REMEMBERING BOB WEIR
BAND OF BROTHERS
Jonathan Parber, with John Schroeter
The dull black Corvette— a mid-60s roadster— looked as though it had been sitting out in the elements too long, neglected for many years. But now it was sitting at the curb in front of the house. I had flown out from Colorado Springs to my parent’ s home in Novato for this arranged meeting, and I was more than a bit on edge.
He got out of the Vette, wearing the look you see on kids’ faces when they’ re about to jump off a high dive for the first time. It never occurred to me that he’ d be even more nervous than me.“ What the hell,” I said to myself.“ It’ s time to break this ice.” I walked out across the lawn with outstretched arms and cried,“ Bob, long time, man! You never write!” I gave him a big hug, for which he braced and stiffened— he clearly wasn’ t used to this kind of thing— and said,“ I’ m Jonathan, your brother.”
From the time I was a kid in junior high, I looked up to Bob Weir. In the early days of the Dead, we’ d see them all the time. I especially liked watching Bob— he was the cool one. I loved the way he played guitar, the funky little rhythmic accents that he’ d work into the fabric of the sound, always just underneath the surface of the song. Oh, I liked Jerry, too— how could you not like Jerry? But I was a“ Bob guy.”
We were all fans, my three brothers and me. Jim, though, was the one who pulled us into the whole experience of the’ 60s. He was the one who, when we were still living in Merced, was
112 | SPRING 2026