Meatstick -> Auld Lang Syne > Down with Disease -> Llama, Bathtub Gin, Heavy Things, Twist -> Prince Caspian > Rock and Roll, You Enjoy Myself, Crosseyed and Painless, The Inlaw Josie Wales, Sand -> Quadrophonic Toppling, Slave to the Traffic Light, Albuquerque, Reba, Axilla, Uncle Pen, David Bowie, My Soul, Drowned -> After Midnight Reprise, The Horse > Silent in the Morning > Bittersweet Motel, Piper -> Free, Lawn Boy, Hold Your Head Up > Love You > Hold Your Head Up, Roses Are Free, Bug, Also Sprach Zarathustra > Wading in the Velvet Sea > Meatstick
11:20 p.m. - Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Time is important to Phish, as it would be for any artist that has performed for the better part of over four decades. So much of the language we use in discussing Phish is based around units of time: jams going past the 20-minute mark, great months within tours, moments that remind us of specific years that signify different styles. Because of their improvisational nature, every Phish performance of every song contributes to geological time, a new layer of sediment on top of all of the past versions, often numbering in the hundreds. Listening to the band can often feel like time travel, or like the Tralfamadorians in Vonnegut’s novels – perceiving the now surrounded by the echoes of the past.
So it makes perfect sense that New Year’s Eve is the main Phish holiday, played almost every year they’ve been active and the scene of many of their most historic moments. It’s a celebration organized around a clock and a countdown, and you always leave the party – or the show – in a different year from when it started. And that’s multiplied a thousandfold when midnight marks the liminal space between a year, century, and millennium simultaneously. New Year’s Eve 1999 had to be big enough to match this once-in-several-lifetimes convergence.
Phish’s solution to that challenge was itself premised on time. They’d kicked around the idea of The Long Gig, or The LG, almost since the beginning of the band, when their bond was forged through multi-hour Oh Kee Pa Ceremonies. The original idea was to lock an unsuspecting crowd inside an arena and play continuously from Friday night to Sunday morning, or until everyone but the band had tapped out and left. For practical reasons, that got scaled back to “only” midnight-to-sunrise, but the central conceit was the same: how would extended performance warp the Phish experience, both how the music was played and how it was perceived by the thousands of ears in the audience?
You can appreciate the Big Cypress overnight set in smaller portions, but the true experience can only be replicated by tackling the entire seven hours and twenty minutes in one sitting. I’m pretty sure I haven’t done that since the night the set was performed, and if I did, I was multitasking as I did it and likely took plenty of pauses and breaks. So for today’s essay, I’m clearing the calendar, locking myself in my office, and doing the full set, without interruption, almost precisely 25 years later.
That’s “almost” because I’m too old now to stay up all night – I’m doing this relisten starting at 9am on the 31st. For the first six hours, I’ll watch the leaked video footage, and will switch over to audio when the tape runs out. I’ll keep it running when I have to run to the bathroom or grab a snack, and won’t pause it for anything short of a medical emergency. And I’ll be on the same substance I was on 25 years ago – a big thermos of coffee, which was a pretty savvy move back then and hopefully now.
11:50 p.m. - The band arrives
Maybe the best segment of the After Midnight podcast is the play-by-play of Phish’s slow journey to the stage, a ride that involved missed pyro targets, mounted police, chainsaws, spotlight blindness, a mismeasured hot dog dock, and accidentally disconnecting most of the light rig. It’s very hard to explain to outsiders how jazzed we were to see that damn hot dog. But it’s a reflection of my particular strain of Phish nerdiness that – amidst all the countdown mayhem happening around me – a large part of my brain was thinking “wait, they recorded a studio version of Meatstick?!?”
12:00 a.m. - Auld Lang Syne > Down with Disease
One of the ways the all-night set is so disorienting is that it begins with the climax. After a few seconds of awkward studio-to-live Meatstick transition, they’re already doing Auld Lang Syne while some big sparklers go off and the fireworks start launching. The moment a usual NYE show is building up to is where this show starts. Sure, on a normal NYE, the band usually plays another hour or so past midnight, but the energy has already peaked; the common wisdom is that the second set on 12/31 is where the real highlights are usually found.
