Death is one of life’s greatest teachers.
OK, that came out like a goth kid reading at a poetry open-mic night. I swear this isn’t a sad column! Bear with me for a minute, friends, and let’s talk about mortality, music and memory.
My recollection of the first funeral I attended is hazy. I was 7 years old and had, at best, a tenuous grasp on the concept of death. I knew that our first family pet, Charlie the cat, hadn’t come home one day. My mom was sad but seemed relatively at peace with it. She told us that Charlie had lived a good, long life and was off to the great litter box in the sky. My dad was warm but more curt: “Nothing lasts forever, Chris.”
We got a new black cat a year later, and yeah, we named him Charlie II. Clearly, the Farnsworth clan played fast and loose when it came to contemplating mortality.
One of my father’s business associates died a few months later. I recall a rainy fall day in New Jersey, long lines of cars outside the cemetery and umbrellas gathered around the grave like a cluster of black balloons. A priest spoke for a few minutes; there was some nodding during Bible verses. And my dad was fidgeting, clearly wanting to be anywhere other than a funeral.
On the drive home, an Eagles song played on the radio. I don’t recall the tune, though my Lebowski-esque hatred for the band had started so early, it’s possible I just blocked it out.
Only then, briefly, did I see the emotion in Dad’s eyes. And I remember being supremely confused: This song sucks! How could it possibly elicit a tear from the man I have never seen cry?
I thought about that moment a lot on Saturday as a few hundred people and I gathered at the SEABA Center in Burlington to celebrate the life and legacy of Matthew Stephen Perry. My best friend and longtime bandmate, Perry died in March at age 49, sending a shock wave through the Queen City and beyond.
There have been several memorials and gatherings in the months since, including packed-house celebrations at the Other Place and Finnigan’s Pub — two of the many establishments where he had tended bar. They were lovely affairs that honored Perry the consummate Burlington Guy, the bartender that everyone loved, the social butterfly who connected so many disparate friend groups.
But Perry was also a great songwriter, a magnetic front man and one of the hardest-rocking musicians this town has ever seen. First with the Lestons, then with Party Star and eventually with our band together, Dino Bravo, Perry established himself as a vital piece of the local music ecosystem.
That legacy had to be honored. So along with other former bandmates, friends, family and loved ones, we threw an absolute rager of a rock show in Perry’s memory.
Experimental musician Jabe Ledoux opened the celebration with a percussion performance on the venue floor. After handing out shakers, Ledoux led the crowd in a 10-minute group-beat exercise that brought a welcome summer-camp feel to the proceedings.
One of Perry’s favorite Vermont singer-songwriters, Jesse Taylor, kicked off a block of acoustic sets, including a rendition of My Morning Jacket’s “Wordless Chorus” that had many — including yours truly — crying through wide grins. Next up: Sean Hood’s Eastern Mountain Time and Lily Sickles, who performed a stirring set together.
Everybody’s Favorite Irish Drinking Songs Band, a St. Patrick’s Day-only ensemble with which Perry played for years, capped the first segment. Those who had experienced the band before were ready, but the uninitiated were shocked to have tinfoil-wrapped hot potatoes flung at them from the stage. As one of the flying taters smacked a very confused woman in the crowd right in the head, I thought to myself, This is exactly what Perry would have wanted.
And Perry was present everywhere, with his image projected on a screen above the stage, on numerous prints around the club and on plenty of people’s T-shirts. I walked around the venue, trying desperately to remember names of people I hadn’t seen since the Obama administration, and heard people telling their favorite Perry stories. The tales ran the gamut from epic times at music festivals to wild benders at the bar to encounters at the beach. All bore one underlying theme: Perry’s heart was utterly indefatigable; his capability for empathy, love and support for his friends, unmatched.
Drum ace Dan Ryan took the mic and spoke of Perry as an older brother-like influence. I was moved enough to hop onstage to tell the story of my last meal with Perry before he died. Here goes:
We were having lunch at his favorite spot, the Old Post in South Burlington, when Perry told me with absolute seriousness that I was no longer his favorite person. To be clear, he went on, I was still his best friend, but the top slot in his life now belonged to his fiancée, Star Davidson. And, of course, I was behind his cat, Carol, as well. At the risk of sounding cocky, I handled the news like a champ and, as I relayed to the crowd, was quite happy to be No. 3 in his life.
In a short but sweet recorded message played over the PA, Davidson drew plenty of laughs and tears as she recalled the three separate occasions Perry proposed marriage to her, despite her saying yes each time. For the final one, Perry popped the question in a full Santa outfit on Thanksgiving, presenting a ring from a pillowcase — after pulling a bait and switch with a Guns N’ Roses pin first.
“That’s what you got with Perry,” Davidson said. “Sometimes you weren’t entirely sure what he was about to do, but without fail, it would always be the right thing.”
After the stories were done, things got appropriately loud as surf-rock trio the Wet Ones! took the stage. They were followed by an all-star lineup including Ryan and Dino Bravo drummer Jeff LaBossiere; Dino Bravo and Zeus Springsteen bassist Josh Shedaker; Dad?! guitarist (and my brother) Pat Farnsworth; Ian Greenman from Workingmans Army on vocals; and Jesse Taylor Band. Taylor sang a version of the Miley Cyrus smash hit “Party in the U.S.A.,” a Perry favorite that he’d often use to signal closing time at the OP. Photographer, musician and all-around scene workhorse Luke Awtry and I joined to play a mini-set of some of Perry’s favorite songs as the Perry’s Playlist Band.
Hard-rocking powerhouse Blue Button were up next and, as always, absolutely destroyed the stage with front man Jason Cooley’s full-throttle energy and a sea of guitar riffs courtesy of Eric Olsen (Swale) and James Bellizia (Heloise & the Savoir Faire, Be-er).
Perhaps the most unexpected reunion came as the Jazz Guys, the once-upon-a-time darlings of Burlington indie rock, hit a Vermont stage for the first time in almost two decades. Fittingly for a band that hasn’t been particularly active in recent years, the first song was mostly the fellas trying to figure out who was out of tune. Bellizia turned to me after five minutes to ask if all the tuning was a bit. I’m still not totally sure — such is the legacy of the Jazz Guys’ antics. Either way, the band sussed it out and launched into a ferocious version of “The Best Five Minutes of Your Life.” Suddenly it was 2005 again, when the Jazz Guys were selling out Nectar’s and getting banned from the Church Street Marketplace after convincing the folks at the Burlington Discover Jazz Festival that their name actually meant they played jazz.
The end of the night was all about Perry’s songs. His three bands played in succession, giving a chronological rundown of our friend’s work. From the twisted humor of the Lestons’ “Huffin’ Paint” to Party Star’s gorgeous “Sine Wave” to Dino Bravo’s hard-rock anthem “Pop Music,” the full range of Perry’s songwriting was on display. His songs are funny, sad, introspective, and above all else, they fucking rock. My ears were ringing the whole next day. He’d have loved that.
As the night closed with a stage full of musicians, all hand-picked by Perry over the years to be his bandmates, I looked around the venue. I saw the tear-streaked smiling faces, the raised glasses and the voices screaming his name to the heavens, and I thought of all those black umbrellas at my father’s coworker’s funeral when I was a kid.
No rainy cemetery, dreary procession of cars or Latin uttered over a mound of earth would suffice for Perry. Burlington sent its favorite son into the cosmos with the loudest rock show we could manage.
My pops was a wise man who taught me many things, but he was wrong about death. Some things are forever.
Perry forever. ➆
The original print version of this article was headlined “Perry Forever: A Toast to a Late Burlington Rocker”
This article appears in June 17 • 2026.
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