Ironic Jukebox

In 1996, at the tender age of 16, I was a prime target to be taken into the cult of Phish. In my world concerts were for meeting boys, radio was A-OK and my CD collection consisted of The Cranberries, Sarah McLachlan, and The Counting Crows.

Then I met Phish Dude, who I’ll call Trey (for the sake of anonymity) and life, as I had known it, was changed forever. Trey was older and way cool – with the Phish bootleg tape collection to prove it. Gone was my crooning Sarah. Under Trey’s direction she was replaced with 15 minute long, destination-less jams – and I suddenly knew important facts like at minute 9, second 14 this song got really good.

Me at Phish’s New Year’s Eve Show, 2000

At Widespread Panic shows I twirled in the grass like a patchwork windmill. I danced the white girl chicken. I teared up at the raw emotion of Jerry’s voice in “Peggy-O.” I covered my car in so many Phish/Dead stickers you could barely see out of the back. In short, I had allowed myself to be transformed into a complete and total douchebag.

But wait you say! You were already a bit of a loser with that whole Sarah McLachlan thing, right? True, true. But Sarah McLachlan’s sentimental sorrow sang to my teenage girl heart, whereas Phish offered me quality lyrics like, “Run like an Antelope! Out of Control!” Which I screamed with great passion.

Then, to my parent’s collective relief, I went to college and left Trey behind in the flotsam of youthful indiscretions. Or so I thought. Once you get the jam band bug it’s hard to get rid of. After Trey, I could only fall in love with dudes who didn’t shower and turned any inanimate object into a bongo. And I did. Quickly. I replaced Trey with a dude I’ll call Pete (because that was his name).

With Pete I beat even my own expectations at douchebaggery. Being the perfect hippie became an all-consuming affair. He was older, of course, and had dropped out of high school to follow the Dead (what devotion!) and the rumor was his dad had even been a coke dealer to the Rolling Stones (wow!).

Pete taught me that not only was listening to the new Phish passé, but that the Grateful Dead were the only band worthy of complete devotion. Phish was just there because Jerry died. Poor old Trey back home had even taken to following The String Cheese Incident! What cruel laughs Pete and I got at this (they are even phaker than Phish!) while sitting in the back of his VW van that only occasionally worked.

But then, after several tours, trying to grow dreads, and washing both of our clothes in the bathtub with environmental soap for many months — Pete left me.

He left me for a girl that I had met through my Phish Phan online Phorum. She had been listening to the Dead since elementary school and had her perfectly formed dreads created by a hairdresser in Germany. She was, to my astonishment, even better at being a douchebag than I was!

Me after the patchouli haze cleared

After he left I sat in what had once been our joint living room and took stock of the last four years of my life. I was left with a bitchin’ tape collection, three dresses I had lovingly made, the sewing machine I had made them with, several tubs of glitter, and a pair of fairy wings. That’s right. I was left with nothing except the long expansive memory of my own douchiness.

So I began to cry.

And cry and cry and cry. And finally through the haze of tears and patchouli stink my brother handed me Radiohead‘s Kid A.

And the spell was broken. Just like that. As easy as it had been to get in, Thom Yorke took me by the hand, whispered in my ear, “Throw it in the fire. Throw it in the fire,” and led me out of the Phish ash. I brushed out those tangled dreads, sold every piece of memorabilia on eBay, and gave my Birkenstocks to charity.

Pete and his girl eventually got married on a beach somewhere and I wish them well. And sometimes I get nostalgic for a really good version of “Stash.” But then I remember how far I’ve come, how amazingly good other music is, and how much patchouli really does stink. Then I send a quiet blessing to Thom Yorke for saving my life.

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