That’s probably why this Disease is played at breakneck speed and spends the first ten minutes of its jam in classic mid-90s machine-gun form – any thoughts of pacing themselves for long distance would have to wait until they’ve run through the explosives. Even at the time, gawking at the fireworks show but too far away to volley any balloons, I started to fret that Trey was going to solo at 1000 mph all damn night. It certainly didn’t look like it was going to be 7 hours of open improv, at least.
But after 12 minutes or so, they finally burn off enough of that pre-midnight fuel to ease back. Trey loops his sustain and finds a riff to explore, Fish dials it down, Page moves to clavinet, and we’re into the first true example of overnight set jamming, patient and dense. Thanks to the video, it’s possible to see that Trey is already on his keyboard 20 minutes into the set, but with the restraint to just add a few melodic blips beneath Page’s incongruously contemplative piano before returning to guitar. Around the 20th minute, they find a lovely two-chord progression that’s like a lapping sea. In Madison Square Garden, dodging balloons or syncing up with choreographed dancers, it’s hard to imagine them finding such a relaxed theme so early in the new year. Did I mention we were already in a 20-minute-plus jam? Maybe they really were just going to jam all night and play a 7-hour Disease, triumphantly reprising its closing riff at sunrise?
12:27 a.m. - Llama, Bathtub Gin
Lol, nope. Dropping into Llama signified that they hadn’t yet released all that pent-up countdown energy – it was a very long setbreak, after all. But more importantly, it confirmed that this was going to be a “regular” Phish set, in the sense of the band playing their usual repertoire in the accustomed manner, just for a really, really, really long time. That format seems obvious in hindsight, but remember at the time we had no idea; after all the heavy hitters that appeared on 12/30, it didn’t seem totally out of the question that this experiment might be an extra-large version of past festival late-night sets, with Ring of Fire-type fully-improvised music until dawn, uncontained by mere songs.
I was exactly the kind of Phish nerd to be disappointed by this reveal at the time, especially when Llama proved to be a completely standard version; Jam-Filled Night was just a twinkle in their collective eye. Luckily, the next song up was Bathtub Gin, one of the superstars of 1999 and a prime opportunity to see what an unconstrained Phish could do with one of their most flexible jam vehicles. The answer was…a truly irritating vocal jam and a promising atmospheric segment cut short so they could record a segment for ABC’s millennium coverage. It was the first indication that the longest Phish set ever wouldn’t be free from the frustrations of a typical show.
12:47 a.m. - Heavy Things
Another thing we don’t talk about much with Big Cypress is how there was quite a bit of dead air: time spent on banter, talking into the coffee mug microphone, visiting the port-a-potty, or performing other, uh, maintenance. It’s totally understandable, those eight hands need the occasional break. But I’m still going to run a stopwatch just to see exactly how much of the 7 hours and 20 minutes was non-musical, because it’s so rare for a Phish show, and a quantifiable measure of the night’s unique, unrushed nature. Here are the first five minutes of it as Trey sets up the (inspired, hard to execute) cheesecake gag before playing their most cloying new song for “100 million people.” At least Heavy Things was still unreleased at that point, the second time in two years they pulled that subversive bit of commercial self-sabotage on network television.
12:57 a.m. - Twist > Prince Caspian > Rock and Roll
Here’s the thing about all that downtime – it’s tough to build the momentum back up. A typical Phish set is a nearly-uninterrupted 75-90 minutes of music, and any breathing room is provided by just a slow song or two. It is, again, unreasonable to expect the band to stretch that dynamic over an eight-hour shift, but it requires this all-night set to find its own internal shape. What they arrive at is a kind of maxi-set full of mini-sets, clusters of 45-60 minutes where they play continuous music broken up by those necessary timeouts. It’s why this set, despite its absurd length, worked so well on CD-Rs – you didn’t have to sever any set flow to make the pieces fit on seven discs.
This is the first of those song suites, and it gets off to a slow start. Twist is still growing into its new Farmhouse arrangement, but it finds a nice, dreamy state before dropping into Caspian. It’s another regal 1999 version of Fuckerpants, but that’s 22 minutes of relatively quiet music – a risky thing to play as the night transitions from post-midnight rage to the long haul.
