Phil Lesh’s Passing

Phil Lesh’s Passing: A Tribute from the Heart of a Collector

October 26, 2024 – Phil Lesh has left us, and today feels like the end of a long reel spinning slowly to a stop. As I sit here, looking over my collection of 1970s-era tapes and CDs, it’s clear that Phil’s voice isn’t just in the songs—it’s in the moments between the notes, where music becomes something felt in the chest.

In an unexpected twist of cosmic timing, the torch was passed as Phish paid tribute to Phil on the very day of his passing. They opened their set with "Box of Rain" the song has become a symbol of love, loss, and resilience. Hearing it that night felt like Phil’s voice echoing through another generation of musicians, reminding us that the music—like the love it embodies—is never truly gone. As the song says "such a long time to be gone, such a short time to be there."

My journey with The Grateful Dead began through these tapes—each one a portal back to a time when the band was breaking boundaries. Phil’s bass lines were always the heartbeat of those recordings, both grounding and expansive. As I’d slip a tape into the deck or carefully open a CD case, I could almost feel Phil’s philosophy of music come alive: “What you can do is prepare yourself to be open; open for the pipeline to open and the magic to flow down through us. It means leaving yourself behind. It’s not a question of, Oh God, don’t let me fuck up, or anything like that. It’s a question of, ‘Here I am. Work me, Lord.’”

By the 1990s, my dedication had expanded beyond tapes. I eagerly awaited the arrival of The Grateful Dead Almanac, a vibrant collection of stories, tour memories, and artwork that felt like an extension of the family. Every issue brought with it more than nostalgia; it carried Phil’s belief that the band was more than music—it was an evolving community. His words ring true: “After this many years, man, there’s nothing awesome about it all, except the moments. Those moments, when you’re not a musician, you’re not even a person—you’re just there.”

To be a collector was to be a witness to that magic. The music, the almanacs, the gatherings—they were all part of a broader story that Phil was always shaping. Even in his later years, with projects like Phil & Friends, he never stopped believing in music as a living force. His words during a reflection on his post-Grateful Dead ensembles still resonate: “Sometimes it happens onstage, or sometimes in rehearsal, but it always leaves me breathless and wonder-struck: The music is still there, waiting for us to approach, to open ourselves, to let it pass through us.”

Phil knew how to be present, how to let the music flow through him without forcing it. His sense of when to step forward and when to fall back was part of what made him so enduring. His passing feels like the quiet moment when a set ends, when the crowd lingers just a bit longer, knowing that they’ve witnessed something truly special.

Rest in peace, Phil. Your music and your words will always have a place here, among the tapes, CDs, and memories that tell the story of your remarkable journey.