus-covered pork rinds and Bud Ice all over the place, the song ended and we walked around the lot trying to try every single fatty grilled cheese every filthy hippy could slang our way. God bless the stank ass hippies!

All in all, it was the best set I've seen in quite some time and I've been to every Phish show that has ever occurred.


"J. Rhodes"

(If you know who wrote this review, let us know!)


Meniscus Magazine © 2004. All material is property of respective artists.