Lou Reed to the rescue; now there’s a guy who knew how to navigate an all-night bender. After its Halloween debut, Phish had primarily used Rock and Roll as an encore punctuation mark. But tonight it capitalizes upon Big Cypress magic to finally break containment. And it does so with a little nudge from Cale-via-Clapton – maybe “After Midnight” was the song on Jenny’s radio that whole time – and the good ol’ cowbell. Oddly enough, it’s the only song all night that goes Type II for the very first time; the rest of the night’s extra-large jams will be in songs that have gone deep before, if not quite so subterranean (unless you count Sand, see below).
Here’s the surprising thing about this jam: it’s fun! I moaned a couple times this year about how Phish 1999 was relatively humorless, and that’s not just due to the lack of bustouts and hijinks, but also the very serious tone of jams going in either of the year’s preferred ambient or heavy-groove directions. The middle stretch of this Rock and Roll finds a sweet spot that alternates between funk and power chords led by a playful-as-hell organ part from Page, that has a sense of humor their improvisation largely avoided at the time. It’s a brief flash – the late night setting works too well for the band to stay away from shoegazing for long, and the sequence that pushes this jam past the half-hour mark is a prolonged Siket-y flutter anchored by some incredible Mike minimalism and enhanced by the digital crackles on the YouTube audio.
1:51 a.m. - You Enjoy Myself
So just to take stock, we’re right about at the point where an unusually long set like 8/16/97 I or 4/21/24 II would finally end. Phish has only fully performed eight songs, but has already played two jams in Disease and Rock and Roll that, in the context of a normal show, would be considered all-timers. We’re also less than a third of the way through the overnight set, and Trey’s just counted off their most iconic song, which is quite long even under normal circumstances. As Fishman will ask in a little while: had enough?
I was at that marathon Sphere show and was completely drained by the end, though the over-stimulation of 250 million pixels and the time zone change might have contributed. But it’s shows like those that make you question whether there is a limit to how much Phish it’s healthy to consume in one sitting, even for the biggest of fans. It’s a little like eating too much candy or drinking too many beers; it might feel good at the time, but you’re going to eventually regret it.
YEM is right about the point where that started to happen for me at Big Cypress; it may have been the first point in the night where I actually sat down, which would be nearly sacrilege during YEM at a regular show. And it kicked off the cycle that I would experience for the rest of the night, periods of euphoria alternating with exhaustion and even annoyance. It’s easy to look at Big Cypress from afar and think it was just hour after hour of bliss, but I’m here to tell you: that shit was hard work, especially after a long day in the Florida sun. And there’s still five hours to go.
2:15 a.m. - Crosseyed and Painless
But I wasn’t so tired yet that a good bustout couldn’t bring me back. The sixth-ever Crosseyed and the first in 159 shows was the most exciting selection on the overnight setlist, and it got a performance to match. In fact, if I were to point someone at a single jam that described the sound of Big Cypress, I’d pick this one.
It’s not just the 1999 sound, though that makes up the foundation. Despite being a very heavy jam, it’s still adjacent to what I called the arena ambient approach – minimalism with the propulsion of hard rock. Exotic sonic textures are important, but the real key is patience and repetition, and the enormous canvas of the all-night set created plenty of space for both ingredients.
The Crosseyed jam takes a pretty long time to gain its footing – an indulgence that might not have happened in a normal setting – but starts clicking into place in the 13th minute when Trey finds an angular motif and gets stuck there. The rest of the band almost immediately changes shape to complement it, whipping up a frantic backdrop while the guitarist iterates. Eventually he finds a regular riff and slides it up the neck as the intensity builds and builds and builds back to the vocals. Forget that thermos of coffee, that’s the only shot of energy I needed at this point in the night.
2:36 a.m. - The Inlaw Josie Wales
OK, but I also needed to use the bathroom (both then and now), and Fishman probably did too.
2:42 a.m. - Sand > Quadrophonic Toppling
The MVP of December ‘99 gets its inevitable featured slot in the year’s final set, and it does not disappoint. On After Midnight, musicologist Jake Cohen talks about the incredible amount of restraint in this performance, with Mike’s bassline trance and Trey playing mostly keys and abstract loops for the first several minutes of the jam. That’s true, but could also be said of all the December Sands, which helped the band road-test the Big Cypress jamming style before the main event.
