The performance itself was a thrilling three-hour roller coaster ride, not least because “the boys” had (and still have) this magical ability to control the energy of the entire audience. When they played “Meatstick,” one of their funkier jams, the crowd started doing the synchronized “Meatstick” dance. When they played the more mellow “Divided Sky,” someone started a massive glowstick war — and everyone knew exactly when to pause for a moment of silence before the band erupted into song again. I’d read somewhere that Phish shows are like hanging out with 18,000 of your closest friends, and I finally understood why: This was a crowd where everyone was fully invested in helping each other have a good time.

When you think about Phish phans, if you think about Phish phans, you probably think about some version of the tribe I just described. Perhaps you saw the episode of Broad City where the co-op guy asks Abbi (a documented phan IRL) to name her favorite Phish album, and views her answer as an actual window into her soul. Maybe you think about the people who’ve been to hundreds of shows, who can recite exact set lists dating back two decades (“Dude, night two, set two of The Great Went in ‘97, so dope.”). Or the people who can sit and debate the musical merits of each lingering note for longer than most people can sit still without checking email. Or the people who, whether you know it or not, are quietly living and breathing the Phantasy Tour message board, a forum where hardcore fanatics with usernames like “GiantDanks,” “HigherFrequency,” and “FirstNoob” gather to dissect Phish minutiae, each one hoping to out-Phish the next.

I hear there might be a few people out there who roll their eyes at Phish’s goofy, cult-ish vibe, but to me, the community is at the root of my unconditional love for the band. Back in high school and college, being a Phish phan was a defining part of my identity. It gave me something to belong to at a time in my life when everyone was just looking for somewhere to belong.