Remembering 'Roi

I generally don't understand when us common folk speak of grieving for the passing of celebrities. We rarely knew them personally, though we felt like we owned some little piece of them, I suppose. They still can have a profound impact on our lives. With that in mind, I wrote this to remember LeRoi Moore, the late saxophonist for Dave Matthews Band who died Tuesday after "sudden complications stemming from his June ATV accident on his farm near Charlottesville, Virginia." I've been a DMB die-hard fan since before I was a teenager, spending more than a month's worth of evenings at concerts with Mr. Moore and company. It was a deep and profound connection and, in a strange way, I feel like I've lost a part of myself. I can only imagine the sadness his family, his bandmates and everyone who knew him much better than I did must feel.

LeRoi Moore: 1961-2008

My brother. My inspiration. My friend.

To me, you were so much more than "the saxophonist for Dave Matthews Band."

You were "the shy one," wearing sunglasses while performing to disguise your stage fright, giving the impression you were "the cool one" instead.

This is why your bandmates wore shades in tribute to you hours after your passing during their show Tuesday evening at the Staples Center in Los Angeles. They played on to remember you, to celebrate you, because, as your friend, Dave, said, "There's no place I'd rather be than here with you guys right now."

This is what you gave to us. And it is how we will remember you.

Thousands of hours of your peformances were captured. Your band was loved so that people wanted to repeat and treasure your one-of-a-kind shows forever, so they brought equipment to record entire concerts.

You were especially a trademark part of this sound, punctuating spots in songs where it needed a little more or dive-bombing into a filthy, sweaty sax solo during a slinky live groove.

Earlier this summer, your band returned the "Water/Wine Jam" to its repertoire after a 12-year absence — "we will dance together until the end of time." The man who sings that was once a young bartender, an aspiring actor who jammed with you in a basement with your friend, Carter. Who knew that band would one day play Giants Stadium together? Together, you founded a group which journeyed the globe, sharing its craft with millions.

This is what you gave to us. And it is how we will remember you.

Fans talked of your passing with great sadness, perhaps more than your sheepish, earthly vessel would've been able to grasp. Doctors were even paged during surgery. A community of fans talked openly about crying for your absence, speaking of how they will remember you. Commuters were listening to your music in traffic when a friend or loved one called or text messaged with news of your passing because they knew how deep that person's connection to your band, your music, your passion. This is how I heard. I was nearly finished eating dinner. If I sounded cool and calm, it was because I was in shock. I've followed your career since before I was a teenager. I felt as though I'd been punched in the gut.

You've been such an important part of my life, in ways I struggle to comprehend or for which I can summon words. As a middle schooler and aspiring saxophonist, I dreamt of being like LeRoi Moore, playing in a rock band for thousands of adoring fans. Even though we only spoke once for a split second, I'll remember it fondly. It is your gift for song I will cherish most about your memory.

This is what you gave to us. And it is how we will remember you.

Maceo Parker, a collaborator of James Brown and Parliament-Funkadelic, inspired you. You loved his work. How jowful it must've been to share a stage with him multiple times in 1998 on your band's hit "What Would You Say."

But you inspired many, too. You were a groundbreaker. Who'd ever heard of a rock band with its own full-time woodwind player? From John Mayer to O.A.R. to many future, unknown artists, your group is a brand that will not soon be forgotten. And you were an essential part of that style.

You could shift sounds quicker than Madonna changes costume. If the song called for funk, you brought the funk. If it was smooth, silky jazz licks, you crushed it. You weren't afraid to put down the sax and try other instruments, like your defining flute work on "Say Goodbye" or that low, booming baritone sax sneer on "Bartender." Or the haunting, melancholy phrase you used to fill "#34."

These sounds, your work, were the only comfort some of your fans had to deal with your loss.

You worked quietly in your little nest on stage left, rarely drifting from your spot. But you demanded such presence, you never had to drift far.

I wish I had a pair of your signature shades right now, those big, black wraparounds of which you'd grown particularly fond.

I want to hide my tears for a man who was my brother, my inspiration, my friend.

I want to be thought of as "the cool one" rather than "the sad one."

This is what you gave to me.

It is how I will remember you.

Comments

[Ryan]

well done my friend, well done indeed.

[Kristie]

Best I've read yet-- the only piece that has made me cry.
You summed it up perfectly.

"I've followed your career since before I was a teenager. I felt as though I'd been punched in the gut."

Thank you.

[Kelley]

Thanks...That was cool.

[Lynne]

Very well done, Nick ... you cut right to the heart of the feelings. Brought tears to my eyes.

[Melissa]

beautiful.