What really sets this one apart is the set’s lone debut: Quadrophonic Toppling, basically the last Siket Disc track anyone ever expected to hear translated to the stage. Trey’s mind-boggling extended Sand solo ends in a looped riff and Mike finally relents enough to shift the key slightly, the band returning to a space very similar to the standout Catapult played hours ago, in another year. Eventually it breaks down to just Trey doing digital delay loop stuff and Mike playing his little mini recorder with light Page and Fish touches, the most experimental jam of the long night, capped by a gorgeous and rare Mike/Page/Fish trio segment.
But can we all agree to consider this sequence a 36-minute Sand with some QT sprinkled in the middle? It just feels right for the longest Sand ever to be played at Big Cypress, and for Sand to be the longest track (barely) played in this set. Through its relentless repetition, Sand is the Phish song with the most potential to warp a listener’s sense of time, and in the late-night liminal zone of Big Cypress, it’s the perfect flagbearer.
3:19 a.m. - Slave to the Traffic Light, Albuquerque, Reba, Axilla, Uncle Pen
Here’s an hour-long sequence that poses an interesting question: can a second set contain a first set? It’s the longest stretch of the night without a major jam, with apologies to Slave and Reba, which are both very good but within their normal bounds. And they’re both on the slower end of Phish’s jam vehicles, a risky choice for the exact middle of the middle-of-the-night, particularly with a stoned Neil Young ballad in between. The cheesecake references slipped into Albuquerque and Axilla almost feel like tests to see who’s still awake and capable of paying attention, four hours past midnight.
It’s an extended lull where I have to wonder if it might have been a good idea to write out this setlist in advance, or at least enough of it to make sure there was a more even distribution of tentpoles. It’s around this time that the band starts spending more and more time between songs chatting about what to play, and what they come up with for this hour might as well have been chosen by bingo balls. Any of the big chips spent on 12/30 would have come up huge here; just imagine a Ghost or Tweezer or Mike’s Groove in this stretch instead. And while I’m playing armchair setlist quarterback: they could’ve easily swapped 2001 and Slave, allowing a fresher band to crush a long 2001 in pitch-black darkness and their wearier version to slow-build Slave as the sun rose on the swamp.
But while the decision-making is questionable, I gotta tip my cap to the fact that they are still musically on their game as we enter the second half. Reba may be a little rough around the edges, but I could barely stand up at this point in the night, so it’s hard to get persnickety about how flawlessly they execute a fugue. A headbanger like Axilla comes off a little groggy this late at night, but I like the Uncle Pen call – it’s nice to have some Phishgrass representation in this set, and it still sounds pretty sharp.
4:06 a.m. - David Bowie, My Soul
Then again, maybe they are getting tired. Bowie almost comes to a complete stop in the middle of the intro; a highly unusual flub, at least at this point in Phish festival history. As the night stretches on, the challenge is to see if Phish can channel that fatigue into their creative process. I have vague memories of finding this Bowie jam boring in the moment and I haven’t revisited it much since, but its wee small hours chill is pretty fascinating this time around. It’s not doing anything outlandish, but it’s packed full of subtle intra-band communication, and there’s a compelling restlessness as they repeatedly ramp up and pull back, either due to patience or drowsiness. It makes sense that it would play better in the comfort of home than in a chilly cow pasture where overserved wooks are dropping like flies…we’re getting into the stretch where the Big Cypress home version has some big advantages over the real thing.
In either setting, My Soul might seem like an insulting and unnecessary choice. But in the holiday spirit, I’ll muster a case for it. The maxi-set of mini-sets structure means that the band has to constantly regather itself and start afresh, and as a soundcheck favorite, My Soul’s simple 12-bar structure can get everyone back in alignment for the next push into deeper territory. Maybe it’s a sign that the band didn’t like the Bowie as much as I did, but I’m ready to forgive this My Soul – and the very long Trey and Fish “bathroom break” that follows – based on what it produces immediately after.
4:39 a.m. - Drowned -> After Midnight Reprise
What a second wind…or are we on a higher number by now? It’s fascinating that three of the night’s best jams come from Halloween alumni, almost like the pressure to plus-up their own material held the originals back while letting the covers fly high (including one non-Halloween entry yet to come). The Quadrophenia representative, like its Loaded counterpart, also gets an assist from “After Midnight,” this time with the night’s purest segue providing a much-needed bump of late-night energy.
