Nicolle Farup

Saturday, Sept 2, punk rock took a proverbial boot to the nuts: Terrence Lee Grob died at the age of 42.

In a sea of music business lip-service, Terry was someone you could count on to be honest; true to music that he loved, rather than potential profit. Not a man swayed by society, peer pressure, or hygiene, he was highly intelligent, of amazingly sharp wit, and funny as hell. A friend you could call any time of night for the firing order to a Chevy 327, he treated a trip to the junkyard like a dinner and movie date.

To name all of the bands he booked, managed, and helped in his 11-year-career would take pages and lists in the thousands. There were countless times on slow nights when sound costs were not met and Terry forfeited his percentage plus cost of flyers, only to pull money from his own pocket so some traveling band would not walk away empty-handed.

It is no coincidence that on his final night, the show ended, he paid the bands, and walked up the stairs to his office for the last time. If I were to ask him about the future, he would sneer, scratch his chin, and sarcastically say, "Can't stop the"

Goodbye, Terry. We love you.