Another weird one. My buddy R and I broke bread with tiny purple gels, then we literally caught the bus down Connecticut Ave. to the Dupont Circle area. The Roxy was normally a mixed bag club, centering on reggae acts primarily. Bare brick walls, a long bar in the back, and a little stage area with annoying support posts in the middle of the "dance floor." The place was so empty when we arrived that we mumbled around giggling at the prospect of it all being a prank.

No matter. The band showed, and we dug the heck out of it, bopping, head-banging, laughing. If my synapses aren't failing me, I swear there was a rousting "If I Only Had a Brain" (during melt down in YEM?). R and I had tears of laughter rolling down our cheeks. This was purest madness and joy, a post-modern mash-up of our pop-culture selves unraveling.

On the walk home, R (more of a skate-punk than jammy-type) gushed over the searing riffs and precision of this band, marveling at how few people actually showed and how high the quality of music and humor was. I enjoyed the subculture cross-pollination that was our late-80s experience and was convinced that Phish was right place, right time. We wondered how more people hadn't heard of them. We wouldn't have to wait too long for that, though.