When IT’s all said and done… Reluctant reporter gives his impressions of the tie-dyes, dreadlocks, dudes and food that go into a Phish event

I must admit these three things: I am not a true fan of camping, festivals or Phish. All of which happened to be the vital components to It, the behemoth of a festival that took place Aug. 1-3 at the former Loring Air Force Base in Limestone.

Nevertheless, curiosity and maybe a sense of journalistic duty to all of us who have never, or will never, experience the spectacle of a Phish festival firsthand drove me to volunteer.

Usually my idea of a good concert involves someplace small, dark and smoky with extra points for a concrete floor so filthy that I must throw my shoes away when the show is over. But after a week or more reflecting on the four days I spent covering It with some fellow Bangor Daily News staffers, I have to say the experience was all right.

Besides, seeing Phish was really only part of It. It was also overpriced food, exhaustion, countless hours of jamming, colored lights, installations and parades, mud, camping, gross Porta-Potties, guys with beards selling glass pipes and families with kids. Above all, It was a band connecting with its fans and fans connecting with each other.

My It experience began on Thursday afternoon with a beleaguered, caffeine-fueled drive to the wilds of northern Maine capped off by a late-night trip to the Presque Isle Wal-Mart for supplies. There, in that magical setting of oily pavement and iridescent lights, I encountered two types of Phish fans.

The first was a group of quintessential Phishheads. They all had dreadlocks, scruffy good looks and a mini school bus in which they make their way from show to show selling illicit pad Thai without vendor credentials. This particular group was reluctant to talk about their lifestyle for fear of being characterized as “gypsies.” However, after spending about a minute with them you kind of had to think they were, um, gypsies.

The second was a carload of guys that I termed “dude fans.” They were friendly Midwestern college students in shorts and T-shirts who looked more like they were ready to attend a sporting event than a weekend-long music festival. These guys were much more open to geeks with press badges then the gypsies across the parking lot.

Later I would find that this dichotomy between the reticent gypsy folk and the friendly dudes continued inside the concert venue, which was not what I had expected.

Around 1:30 a.m., fully supplied, tired and wired, I was finally able to crawl into my dorm bed at the University of Maine at Presque Isle, or more affectionately dubbed “Umpy.” I had wanted to fall into a deep, sugar-plum, phairy-filled sleep. Instead, a guy next door inexplicably belting out sea shanties from his darkened room kept me awake.

I made some five-minute friends Friday morning by handing out nifty It bumper stickers courtesy of the NEWS to fans lined up in traffic. You’d be surprised how much a free, colorful sticker excites your average Phish fan at 6:30 a.m. Although, I somehow felt guilty knowing they’d be stuck in traffic till midday while I breezed through the media gate in less than 10 minutes.

The actual opening of the gates was anticlimactic. At 8 a.m. only a dozen or so fans began to hoof it into the camping area – everyone else was stuck in a sea of cars that didn’t begin to flow until a half-hour later.

As I strolled among the ocean of autos, I was struck by the absurd scene of the bereted and booted soldiers from Maine’s Weapons of Mass Destruction Team eyeing and inspecting carloads of the dreadlocked, the tie-dyed and the baseball-capped for chemicals and explosives.

With their clothes, dress and attitudes, most festival-goers seemed to be the cultural inheritors of the hippie generation. Weren’t they the idealists who once tried to shut down the government’s war machine in the late ’60s by lifting the Pentagon through chanting led by Beat poet Allen Ginsberg? The times they have a’changed, I guess.

Thankfully, the only thing smuggled in were Weapons of Minor Destruction, water bongs and overstuffed coolers of beer.

By noon, the festival’s mucky, crowded campgrounds (basically the grassy spaces between the runways on the former Air Force base) resembled those scenes from the “Lord of the Rings” saga where thousands of evil elves are birthed from the Middle-earth to create a vast and unconquerable army. Heck, there was even a tower.

It wasn’t until sundown Friday that the festival itself came to life with the squawk of boomboxes, guitars and beer hawkers and the sight of jugglers, fireworks and lighted pipes. It’s quite possible the word “dude” had been used more than 2 million times that day.

At the late night tuneup extravaganza, I chatted with one fan who insisted that the band was no good, despite admitting to attending nearly a dozen Phish concerts. He then tried to convince me that the only truly gifted musician working today is Yanni. I had to disagree. Yanni’s good, I said, but he’s no John Tesh. We then respectfully wandered away from each other.

I spent the better part of Saturday exploring, interviewing and, most importantly, eating my way through It. A small village of food vendors had been erected at the heart of the festival and I couldn’t help but sample falafel (tasty, but over-priced), Benevolent Burritos (by far the best taste and value), organic coffee (writing fuel), fruit smoothies (way too expensive) and pizza (cheap, but bland).

I regret not sampling any of the victuals offered by unlicensed, campsite vendors, but I just couldn’t get past the “sketch factor” of a $1 grilled cheese cooked over a camp stove, let alone pad Thai.

While waiting for Phish to take the stage Saturday afternoon, I watched with only mild pangs of guilt from the press platform as thousands of fans below baked in the sun while standing ankle-deep in some truly foul-smelling mud.

My conscience was eased, however, during the band’s set when I saved two dude fans from Massachusetts from getting kicked off the restricted platform. I wielded my mighty press badge and said authoritatively, “They’re with me.” They had been helping me decipher the songs, which all blur together. It was nice to return the favor. I got many thanks and felt like the coolest journalist on Earth.

As I wrote that evening, occasionally peering over my laptop, I was able to watch the band roll out long and thick jazz-influenced jams while the stage lights pulsed in shades of blue, red, yellow and purple. When the band played an extended version of the Velvet Underground’s classic song “Rock ‘n’ Roll” during its second set, I became a Phish fan for 15 minutes.

By Sunday night, I had probably spent more hours listening to Phish than sleeping. When I made it back to Bangor late that night, I was giddy from exhaustion and sensory overload, but knew from my ruined pair Converse All Stars that I must’ve had fun after all.