My heart is broken. I traveled from the East Coast to the West Coast to see your music, and every mile was worth it. I always considered myself a “Bobby Girl.” From the very beginning, you were more than just a musician — you were a compass, a constant, a reason to chase something bigger than myself.
I first saw RatDog at 15, where I also caught my first weed charge in Virginia (thanks, Alex Moustafa). From there, the path was set. In 2011, I started touring with Furthur and bought a $1,200 school bus in Tennessee, gutted her, named her Birdsong, and drove across the country chasing every spring, summer, and fall tour I could. That bus wasn’t just transportation — it was freedom, community, and purpose on wheels.
I made it to Wanee in 2012, then followed you on the East Coast solo acoustic tour. Those shows were something special — intimate, raw, and unforgettable. Tiny venues. Beautiful rooms. Moments where you forgot the lyrics and the crowd carried the song for you, proving once again that your music lived far beyond the stage. And yes — if you know, you know — that one woman who wailed the entire time, convinced she had a strange parasocial bond with you.
There was the night at Red Rocks when Melissa Oakes and I cut out early, waiting above the band exit. You came strolling out alone into the night. We yelled your name. You looked up, tipped your hat, flashed that glint in your eye, and waved. We squealed like Penny Lane and the Band-Aids. I rode that high for a month — maybe longer.
I always hoped for the return of RatDog, or at least Furthur. No other artist ever made my heart race the way a Bob Weir show announcement did — and no one ever will again. You weren’t just part of a musical movement. You shaped a way of life. You gave people a place to belong.
I hope you’re up there now, wearing your shortest shorts, shredding with Jerry, Phil, Pigpen, Brent, Keith — all of them. Say hi to my dad for me.
And Bobby — thank you.
Thank you for the miles, the music, the magic, and a real good time.
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