It appears that Utica belongs to the crows. A rust belt riddled with hollowed out factories. Grey and callous, laughed at in movies. Why Utica? Trey and Phish fans alike cast their questions to the sky. How could this be host to such an unprecedented event? The countdown on the website foreshadowed something; there were even whispers on the radio…

The man stood in the parking lot dressed as a tequila bottle, at first glance he registered as any old brown banana, and then the label came into view. I passed with a nod of recognition. They milled about coolers joking and laughing until their party was displaced by another car that filled the gap. Eventually all fans made their way down the street to the Aud.; almost innately, like baby turtles that find the sea. The crowd jaywalked past the scalpers the corner.  November 11th and it had to be at least 50 outside, not bad for fall, not bad a night for a Trey show either.

"Jessica Hopsicker!" I shouted to the lady on the other side of the glass. "Special Correspondent for the College Crier!" Once again I flashed my handy press badge. Once again the ticket lady didn't hear me. The lobby was filling rather rapidly. Everyone was talking.  It brought a sense of urgency to the growing line behind, quite different from to the mellow mood outside. The air was full of many conversations, a Tea Leaf Green jam, and something else, anticipation. There was no way to hear her. "Jessica Hopsicker!" I shoved my head in the ticket hole. Then I caught what she had said about the other door.

Inside, the place flowed with Utica Club and Saranac. It pooled on the floor or came to rest in three-dollar cups.  The brewery could be held accountable for the fact this place exists on a map. Utica Club has a cult following complete with shrines, theme songs and many empty cans.  Some would even go as far as saying it's the glue that holds this town together.  Both lines stretched, by the time I realized I was in the wrong line for an ID bracelet and finally got a cup the opening act was tragically over.

"I think I'm giving up." He said astutely passing the borrowed lighter. We stood on the outskirts of the gathering on the floor. Wooden planks separated us from the ice rink beneath our feet. The cold rose up past the crushed plastic cups.  Being a Special Correspondent can sometimes be a lonely job, I resorted to bumming a cigarette to talk to someone. "Giving up what?"

"The revolution."

"The revolution?" There was a mixture of surprise and acknowledgement. Which he must have mistaken for ignorance because he repeated the word again.

"Yeah the revolution didn't you know? It started… but I think I'm giving up, there's no way we're going to win.  There's just too many of them. I've begun to realize that the best thing we can do is just sit back and enjoy the little things, like this. Prophetically, he motioned toward the stage. It was getting set up.

"Yes, enjoy, we must." My gaze reverently followed his fingertips. "But don't give up on the good fight."

" I think we need to get closer."

"Yes, that too." The two baby turtles waded deeper and it was then the lights went out. For a second, all conversation stopped. We looked to the stage nothing could be seen. "Final Countdown" roared over the PA, starting at ten. At the final cry of "UTICA!" hundreds of balloons and multi colored streamers poured from the rafters.  The crowd shoved about in a wave of exultation. There was no more talk of coup-de-tat; all attention was turned to Trey, and his "I Heart Utica" Shirt.  It was then I left my militant friend and pushed further yet.

Shine, Trey Anastasio's debut on the Columbia Record Label was described as a "12 song celebration of an artist making a fresh start and finding an authentic personal voice," The new album signifies the inevitability of change.  Though somewhat familiar to all the old listeners, and new beginning; bringing into existence a whole new audience.

"What was beautiful about Phish is that we found each other and then found a way to plug into the light," he acknowledged, "I felt that happened with my horn band, too. I just love communicating and hooking up with people. To me, it feels like being alive. What's really hard to explain to people is that once you find a way to connect to the light, clinging to it is not the answer. In a lifetime, it's exactly the opposite of an answer. There's a poem by William Blake that I love: ‘ He, who binds himself to a joy, does the winged life destroy: But he, who kisses the joy as it flies, lives in eternity's sun rise.'' " This was something to contemplate in the line for another beer.

