Todd Snider: Fare Thee Well Remarks

Todd Snider: Fare Thee Well Remarks

January 14, 2026

Shep, when you asked me to speak, I was intending—perhaps predictably so—to provide an oration that would talk about the man I know and love and would then wax poetically and philosophically on the meaning of death and life.

I had hoped to articulate how the temporal nature of our existence, is what makes life so beautiful. I was going to reiterate my often used examples of… the flower being a thing of beauty, not only because it is esthetically pleasing, but because it will wilt one day.

And that the sunset is beautiful not only because it colorfully and picturesque, but that it will soon disappear beyond the horizon. I thought I would pontificate on how the end, how death defines the meaning and beauty of this life.

However, when I got to the keyboard, I found so many of my thoughts were selfish ones. They were about me, about what we shared and how much I was already missing you. It just didn’t make any damn sense to me. I think the pain is too close. Too raw.

My inability to philosophize here with any substantive meaning or insight is due to pronounced grief and the labyrinthine of expectations. You will have to forgive me, as this is my first Funeral—with the deceased still breathing—[slash] Celebration of Life [slash] Farewell Ceremony [slash] Music Listening Night [slash] House Concert [slash] catered Death with Dignity PARTY—with a minor homage to Bugs Bunny and carrots.

So, please bear with me as I merely touch on a few stories. On a few…remembrances instead.

I remember When you first “announced” your Fare Thee Well intentions, you said you were open to people scheduling one-on-one time with you through Cassidy. In that email, you said to us, [quote/unquote] “remember me as I was.”

Well, as I have told you so many many times before, Shep, “Go fuck yourself.”  You can’t tell me what to do…

I will NOT remember you as you were…

I will NOT remember you as you are now

I will remember ALL of it.

I will remember the first time we hung out after work. You suggested we meet at Il Bistro to hash out some finer point of educational policy—you know, one of those discussions where the fate of public education itself hangs in the balance.

Man, Il Bistro. I had never been there before. It was really fucking cool. The bar seemed to exemplify that cool urban sophistication that my recently divorced mid-20s self yearned to become part of.

I had a beer… YOU had a martini.

After we debated this forgotten work detail—seemingly so important at the time—the conversation then drifted to… politics… to a shared love of music… and then… to women… Good god…, women…

When we were done, you shook my hand… and told me we were going to be friends.

It’s hard to describe the affect you had on me in those days—nearly three decades ago. I was a small-town kid, who spent his teens in the burbs. After my first true heartbreak, I moved to the big city—downtown Seattle—and was determined to remake myself anew, as an urbanite.

Then you came along.

You were 17 years my senior, while I was in the midst of an existential crisis of reinvention. You were a leftist like I was. You knew so goddamn much about music—all kinds of music, even the “grown up” kind. You knew about literate and art… and all the cool places to go. You seemed to me to not only be worldly, but engaged in the world itself. Politically. Intellectually. Spiritually. And Sensually.

Yet, you never condescended… and embodied some kind of… egalitarian 60s ethos. An urbane hippie, if you will.
And I remember that damn cool tomato suit you wore. It seemed to validate most of my impressions.

As much as I have studiously avoided admitting it to you over the last thirty years, so much of the man I chose to become was profoundly influenced… by you.

This small-town boy wanted to be a cool, cultured… and sophisticated urbane hippie. I wanted to be a lot like Shep Siegel.

I remember the first symphony you took me to at Benaroya Hall… That was pretty fucking cool too. I had never been and I tried very hard to act like a grown up [something I continue to fail at].

Speaking of the symphony. I distinctly remember one concert we saw in the cold dead of winter. Tchaikovsky, I believe. We were seated middle center—as opposed to your standard second tier balcony seats [Box E, Seats 7 & 8 if I remember correctly]. There was an excessive amount coughing that wintery night.

So, just before the concert started, you stood up, turned around and with both hands made a “come here” gesture and told the crowd: “Come on. Get it out. Come on. Get it ALL out. Get it all out before the music starts. Come on.”

A cacophony of coughing, sneezing and throat clearing followed. It was, however, the quietest concert I have ever attended.

Your crowd admonishment are not just limited to “grown up” music. I remember going to a film at the Cinerama with you—middle center seating, of course. They had annoyingly just introduced commercials before the previews. We were discussing something and a woman a few seats down gave us an annoyed look, followed by the mildest shush. You did not take that well.

You leaned over to her, pointed at the screen and—in an elevated tone—said, “It’s just an ad. It’s an advertisement.” The woman sat back, nervous and refusing to engage further. That, however, did not stop you. You then stood up, turned around to face the full theatre, pointed to the screen and declared, “It’s just an ad. It’s a commercial. They’re trying to sell you something. You can talk. It’s ok. You can talk! They’re just trying to sell you something. It’s an advertisement!”

I remember when I was so pissed off at you for not hiring me for that District job. You could sense my resentment, so one day while we went for a walk and passed a local park, you pushed me. “What the hell?” I said. You replied that I was still angry with you and it was “best to get it out now, so come on.” Then you pushed me again. In a hostile tone, I warned you not to push me anymore. You said, “I know,” and then you pushed me again.

I pushed back. Hard. You responded in kind. Then I tackled you. We were rolling around on the ground, punching and grappling with each other. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see pedestrians walking by us, staring strangely withscared and worried faces, as we wrestled in the dirt.

Of course, it think it actually did help me “get it out.”

I remember heckling you for celebrating your birthday the month prior to and following. You explained that if Jesus gets to have a birthday season, then it is only right for you to have a birthday season too.

