In 1999, Phish changed my perspective. Twenty-five years later, under very different circumstances, I discovered the band is still just as powerful.
I attended Phish's fourth festival — Camp Oswego — when I was 17. I'd been to memorable shows before then, but my consciousness and taste in music expanded over those few days at Oswego County Airport in central New York, about 80 miles south of my hometown.
The imagination in Phish's songs and the enthusiasm of their community resonated with me then and during my pivotal early college years. I obsessed over the band late in what a fan-derived periodization system refers to as the "Phish 1.0" era, from its genesis in 1983 to its first hiatus in 2000. To this day, I see the group's ethos in how I function personally and professionally, which includes photographing and writing about concerts — several hundred in all.
Despite the countless nights of live music under my belt, I didn't expect to find any sort of relief while attending Mondegreen, Phish's four-day event held earlier this month at the Dover Motor Speedway in Delaware. I have faced what some might agree is a rare set of challenges in the past few years — most notably, I survived a shooting in spring 2021. Although I've taken the necessary steps on the continuum that is recovery, I wasn't ready to find my soul primed for wholesale restoration at the sprawling venue known as the Woodlands.
Preparing for Mondegreen, I couldn't help but take note of my evolution from the undisciplined, less resourceful goober who had the time of his life but struggled to survive at previous Phish festivals. To wit, I arrived at Dover early and had my "office camp" set up by 2 p.m.
I aimed to snap lots of pictures and take in the best and worst of this first-year event, getting a grasp on what has and hasn't changed in the scene. It was my first Phish show since 2019, so I went without preconceptions about the current live presentation. But it was clear upon arrival that Phish have become more enterprising as an organization.
Outside Dover Motor Speedway, the herculean statue known as Miles the Monster wore a giant doughnut muumuu hand-stitched by Lisa Simpson, who also sewed the smaller version worn by the band's drummer, Jon Fishman. Not merely a grand fashion statement, it was also a gateway to amusement, as fans posed for photos in front of it throughout Mondegreen.
On the concert field, I found City Hall, described as a "participative monumental construction" by its creator, French artist Olivier Grossetête. Pieced together from 1,850 cardboard boxes with the assistance of attendees, the 80-foot structure drew eyes for the first couple of days and nights before festivalgoers helped break it down.
The Heliograph — a collaborative, retro-futuristic project overseen by international creative house TRIADIC — took shape as a glittering, 74-foot-tall palace adorned with unique art pieces and a DJ nest on top. The mesmerizing structure offered an elevated view of the stage and illuminated dance floors for the after-parties, which were headlined by London-based Flying Mojito Bros, Nick Sanborn of Sylvan Esso (who spins as Made of Oak) and DJ Questlove of the Roots. It was the spot to be: Even Phish bassist Mike Gordon visited the Heliograph late one night.
The customary Ferris wheel stood within view of the stage. The Cerealist Bowl — a speakeasy with unusual displays and head-turning thespians — was among the other strange delights that effectively transformed the property into an adult amusement park, with spiffy restrooms and upgrade options galore.
As I overcame introversion to meet next-door campers from Toronto and New York's Southern Tier, I finally sensed how urgently I needed to relax and reset. But I didn't have to desperately seek the festival, I realized: I was already experiencing it. The party was everywhere, and so was the anticipation.
As Phish took the stage for their first set, I was exhilarated. Draped in cameras, standing between the band and the crowd, I had goose bumps. I couldn't help but cheer like it was 1999.
Mondegreen's kickoff marked 20 years to the day since the group's depressing closeout at Coventry, the end of the unofficial "2.0" era and the beginning of a five-year break. Though I didn't attend Coventry or any of the recent festivals leading up to Mondegreen, I've done my best to catch the band regularly since its return to touring in 2009 — the dawn of what many refer to as "Phish 3.0."
There's been some debate over whether the post-pandemic years mark the beginning of a "4.0" era — even guitarist Trey Anastasio has suggested as much — but no one can deny that today's version of the band is bigger and healthier.
Absorbing the whopping first-night sets at Mondegreen, I wasn't sure I'd ever heard Phish so massive and awesome. During an encore performance of "Saw It Again," Anastasio's prodigious, foreboding riffs and the crowd screaming along to the chorus could have summoned the gods.
Hell-bent on taking both digital and 35mm film shots each night, I literally rucked it to the pit with a backpack holding two cameras and too many lenses, plus two more cameras hanging from me. And a fanny pack. My fitness app tells me I trudged nearly 23 miles over the weekend — mostly hauling my gear. I weighed it when I got home: 30 pounds.
I had no trouble with content capture. But to find comfort in the scene as I interacted with people would require consent and caution.
