Paulie Rocco was guitarzan, a git-tar slingin' wildman from the jungles of upstate New York. He was the fire in the Firebird and played like no one I've ever heard. He was rock 'n' roll's banshee wail, but most of all he was my friend. We shared laughs, shed tears, shook our money makers, shattered eardrums, shot the moon, and played the blues. I will miss him unbelievably.

Rocco and I played our last show together on earth March 7, 2009, at The German House warming up the stage for Rocco's hero, Johnny Winter, before a crowd of about 800. As The White Devils we usually played sitting down, but we hit the first chord and Rocco was out of his seat like he'd been fired from a cannon. He was absolutely on fire, working from the very edge of the stage, his copper pipe slide notes slithering and sailing about the joint as he prowled the stage with that big Cheshire grin. He mesmerized the crowd with his playing and his flexible antics. I swear he was double jointed everywhere. We ended the set with a mass of feedback and mayhem after finishing a new tune called "Life And Times." And that show --- that last show ---  pretty much summed up the life and times of Paulie Rocco; a man who lived loud and played loud, a man who lived hard and played hard, a man who was a gentleman and a gentle man who lived and breathed music.

Despite Rocco's boundless energy and unparalleled talent, he was haunted by a dark side. Rocco struggled with depression. Music was his only salvation from this affliction. He was an extremely proud man and frequently resisted help. But when it came to encouraging or helping others, refusing him was out of the question.

When Parkinson's disease threatened to take my guitar from me, Rocco knew music was my only salvation as well. He was there showing me new, easier tunings and seeing through my façade of acceptance. He knew I had to keep playing and he kept the band going when I despaired. I did the same for him. Playing with Rocco is the best thing I've ever done musically.

Everything had song potential. Rocco and I wrote songs from everyday experiences, especially things we'd say or pick up in random everyday conversations. While teasing me about whether or not my wife-to-be would say yes or no at our wedding, we wrote "My Maybe." "Hollywood" came together after we equated writing your name in the dirt of a car's rear window as a poor man's version of putting your hand's in cement along the walk of fame.

The day Rocco died, I had minor surgery on my eye. As I sat on the edge of my bed that night with my guitar, tears mixed with blood rolled down my face. The light bulb went off in my head and I got excited before I realized that I was going to have to write "Bloody Tears" by myself now.

Rocco left this world a better place, and me a better, albeit brokenhearted, man.