I was enjoying my daily walk to campus, music blasting, the autumn sun warming my rosy cheeks at 12:38 PM on October 15th. At 12:39, my chest heaved, my knees buckled, and my phone slipped through my sweaty fingertips onto the blistering concrete. “Phil Lesh died this morning,” flashed across the dimly lit screen— a text from my older sister, followed by a string of heartbroken emojis.
Phil Lesh— beloved bassist and songwriter for acid rock ensemble, Grateful Dead— was the third of the five original band members to pass on. My reaction to the death of a musician that I had no obvious connection to was seemingly dramatic. I’m not a bassist like Lesh, nor was I even a die-hard fan of his. However, his passing signified a profound loss for the Deadhead community (followers of Grateful Dead) and a fading piece of the Grateful Dead’s enduring culture.
For as long as I can remember, being a Deadhead has been just as fundamental to my identity as being a writer, a nature enthusiast, or even a woman. Their groovy songs were always queued on my childhood home’s kitchen radio and my mom’s car stereo. Growing up, my parents brought me along to bluegrass or progressive rock concerts most weekends and our summer vacations were spent camping in the dust of remote music festivals, mimicking the Deadhead lifestyle. Although I am the youngest audience member by at least 15 years at almost every Dead cover show I attend, I feel most comfortable around that crowd.
My connection to this special fanbase made Phil Lesh’s death hit harder than I ever expected. It wasn’t just about him; it was about everything he represented. And now, here I was, standing alone on the sidewalk, staring at my cracked phone screen, attempting to figure out how to make it through the rest of the afternoon. We all find ourselves at this crossroads at some point— grieving the loss of our musical idols— so let’s navigate this moment together, step-by-step.
Step 1: Let it hit you
When you hear the news, let it soak in. Take a second to breathe, relax, and recognize how you are feeling (and maybe try to avoid dropping your phone in the middle of the sidewalk). This isn’t the kind of grief we are taught to confront, but that doesn’t make the suffering any less valid. Acknowledge the fact that even though you didn’t know this individual on a personal level, your affliction is still real and legitimate.
Step 2: Reach out
Just like with any heartache, your support system can save you in this time of need. Visit or call a loved one; share how you are feeling— it is vital to get your emotions out in the open. While it is not necessary to call someone who necessarily feels a similar connection to the artist, it can help. Whether it’s a friend, family member, or online forum/social media, talking to people who understand why this loss feels so personal can provide comfort and community.
Although it was challenging to talk about, I reached out to my siblings the day Phil Lesh died. It was so frustrating to me seeing my peers going about their days as normal when we had lost such a treasure that morning. Hearing that my brother and sister were struggling stripped away a deep loneliness I had been battling in my grief.
Step 3: Step away if needed
Headlines are designed to catch our attention and evoke emotions in readers, making it easy to lose ourselves in the flood of obituaries, tributes, and news articles. If it becomes overwhelming, take a break. It’s not selfish to step away or resume the rhythm of a normal afternoon. Continuing your day as usual doesn’t mean you’re not grieving, it means you’re human.
The day Lesh died, I felt like I needed to spend the entire day dedicating my thoughts and energy towards him and the Deadhead community. This mindset sent me into a phone-glue spiral until I decided to head to the library and finish up some schoolwork. Even though I was suffering, I had responsibilities to attend to— responsibilities that keep me sane and motivated. The world didn’t stop because I was grieving, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t struggling.
Step 4: Listen, listen, listen
Perhaps the most obvious step of grieving the loss of a beloved musician is reminding yourself of why they mattered to you in the first place. So put on their music! Play your favorite song, an album that shaped you, and/or rewatch old concert footage from seeing them perform live. Let it be a way to connect with them and their craft, not just a reminder of loss. I like to remind myself that, even though the individual is no longer with us, their legacy endures through their music.
Throughout my day, I listened to “Box of Rain,” a Lesh composition, on repeat— in the library, on my strolls around campus, and when falling asleep. Since childhood, it has always been one of my favorite songs. Although I had to focus my energy on average daily tasks, I still felt I was paying tribute to Lesh through my headphones.
Step 5: Engage with their music
At some point in your day, try to find the time to really sit down with your beloved musician and engage with their work. Write about memories that make you think of them, play an instrument, attend a live show, go on a long drive while blasting their music, paint—do something that actively makes you feel connected to the artist. Your connection with them doesn’t have to end with their passing; it can evolve and inspire.
In the late afternoon, I made my way to the piano at the bottom floor of my dorm building, where I sat for several hours playing Lesh compositions. I even recorded a version of me performing “Box of Rain” and published it online (something I had always been beyond uncomfortable with). It helped, honestly. I felt connected with him as a composer and unpacked his lyrics in a way I had never done before. It was as if it were Lesh and I in that room together, instead of me and my tablet.
Later that evening, I impulsively purchased a ticket to see Joe Russo’s Almost Dead (JRAD), one of the most well-regarded Grateful Dead cover bands that had frequently performed with Phil Lesh, at the Fox Theater in Oakland. My sister had graciously sent me the $80 for my nosebleed seat ticket, claiming that I was “going for our family and for Phil.” The entirety of the three-hour set was incredible, but my favorite moment was near the end. The band members hadn’t spoken the entire night— presumably due to the devastation the day had brought. Teary eyed and surrounded by the love of his fellow bandmates, drummer Joe Russo uttered his final (and only) remark, “Thank you Phil,” before walking offstage. The crowd fell silent. Soon, audience members began a chant: “You know my love will not fade away,” followed by a rhythmic series of claps— the refrain to “Not Fade Away,” a beloved Dead song. After several minutes, the band returned and came in on-beat to finish their set off with a rendition of the tune. It was one of the most emotional, powerful performances of my life; tears were plentiful and lyrics were belted. As I stood in the back of the crowded theater, swaying among strangers in an unfamiliar city, I felt right at home. Phil Lesh’s music, spirit, and everything he represented lived on— not just in his songs, but in all of us who refused to let his love fade away.
Though the day we dread—the one where our musical idols are in the obituaries section of our morning paper— is inevitable, it is not the “day the music dies.” The music never really stops; it lives on in the people who carry it and in the moments we dedicate to keeping it alive.
Article by Sailor Hill
Leave a Reply