Rest now my friend.....

We lost our friend Joe DelRosso this week.

"We" and “our” because there's so many of us who loved him. He was so quiet and modest that I don't think he ever realized the reach he had. As a musician there was nobody who worked harder. But on his rare off nights, if you were playing, he was there. And when you saw him, hands jammed in his pockets, knit cap over his head, standing in the corner nursing a Miller High Life and softly singing along to whatever song you were playing, it would lift your spirits. The vibe of the room changed. Everything became....well....somehow better than it was.

Joe is the handsome guy in the front row with the skull cap

And let me tell you. He knew 1000 songs. Hell, he knew 5000 songs. On the guitar. And the piano. And the bass. And he knew every lyric. On open mic nights he was like a jukebox. We'd all hush and wonder what he was gonna play. Obscure Beatles? An old Kinks deep cut? Some random thing a drunk yelled out? If your band's bass player got sick and you needed a fill-in, Joe was your first and only call, because he was the only one capable of playing 4 hours of your songs without rehearsing. The last time we played together was a few weeks ago. He was weak but always up for a jam. The only bass available was left-handed, so he hung it upside down and played note for note perfect. One night a friend swears Joe played "Hello Goodbye" by the Beatles on a left-handed guitar. Joe would just find a way. He hated fuss.

It was cancer that finally got him. Fuck cancer. Joe beat it back for a time, and we all dared to hope. It was easy to do. I don't know how to put this and I hope it comes across the way it's intended. But Joe never acted like he had cancer. He never complained.....not a single time. Even when he was in the midst of treatment, which ravaged him. When after a few days he'd start to feel better again you'd see him out, and he was just Joe. And he was asking about you. Your kids. Your gigs. He never wanted to talk about himself. It was frightfully easy to forget that he was a sick man. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

"Dashboard Mary" was his band. Led by Joe and Rob Roman, who were closer than brothers. They played EVERYWHERE. If a brand new bar just opened, Dashboard Mary was already booked there. If there was a mobile home out in the middle of the woods that had a liquor license and a bandstand, these guys have already played there 40 times. While the rest of us were scrambling for contact names and numbers, Joe and Rob were already local legends at these places. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped anybody’s names trying to get a gig more than I’ve dropped Joe and Rob’s.

Myself and others filled in for Joe sometimes when he was too sick to play, and just last summer I filled in for Rob. Joe sent me a text an hour before the gig. We had a really fun show at local winery. Which of course they had played dozens of times. The staff loved Joe. Everybody loved Joe.

Even being a one-night member of Dashboard Mary is an honor. They are everything that’s good about our local scene.

And most importantly, if there was a benefit for somebody in need, Dashboard Mary was usually the first band signed on. Cancer never affected Joe's heart.

When Joe showed up, everybody would say "where's Rob?" When Rob walked in alone, everybody wanted to know where Joe was. Their arguments during soundchecks were legendary and frequently hilarious. They could seemingly never agree on anything except that Robb was always too loud, and that each would take a bullet for the other.

Joe and I met in the early 2010s. A bunch of local musicians started gathering at a new Thursday night open mic. At a place called "Legends Saloon" in Dickson City. So many of these things just sort of lose steam after a few weeks. But there was something about this one. The vibe was good and there was an instant camaraderie between all the performers (we also ran up enormous bar bills because, well, musicians). Some of the players were total beginners, and some like Joe were seasoned vets. Everybody was treated with the same respect. These nights changed my life. Many of the best friendships I have in my world started here. And that included Joe. We bonded over lots of things, but none harder than both being Dunmore guys. Once we learned this about each other, the rest was easy. It's a Dunmore thing. We gathered here weekly for almost a decade, and when Covid put and end to them all of us were crushed. For a while at the start of the pandemic we even gathered on Zoom. It’s called friendship.

And it was thanks to these nights that Joe met Patty. When Patty was around, Joe smiled more. They had a quiet bond. It was obvious from the beginning that they adored each other. Patty would be with him until the end. As Joe's friend, I want to thank her for that. As brave as Joe was fighting this battle, Patty’s courage in not asking him to fight it alone is just as exemplary. I hope she realizes she’ll forever have a dozen+ brothers.

I’ll miss him. And I’m so grateful that I knew him. The world is one person at a time. It’s one moment at a time. And it’s frequently terrible. But when that person is Joe, and that moment is you and him talking or laughing or playing a song together, you’re reminded what a wonderful place it can be.

In a bit….

—tf