I was at a retreat about four years ago and we were asked
the question, “Who’s your tribe?” It was
a way of getting at one’s identity, where you feel most comfortable, most like
your true self. I immediately thought “Phish
fans are my tribe” because music festivals are my happy place—of course for the
music, but also because of the generous, communal vibe created through a shared
love of that music. I always leave
hoping I can bring a bit of that positive energy back into my “civilian” life.
In the ensuing years, as the Movement for Black Lives took hold and the
nonprofit I work for held several racial equity conversations and trainings, I
began to have a pretty disturbing thought: Damn, my “tribe” is pretty much all
white. (It’s also very male—more on that
at another time.)
In the wake of the hate-fueled violence in Charlottesville,
and amidst the national conversation about
white supremacy it launched, this seems like a good time to talk about race
and privilege in the Phish / jam-band community.
The fact that the fan base is extremely white isn’t
particularly surprising. Phish is a band
of four white guys from Vermont, one of the whitest states in the nation. They developed their fan base at elite
northeastern colleges, which are disproportionately white (and wealthy). They play jam-infused rock, a type of music
that owes much of its roots to black American artists but that has long had a
very white fan base (see: any Grateful Dead concert).
That it’s not surprising, however, doesn’t mean it’s totally
innocent. The fact that Phish built such
a white fan base playing their twist on black music in front of rich college
kids is itself reflective of centuries of cultural appropriation and racial
hierarchy.
Then there’s the question of whether it matters. There’s no bustling movement to integrate
Phish shows. In a country where white
supremacists murder counter-protesters, black people are regularly shot by
police, and Latinos are targeted for harassment and deportation, it seems hard
to get worked up about the demographic mix of Section 119 at Madison Square
Garden. Diversity is important in lots
of places such as democracy, workplaces, schools, and neighborhoods—because it
brings inherent value and ensures equality of opportunity. But, does it matter at a rock concert, or in
a music-based community more broadly?
Probably not as much inherently. The opportunity stakes aren’t nearly as high,
and there’s not necessarily a clear collective goal that would be furthered by
more varied perspectives in a music scene.
It may not be critical to building an inclusive democracy or society
that we all rock out together. But, that
doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter at all: broadly speaking it would encourage
racial healing if we shared more passions across difference. To the extent that racism is rooted in seeing
people who don’t look like us as “other,” seeing people who look different
grooving to the same tunes would discourage this outlook.
And, this intersects with another, related question: Do
people of all types feel comfortable at a Phish show, or is the scene exclusive
based upon race? Whiteness tends to
build upon itself—once a scene or culture is overwhelmingly white it becomes
very difficult for it also to be welcoming for people who don’t fit neatly into
the mold. The same is true of class,
gender, and other lines. We could be
denying people access to a great experience because they are not white—and
that’s a problem.
As I became more aware of systemic racism baked into U.S.
history, politics, law, and culture, I began to notice a few things about our
own beloved Phish community.
Our entire scene is
built upon a foundation of white privilege.
Walking around Magnaball in 2015 I had this disturbing thought for the
first time. A Phish festival is
essentially 30,000 (white) people running around with glitter all over us,
selling all manner of non-FDA approved meals, and openly consuming all manner
of drugs—all while police officers stride around on horses just making sure
we’re safe. Can you imagine 30,000 black
people being afforded the same indulgence in the United States of America in
2017—or at any time in our history?
We’re not immune to
racial bias. Most Phish fans aren’t
overt racists, but I have heard some fucked up shit at shows. And, unfortunately when I have heard the
occasional racist outburst I have not heard anyone intervene and tell that
person his bullshit isn’t welcome in our scene.
(To be clear, I have failed to intervene myself.) Beyond overt racism, we all have our implicit
biases and tend to make assumptions about people based upon shortcuts like
class and race. This is magnified in a
heavily white environment.
It might not be so
awesome to walk around a Phish festival or show as a person of color. At Magnaball I really started to think about
what it might be like to be a person of color walking through a sea of white
Phish fans. Would it be a welcoming
space? Or—especially if you’re a black
male—are many people assuming you’re there to make a buck selling them
something rather than enjoying the music?
While working on this post I’ve had the opportunity to talk
with a number of Phish fans who are people of color, and have learned a bit
about their experience.
First, not everyone feels there’s a problem. Christopher
Jett is a 41 year old of African-American and Native-American heritage who has
seen more than 250 shows since 1994. He
told me, “I have never felt uncomfortable at a Phish show. In fact, that's
where I feel most comfortable in my life period.” “Honestly,” Christopher added, “being a
person of color on tour, especially in the 90's was a positive experience. It
actually helped me become who I am because I was one of two to three people of
color on tour at any given time. Everyone knew me, even the band, and that's
fucking cool.”
Lisa Nolan of North Carolina also saw her first show in
1994, and is a member of a Facebook group of about 50 African-American Phish
fans. She hasn’t seen much racism at
shows, but does encounter a persistent assumption that she can’t possibly be that into the music: “People
are always amazed that I’ve been to as many shows, know as much about the
scene.”
