Growing up in the 1990s, the dominant genre of music was most certainly alternative. The birth of grunge, the hard rocking that wasn't all hair bands, and the reemergence of songs dominated. It's funny, then, that Rolling Stone handed out the honor of "most influential band of the 1990s" to none other than jam-band kings Phish.

      Now, what does Phish have to do with alternative music, you may ask. Well, not an awful lot, except once covering Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit," but the events that transpired on February 7 share a common theme with all types of music: a rise to mega-stardom, a battle with addiction, and eventually an awakening of sorts.

      For years of one's life, people traversed the country, following this band, slowly watching it fall from grace. When singer/guitarist (and default leader of the band) Trey Anastasio sat down to talk with Rolling Stone contributing editor Anthony DeCurtis, almost immediately DeCurtis mentioned substance abuse, and Anastasio openly admitted that he had had a serious problem, one that played a major part in walking away. The look on his face and the tone of his voice made me realize that he truly cared about his life, his music, his fans, and most of all his family. He appeared honestly reborn, embarrassed, and thankful to even be here. He immediately hung himself out to dry for those curious in attendance, which certainly included a few scorned former lovers of his music.

      Always the showman, Anastasio also played a simple acoustic for three songs throughout the evening. The first tune, "Wherever You Find It," he admitted was like "writing letters to my fans." Along with "A Case of Ice and Snow," which not so subtly suggests he was spiraling out of control, was played with passion, a sense of vulnerability, and by a man that truly feels he has turned an important corner in his life—one that may have saved him.

      My favorite analogy of the night was when DeCurtis mentioned speaking recently to former Phish keyboard player Page McConnell. McConnell said that for over 20 years, the band members were living in a sort of "suspended animation." And when things came to a halt, they were all sort of thrown back to the time when they started playing together (around 18 years old). Anastasio agreed wholeheartedly and said that it was tough to have to grow up so quickly after being in a safe, vacuum-esque environment for so long. He compared the breakup of "the most important band of the 1990s" to the life of recent college graduates struggling to find their identity in the world around them, and ultimately themselves. He said that he never had to face that change, as many of his friends did, and doing it at 43 was much harder.

      DeCurtis also read some questions off of index cards provided by audience members, which included, "Do you still talk to the other guys?" and "Is there any talk of getting back together?" He simply stated, somewhat agitated, that there are four members of Phish, and he always felt unnecessarily burdened for speaking for them all. He ended by saying, "If I find myself again with Phish, I'll consider myself the luckiest man in the world." That response was followed by easily the longest, loudest cheer of the evening's events, along with his entrance and statement that he had gotten help and was now clean and sober.

      Anastasio also mentioned the friends in his life, one being longtime Phish lyricist Tom Marshall. Marshall definitely felt the same emotions as all those in attendance. Anastasio played the third song, "Pebbles and Marbles," which was one "Tom and I wrote together."

      Clocking in at roughly an hour and 15 minutes, the interview/solo showcase seemed to fly by like many of the sets I had seen Anastasio perform in the past. I wanted it to continue, but felt thoroughly satisfied with a little clarity as to what this man's life—one of my music heroes' lives—had been like for what was obviously too long. It was also nice to see his fidgety, playful self be honest and heartfelt, something that seems like it had been missing for oh so long. DeCurtis told Anastasio that he was not the first musician to struggle with this problem. The audience told him through their actions and support that he was not like those others: he managed to be sitting there, coming clean to those who made him jam-band royalty, and finally, finally being honest.