In the Shondaland series The First Time, you’ll hear intoxicating tales about trips to new places and nuanced narratives about nerve-racking but rewarding career shifts. You’ll also step into stories in which what people believed to be true was challenged when experiencing something for the first time. Through it all, we hope you see that, no matter what’s next, there’s always a lesson to be learned.
Water was up to my calves during a hurricane-level storm at Jones Beach Theater on Long Island in New York. Drenched in a poncho, I danced, eager to seem cool to placate the new man in my life. Large inflatable blow-up toys — props that concertgoers throw around the arena while the band plays specific songs — whizzed past my head within the 15,000-seat amphitheater.
I knew little about Phish, other than remembering seeing the Phishheads back in my Penn State days. They were mostly hippies — in appearance, at least — playing hacky sack and getting high. Admittedly, I was ignorant when I assumed that Phish fans all looked like this one stereotype I’d seen around my gigantic campus. I wasn’t good friends with any of them. I was clueless when it came to the music and fandom of Phish, and it never occurred to me that this would have any reason to change.
However, when I fell in love a decade later, I was swept off my feet and whisked away to a strange world. A parallel universe where millions of people worship at the altar of four grown white men who play instruments and sing offbeat long songs. The men are Phish, and their world of fans is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
Initially, I didn’t know I was dating a Phish fan. There was no outward evidence of his musical proclivities until the relationship solidified. He looked more like the boy next door. Apparently, he ditched the hemp necklace years before we met.
At that first concert, in the midst of a summer storm of noteworthy proportions, I was a foreigner in a sea of locals. He’d repeatedly told me that it was okay if we left the concert. Still, I felt those unignorable, once-in-a-lifetime sparks and intrinsically knew that my effort mattered here.
Among the intensity of wind, water, and props, something incredible happened. As I surveyed the scene around me across the amphitheater, I noticed everyone thrashing about with no cares in the world, as if their lives depended on it. I’d never seen anything like it and became enthralled at the passion of this fandom. While it wasn’t personally relatable to me, I felt special to be part of it.
At that moment, I was the Grinch at the end of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I’d arrived at the concert indifferent. Now, this very large, inexplicably happy Whoville-like Phish town managed to warm my heart. I couldn’t help but respect the passion and dedication. The entirety of that first concert was otherworldly.
Since then, I’ve been to more than a dozen Phish shows over 11 years and learned a lot about marriage, compromise, and what it means to love a Phishhead. I’ve sacrificed New Year’s Eves, Halloweens, and my own living room to hours of streaming concerts on YouTube.
During one show, I fainted from strobe lights, a first for me. My boyfriend was petrified. Later, as my husband, he jokingly confessed that he wished the terrifying ordeal hadn’t occurred during the less-often-performed song “The Lizards.” It was one tune that he’d never heard live. Phish’s catalog is so immense, hearing a certain song can be a white whale experience.
In 2017, Phish played their historic Baker’s Dozen concert series, performing 13 back-to-back shows. My husband attended each, a feat unfathomable to many. He went alone, with friends, and with me for two performances.
In the Phish universe, such repetition is normal. The band consistently tours and releases new music. Fans are always starving for more. When they’re not at concerts, they’re talking about them, dissecting every lyric and set list like fossils in an archaeological dig. These nonstop discussions and debates keep the fandom passionately engaged.
There’s a special kind of excitement when the person you romantically adore is introduced to that thing you love most. Many couples prefer to keep pastimes separate. That can be healthy. For us, intertwining interests allows us to connect on a deeper level. In the early days, I was lovestruck and eager to partake in everything new as I collected all the stamps on my relationship passport. Phish music and true love were unchartered territories. Finding one meant learning about the other.
Over time, something that began purely as an act of love and support for my boyfriend transformed into real, genuine affection for the group. Phish shows are mostly joyous events. You don’t need to be on an acid trip to feel the love. They can release stress and free the unreserved spirit within.
At my wedding, our officiant (one of his oldest, closest friends, also a Phish lover) included parts of the Phish song “Waste” in the ceremony. For our fifth anniversary, I had a box engraved with those same lyrics. The stronger our love grew, so did my understanding of true partnership and marital flexibility. For someone whose love language is music, I learned one of the best ways to express my love was accepting his Phish-related eccentricities as well as organically ingratiating myself to them.
A randomly sung lyric in the kitchen still elicits excitement from my husband. “Were you just singing Phish?” he’ll ask, running in with a huge smile. This summer, Phish embarks on another massive seven-show run at Madison Square Garden in New York City. He won a coveted Phish lottery, which means he has — you guessed it — tickets to every show. I’ve agreed to attend at least one.
When I married a Phishhead, I entered into a union not just with him but also with an extended generally loving, though impassioned, family who welcomed me with open arms — and lots of inflatables. My commitment level has never been judged. In many ways, I’ll always be a tourist when it comes to the world of Phish, but it’s a great place to visit.
Blake Turck is a New York-based writer who has contributed to The Washington Post, The Huffington Post, NBC, Insider, Well+Good, and StyleCaster.
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