Shaunea Robinson has
been seeing Phish since 2010, and she picked up on that theme. “I'm constantly asked if this is my first
show, even with a faded tour shirt on,” Shaunea told me. “I took my fiancé (who is not at all a Phan)
to Magnaball, and people constantly assumed because he was a white man that he
brought me along. They would speak to
him and not even acknowledge me, then get surprised when he told them it was
only his second time seeing the band, but I'd seen over 30 shows. These days, if I'm doing a show solo, I'll
avoid conversation, just so I don't have to see the surprise on someone's face
when they find out I'm actually knowledgeable about Phish.”
Beyond that, Shaunea
told me that negative encounters are rare, but she’s had experiences that “have
ranged from weird to awkward to downright hostile,” including being accused of
selling fake tickets.
Jamie is 36, and has
been attending jam-band shows with her 46-year-old African-American husband
Alex (who saw his first Phish show in 1991) for 18 years. She had a much more frustrating story to tell
about their experience. Jamie wrote that
Alex is constantly asked where the bathroom is (“100x a night, no
exaggeration”) because people assume he works at the venue, despite that fact
that he’s “clearly wearing a Phish shirt with sunglasses and a Grateful Dead
hat, and still all of this happens because hundreds and hundreds of people each
run can only see his skin color, not that he could maybe be a potential Phish
fan.” She says that their time together
“usually gets intruded on by arguments with racist frat boy types” and while
they encounter this problem at lots of concerts, “it's always waaaaaay worse
than anywhere else at a Phish show.” She
continued:
Racism happens at 100% of
Phish shows, both blatantly and drunkenly and by those just inexperienced and
sheltered… Some people think he's the token 'cool black
dude' at shows and he hates it and would rather they go away and let him dance.
Mostly it's people thinking he works there…and it happens every 5 minutes…. It
really is a buzz kill and puts a damper on his weekend and all of the fun that
it was supposed to be, to realize that even in the place he was hoping to have
the most fun and be the most free and blissed out, people still see him only as
his shade of melanin, and that the world, even the more fun part of our lucky
world, is still full of race stereotypes.
In sum, a Phish show
is clearly no Trump rally, but I think it’s fair to say at minimum that our
beloved scene hasn’t been welcoming for all people at all times.
So, what can we do?
First, I think we white
Phish fans need to start having this conversation. It’s our responsibility to address the
challenges in our community. Most
of the fans of color I spoke with—even the ones who’ve generally had good
experiences—were excited to hear that I was attempting to spark a conversation
about race among white Phish fans, especially about the white privilege.
Shaunea told me she has a good crew
that makes her feel comfortable “but other times, when I have brought up the
issue of race and racism in the scene, I'm either silenced or derailed with
‘love and light’ rhetoric. It's disappointing, because for a group that is
generally socially conscious and left-leaning, a lot of white Phans seem to
turn a blind eye to racial disparity.”
Jamie says when she’s brought up her husband’s negative experiences in
the past people accused her of making it up.
I’m not sure that our overarching goal should be to make the
scene more diverse. If fan diversity
increases as a result of making our community more welcoming, great. But, the last thing we should do is try to
drag our friends who are people of color into our scene to make ourselves feel
better. And, as noted above, diversity
isn’t as inherently necessary or valuable in a music scene as in other aspects
of our lives.
I think our dual goals should be to make the scene as
welcoming as possible for people from all kinds of backgrounds; and to be more
aware of our tremendous privilege, and bring that awareness into the other
aspects of our lives in the form of a responsibility to fight racial
oppression.
On the first
front—making our scene more welcoming—I can think of a couple of things that would
help.
Be race conscious,
not color blind. Research shows that
being aware of our own biases can help combat them. So, don’t pretend you don’t see race. Acknowledge difference and the background
assumptions that can come along with that, and make a direct effort to treat
fans of color just like everyone else.
Lisa summed it up well: “As a fan of color, I just want to be treated
like any other ‘phan.’ I'm there to share in the groove just like everyone else
there.”
Be on the lookout for
unwelcoming behavior and intervene.
Let’s commit to each other that whenever we see or hear anything that
would make our scene less comfortable for people of color (or women, LGBTQ
folks, people with disabilities) we will proactively intervene and make it
100-percent clear that such rhetoric or behavior is not welcome in our
community. This could be micro-aggressions against people of
color (like assuming they work at the venue or are vending), or racist comments
or jokes among an all-white crowd.
Next, we must
acknowledge our privilege and treat it as a responsibility.
Can we turn our
community into a force for racial equity?
Folks in the Phish/ jam-band community are already a pretty progressive
bunch. You can probably count the number
of Trump voters at any show on a few hands.
And though the band is famously apolitical, drummer Jon Fishman was
quite vocal in his support for the 2016 Bernie Sanders campaign.
But, can we take that base and turn the community into the
strongest band of white anti-racists around?
Can we model what it means to create a welcoming majority-white space at
our festivals and shows? More important,
can we embrace the responsibility we have as people whose happy place is
steeped in privilege, and use the realization that people who aren’t white
wouldn’t be allowed to enjoy our favorite thing as motivation to smash racial
hierarchy in this country?
In other words, can we as a community get active in fighting
racism on the issues that really matter?
To take one example: mass incarceration and over-policing in communities
of color. If the police searched us as
aggressively as they do black people a good chunk of us at any show would go to
jail.
I think these should be our collective goals. And I’d be very excited to be part of a
conversation about how to get there. Or
about different, better goals. Let’s just
start talking about race in the jam band world.
If you’re interested in being part of a conversation about race in the
jam-band community, please email Adam at phansforracialequity@gmail.com.
