11/9/98: An Anniversary Anecdote
It’s been exactly eight years since the last time I ate the fungus, the magic mushrooms. Now, I know this space’s supposedly a music blog and not a debauched forum for drug-induced narration and hippie Bacchanalia, but if there’s anything I’ve learned along the way, it’s that the two often go hand-in-hand.
The popular rock band Phish swung through Chicago (aka the Windy Apple or the City of Broad Hips) during Parents’ Weekend of my sophomore year in college. I missed the first night of the three-night stand in order to dine in style with the folks, but they departed Sunday morning and I enjoyed that night’s show thoroughly. I couldn’t wait for the Monday concert, and my over-anxiousness hurt me.
That last UIC show did not disappoint. From start to finish, Phish put on a stellar performance — one of the more underrated concerts I caught from the band. It was an all-good affair, except of course for the 45 minutes when I just completely freaked the fuck out, peaking hard in a fully enclosed arena with no air and no music to distract me, as the band was taking a break in between sets…