Adam Spade was more than just a name on a flier, more than a riff on stage, more than a bartender handing you a cold beer at Tight Ends or Iron Horse. He was a presence: commanding, magnetic, unforgettable. And though the sting of his sudden passing still lingers, the memories shared at his memorial proved just how deeply rooted he was in the lives of so many.
Thomas Evans, President of DAM, stood before the crowd, a beer in hand and emotion in his throat. He recalled being a lost freshman, welcomed by Adam with a kind word and a spot in a fledgling band. That band would become The Hornicorns, and those first nights on stage, jittery and uncertain, were made manageable by Adam’s unwavering encouragement. “Adam was a great friend,” Thomas said, his voice breaking. “There will always be a missing part of my life where Adam should be.”
Andrew James, one of Adam’s oldest friends and former DAM President, spoke next. The two had resurrected a failing fraternity together, turning it into a thriving brotherhood. Their band was born from impromptu jams at Tight Ends, fueled by laughter, stubborn creativity, and Adam’s love of music. “Rock on, brother,” Andrew said, lifting his drink.
Laci Rossini, Adam’s partner and love, was radiant with sorrow and strength. “We lived lots. We loved lots,” she said softly. “And I’m just so sorry I didn’t get to spend my life with him.” She shared a poem that touched us all, one line sticking in the throat like a lump: I grieve for what I lost, but I’m grateful for what I had. Laci’s gratitude shone even through tears, as did her quiet power to carry Adam’s light forward. The guitar he taught her to play will still sing, though now with a note of longing.
Tocho Winchester reminded us of Adam’s voice, boisterous, wild, and full of soul. “In the Hopi culture,” he explained, “the soul exits through the mouth to journey onward.” Adam’s soul, it seemed, had already paved its way forward in every song he sang and every friend he toasted.
Others followed: Bobb Dragoone, who found confidence in Adam’s invitation to drum; Sharon Skydancer, who thanked him for making her sister so happy; Sam Roseride, who recalled being scooped off the bar floor into a sense of belonging; Lexi Skydancer, who played her first gig because of Adam’s faith in her; Minkie Vonfer, who will forever associate him with laughter and “Uptown Funk”; Rio dela Cruz, who still plans to throw that sock hop Adam wanted; and Mandie Romano, who remembered him yelling for shots and lighting up Woodcrest with every creative endeavor.
As for me, Adam was the first person who ever spoke to me on campus. We connected instantly, over The Breakfast Club and our shared opinion that Diamond Dave was the one true Van Halen frontman. That first conversation set a tone for my time here: music, connection, mischief, and meaning.
Adam Spade’s legacy is stitched into the soundtrack of this town. It lives in the six-pack he always had ready, the songs he spun on the radio, the way he handed over the mic or the bar towel to someone who just needed a chance.
So many of us came to Woodcrest looking for direction, and Adam, without pretense, offered a path. Maybe it was through music, or brotherhood, or one too many beers. Maybe it was a laugh when we needed one. Maybe it was simply making us feel seen.
Wherever you are now, Adam, I hope the music is loud and the beers are cold. We’ll keep your bar warm, your guitar tuned, and your memory blazing.
Cheers to Adam.