In May of this year, I celebrated my third year free of alcohol. A week after I first stopped drinking, I was shot through my head and face, resulting in a near-death experience and serious injuries. I was administered fentanyl and later given a prescription for oxycodone.
I've always frowned on recreational opioid use, and less than two weeks of using painkillers by necessity solidified my position that no one should take these drugs for leisure. As I prepared for the festival, I couldn't help remembering that Phish's history before Mondegreen included what was basically an open-air drug market in the Camp Oswego lot. While it entertained me in 1999, that aspect later turned me off from the scene, about the same time the band began struggling on its way to the 2004 breakup.
But my apprehensions about Mondegreen eased when I saw how much this fan base has cleaned up its behavior. Anastasio is now in his 17th year of sobriety, and the tidier scene pays tribute to the band's lead songwriter, who recently launched the Divided Sky Residential Recovery Program in Ludlow.
Two decades ago, hard drugs and pills were a whisper away at shows. For the most part, Mondegreen was a throwback to the early days of Phish, when psychedelics were the choice of many, while narcotics stayed out of my sight.
Still, ecstasy — called "Molly" in its powder or crystal form — was plentiful, and I saw Mondegreeners casually using ketamine, met one who'd ingested 2C-B and heard rumblings about DMT.
There are also Phish fans who still haven't gotten the nitrous oxide memo. I saw fewer of the big tanks supervised by the so-called "nitrous mafia," but I counted more small vessels than ever before.
The presence of those substances worried me, but the lead medic working the front of the concert field told me he'd "seen it all" at the Firefly Music Festival, which also happened at Dover. He praised Phish fans as well behaved and mindful of the safety of others, even while under the influence.
The scene's system of self-governance, which was broken in the early 2000s, now appears to have been carefully repaired. The band members are older, wiser and more dignified, with clearer eyes. The maturation has positively impacted the community — at least most of it.
I concluded that my own scenario warranted enhanced faculties, but I drew the boundaries more strictly than I had in 1999 — at mushrooms, specifically, which have proven benefits for treating trauma. Early in my all-natural adventure, I tried to avoid attention. But everyone nearby was curious about me: "Why so many cameras?" "How'd you get to do this?" "What's your deal?" "Take our picture!" "Are you René Huemer?"
Though I've benefited from therapy sessions, I found unexpected solace in freeing my mind to mingle at Mondegreen. Inevitably, what had happened to me came up in conversation. Reluctant at first, I shared snippets of my tale and found myself being consoled, embraced and even thanked. I laughed and cried with strangers, and it felt good to be so present and not simply cover the event.
My senses were humming. I had to collect myself after photographing Phish opening the second night with "Bouncing Around the Room," the track that introduced me to the band and put me on a cosmic route to the Champlain Valley.
I was shamelessly wide-eyed and sentimental during an immaculate version of "Divided Sky," as breathtaking as any of Phish's compositions. As Anastasio picked his way to its stunning, climactic pause, triumphant cries of approval broke the silence. Over my shoulder, the Heliograph and City Hall glowed above the many eyes fixated on the stage. Phish sparkled back at them.
The idyllic scene overwhelmed me. Though I've had the privilege of enjoying plenty of live music since the pandemic, no moment has been as mighty and compelling. I let my brain drift during those tremendous sets. I reflected on my own life through the scope of the four remarkably skilled musicians and what they've achieved together. I felt renewed gratitude for them, for the thought they put into Phish and the hope they've given their followers.
Though I harbor remorse about sleeping through the legendary IT Festival "Tower Jam," I was thankful to be on hand, with heightened awareness, for Friday night's "secret set" at Mondegreen. Phish's talented lighting designer, Chris Kuroda, shone his magnum opus on a canvas of white ribbons floating over the stage. The band scored the visuals with one of its most glorious ambient jams on record, lasting 51 minutes.
As the arrangement intensified, the projection spun out organic imagery and hallucinatory designs, a gripping juncture at Mondegreen. Phish's vision reaffirmed my faith in live music as nourishment — and, in my own case, as therapy.
I was proud of Phish: reinvigorated, soaring, spawning ideas and playing at what anyone with common sense would say is a high level. Bizarre as it may seem, I felt pride in myself, too, for what I've done with the inspiration I drew from the band and its music.
After a couple sips of coffee the next morning, I'd earned a shower — my one and only in Delaware. I strutted back to my site fresh and stress-free, with no weight on my shoulders, ready to do it all again that afternoon.
A passerby saw my flamboyant high step and stopped me to say, "You look happy as fuck, bro."
He was right.
Though it required some planning and brought some stress, Mondegreen was the ideal situation to capture Vermont's most beloved rock band on hand-rolled 35mm film — using a manual-focus, single-lens reflex camera made in 1978 — and then develop it at home.