Crawford died Sunday, Aug. 10, and when news of his passing first appeared on the Facebook page for His Name Is Bob, the documentary chronicling his life, the post drew hundreds of reactions and comments from musicians, artists, bartenders and neighbors. Scrolling through them was like flipping through a living photo album — a Forrest Gump of neighborhood moments. The stories stretched from sidewalk piano solos to surprise cameos at Thanksgiving dinners, from the state fair to the Grassy Knoll. Nearly everyone had a “Bob story,” and each was uniquely, unmistakably Bob.
Frank Campagna, a Deep Ellum artist and owner of Kettle Art Gallery, had plenty of Bob stories. He first met Crawford decades ago. “Bob was a hoot, a real character,” Campagna said. “Part scamp, part pain in the ass.” (If my mom had bashed me over the head with a frying pan, a rumor that added to his mythos, I’d be pretty pissed too.)
“The kind of guy you were always glad to see… and sometimes just as glad to avoid,” Campagna added. “He could show up in a great mood, full of jokes and mischief, or muttering under his breath about some mystery grievance no one else could decode. And good luck trying to talk him out of it — he’d ride out his moods on his own schedule, no matter what you said or did.”
Campagna remembers a photo exhibit at Kettle Art featuring more than 2,500 images by photographer Scott Mankoff. One of them captured Bob, who was delighted to find himself on the gallery wall.
“He was thrilled. The idea that he was in an art gallery? He couldn’t get enough of it. Every time he stopped by, he’d ask, ‘Where’s my picture?’”
“This went on for weeks, months and eventually years, long after that six-week show had ended,” Campagna continued. “I honestly don’t know if he ever really understood it was over or just enjoyed the bit.”
Then there was Club Dada, during a battle of the bands, when someone — in a moment of togetherness and musical ecstasy — handed Bob a pair of drumsticks. He took a spot up front, clicking them together like he was the bandleader — so insistently that some members of the group, much to the drummer’s chagrin, actually took his cues. “Eventually, someone took one stick away from him, which reduced the chaos,” Campagna said. “But not without ruffling Bob’s feathers for the rest of the show.”
These Bob stories are commonplace throughout the Deep Ellum and greater East Dallas scene. Texas soul musician Dezi 5 met him in the early days of his residency at The Free Man, where Crawford was “at damn near every one.”
“I’ve given him rides, shared laughs and even been lovingly antagonized by him at Fuzzy’s,” Dezi said. “That’s who Bob was — everywhere, for everyone, with his own unique spark. Deep Ellum won’t be the same without him.”
John Jay Myers, owner of The Free Man, recalled Bob’s running bit about “moving to Connecticut” — a gag he kept up for years, earning him small going-away-to-Connecticut celebrations that never led to a departure.
“He was crafty. It was funny,” Myers said. “Of course, he was an amazing dancer, and when he came into The Free Man, he would always conduct the band.
“Without his diligence, many would just lose time and fall apart,” Myers continued, tongue in cheek, noting Crawford’s musical “conducting” was more about spirit than skill. And there was one question Myers said Bob never tired of asking: “Have you seen my movie?”
The “movie” was His Name Is Bob (viewable on all major platforms), co-directed by Lisa Johnson Mitchell and Sebastian Lee. To Mitchell, he was “an angel” who “invariably came up to me and others and said the right thing at the right time — words of comfort, encouragement and love.” At one point during filming, 3 Frog Productions, which includes Lee's wife Heather, thought a trip to spiritual mecca Sedona, Arizona, might inspire even more pearls of wisdom from Bob. After they had traveled to the hallowed canyons, Bob took one look at the mountains and asked, “Are there elevators in those mountains?”
Eva Raggio, former editor at the Observer, once spotted her kids chatting and laughing with Crawford on the street. “He was known, and wanted to know, everyone,” she said. “He embodied the spirit of Dallas at its best: loving music, dancing with his keyboard and sharing joy with other people. … He was a collective gem shared by the community whose presence meant you were at the right event.”
Much like the photo Campagna mentioned, upon hearing that Raggio had mentioned Bob in the Observer, he was “ecstatic to hear it” — even though he appeared in the paper (whether in photos or mentions) at least on a monthly basis.
“He was always grateful for the love,” Raggio said.
Campagna’s final memory in our conversation was one of those small, perfect neighborhood snapshots: taking a break from painting a mural, ordering lunch and having Bob plop down to join him, as if from the ether — only to wander off, as mysteriously as he appeared, and leave Frank with the check.
“I caught on quick,” he said. “But sometimes I’d still cover him. Because … well, it was Bob.”
Crawford’s life, like the neighborhood he haunted, may never have been neat or bow-on-top tidy. He could be endearing and frustrating, magnetic and difficult, sometimes in the same afternoon. And yet, in his unpredictable way, his presence made Deep Ellum feel more like itself — an all-inclusive neighborhood that values individuality, authenticity and creativity above all else. Where the Statue of Liberty states, “Give us your tired, your weary,” perhaps the same should be on the Deep Ellum Walking Man sculpture.
In the end, Bob’s story — like Deep Ellum’s — is sometimes messy, always vibrant and full of contradiction. He could be frustrating. He could be kind. He could be the loudest presence in the room or quietly off to the side. But his impact was undeniable, measured in the sheer number of people with a Bob story to tell.
And now, with his absence, Deep Ellum could easily feel a little emptier. However, if you need one last picture of him to hold on to, imagine the Santa suit and him dancing without a hint of self-consciousness in the cacophony of a music crowd, somewhere between the music and the people.
