String Cheese Incident: Rising Up to Paradise
Falling in love with a new band is not unlike falling in love with a woman. Once that fire is ignited, you thirst to know everything about them. You relish each twist and turn down the pathways of the unexpected.
Drinking up their signature vibe, basking in awe of their distinct sound and observing the intricacies of the band members’ communication are exotic as an African safari. At the same time there’s also a sense of comfort and familiarity. You know you’re supposed to be there. You get that tingling sensation, realizing you’re about to tumble past the point of no return.
Such was the state of affairs on May 8, 1998 as I immersed myself in the world of String Cheese Incident at Be Here Now in Asheville, NC. It was my fourth time seeing them, but this was the one that truly hooked me. All the stars were aligned as the catharsis of college graduation was only a week away. I was footloose and fancy free. They were playing at the coolest venue only 90 minutes away from home. The shit always went down at Be Here Now. As a sidebar, my brother had also just rolled into town from Philly. He was so exhausted from pulling all-nighters for finals, he ended up passing out in the car and missing the show.
The pairing of Keller Williams with SCI was a match made in heaven and one that occurred frequently back in that era. Keller’s brilliant comedic lyrics were the ultimate warm up for the brain waves and his one-man-band heroics a lubricant for the limbs. When Cheese began, I made my way up close in front of Kyle. The Owsley was doing its thing and the energy was starting to fractal. Keith’s bass groove unfurled like a river shimmering in the moonlight, beckoning me over the rapids. The way he was anchored to the stage, yet flexing like Gumby made gravity seem dubious at best.
This second set was quintessential Cheese and offered a peak into the juggernaut they would soon become. I feel so lucky to have seen a band of their caliber in a club that small. “Black Clouds” blew the doors open and the band psychedelically steamrolled all the way to the final notes of “Texas.” Deep in the set when I long-since relinquished any semblance of ego or trivial attachments, they pulled out one of the most exciting covers imaginable. “Estimated Prophet” entered the ethers in thunderous fashion and we were most certainly rising up to paradise. My Sony D8 was nursing the nectar on the soundboard chain and I remember praying that the bits of digital splendor were being harvested as intended.
Later that night, my car practically drove itself home down the pitch-black country roads with my brother still borderline comatose in the passenger seat. He awoke suddenly, just in time to point out a most unusual sighting. It was a bison or some enormous horned animal lumbering down the shoulder in the middle of nowhere. It had branched off from the pack and was now headed for greener pastures. We did a triple take and still question it to this day whether it actually happened. Somehow it was the perfect punctuation on one heck of a mind-expanding night.
