When Trey picked up his guitar, I knew immediately this night wouldn’t be about lollipops or unicorns. There was an insidious stare in his eyes as if he would find your childhood pet, dig it up, and eat that son of a bitch for breakfast. Phish was hungry this evening with an insatiable appetite, ready to feast on limbs and entrails of wooks. The impact of the first note was like a meteorite discovering the dinosaurs. It was if Trey was trying to comfort me by saying, “I’ll dragon kick your grandmother so hard her colostomy bag will explode all over your old family photos.” It was at this point I knew I had to get closer to the stage so I made my way through the crowd like a shark’s fin in water. During the DWD jam Mike was slinging out meatball bass wraps as Halloween candy that tasted like the souls of ten thousand unborn panda bears. It was like he went to the Gamehendge market, stole the testicles off a T-Rex and blended them into hollandaise sauce that he included as delicious gravy. If I had been raptured at that moment, I would have told Jesus to wait. Page was not to be overshadowed; he played as if he was possessed by a cherub because no human mortal could have conjured up a symphony of naturals and accidentals like that. He declared martial law on that keyboard and serenaded us in a beautiful anarchy of harmony. This was precisely the moment I had the feeling of pure freedom, like I was naked and rollerblading, having my junk flap around like a sail and I pretend my penis is an eagle, flying free over the mountains of this great nation. I can’t forget to mention Fishman because his arms were assaulting those drums faster than a coked out butterfly flaps its wings. There was something magical happening inside those drums like each were a gargantuan bucket full of cheddar bay biscuits. Phish was on fire tonight and if it were possible to gauge that temperature, this show would be hotter than the asshole of a dying star.