Afterwards, you declared a season for the six and a half weeks between your birthday and mine. You called it Sniegel.

Oh, and I remember your dancing. I remember that wholly unique, rhythmic, wacky, soul baring and universe embracingdance of yours.

I remember when your dancing nearly got us into a street brawl at the Capitol Hill Block Party, while watching Jack White. Your body and elbows were flailing to the beats until some bro shoved you after he dragged his girlfriend too close to your rhythmic movements. I shoved him back—on your behalf, of course. Both we and he had several friends with us, who all “stepped up” and I thought shit was about to go down. Without missing the beat, you spun around, looked at him and said, “Hey man, I just wanna dance.”

I remember the morning in our Spokane hotel room after a group of us saw Sleater-Kinney’s first reunion show. You were so stoked from meeting Carrie Brownstein the night before, that you came out of the bathroom buck naked and dancing. You boogied and grooved over Michael Perez’s sleeping bag—while he was still snuggled inside. As your junk bounced around, we all yelled to Michael, “Don’t open your eyes, Michael. Don’t open your eyes!”

I remember that night at the Paramount where you were so enthralled by Sonny Rollins’ performance that you danced—while still seated in your chair. Your movements were so visceral that the woman seated behind us stared at you with her mouth agape. I’m pretty sure she thought you were having an orgasm.

I remember how you stood with me on my wedding day. During the Best Man’s toast, you described much of our dialogue and relationship as struggling towards truth…

Struggling towards truth, I will remember that, for the rest of my days. Might have been the most profound thing you ever said to me.

Speaking of being the best man. I acutely remember the bachelor party you threw. It started just down the street at the Benbow Room. Somehow, you talked that gorgeous Latina bartender to come home with us. She kept asking us to get into the closet with her, where she would remove most of her clothing to show us her tattoos.

I remember that you came to Swedish Hospital when each of my two children were born. You held these precious little people in your arms and introduced yourself to them as their Uncle Sheppy.

They have always known you as such and have always known you as family. Sameena and Abbas will keep you in theirhearts and they will remember their Uncle Sheppy for the rest of their days.

I remember when we first got together after your diagnosis. We took a long walk around your neighborhood, took in the view of Elliot Bay and grabbed a cup of coffee. We talked about the disease, mitigation treatments and future cures. Thenyou asked about the crisis in my family. And despite all that you were going through, you wept for me… and you wept for them.

I remember seeing you at the Gorge a few days later. We spoke for awhile and you returned to your fancy seat and I to the stone terrace. Later in the festival—after I had taken a heroic dose of psychedelics, you walked below me on the path to the food trucks. You simply looked up and waved. Just as you did, John Mellencamp sang the lines, “…Nothing lasts forever. Your best efforts don’t always pay. Sometimes you get sick… and sometimes you don’t get better… That’s when life is short, even in its longest days.”

I looked upwards and cursed God for his shitty and cruel sense of humor… and then I wept. The tears and the snot and the sweat poured down my face as I kept wiping them away with a wet cloth. I broke down and cried for over an hour. I don’t think I have ever cried so hard and for so long.

I remember that a week or so later we briefly spoke about the discord over tickets, travel and companionship for the festival. The tensions in our relationship having obviously manifested themselves in our separate paths there. You told me, “Well, you really pissed me off, Todd.” I retorted, “Well, you really pissed me off, Shep.” That is all we ever really said about the difficulties we have had over the last few years.

Like the fight in the park, it was the catharsis to “get it out.” Nothing more needed to be said.

I remember you telling me about your Canadian girlfriend. It had occurred to me that you might be delusional. Or that she was. And then I met her and realized that she is not some kind of metaphorical angel that so many have described her as, but a real woman who has made real sacrifices. A real woman with a good, strong, decent and true heart.

I told you that she came to you out of karma. It most certainly could not have been due to your success with the ladies. It is the karma that you earned over a lifetime on this planet—and much of it with the people gathered here.

I remember that you have NOT lost your sense of humor. When I did a poor job of dressing you recently, you took the time to write out—and I quote—“That was an absolutely terrible job. Don’t you have kids? Didn’t you ever dress them?” And every time I see one of your caregivers put a t-shirt on you, you mock me with a smirk.

I remember that three days ago, I brought my 10-year-old son over to say goodbye. You directed all of your attention on Abbas. You asked him questions. You made him feel special. And when he asked you how you were doing, you replied, “I am doing great. We are gonna party on Wednesday.”

He will remember that for the rest of his days.

I remember that this very morning I asked you how your heart was. You said simply, “Open.”

I remember how you have faced this cruel disease with a remarkable balance of fear and humor; courage and desperation; anger and introspection; strength and joy; clarity and inspiration; dignity and meaning. Faith and trickster wackiness… And acceptance.

I remember that you took this time to re-embrace your love of this life. You have held this life strong and sucked the marrow from its’ bones. Seizing the remains of your ebbing time you wrote and traveled; savored books and music; relished in the love of those gathered here.

I remember that even in your twilight, you continue to love deeply and widely. You have generously and boldly given love to your friends, to your family and to your community. Even your final act is giving love to the earth from which we all sprang.

You have taken the lyric and axiom “He not busy being born is busy dying,” turned it on its head and decided to do both. I will remember that too.

I will NOT remember you as you were…

I will NOT remember you as you are now

I will remember ALL of it.

It is ALL worth remembering.

I love you, Shep.

You will always be my parole officer.

 

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