A full moon spilled silver light over the parking at the Shoreline Amphitheater as the tribes gathered for a sold-out Phish concert. Due to the large police presence, illicit substances were kept on the down-low in the usually drug-friendly pre-Phish scene (though several arrests were made by undercover cops, as reported today by the San Jose Mercury). The air wasn’t clogged with that familiar reefer and patchouli cocktail, there weren’t any elderly hippies chanting: “Doses…anyone need doses?” and there were no funny balloons to be found.

The parking lot scene was definitely different from my first Phish experience, as a high school sophomore, back in the summer of 1995 at the Mann Music Center in Philly. Now it seemed as though Phish’s drug-addled cult followers have all grown up and become homeowners, lawyers and even Google employees.
Meanwhile, Christian fundamentalists protested the concert at the front entrance as if the 22,000 fans were entering an abortion clinic.

“You have one foot in the grave; if you love Phish, you love drugs, and that means you love Satan,” said one zealot protestor stationed near the entrance. “If you Phishheads smoke any more pot and you’ll see clouds.”

“Yeah, clouds!” yelled one fermented concertgoer in passing.

Once inside the venue, the police presence faded and remnants of the original scene were evident: Marijuana generously permeated the air, spaced-out, dreadlocked wookies shuffled around with saucer pupils and bra-less hippie chicks twirled in every corner.

Though the show started 45 minutes late, the middle-aged Vermont quartet was forgiven once they took the stage and busted out with the classic, “Golgi Apparatus.”

The concert even brought out the legendary Grateful Dead drummer Mickey Hart.

Mark Letheres–who first saw Phish in 1987–traveled all the way from New Hampshire to see the show. The fuzzy little leprechaun of a man reported he had lost count of the number of shows he’s gone to.

“It’s probably over 200,” he said. “You know, these guys actually see the notes in the air when they play.”

Both sets, nearly two hours apiece, were heavy with early fan favorites like “Haley’s Comet,” “Divided Sky,” and "David Bowie.” The second set featured tasty covers of the Talking Heads’ “Cities” and Velvet Underground’s “Oh! Sweet Nuthin.”

Chelsea Cunningham, a spacey flower child from San Luis Obispo, went to three Phish shows more than a decade ago. Though Cunningham admitted she was never a die-hard fan, she jumped at the opportunity to see them again.

“I haven’t been able to wipe the smile off my face; I forgot how great their jams are,” Cunningham said.

As mesmerized concertgoers sang along with each song and hung on to every musical note, Phish’s lasting appeal was quite clear: They’re musician’s musicians with a flawless delivery, and watching Trey Anastasio play his signature, extended-sustain guitar is as satisfying as cutting into a warm stick of butter.

After a triple encore that included Jimi Hendrix’s “Bold as Love,” the long dormant allure of a Phish concert was clearly present again: camaraderie, freedom and a shitload of music.