On Sunday at Madison Square Garden, Phish drummer Jon Fishman donned a bishop's costume atop his trademark mumu to take lead vocals for a cover of the Velvet Underground's "Sunday Morning." He "blessed" the crowd with "holy" water and a censer because, ya know, Sunday morning. It was a gag that had been going all week. Phish gave out thousands of donuts to each audience member for every show of this 13-night MSG run. They're calling it Baker's Dozen. The joke has layers, too. The flavor of donut handed out each night dictates that show's setlist. Sunday's was red velvet (get it?). Themes so far have been coconut, strawberry, powdered (that set included a cover of Neil Young's "Powderfinger") and—wait for it—jam-filled, with two songs reaching the 30-minute mark. Five nights in, the Baker's Dozen has proven to be one of Phish's most elaborate and amusing experiments ever. It's the band in Peak Wonka Mode, and it couldn't be more fun—which just so happens to be the group's reason for being.

I've attended all of the Baker's Dozen gigs thus far. I only planned on the first three shows, but I couldn't help going back for more. I don't want to miss a moment. Sure, some would say I have sort of an addiction: Wednesday night marked my 71st show. But who's counting (besides my concerned mother, father, and girlfriend)? The Baker's Dozen is Phish's latest attempt to give the audience just what they're looking for: a fantastic time. It's them boiled down to an essence, a simple seed of an idea that has grown into one big ol' beanstalk. The Garden's decor makes it look like a cartoon pastry shop, adorned with puns like "Glaze On" (one of Phish's recent songs is called "Blaze On") and inventive merchandise. It's like a theme park with drugs and easy access to public transportation.

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It's that distillation of the band's MO that is so noteworthy. Phish shows are, in essence, about enjoyment. Inside of one (and somewhat depending on the venue), rules are about as loose as they get in American society. You can forget about what's going on outside of the walls, three hours at a time. There's all manners of substance abuse. You can dance like an ass or hurl a glow stick or punch a giant balloon. Sometimes there's nudity. Usually there are bare feet. Mommy and Daddy don't make you shower and put on a collared shirt. And as I walk the concourses at MSG, it doesn't take tattered t-shirts from tours of yore to note that much of the fan base is making some connection to a simpler, more care-free time in their lives. At its core, going to a Phish show will always be like the adult version of not having to brush your teeth before bed.

Look, I'm not the first person to posit that rock bands and their rabid fans—and hippies and counterculturists writ large—seek to delay reality, shirk jobs, avoid responsibility, and even regress to childlike behavior. But Phish takes it up a notch with Seussian lyrics that conjure myriad images of psychedelic other worlds, a drool-worthy light show, and antics like full album "costumes" for Halloween.

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And, now, there's the Baker's Dozen. I'll admit that I underestimated them this time. I figured that the feat of having a summertime residency in the heart of New York City was special enough. They'd play shows like any other summer tour—some would be exceptional, others wouldn't. But, here's the thing about Phish that many detractors don't understand: They go into overdrive—technically and creatively—to please. Before the tour started, they rented out Milwaukee's main basketball arena to practice for a whole goddamn week. On Wednesday night, the band expertly maneuvered through the wide-ranging styles of Fleet Foxes, Ween, Prince, Led Zeppelin, and Neil Young for covers. In the same show. They've put in the work, and it's paying off.

I've been writing professionally for 12 years, and Phish has always been a touchy subject among the taste-making crowd. In my experience, many of those who write Phish off—out of the gate and without much reason—take music, and often themselves, too seriously. It's probably a case of backlash to the backlash ad infinitum at this point, but to be clear: Nobody is demanding you stop worrying and love Phish. If you don't like the music, I get it. If you just think it's fun to make fun of people wearing patchwork corduroy pants that haven't been washed in ages—well, I guess I get that, too.

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What's more difficult to stomach is criticisms that conflate Phish with stereotypes of its fans. The four members aren't lazy stoners. Yes, Trey Anastasio struggled with substance abuse and, yeah bro, they met in Vermont. They also are some of the best musicians in rock music who have a deep knowledge of its history and form. The group has also demonstrated an unparalleled business acumen, racking up eye-popping numbers in tour and merch sales all while paving the way for the modern music festival.

Trey Anastasio has always been the group's reluctant leader, with the band and its fans looking to him as a compass. And, no doubt, there were some dark days. But now, Anastasio is one of the most remarkably happy people I've ever seen in the flesh, his head bobbing throughout a performance as he's sporting a trademark, ear-to-ear smile. So, what's he telling us up there? That he's having so much fun.

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