They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Weir passed away at 78 on Saturday, just months after fellow Dead bassist Phil Lesh died, leaving the Dead community reeling from consecutive losses of two irreplaceable figures.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Weir passed away at 78 on Saturday, just months after fellow Dead bassist Phil Lesh died, leaving the Dead community reeling from consecutive losses of two irreplaceable figures.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
For Oteil Burbridge, bassist and vocalist for Dead & Company, the death of frontman and Grateful Dead founding member Bob Weir hit like “a one-two punch from Mike Tyson.”
Weir passed away at 78 on Saturday, just months after fellow Dead bassist Phil Lesh died, leaving the Dead community reeling from consecutive losses of two irreplaceable figures.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
For Oteil Burbridge, bassist and vocalist for Dead & Company, the death of frontman and Grateful Dead founding member Bob Weir hit like “a one-two punch from Mike Tyson.”
Weir passed away at 78 on Saturday, just months after fellow Dead bassist Phil Lesh died, leaving the Dead community reeling from consecutive losses of two irreplaceable figures.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Grief has a way of catching musicians off guard, even when they’ve spent decades navigating loss.
For Oteil Burbridge, bassist and vocalist for Dead & Company, the death of frontman and Grateful Dead founding member Bob Weir hit like “a one-two punch from Mike Tyson.”
Weir passed away at 78 on Saturday, just months after fellow Dead bassist Phil Lesh died, leaving the Dead community reeling from consecutive losses of two irreplaceable figures.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Grief has a way of catching musicians off guard, even when they’ve spent decades navigating loss.
For Oteil Burbridge, bassist and vocalist for Dead & Company, the death of frontman and Grateful Dead founding member Bob Weir hit like “a one-two punch from Mike Tyson.”
Weir passed away at 78 on Saturday, just months after fellow Dead bassist Phil Lesh died, leaving the Dead community reeling from consecutive losses of two irreplaceable figures.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.
Grief has a way of catching musicians off guard, even when they’ve spent decades navigating loss.
For Oteil Burbridge, bassist and vocalist for Dead & Company, the death of frontman and Grateful Dead founding member Bob Weir hit like “a one-two punch from Mike Tyson.”
Weir passed away at 78 on Saturday, just months after fellow Dead bassist Phil Lesh died, leaving the Dead community reeling from consecutive losses of two irreplaceable figures.
In a candid conversation with WAMC’s Josh Landes, Burbridge opened up about processing grief, carrying forward Weir’s all-in philosophy, and why music remains his religion.
Blindsided by Loss
Burbridge didn’t see it coming.
He knew something felt off when Dead & Company had no bookings scheduled, not even for Weir’s side project Wolf Brothers. But he had no idea Weir was battling cancer.
I didn’t even know that he was ill and having cancer treatments or any of that. I knew something was up, because Bobby doesn’t take eight months off.
When Saturday’s call came, Burbridge’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way. Phil and Bob, gone within months of each other.
Yet even in shock, Burbridge found solace in how Weir lived.
He left it all in the ring, man, times ten. And he had a very clear and well thought out and felt intuitively philosophy about death.
Living Without a Net
Weir’s approach to mortality shaped how he performed.
Burbridge recalls conversations where Weir spoke openly about death, describing how he seemed to feel departed bandmates’ presence even during rehearsals. That awareness created an urgency in performance—a commitment to being fully present because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
If your death is up in your face, you’re going to live right now to the fullest, because your next moments are not guaranteed. And that’s how he lived, all the way, man. All in, all in, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever known personally.
This philosophy defined Dead & Company’s improvisational approach. Every night without a safety net. Every song an opportunity to dive into musical deep water.
It’s what made Grateful Dead culture different from ordinary fandom—a shared commitment to experiencing music as a spiritual practice happening in real time.
Bus Rides to Nowhere
One memory keeps making Burbridge laugh through tears.
During Dead & Company’s extended residency at Las Vegas’s Sphere venue, the band finally escaped constant tour bus travel. They could sleep in real beds, stay in proper accommodations between shows.
Weir brought his tour bus anyway.
Bob brought his bus to Vegas. He had it every single night! He still wanted to be on the bus, even though there was zero need for it whatsoever.
Despite having an enormous residence in Vegas, Weir insisted on taking the bus to and from each performance. The ritual mattered more than logic.
For Burbridge, this absurd dedication perfectly captured Weir’s character—commitment past love affair, past devotion, into complete self-identification with playing live music.
Inside the Sphere
Performing at Las Vegas’s Sphere created a paradox.
Audiences experienced mind-bending visuals—massive rose petals falling during “Scarlet Begonias,” immersive imagery wrapping 360 degrees around tens of thousands of fans.
The band couldn’t really see any of it.
We really can’t see it that much. It’s all, the way the Sphere is built, it’s really all oriented towards the audience. We’re like the soundtrack for a movie, and we have the worst view of it.
Instead of watching screens, Burbridge watched faces. Audiences seeing shows for the first time, minds visibly blown. That became the reward.
Even with the venue’s technological precision, Weir refused routine. He insisted on soundchecks before every performance, tinkering with sounds, launching into 20-minute jams on songs not even in that night’s setlist.
It’s always so in the moment with Bob. And at the same time that it might even seem frustrating to me at some points, but then I realized, hey man, this is the mode he operates in.