Even though it mellows back down for the rest of the jam, the conjoined classic-rock covers unlock a gloriously open improvisation that perfectly reflects the absurdly late-night hour when it was played. Mike keeps it simple, Fishman keeps it peppy, Trey plays slinky chords, while Page wraps it all in velvety Rhodes; it’s a – dare I say it – sexy jam played by four guys who are starting to resemble zombies with instruments to 75,000 people who haven’t showered in at least a couple days. It’s the night’s peak example of using the endurance test to their advantage, settling into a laid-back zone that they’re almost always too keyed up to access in a regular setting.
5:06 a.m. - The Horse > Silent in the Morning, Bittersweet Motel, Piper > Free
In any all-nighter, there’s a distinct point where the mood abruptly shifts from it feeling too late (dangerous, thrilling) to it feeling too early (gross, unhealthy), and here’s where it happened at Big Cypress. That’s partially because of Phish deploying the inevitable “morning” song at a time that only small children and senior citizens like to wake up. But the Piper > Free is also a sequence that’s the musical equivalent of splashing water on your face to try to make it through the last couple hours before you can finally sleep it off.
If ever there was a time for a lullaby slow-build Piper, it was this version. But Trey rushes it to get to the solo, which he spends hopping around like Mark Wahlberg doing his insane pre-dawn calisthenics. If the After Midnight Reprise jam triumphed by going with the late-night flow, this one’s pushing against the tide, everyone playing as fast and hard as they can in denial of their flagging strength. It also includes the night’s most tedious Trey synth – kind of an achievement that it took 5-½ hours to happen given the instrument’s intrusive presence in the fall and winter tours.
It’s also where the video evidence cuts out for good, at least until Phish Inc. blesses us with an official release. The rest of the morning’s visuals are just my memories and bad disposable camera shots, for better or worse – I’m not sure the close-up footage was doing the band any favors as the night went on. Still, it would be nice to see that pink sky again.
5:48 a.m. - Lawn Boy, HYHU > Love You > HYHU
When I started this project by live-tweeting 1993 shows, I learned to dread the late second set stretch where the band felt obligated to do the novelty tricks that were their calling card at the time. That usually meant a Big Ball Jam and a Fish vacuum song crammed into the fourth quarter no matter how the set was flowing, amusing diversions that quickly wore out their welcome.
But by the end of the 90s they weren’t doing Fish features every night, or even every tour. So it was a pleasant surprise and perfect timing that they tucked in a Syd Barrett cover with an absolutely awful vacuum solo just about exactly where it would go if the set was normal size. Paired with Page’s jazz crooner, it’s a nice respite of early-morning slap-happiness between some very heavy jams, and it set up a 10-year callback to the “Phish 2000” joke. There’s a path not taken where this set just completely devolves into silliness as the band’s sanity starts to slip – the “last set of Coventry” approach, if you will. I’m not sure that would have worked, but I might have preferred it in the short-term to what came next.
6:01 a.m. - Roses Are Free
In my Phish scrapbook – which ends after this show – I pasted an exchange from an internet 1.0 online chat with Tom Marshall because of how closely it mirrored my own Big Cypress experience. Phil Robichaud asked, “What did you think about the way that they came out and played so much that I began to hate them and then kept playing until I started loving them again?” Tom’s reply – “I went through the same cycles – I wouldn’t call it ‘hate’ ever though – I experienced something close to ‘helplessness’ maybe.”
When it comes to this Roses, I’m closer to Phil than Tom. I have a very distinct memory of sitting on my blanket during this jam, clutching my forehead, rocking back and forth, and wishing fervently that Phish would stop playing. Until this night, I could never imagine myself thinking such blasphemy. But this was it, my breaking point at Big Cypress – no drugs, no alcohol, just an overdose of my favorite band.
That emotional memory is so strong, I still struggle to listen to this jam, never mind appreciate it as one of the night’s highlights, which seems to be the modern consensus. My cynical take on its impressive 35-½ minute length is that Phish had reached their own breaking point, where they were tired of playing songs and yet still had a big chunk of time to fill until the sun cracked the horizon. It reminds me most distinctly of the fraught night in Alpine Valley five months prior; extended improvisation as a crutch, not the result of inspiration.
