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First published in  Lonely Goat Print Magazine Volume III - #2

Slaves to the Traffic Blight
by J.D. Edwards (February, 2000)

We arrived at the toll plaza on Alligator Alley shortly before four-thirty Wednesday afternoon en route to Phish's New Year's Eve 2000 extravaganza. "It's only about another twenty miles on the Alley," we estimated, "shouldn't be much longer now." We were already snarled in a vicious traffic backup, but we just figured that the delay had more to do with unprepared motorists rooting through their trunks for the toll money before realizing that they didn't have a dime to their names until they sold their trunk full of merchandise. "Once we get past the toll booth," we reaffirmed, "we should roll right onto Snake Road in no time."

An hour later, the plaza shrank in our rear-view mirror as we began cruising on the alley. The bleak magnificence of sawgrass swamps extended flatly to every visible horizon, colored by a fast descending dusk. We cruised unhampered for three miles before an endless line of angry red brake lights curbed our progress. We stopped and waited and didn't move from that spot for more than thirty minutes, watching out of the corners of our eyes as the fiery orb was swallowed ray by ray by the eerie blades of marshy vegetation. "Must be an accident up ahead," we concluded and waited as the line of cars behind us quickly stretched back beyond the toll plaza and impatient motorists stepped out of their cars to mill around the makeshift parking lot.

We began to move again in modest increments as everyone scrambled back to their vehicles. We never did see any accident, rolling slowly for several miles until we hit another backup. More parking for another half-hour. "Shit," I lamented, "if it's like this all the way to the reservation, it's gonna take forever to get there." And then things got ugly. The bogged two-lane interstate quickly evolved into a four lane fiasco with the median and shoulder supporting rows of mostly local traffic who probably didn't even know what was happening, despite urgent admonitions by the Department of Transportation to find another route. Trouble was there wasn't an alternate east-west route within a hundred miles, and many local commuters spent the entire night on I-75 alongside the skateboard daredevils and pedestrian traffic who thought they'd discovered a viable alternative to driving.

Well, as most of you know by now from the news or your own experience, that stop-and-roll nightmare continued well into the next day, and it would be another solid twelve hours of falling asleep with my foot on the brake before we even made it off the interstate. That's seven AM Eastern Standard Time. That's also seven AM the very morning of the first show which would commence in roughly eight hours.

We had hoped that by leaving Wednesday afternoon that we would be well rested and completely set up at our campsite with a whole day to spare. Who could have possibly foreseen the most relentless traffic jam in the history of motorized vehicles? (That's outside of Washington D.C. of course.) C'mon, one single lane exit and a hundred thousand hippies descending on the same field at the same time from two separate directions should have served as a red flag to promoters. But why hold a grudge? We had arrived and proceeded to set up our brand new tent with the Swahili instructions as sunrise painted hardened somber faces with their first shades of real optimism. No sooner did we erect that nylon dome than we were stretched inside of cushy sleeping bags and fast asleep.

We awoke just before noon, cooked breakfast and decided to undertake the pointless task of locating some friends. A quick tour of the camping area emphatically demonstrated just why it took so long to enter the reservation. Cars, trucks and buses stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see. After an unsuccessful hour, we quickly realized that only through the most divine of miracles would we ever encounter anyone we knew in this mind-boggling maze.

Actually, the camping area was extremely well organized with each row assigned a corresponding street name and numerical address. There was also some talk of maps to the entire concert and camping area that only a lucky few seemed to have seen. They must have run out of paper after printing only fifty maps. By then though, it was already time to line up for the first afternoon set. There went our comfortable buffer of spare time.

Not surprisingly, the main concert field opened almost two hours after the designated time. Another hour passed before the fires notes of "Water in the Sky" cascaded over us. So three hours of waiting in the deceptively intense December Florida sunshine drained whatever smidgen of energy most of us could muster that afternoon. The music that first evening was superb, more laid-back than Phish usually is, and the sound was thunderous. Second song into the first set, Page launched into a funky rendition of "Light Up or Leave Me Alone" by none other than Traffic that dissolved into a ferocious jam that would have rattled Steve Winwood's tambourines.

That first set also witnessed a few songs by Seminole chief Jim Billie that included a native greeting chant and a song about alligator wrestling. He thanked us for the ease with which we entered the reservation as everyone kind of looked at each other, and then he disappeared into the shadows for the rest of the time after promising that his people had said prayers to facilitate the beautiful weather. Other highlights that first night included "Mike's Song" with Zeppelin teases and the elusive "I am Hydrogen" passage as well as "Curtain," "Tweezer," "The Sloth," "Run Like an Antelope," "Ghost" and a fiery "Good Times, Bad Times." After the show though, there wasn't much of a party as most people opted to rest up for the all-night New Year's set that Trey reiterated would be performed non-stop until sunrise.

On the second day, we familiarized ourselves with Phish city and even managed to locate a few friends around the grounds. As usual, festival organizers prepared themselves for the massive crowd by offering all sorts of alternative entertainment. There were Ferris wheels, time capsules, archeological digs, enchanted forests, musical diversions, a mini city and plenty of vending to wile away the few non-concert hours. However, a day of endless walking in the soft Florida sugar sand started to take its toll on us so we rested up during the remainder of the morning and early afternoon.

