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The Life Of A Phish Fan In A World That Thinks Phish Is Stupid

If you love drugs, poor hygiene and meandering, aimless noodling, you'll love this article.

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You don't care what Phish's music sounds like (reminder: it's terrible) as long as you're super stoned, dancing ineptly, with your unemployment check raised above your head in triumph.

The heartening realization that musicians themselves are often indifferent to the hierarchies and boundaries of taste that critics and fans try to enforce?

A concert environment in which people act like human beings and help each other have a good time instead of competing for every inch of space as if standing a foot closer to the stage than the bros next to you makes you king of the monkey pack?

The thing when — after minutes of winding chromatic anticipation — the lights go up, the crowd combusts, the music crashes like an asteroid and the world is replaced by a ocean of sound and white fire? You know, THAT thing?

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