“The View” Stops Cold as Jimmy Kimmel Learns of Cleto Escobedo III’s Passing During Live Taping

The producers expected another breezy morning episode—a predictable cocktail of political chatter, celebrity interviews, and the kind of opinion-driven energy that has defined The View for decades. Nothing in the rundown hinted that the broadcast would produce one of the rawest, most vulnerable moments daytime television has seen in years.

Jimmy Kimmel walked onto the set just after 9 a.m., smiling the way late-night hosts always smile when they stop by someone else’s show. He had come to promote a charity comedy special scheduled for the holidays, and the pre-show banter backstage was cheerful and loose. Even the crew, who have seen just about everything, commented on the relaxed atmosphere.

But halfway through the episode, the tone of the room changed so quickly, so completely, that it left both the hosts and the audience stunned into silence.

What happened that morning—the phone call, the whispered update, the on-air heartbreak—became a quiet reminder that live television may be polished, but the people inside it are not immune to life’s cruelties.

And for Jimmy Kimmel, the news he received on set felt like a blow straight to the heart.

A Sudden Shift in the Studio

The episode began with the usual rhythm. Whoopi Goldberg teased Joy Behar for showing up late again. Sunny Hostin dove immediately into the day’s headlines. Sara Haines joked about forgetting her cue cards. And Jimmy Kimmel matched their energy easily, trading friendly jabs about late-night ratings and telling exaggerated stories about celebrity guests who had once tried to hijack his monologue.

The exchange was light, unscripted, and comfortable. Kimmel leaned back in his chair, laughing so hard at one of Joy’s quips that he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes.

Then, as the show broke for a commercial, a producer from Kimmel’s team slipped through the stage door. He moved quietly, avoiding eye contact with the cameras. He bent close to Jimmy’s ear, spoke only a few words, and handed him a phone.

Witnesses say Kimmel froze. His posture shifted. The smile drained from his face as he stared at the screen in his hand. Sunny Hostin later described his expression as “the kind of look people get when the world tilts.”

When the cameras came back on, the studio immediately sensed something was wrong.

Kimmel cleared his throat, but the usual warmth wasn’t there. His voice came out thin.

“I… I just found out something,” he said, trying to steady himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect this.”

He paused, unable to continue, then lowered his gaze to the table in front of him.

“Cleto’s gone.”

For a moment, the show—normally loud, busy, and in constant motion—fell into absolute stillness.

Whoopi didn’t speak at first. She reached across the table and placed her hand on Kimmel’s, grounding him the way a friend might hold another friend during a panic attack. Joy Behar leaned forward, her face tightening as she realized what she had just heard.

The audience, uncharacteristically quiet, watched the moment unfold without a single cough, shuffle, or whisper.

This was not scripted television anymore. This was grief interrupting a broadcast in real time.

The Friendship Behind the Tears

To many casual viewers, Cleto Escobedo III was the cheerful bandleader who introduced Jimmy Kimmel at the start of every Jimmy Kimmel Live! episode. But to Kimmel, Cleto was something far more personal.

They had grown up together in Las Vegas—two kids who shared a love of music, mischief, and half-formed dreams of making something bigger of themselves. Their families were close. Their teenage years overlapped with garage rehearsals and late-night jokes that made little sense but felt like their own secret language.

Even after adulthood scattered most childhood friendships, theirs never drifted. When Jimmy Kimmel began climbing the ladder of radio and television, Cleto was one of the few constants who stayed by his side.

So when ABC approved Jimmy Kimmel Live! back in 2003, Jimmy didn’t have to think twice about who he wanted as his bandleader. “Cleto’s coming,” he told executives, as though it were a non-negotiable fact of nature. And for more than two decades, Cleto performed that role with an ease and humor that became part of the show’s identity.

“Cleto wasn’t just on the stage,” Kimmel once said in an interview. “He was the heartbeat of the place.”

The two men spoke daily. They teased each other relentlessly. Viewers often commented that Cleto seemed to anticipate Jimmy’s jokes before Jimmy even finished saying them.

Their friendship wasn’t workplace camaraderie. It was brotherhood.

Which explains why hearing of Cleto’s passing—unexpected, shocking, and delivered on a phone in the middle of a live taping—left Kimmel visibly shattered.

Whoopi Goldberg Steps In

As Kimmel struggled to gather himself, Whoopi moved the way only someone experienced with live emotional moments can move: quietly, slowly, with instinctive compassion. She shifted her chair closer to him.

“You don’t have to talk,” she told him gently. “You’re allowed to sit with it.”

Something about her tone gave Kimmel the permission to breathe, even as he fought to keep his voice steady.

Joy Behar, who is not known for subtlety or softness, spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “Whatever you need, we’ve got you,” she said, blinking rapidly as her own eyes filled.

Kimmel nodded, pressing his lips together as he tried to speak.

“He… he was my guy,” he finally managed. “Every night for twenty-something years, Cleto was the one who played me onto the stage. Every night. I don’t know how to picture walking out there without hearing him.”

