The lights went down, and the band launched into Bartender. I openly wept for several minutes. I wept for Roi. I wept for being so close to a band who perserveres through so much. I wept for the sheer joy of the music. A nameless person came over and hugged me, whispering in my ear, “I know… I know…”

And with that, the concert continued, until several songs later, when someone on the stage motioned upwards towards the back of the lawn. I turned and saw “LEROI” spelled out in huge yellow glowsticks. Suddenly, a picture of Roi showed up on the screen and the crowd cheered unlike a cheer I’d ever heard. And without even a flash of a warning, it started raining glowsticks. I could see them tumble down the lawn, over the ledge, from the back of the seats all the way to the front of the stage. Yellow, green, blue, purple, tumbling, falling, seamlessly, as though rehearsed for days. The crowd chanted — “LeRoi, LeRoi, LeRoi” — over and over and over. More blue, green, and yellow. If you picked one up, you kept tossing it without a second thought. The pitch black night sky became all the colors of the rainbow and the chants echoed off the rock walls.

And in the middle of this stood seven men, mesmerized. Dave stood in the center, rocking back and forth, cuddling his guitar like a safety blanket. Rashawn slowly walked off the stage, tears in his eyes. Boyd’s always-present sunglasses were no match for his tears. Fonz, Jeff, Tim and Carter stood, all frozen to their spots on stage. The colors kept falling from the sky like Roi himself was throwing a glowstick party from heaven.

It felt like the celebration went on for an hour. After watching video replay via YouTube, I know now it was only five or six minutes. Without even a flinch to each other, the band launched into a beautiful rendition of #41, and Jeff played his sax solo harder than I have ever heard him play, as if he was trying to reach out to the farthest fan at the back of the lawn, or even to someone walking along the road outside the parking lot. It was a wordless tribute to a beloved man whom we all celebrated that night.

During #41, I saw grown men near me openly sob and embrace. Total strangers leaned on each other for support. The tears continued to flow from me, my husband, and those around us.

It wasn’t until the next night that Dave sung these words, but on Friday night, we all chose to celebrate, because we learned that life is short, but sweet for certain.

RIP LeRoi.

With more than three-hours of music and video, recorded in 5.1 audio and shot with over 20 high-definition video cameras, even fans that missed the shows will feel the mosquitoes buzzing around their ears. And it’s easy to see why Seattle resident Dave Matthews and his cohorts feel at home here–the natural backdrop provides the perfect setting for their gently inspiring music.

“I feel like I’m making a racket in a place that should be quiet,” the frontman says at one point in the documentary, which may suggest why this is a more reverential, detail-oriented performance than its Manhattan predecessor, particularly in songs like the acoustic “Gravedigger” and the leisurely 15-minute-plus version of “Lie In Our Graves.”