I’m trying to put that aside here, given that I’m not experiencing the same wild mood swings of elation and aggravation as I relive this set in my comfy office chair. But there are still warning signs all over this jam. After a decent section of 1999-style ambient, the jam almost completely collapses at 15:30, a stumble that is startling given how rarely their improvisational game of keepy-uppy falters. They quickly reconvene, but the ensuing 20 minutes feel like unintentional free jazz, the batteries of their telepathic communication faltering after six hours of continuous use. Even as someone who loves discordant and weird Phish, it’s just so off-putting, like an AI-generated image of a loved one.
Yet in a way, it’s appropriate that this set includes what I perceive as a failed jam alongside the instant classics and the standard excellence. I’ve always argued that the possibility of catching a bad Phish show – or more charitably, an underwhelming one – makes the good ones so much more rewarding. The all-night set is so long it serves as a self-contained microcosm of that experience; it almost had to show both the best and worst of Phish to live up to its iconic promise.
And importantly, it shows that the band does indeed have a limit, that they are human. The clumsiness of this jam only reinforces how miraculous the preceding six hours of music were; that they were able to play something as magical as the After Midnight Reprise only an hour before this mess is a true feat of endurance and talent. I was even somewhat relieved to find my own Phish breaking point; you can’t listen to just one band forever, right? Right?
6:36 a.m. - Bug, 2001 > Wading in the Velvet Sea
There are times when setlist choices seem to speak to you personally, and playing Bug on the heels of that torturous revelation felt aimed right at me. “It doesn’t matter” as the sky behind us finally started to brighten and I caught my final wind, refilled with gratitude for being in the only place I wanted to be at the dawn of a new millennium. I knew I was fully recovered when they started Hood for the second time in two nights and my pedantic side woke up and bristled at the audacity of a repeat.
A 2001 sunrise is not what I had predicted going in; it’s a song that should only work indoors, with the light rig going bananas. But of course, we did have a light show: that uncanny pink sunrise slowly coloring the gray sky around us between cotton ball clouds. The band also seemed to dig deep into its last reserves, with an uptempo strut and an attempt at a brief, cheeky Hood/2001 mashup to play off the fake out/brain fart intro. Was I thrilled to hear it drop into Velvet Sea, possibly my least favorite Phish song at the time? Honestly, no, but I was still clinging to the message of Bug: it doesn’t matter, just being here is all that matters.
7:04 a.m. - Meatstick
Phish bookended their most famous set with their dumbest song, a hotel room goof-off double entendre about European minibar snacks and also their dicks. There was a half-hearted second attempt to break the world record for most people simultaneously doing a dance, but by this point the concert field was decimated, with only a few thousand survivors capable of sluggishly performing the moves. It was a fittingly absurd way to close out a completely preposterous set/festival/year/decade, the world’s most improbable rock superstars playing to the brink of both their own and their audience’s collapse at the largest concert taking place on planet Earth that night.
The band was out of there almost immediately, and we were almost as fast – we saw their buses drive by as we waited to leave the campground and cheered. In the car, my friends and I agreed that we had heard enough Phish for a lifetime and vowed not to listen to them at all on the long drive back north. Around noon, one of us asked, “Hey, is it time to put on some Phish?”
Happy New Year, everyone. May your 2025 be safe and happy. Thank you, as always, for reading all this nonsense. See you in May.
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This is great! And the cycle of emotions is very relatable even for a non Phish fan. An all-time-great experience on paper that’s more mixed in reality, with real life concerns like exhaustion, needing to pee, etc.
Had that most recently the second night of Solid Sound this year. A half dozen songs in, Wilco starts playing A Ghost Is Born in full, unannounced! Holy shit! But I’d been standing on the packed field for hours and was flagging. Felt like sacrilege to wander off during Spiders (Kidsmoke) to find the ice cream stand but I needed a boost. Glad I did, gave me that second wind, even though I lost my killer spot and ended up sitting on a hill way further back.
Rob!
You are the GOAT for sustaining that set in full for the sake of this very generous essay. Happy New Year to ye! and thank you for taking on mammoth endurance energy to create this whole project tour after tour (perpetually 25 years later).
My memories of Big Cypress are indeed hazy - my 17 year old self did not have the foresight to remain sober and drink coffee - oh well. Listening back to the whole set for the first time in 25 years (in 3 separate sessions) brought back some memories, but I also had some of the same impressions you had listening to the Phish boys play this almost too long set. There is a lot of joy, fatigue, and deliriousness that all equate to a very memorable experience and legendary show. Can’t wait to relive 2000 Phish with you kind sir.