His voice broke. The audience let out an audible sigh, the kind that happens when an entire room realizes they are witnessing something both intimate and devastating.

A Studio Filled With Quiet Grief

A producer in the control room later said he looked around and saw multiple camera operators wiping their eyes. One of the audio engineers pulled off his headset and bowed his head. Even the interns—usually glued to their clipboards—had stopped taking notes.

Kimmel, overwhelmed but trying to maintain composure, reached for the familiar coping mechanism of humor.

“He called me every morning,” he said, half-laughing through tears. “Not for work. Not for anything important. Just to say something ridiculous to annoy me before I had coffee. I told him years ago, ‘You’re the first voice I hear every day.’ And he said, ‘Good. I’m going to make sure you never sleep in again.’”

The audience chuckled softly. It wasn’t the laughter of entertainment—it was the shared release that comes when people mourn together.

Whoopi squeezed his hand again. “That’s love,” she murmured. “That’s the kind of love that doesn’t go anywhere, even when someone does.”

A Message That Stopped the Room

As the segment neared its end, the producers quietly signaled that they could cut to commercial early. Kimmel shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Let me say something first.”

He straightened in his chair, though his eyes were still wet.

“Cleto always told me,” he said slowly, “that if I ever got too busy to say thank you, then I was already failing. So I want to say it now. Thank you, Cleto. For every note. For every joke. For every day you showed up and made the world louder and better.”

He paused, then swallowed hard.

“And to the people watching at home… call someone you care about. Text them. Don’t wait. I ignored a call from Cleto last night because I was tired. And right now, I would give anything to hear that phone ring again.”

The reaction from the studio was instant. Gasps. Tears. Even Whoopi, usually steady as stone, lifted a hand to her face.

Sunny Hostin whispered, barely audible, “My God.”

It was a moment that no scriptwriter could have crafted—and no viewer would forget.

The Standing Ovation

When Kimmel finished speaking, the audience rose to their feet with no cue, no prompting, no applause sign. The clapping wasn’t the loud, performative applause talk shows often encourage. It was slow and reverent, an act of solidarity rather than celebration.

Whoopi stood and wrapped an arm around Kimmel. “He’d be proud of that,” she told him quietly. “That was a real goodbye.”

“He hated goodbyes,” Jimmy said with a weak smile. “He always said they took too long.”

Joy sniffed, wiped at her eyes, and added, “Then call it a see-you-later.”

The phrase hung in the air, soft and respectful, as the show finally went to break.

Backstage Aftermath

Behind the scenes, Kimmel sat for several minutes holding the same phone that had delivered the news. Several staff members hovered nearby, unsure whether to approach. They ultimately did not need to. Whoopi stayed with him the entire time.

One producer later recalled hearing her tell him, again and again, “Breathe, baby. Deep breaths. I’m right here.”

Joy, despite having another segment to prepare for, lingered at the door, checking on him every few minutes. “It was maternal,” the producer said. “You could tell every woman on that set felt protective of him.”

Later that afternoon, after leaving the studio, Kimmel posted a simple message on social media.

“I lost my brother today,” he wrote. “Cleto brought joy, music, and kindness wherever he went. The world is quieter without him. I’ll miss him for the rest of my life.”

Tributes poured in immediately. Musicians, comedians, and longtime viewers shared clips of Cleto’s performances throughout the years. John Mayer wrote that Cleto had “the kind of musical spirit that made television feel like a live jam.” Lenny Kravitz posted a short message: “Play on, brother.”

The Viral Moment

Within hours, the clip from The View began circulating online. Users across platforms called it “one of the most human moments on TV this year.” Hundreds of thousands of comments appeared—sympathy for Jimmy, stories from fans who grew up watching Cleto on late-night TV, and reflections on the fragility of long friendships.

One viewer wrote: “This wasn’t a celebrity moment. This was a person losing someone they loved, and two women holding him together on live television.”

In an era when television often feels overproduced, cynical, and engineered for maximum attention, the segment stood out because of its blunt sincerity. No spectacle. No viral stunt. Just grief and comfort shared between people who didn’t expect the world to be watching.

A Moment That Will Echo in Television History

Even in hindsight, those in the studio insist the moment never felt like “content.” It felt like a rupture—an unscripted reminder that the hosts who fill our screens with opinions and humor are still vulnerable to the losses that shatter ordinary people.

Jimmy Kimmel returned to Los Angeles the next day, and ABC is expected to address the future of the show’s band in the coming weeks. But for those who watched him break open on The View, the lasting memory will not be about programming decisions or celebrity tributes.

It will be about the silence—the sharp, immediate silence that fell over a studio unaccustomed to stillness.

It will be about the friend he loved since childhood.

It will be about the phone call he didn’t answer.

And most of all, it will be about the moment when television stopped being entertainment and became something painfully human: a man learning, in real time, that the person who had walked beside him for decades was suddenly gone.

That moment, viewers say, is something America won’t forget.