Tag Archives: writing

9 Magic Moments from The Clifford Ball

“Look at those cavemen, it’s the freakiest show.”

I hadn’t planned on going to the Clifford Ball. After Jerry died and Phish got bigger and bigger I shied away from them.I hit Deer Creek and drove back to Baltimore after the show. My friend Rick had an extra for Hershey Park and asked if I was in.The December show there the Winter before was one of my favorite times seeing Phish, so I decided to go.

I went to his house to get the ticket, and the guy selling it was someone I knew from 9th grade. I bought the ticket, and he offered me a ride, but he was going to The Clifford Ball afterward, so…. I didn’t have an actual job at that point, so I asked, “Can I get a ticket.” He said, “Well, actually, I have an extra,” and that was it. I packed a few shirts and shorts, took my last $100, and hit the road the next morning.

The drive up to Hershey was all talk about ‘maybe they’ll get 20,000 people, and Puff Head, and I were catching up on eight years since 9th grade. The drive to Plattsburg was all talk about, ‘they will hit 50,000 easy.’ There was palpable electricity in the air at Hershey, and within 24 hours of the show, we all descended on Plattsburgh Air Force Base.

The scope of what Phish was about to pull off wasn’t even fathomable as we drove in. I figured I’d find some hottie to groove with for the weekend, get psychedelic and let the outside world go.

After setting up camp, we were treated to a soundcheck jam that had the first reference to Mr. Sausage besides some great improvisation for over an hour. We fired up the grill, cracked some beers, got irie, and heard sweet sounds drifting out of the not-far distance.

And that was the first glimpse of the magic that would take place that weekend. Mr. Sausage would soon become the stuff of legends, and Plattsburg would never be the same.

The next day, when the festival officially started, we were given a plethora of moments that would shape and inform Phish, festivals, and jam culture going forward Here are 8 more of those magic moments:

Split Open Night 01 Set II

As night fell and set II opened, the band made a statement that the Ball would be like nothing we had ever seen

Acoustic mini set Night 01 Set II

As close as we got (until Fest 8) to a full band acoustic Phish. Short but sweet.

Hood Jam Night 01 Set III

The fireworks during the jam were something to behold

Mike’s> Simple> Contact> Weekapaug Night 01 Set II

A plethora of a Mike’s Groove.

Flatbed Jam Overnight between shows

The original 4th set.

Reba Night 02 Set I

Unique with a slow almost zeppelin no quarter jam by page

Brother with Ben and Jerry Night 02 Set II

The kind of guest vocalist you want.

Run Like An Antelope Night 02 Set II

Incorporated a female acrobat (Sylvia from Rio de Janeiro) on a rope suspended circus-style high above the stage.

“The list could go on and on, but we will leave it here. About 9 am Monday morning, Pat woke me up and said, let’s beat the traffic out. The ride home was more silent, all of us lost in the memory of what we had taken part in. Phish was community now, we were many, and within a year, Phish would be poised to destroy America.”

The Problem With Spilling Ink

It’s Thursday night, one of those nights when I remember I can find the words, be they crumbled and barely legible or bold and screaming from the tree that allows night to creep up from behind the sun. I don’t know if I believe in poetry anymore, if there are songs that can speak out the innermost feeling. I think they often just flutter along the outskirts and we assign some deeper meaning with a comfort only found at the edge or when lying ravaged.

When I was a child I knew, at seven, or eight, that I wanted to be a poet; I didn’t know what a poet was, but it seemed that the rhyme and reason went so hand in hand that there wasn’t much of a choice. When I was in highschool I thought a poem was they key to a girl’s heart and her pants; highschool boys spend a lot of time thinking about sex and how to get it, poetry was my answer. When it didn’t work and as I ‘matured’ I found another truth; poetry became a vehical to both avoid and express the myriad of emotions my outward self tried to hide and compress. I pursued it, took the words and wrestled through forms and years at university; I was going to be a Poet, known from coffeeshop to bookstore from coast to coast. That didn’t work out so well either. I am older and know now that I just want the poetry, not to necessarily be the medium. I want to see it rise from some benign catalyst and come flooding out as I try to stand and control it only to get lost in the ecstasy of the image; like a faucet, a hot and cold running love affair —– ON & OFF, ON & OFF, ON & OFF — over a sink in a basement, installed and forgotten except when you venture down.

I often think of Sara, the woman who never speaks in The Eolian Harp, how she plots the latent’s manifestation in a world populated by archetypes and gods; where biology, religion, line, and melody are fused to create a landscape, this strange dark where we chase our shadows beyond the street in exhaustion. Her silence is where all words dwell, where we can pick a few, give them form, a shape, and a name. It becomes a poem that now will rest, for a day or a month, and then tell me whether it is real, that will offer up salvation in the tiny pool of water I cradle in my hands.