Another late afternoon set was slated for Friday, and this time entry ran a little more according to plan. The set was a bracing warm-up for the part of the millennium; old favorites like "Runaway Jim," "Tube," "Punch You in the Eye," "Split Open and Melt" and "Guyute" blazed a bounteous trail until they came to the perfect pre-New Year's Eve selection, Clapton's "After Midnight." Particularly intriguing was the previously unexamined line from that song: "It's all gonna be peaches and cream."

So far, the biggest rumor as to what we had in store for the big set was that the tour bus on one Richard Betts of Allman Brother's fame was spotted on location. After all, it was Florida, the Brothers' home away from home, and their inactivity on that particular evening was confirmed by many. Besides, who ever heard of an Allman Brother passing up a party - let alone the hoedown of the millennium? The lyric's other nod was towards the longstanding wish of resident Zappa fans: a resurfacing "Peaches en Regalia" which Phish has covered on several occasions. So our imaginations ran wild during the lengthy dinner break that evening.

Another five miles of walking and a good square meal later, we floated back up to the concert field, which looked nothing like it had the previous two days. Plastic orange barricades ran through the middle of our trodden walkway forcing us to circle clumsily through a cluttered ocean of flesh and bone until we found our place and hunkered down. At about eleven-thirty, Phish took total control of the time as a hooded figure cam onstage and peddled out the remaining seconds on a stationary bicycle. He slowed the clock's ticking, sped it up and generally demonstrated the all-round mutability and elasticity of the eternal constant. With about five minutes to go, the amplified ticking ceased, and anticipation grew thick as everyone watched the stage.

Then suddenly from the back of the concert field, through the orange barriers, a giant swamp boat came rolling slowly through the crowd. The boat broke apart and in the middle rode the four heroes of the hour inside a gigantic motorized hot dog. They wound through the crowd tossing all sorts of treats into thronging hordes, looking as eager and excited as rich kids on Christmas morn. As they mad it to the stage, they re-energized the timekeeper by stuffing links of sausage down his throat in what can only be described as a Freudian field day. Everyone counted down as the pre-recorded music segued imperceptibly to the live band and "Meat Stick Dance" flowed directly into the obligatory "Auld Lang Syne." From there, they launched into the first full song of the new millennium: "Down with Disease," barely even audible over the massive fireworks celebration and shouts of Happy New Years.

The set progressed with few true surprises - just well-jammed versions of many of their standards. Of the many highlights, "Llama," "Bathtub Gin," "You Enjoy Myself," "Slave to the Traffic Light," "Reba," "David Bowie" and The Talking Heads' "Cross-eyed and Painless" stood out. Trey's irreverent sense of humor came into play as the lights were raised around one o'clock, and he announced that ABC 2000 planned to televise a short segment of the concert. He requested that we forego clapping after the designated piece and simply shout out the word "cheesecake." This led to endless "cheesecake chants" throughout the night and at every Waffle House within a thousand miles the following day.

The band maintained their energy level throughout most of the set until finally during "Also Sprach Zarathustra" patches of indigo slowly started to bread the darkness. They continued to push onward as light poured shad by shade through the morning sky and magnificent orange and pink cloud sculptures greeted the hardcores and awakened the lightweights. Things slowed down with a syrupy "Wading in the Velvet Sea" and a "Meat Stick Reprise" as Trey thanked everyone for the time of their (and our) lives.

After a thorough inspection of the port-o-johns, we trudged back to our campsite, soaking up the breathtaking morning sky. They did the impossible. Phish performed almost eight consecutive hours with only a few short bathroom breaks. Musically, there was nothing so out of the ordinary: no Gamehenge, no "Harpua," no "Peaches en Regalia," no cover album, no guest appearances, very few rarities even. Phish seemed out to prove that they didn't need gimmickry or surprises or assistance to pull off even the set to end all sets. And we were the ultimate benefactors.

Fearing another fourteen hours of traffic, we immediately broke down our campsite and inched towards the exit. It was slow moving for the first few hours, but once we got back onto Snake Road our progress increased. We took the time to relish in the grandeur of this rural road because it was pitch black when we first came through Thursday morning. I began to appreciate the unspeakable beauty of a region I'd traveled through repeatedly as a child but never quite comprehended.

In the soft morning sunshine, pure unadulterated nature stretched endlessly on both sides of the road. There was sawgrass swaying, mossy oak trees sparsely dotting the landscape, billowy cloud formations illuminated by the sunshine and birds streaking by in the choreographed formation. My wife commented that it was as if the Seminoles did pray for the gods of nature to look kindly upon us with perfect weather, stunning sunrises and sunsets and just all around good vibes.

The Seminoles handled concert security themselves refusing to allow local police onto tribal land, and one of the tribal mounted security commented that the only problems they encountered were from wannabes. He went on to say: "We love Phish fans, they're environmentally conscious, polite, friendly and spiritual." I believe that in spirit we represent a certain skewed connection t their tribal past of celebration, exploration, tolerance, a belief in nature, the transformative power of ritual and a basic reverence for shamanism. These are all aspects that they see totally lacking from popular culture. And though we as a subculture may not always live up to those ideals, at least we strive for something more profound than greed and materialism.

Maybe sometime again, Phish will be able to utilize the Big Cypress Reservation for another major blowout. Hopefully next time though, promoters will better prepare themselves for the influx of people such as offering more entrances, limiting both directions of the interstate to concert traffic, opening the campground a day or two earlier and mailing us the wristbands along with the tickets. Either way, they've secured our loyal patronage for any future Big Cypress powwows.