"You're still behind me?" we stood in the middle of the floor, I looked back to see him standing there, how long has he been there? There was no way to tell how much time passed.  My new friend, I forgot he ever existed.

"Are you going further?"  Slowly it came back, that there was a method to the madness, to get to the stage.  This was merely the beginning. Somehow it turned into a mission, a maze, a game spurned on by Come as Melody.  Fifth row and we were surrounded, worse, landlocked.  Everyone's arms were linked; they wove into each other.

 "I can't," there was no choice but to admit defeat.  This was the reason why I forgot there was a mission in the first place.  The languid song rolled over our heads; I forgot how easy it was to forget.  Then again there was something about the music that beckoned inevitably conflicting. "There's just too many. You go first."

 Once again our effort was waylaid as Mike entered the field of view.  The upheaval ended with an elbow to the head accompanied by Mike and Trey duet of Access Me.

"Ha, ha I elbowed your head."

I glanced at my dancing assailant with the familiar tie-dye shirt.  "You're still here too?"

"I elbowed you again," he did it three more times. "Come on, dance, I go up and you go down, I go down and you go up."

"Yeah" Five rows of arms separated us from the stage. The game, is all that mattered. "You go first." I gave a sidelong glance at my comrade he replied with a smile and nod of recognition.  I clutched his fleece jacket and left the goofy dancing assailant and we pushed through the membrane. The concentrated fans gave like a wave, shoving into others was unavoidable.  For a couple terrible seconds, my eyes shut tight, I feared the worst.  Finally we broke through; he was in second row, I was in third. We were crammed together, packed tight.  With barley any room to breathe, the duet poked above someone's tall head.  From what I was able to see, clearly Trey and Mike were having a good time, accompanied by Divided Sky.  The hushed pregnant pause in the song was filled by John Fishman's cymbal solo.  It heralded the lead and bought a mix of shock and awe throughout the aud. "Oh, My God! Phish! Phish! Ahhh!" The front row cheering section comprised of a pair of girls that let out a simultaneous ear-piercing shriek.  Even Trey may have winced. We were almost close enough to tell. It grew even louder when everyone else caught on.

"Phish, man, a reunion in Utica. This is something we have to tell our grandkids about. This is like historic." Some one said from behind.  Three of four Phish members may not necessarily constitute historic, but still, it was pretty cool for Utica.  I glanced up at the stoned fleece comrade who smiled in reply. "I think I'm gonna try to get on Mike's Bus," he said and that was the last I saw of him.

On stage, all they had to do was whistle or strum a few chords of Heavy Things, Bathtub Gin, and Ghost the audience filled in the rest. Bathtub Gin became the national anthem.  No one was seated.  At the close of Ghost, Trey announced it was exactly 11:11, told us to make as wish as everyone exited the stage. No one in the audience moved all knowing it was ploy, there had to be an encore.  There just had to be... there was.  I couldn't take the screaming, the cramped tight space, and the overwhelming cheers.  It was time to retreat to the back and breathe.  The back row chapel was where the real devoted fans scattered on the floor.  Many in stasis swaying blankly with their hands pressed to their chests, as if worshipping gods from afar.  Everything else was lost in tunnel vision to the stage.  There was also another amazing thing that existed at the back of the floor, space between people. There was more room to dance and few took up the opportunity. This is where the seasoned veterans played with Trey, Mike, Jon and 70-Volt Parade. "Boogie on Reggae Woman, Boogie on," one of them mumbled.

Legend has it October the 25th of 2002, about 1500 bouncing fans were brought to the balcony by Trey and his band.  Plaster shook free of the Stanley Theatre and a chunk of it found it's way back to them.  Perhaps the plaster held something sentimental, a gift from thousands of seemingly underprivileged fans. This year, something special had to be done. The front row was practically unanimous with overwhelming screaming. The back may have even found God.  Why Utica? Everyone else was left asking, even after almost a month has passed.  Why  Utica? I was a witness, and I still don't know.