One More Song for Jeff Munson
- Dennis Phillips
- May 1
- 3 min read
Sometimes, it is a moment in time you don’t want to ever forget.
This past Sunday, I walked into Jeff Fest at the Pony Express with one simple goal—to support my long-time friend Jeff Munson, who’s been fighting cancer since October 2024. I thought I was going to a fundraiser. I didn’t realize I was walking into a packed room.
What unfolded over the next few hours wasn’t just a benefit. It was a gathering of hearts. It was music, laughter, memories, and love poured into one building, filling every corner of the room until it spilled out the doors. And while the reason we were all there was heavy, the atmosphere was anything but somber.
I found myself surrounded by people I’ve known from all corners of my life—fellow musicians, friends, supporters, neighbors. Many of them I hadn’t seen in years. Some I’ve performed with, others I’ve opened for, and still others I’ve watched from the crowd with admiration. It felt like a family reunion, but the kind you actually want to attend. Because that’s what the local music scene is—a family. Sometimes we compete, sometimes we butt heads over gigs or set times, but when one of our own is down, we all show up. That’s exactly what happened on Sunday.
The stage transformed into an open jam session, musicians swapping in and out, improvising, laughing, and harmonizing without rehearsal—just instinct and love. Guitars passed from one set of hands to another, mics picked up by different voices, all for one shared purpose: Jeff.
When I first moved to Robertson County, one of the very first people I met was Jeff Munson and his wife, Sandy. I needed some sign work done and was pointed in his direction. Jeff didn’t hesitate. He helped right away. That’s just who he is. And if you’ve ever driven through this county, odds are you’ve seen his work—Jeff’s signs are everywhere. He’s one of the last true hand-painted sign guys left, a craftsman in a world gone digital. What he does is a lost art, and it mirrors the kind of man he is—authentic, old-school, and filled with quiet integrity.
Jeff and Sandy have been part of this community far longer than I have, and Sunday was a testament to the love and respect people hold for them. Hundreds of people flowed in and out of the Pony Express all afternoon. They stood in line to buy $20 fish plates. They browsed and bid at the silent auction. They hugged, laughed, and sang. It was beautiful chaos, and every cent raised was for Jeff—to help in his fight, to support Sandy, and to remind them that they’re not walking this road alone.
In a quieter moment, Jeff leaned over to me and said, “I’m 70 years old, I refused chemo because the tumor is inoperable.” He wasn’t looking for pity—he just wanted to share his truth. His decision wasn’t made lightly. It was made with love. Rather than spend his remaining time in hospital beds and hooked to IVs, Jeff chose something else: time with Sandy, music in his ears, and peace in his heart. And despite it all, he smiled.
As the evening wound down and people started to trickle out, Jeff turned to me with a gleam in his eye and said, “Hey, I want to play one more song, Dennis. Let’s do ‘Call Me the Breeze.’”
So we did.
Jeff strapped on his bass guitar—his hands a little slower, but still steady—and together, we broke into the final song of the night. The room quieted for a beat, and then the groove kicked in. The crowd moved with the rhythm, smiles lighting up tired faces. That moment wasn’t about sickness, or fear, or even fundraising. It was about music, legacy, and the spirit of a man who refuses to fade quietly.
Jeff played with everything he had left in him, and as the last note rang out, I looked over and saw that smile again. Not just on his face, but on Sandy’s, and on everyone who came to support a man who’s given so much to this community—through his art, his kindness, and his unshakable love for life.
Sometimes, it really is just one moment in time.
But if you’re lucky enough…
That moment plays on forever.
Excellent article Dennis!