Heroic Final Shows
Looking back now, last summer’s Grateful Dead 60th anniversary shows in San Francisco carry different weight.
Those massive performances at Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields—hours-long sets drawing tens of thousands—became Dead & Company’s final weekend with Weir, though nobody knew it then.
Burbridge has since learned Weir performed those shows after cancer treatment.
My god, man, we’re all so lucky to see Bob, especially knowing that he had gone through a cancer treatment. I did not know that at the time, and to think of how heroic that was, and that nothing was going to stop him from missing Grateful Dead 60.
Nothing was going to stop Weir from showing up for that anniversary. The community gave him energy; he knew he could count on it 1,000%.
Lighting Candles
Spiritual teacher Ram Dass said something profound when Jerry Garcia died.
Garcia was a catalyst for Grateful Dead community members to become “self-luminous”—to generate their own light rather than merely reflecting someone else’s.
Burbridge sees Weir’s legacy identically.
Light sparks another light, and it’s like lighting all these different lights, and then they light more, and we got to keep lighting it. We try to keep lighting more lights ourselves. That’s how it grows. And that’s eternal.
This philosophy transforms grief into continuation. Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kreutzmann intentionally played with musicians outside Grateful Dead proper—deliberately passing torches, lighting new candles.
Countless bands now play Grateful Dead music. If Dead & Company never performs another note, Burbridge will keep playing that repertoire with his own projects, with musicians like Grahame Lesh, Melvin Seals, and Steve Kimock.
The light keeps spreading.
Playing With Ghosts
Burbridge has navigated profound loss before.
His brother Kofi, Colonel Bruce Hampton, Greg Allman, Butch Trucks—a devastating roster of musical companions who’ve passed.
After Kofi died, Burbridge wondered whether he’d ever reach the same musical peaks they’d achieved together. Their connection was telepathic, born from childhood.
Then transcendent moments started happening with other bands.
A friend told him something that changed his perspective: Every time you play, you’re playing with Kofi. He’s the one who taught you.
I can’t play anything that’s separate from Kofi. He’s my older brother, man. He was the one. Once these things make their way into our heart, we put it out every time we play.
Musicians carry their teachers and collaborators forward. Not as memory, but as living presence in every note.
Mass Grieving
This Saturday, Burbridge will attend Weir’s public memorial service in San Francisco.
He expects crowds rivaling Grateful Dead 60’s massive gatherings—tens of thousands processing collective loss together.
Unlike private grief, communal mourning offers catharsis. It reminds everyone that continuation is already happening.
You look at all the pictures of all the different musicians that were not in the Grateful Dead that Bob and Phil and Bill and Mickey intentionally played with to intentionally pass those torches. Each one of them is lighting another person’s candle.
Burbridge feels for Weir’s wife Natascha and daughters Monet and Chloe, who had to share him with millions. He’s grateful he didn’t know about Weir’s illness—that time needed to belong to family.
But this memorial time belongs to everyone.
Music as Magic
Ask Burbridge about his philosophy, and he’ll tell you straight: Music is magic.
Not metaphorically. Actually magic.
We’re not up here doing math. Nobody’s paying for that, for me to stand up there with a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. What is music to the materialist? What is it? I’m a magician.
Science can explain how music works—frequencies, vibrations, neural responses. But it struggles with why songs make people cry, why hearts ache witnessing injustice, why certain performances feel transcendent.
Burbridge believes love is “the strongest and most powerful and most ancient and potent form of magic.” He can’t prove it to skeptics, but he’s staked his entire life on it.
So did everyone in Grateful Dead.
That’s my religion. We’re trying to inspire each other, we’re trying to keep each other buoyed when things are pulling us down. And I believe in it, man, I believe this stuff.
Making Wishes Come True
On March 7, Burbridge will perform at Saratoga Springs’ Canfield Casino for Make-A-Wish Vermont & Northeast New York.
He connected with Make-A-Wish President and CEO Jamie Hathaway through an unexpected route: UFO documentaries.
Burbridge reached out to his favorite UFO filmmaker for a podcast appearance. During their text conversations, the filmmaker mentioned walking with his friend Jamie, who freaked out discovering his buddy had Oteil Burbridge’s phone number.
Mutual interests in motorcycles, Grateful Dead, and UFOs sealed a friendship. When Hathaway asked Burbridge to participate in Make-A-Wish’s gala, the answer came easily.
The most important thing you can do is make a hard connection with someone and make a dream come true. Sometimes your dreams do come true, and it’s happened to me so much in my life.
For Burbridge, watching his own children experience pure joy defines heaven. Contributing to that feeling for other kids—especially those facing medical challenges—represents what matters most.
We can all be a miracle for somebody at some time, and so when you’re called to do it, when it’s placed in your path, just do it.
Looking Both Ways
Near the interview’s end, Burbridge joked about his thorough answers.
That’s my philosophy. I don’t know—if I get hit by a car later on today, at least I said it. And you can put out the long version afterwards.
When asked to please look both ways, he laughed.
Oh, you know it, baby. I got young kids. I want to be here for another 60.
Sixty more years of lighting candles. Sixty more years of carrying forward what Weir, Garcia, his brother Kofi, and countless others taught him.
Not as nostalgia or tribute, but as living practice—music as magic, connection as religion, love as the most powerful force available to humans.
That’s what self-luminous beings do. They don’t just reflect light received from musical heroes.
They generate their own, then deliberately pass it forward.