You Don't Know Me but You Don't Like Me: Phish, Insane Clown Posse, and My Misadventures with Two of Music's Most Maligned Tribes by Rabin Nathan

Author:Rabin, Nathan [Rabin, Nathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2013-06-11T00:00:00+00:00

THE TOUR CONTINUES AS OUR HAPLESS PROTAGONIST TRIES TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO OPERATE WITH A BLOWN MIND AND LEAKING SKULL

I could barely sleep that first night back after the bus dropped us all off back in Manhattan. I just stared at the shadows of my dingy little hotel room with Phish songs bouncing through my mind. I wanted to call Cadence and tell her about the night but worried that I lacked the eloquence to put my experience into words. I was still rolling pretty hard.

I managed a few hours’ sleep before I was back on the bus to Bethel. The Golden Boy and Kevin Corrigan’s doppelgänger had opted out for the evening, so I planted myself in front of the most charismatic dude on the bus and hoped I’d be able to find a way to shoehorn myself into his conversation.

It turned out to be a wise move. Behind me sat a man who bore a distinct resemblance to Jesus (in a good way) and an attractive woman I learned was a flight attendant for JetBlue with a degree in anthropology. They were not a couple. She had been turned on to the scene by a boyfriend she was no longer with (she volunteered just a little too aggressively), but by this point she was a zealot. Her Phish fandom had nearly cost her jobs and relationships, but she wouldn’t trade a minute of it. Like a lot of Phish fans, myself included, she had the zeal of the convert.

The Jesus look-alike had a longer relationship with Phish. He’d gotten into them in high school and throughout his teen and college years Phish was the epicenter of his social scene. He’d graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and was in the process of working on something that combined the uncanny powers of GPS with the unholy acumen of the iPod, in addition to funding and running a satirical website. He was, in other words, the living refutation of the notion that pot, or at least the accouterments of the hippie lifestyle, kills ambition.

Yet he’d never lost his affection for Phish. In a hectic and stressful life, it was a release valve, something he could do a couple times every summer to reconnect with his younger, wilder, more carefree self. I was impressed, in no small part because he was so oblivious to his attractive seat partner’s advances.

Once we hit the ground, I set about the very undignified task of tagging along with the Jesus look-alike as he wandered about the Lot.

“You can follow me if you’d like,” he told me, which was good, since I was going to do it anyway.

Nitrous was a controversial fixture of Phish shows. While the police in each city tended to turn a blind eye to pot and designer drugs, they seemed to take special pride in busting nitrous dealers. Their zeal was understandable: Nitrous was dirty, it was extraordinarily public (there’s simply no way to make a giant tank of gas inconspicuous),

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