Phish Blew the Roof Off the Sphere With Their Ambitious, No-Repeats Nine-Night Run
Rolling Stone was in the crowd as the jam band heroes bring one of their biggest live experiences ever to the Las Vegas venue.
https://t.co/NLHtCTyB5f
@onceuponaweeny If I get realllly desperate (has happened on Billy tour, 20+ rejections in a row) I’ll change my profile photo to one of my female friends from tour and I’m guaranteed to get picked lol
In fond and loving memory of a musical soul mate to the world… Thank you Bobby for your kindness and most of all the friendship you gave to me…
Emily, Dalton and I send our love and prayers to Natascha, Monet, and Chloe.
Dwight
The Dead had a profound impact on the world. Their concerts were legendary, the community they built lifted spirits and created family, and their songs inspired generations. Bob, your long strange trip has come to an end, RIP and say hi to Jerry for us. ✌️❤️ 😊
I was standing next to Bobby on a beach in 1997 and saw him throw a football every bit of 60 yards on a rope to a kid who'd just walked up, tossed him the ball, said "hit me" and took off running.
He was bare-foot and holding a beer in his left hand.
It was incredible.
In the darkest hour of my life, when everything felt stripped of color and consequence, the Grateful Dead found me.
I didn’t go looking for them. I wasn’t searching for enlightenment or salvation. I was just trying to get through the days without feeling the weight of everything pressing down on my chest. Life had narrowed into something small and joyless, a routine of endurance rather than living. And then, almost by accident, I heard them, not as background music, but as an invitation.
The Grateful Dead didn’t offer easy answers or tidy resolutions. What they offered was permission. Permission to feel everything at once, grief and gratitude, longing and laughter, confusion and wonder. Their music wandered the way I felt inside, unpolished, exploratory, unafraid of getting lost. In those long, meandering jams, I realized that being lost wasn’t a failure. Sometimes it was the point.
There was something deeply human in the way they played. Notes bent and frayed, songs dissolved and reassembled themselves, mistakes became moments of grace. It reminded me that life didn’t need to be perfect to be meaningful. It just needed to be honest. When Jerry sang about broken dreams and strange highways, it felt less like a performance and more like someone sitting beside me, saying, I’ve been here too.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the world began to open back up. Their songs taught me to listen again, to sunsets, to strangers, to the quiet hope hiding inside even the hardest days. Beauty, I learned, isn’t always loud or triumphant. Sometimes it’s subtle, fleeting, and fragile, like a melody that only exists once and is never played the same way again.
The Grateful Dead showed me that life is less about control and more about surrendering to the flow. You don’t dominate the current. You ride it. You trust that even when the path bends unexpectedly, it’s still taking you somewhere worth going. That realization didn’t fix everything, but it gave me something better, perspective.
In my darkest hour, they didn’t pull me out of the darkness. They taught me how to see in it. They showed me that joy can coexist with pain, that meaning can be found in the mess, and that there is profound beauty in simply being here, still listening, still moving forward.
Once in a while, you get shown the light, in the strangest of places if you look at it right.
Thank you for everything, Bob.
Bob Weir. God, I love Bob Weir. This one really hurts.
Bobby is a man beyond description. He was no regular rhythm guitarist. His playing was so stunningly unconventional and remarkably complex. He held the band together while giving everyone room to do their own thing -- all with his own flair and style.
I love his music. Loved. Looks Like Rain. Weather Report Suite. Black Throated Wind. Lost Sailor, Saint of Circumstance. Mexicali Blues. Jack Straw. Sugar Magnolia. Cassidy. Music Never Stopped. Minglewood. Man, I love a good Minglewood.
I have seen Bobby more times than I could possibly count. Ratdog, Dead and Company, Wolf Bros., the National Symphony Orchestra, the Phil/Bobby duo (with Trey at Radio City!) etc. etc. etc.
In the last decade or so, I got to meet him a bunch of times. The first time I met him here in D.C. about a dozen years ago, he shook my hand and said to me, "So let me get this straight. You get paid to tweet about the Grateful Dead and politics?" I said it was a bit more complicated than that.
What I am most thankful for is that, after Jerry died, Bobby kept the music going.
I'll miss him a lot. I'll miss yelling "Bobby!" when he got on stage. I'll miss the "well, thanks" after a song. Bob Weir and the Grateful Dead are the soundtrack to my life.
Heaven is getting a One More Saturday Night tonight with Jerry, Phil and Brent.
Fare the well, Bobby. May the four winds blow you safely home.
“The through-line here isn’t really about Crockett… It’s about what digital fundraising has become. Blue Chip Strategies perfected an all too common formula: find a Democrat willing to position themselves as a villain’s antagonist, run the content machine, and collect a percentage of whatever comes in. Whether the candidate wins is almost beside the point.”