I met Bobbo at a Paul Westerberg show back in 2005. I was still reeling from my father’s death. Still grief-stricken, though it was maybe more than six months later.

I had recently started working as the only web editor for the company. Back then it was just Tony Dodero and I as we started up dailypilot.com and the other sites for Times Community News. So I was working long hours. Some pretty late shifts. Needless to say my biological clock felt like a car crash on the 405 — all twisted up and waiting for the ambulance to take you away while rubberneckers gaped. It was in that spirit that I showed up late for the show, not understanding at the time that the House of Blues actually starts rock shows on time. Quite a foreign concept for this old rock critic who has waited hours and hours for shows to start. Anyway, I missed most of it. Afterward it was announced that Westerberg would meet fans after the show — appropriately enough in bizarre fashion the ex-Replacements frontman was meeting fans one at a time.

So I met Bobbo and his wife Tracy Byrnes waiting in line. They’re both terrifically friendly, but Bobbo’s kind of like that guy who wants to meet everyone at the party. He’s tremendously outgoing. Reminds me of a reporter friend of mine from Chicago — our boss used to say, “He could make friends with a fire plug.” And it was true. We talked about how much we loved the Replacements, etc., and he told me about his band, The Fallen Stars.

I didn’t care much about meeting Westerberg. Honestly, even though he’s one of my favorites I generally avoid meeting rock stars because, well, they usually disappoint me. When I was a rock critic I met more than my share of insufferable jerks. And it sucks to listen later to a favorite song and think, “God, that guy was such a…” But for some reason I stayed in line, and then it became easy because I enjoyed talking to Bobbo. I confessed to him right before it was my turn, “I don’t have any idea what I’m going to tell the guy. I have nothing to say, I don’t want his autograph and I don’t even have anything to sign.”

When it was finally my turn, Westerberg was behind a sort of curtain, sitting at a table in a folding chair. I just simply said that “My Dad,” a song on the album he was touring on, had really moved me. It was Westerberg’s tribute to his own father who had recently passed away. Coincidentally, his father also fell victim to emphysema. Naturally, he thanked me and asked how my mother was holding up. I thought about that for a moment but didn’t feel it made sense to get in to their estrangement so I just said, “She’s fine. I think I’m the one who’s in the worst shape. He was like my best friend.”

To my tremendous surprise, he stood up — with great difficulty I would later learn since he injured his knee on stage that night —  and he hugged me as he said, “Awwww.” You have to understand some of the back story here to truly appreciate how odd this was. Paul Westerberg, as the lead singer for the Replacements, was the ring leader in one of the most notoriously wild rock bands of all time. They were usually so drunk on stage you never knew what you would get at a ‘Mats show. They were either totally brilliant or it was the worst show you’ve ever seen — either way you were grateful for the sort of spectacle you were sure you’d never see again. Even by his own admission, Westerberg says during his bad-boy days he could be a terrible jerk. And he was hugging me! What should I do? I rolled with it because his affection seemed so genuine. When he sat down again I confessed how I had missed so much of his show that night and wished I could see him in Solano Beach the next night. He told me he’d put me on his guest list. “You could do that?” He laughed and looked at his hand, which was smeared with a name someone tried to write down in marker that was now ineligible and said, “Well, seeing as how I only have to put you and, uh, blah-blah-blah, on the list, sure, I guess I could do that.” I drove down to the Belly-Up the next day, learned to my great surprise that he kept his word and saw one of the greatest shows ever.

But the best part of that night was the friendship I struck up with Bobbo and Tracy. They gave me a disc of their music — Bobbo’s always prepared like a Boy Scout to recruit Fallen Stars fans — and I played it on the way home. “This is good,” I thought. When I was a critic I’d get a lot of discs like that and most of them were not so good. And I’ve sat through many an opening band’s performance and was non-plussed. I’m a huge snob, I admit.

So there I was last night at Backline rehearsal studios in Garden Grove watching the Fallen Stars rock for a Time Warner “headline news” spot for subscribers. What a terrific step forward for this local band. Glenn Ross, the producer who was assigned to do a spot on Southern California bands, made a couple of observations about the band that I’ve noticed as well over the years. They’re nice, their enthusiasm is contagious, and they’re really good.

“This is the first time I’ve heard them, but I thought they were great,” Ross said, adding he’s seen his share of garage bands over the years but the Fallen Stars come off as professionals. And they are.

As they did their interviews with Ross and did their best to crack each other up on camera they also talked a lot about how they feel like family. Rock ‘n’ roll is a crazy business — success depends so much on luck and timing no matter how much talent is there. I’ve seen dozens of unbelievably talented bands fade into obscurity because they never quite got the right break. Eleventh Dream Day is the damned poster child for that tough luck. Heck, so are the Replacements, come to think of it. So it’s hard to say if the Fallen Stars will ever get that proverbial break, but even if they don’t they’ll always have these friendships.

And that ain’t such a bad consolation prize, in my book.

Go see them at Marlin Bar in Huntington Beach Saturday and see for yourself.

(Pictured above are the Fallen Stars left to right: bassist Tracy Byrnes, drummer Brian Matteson, Bobbo, and guitarist Gregg Braught. Apologies to keyboardist Geoff Geib who didn’t fit in the frame — he was left of Tracy. I shouldn’t have done that to a fellow Cubs fan!)

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