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About The daily Astorian. (Astoria, Or.) 1961-current | View Entire Issue (Sept. 24, 2015)
jazz Masters of A Story by DAVID CAMPICHE And they listen to the jazz relentless hands pushing keys into cognac around them, they listen to the jazz waiting for the last note to go home bobo bababa bobaba yo dadoy dadoy dadoy dadoy It’s a humid quarter-moon night outside on the wooden deck of the Shelburne Inn, and virtuoso drummer Mel Brown and friends are playing sublimely but with a pinch of chili pepper. There must be luck in the world. Luck or fate or karma — ask me if you may. I have few answers, but this truth rings rich and true: Music can’t get much better. Mel Brown began playing music late, 12 years into his life spring. He excelled quickly. Like so many jazz greats, early on, he played bars and strip joints and honky tonks, anywhere to scrape out a few bucks, and more importantly, to simply play. Music consumed him. Lat- er he backed up greats like Diana Ross. He drummed once with The Beatles. Gravitated from great band to great band. And then, he VHWWOHGLQWKH3DFL¿F1RUWK west, his original home. He formed his own band, many bands. Frequently, fans can catch him at Jimmy Mak’s in Portland. Wherever there is good jazz, his name remains a legend. He is wanted. And as much can be said for his friend and colleague, guitarist Dan Balmer, who’s been inducted into the Oregon Music Hall of Fame and Jazz Society of Oregon Hall of Fame. A prodigy for sure. Other company gathered: the great saxophonist Renato Caranto and the distinguished jazz musicians organist Louis Pain and percussionist Curtis Craft. When the music of these artists united re- cently at the Shelburne, a clean ripe sound yipped at our heels and massaged the yearn- ing in our brains. This mastery is art. Art is music, and music is art. “Every time I play — every time I play, whether I’m tired or depressed, whether I’m in the mood or not, I give it my all.” Those are the words — my memory alone — spo- ken by the stunning guitar player, composer and educator Dan Balmer. I’ll admit, Laurie and I lucked out on this band. They were the highlight of Jazz and Oysters this August in Ocean Park, the result of hard work and diligence by the local com- mittee and a committed director. We were an add-on, but a wonderful conclusion to a great weekend. Until the advent of Edison’s tubular plas- WLF UHFRUGV PXVLF ZDV FRQ¿QHG WR SDSHU RU the spontaneous moment. Passion can be described but not recorded among the calligraphy-like notes on paper or sheet PXVLF 1RERG\ DOLYH UH members the actual swell- ing of sound, that rotund dramatic cascade of music that Beethoven climaxed in opera halls of Germany and Austria. We can hear Mel and Dan and friends. We can buy a CD. That is revolu- tionary. But we can’t fully remember the whole cre- scendo of music and pas- sion that vaults into our ears from a moonlit stage. We just keep a sense of the moment. American Masters! Slowly and surely, that is what these artists became. This is where they belong. Louis Armstrong played music, age 10 or 11, in an orphanage home band. Mel Brown insists that language and music (are they not synonymous?) should be taught in ear- liest childhood. Jackie Ivancho has a child’s body, but when she opened her mouth at age 9, pure opulent sounds rose like the music RIDQJHOV2IFRXUVH0R]DUWZURWHKLV¿UVW concerto around the age of 11. ‘Every time I play — every time I play, whether I’m tired or depressed, whether I’m in the mood or not, I give it my all.’ Photo by Laurie Anderson From left, Mel Brown, Louis Pain and Dan Balmer performed recently at the Shelburne Inn in Seaview, Washington. Dan Balmer studied economics at Lewis and Clark College, but packed his guitar be- tween classes. He clearly knows the reality between music, passion and dollars. When hungry, he pursues art. On a full belly, he purses art. Where else can he go? He is en- amored. Art is a force in the belly. Listen to these ¿YHPHQRQDVXPPHUQLJKW7KH\KDYHGULY en from Portland in the early hours, played for a packed crowd at Jazz and Oysters for several hours, and now, tired and a bit hun- gry, they have fallen back into their music. Simply, they are possessed. One night years ago, I heard the legend- ary Ray Charles lambast a sound engineer on a problem that Charles perceived with the sound system during his concert. “Listen,” he stated, “all I got is my music, man. That’s all I got.” Indeed, to Charles and most ven- erated musicians, music is them and they are music. All else is secondary. I confessed to Mel and Dan that I wasn’t a skilled or competent critic of music. I believe that only those who play these instruments can fully appreciate the nuance of such bless- ed and subline sound. I’m not talking about love. Anyone can love music. Anyone can fall under the musicians’ spell. The lady who watches and listens in the leftmost chair of the second row thinks about her soul under her ribs where she feels the sound. Her legs are jumping fast, her left foot slamming À at against the À oor in white leather mules. Jazz, to me, is the most spontaneous of PXVLF,W¶VWKH%H+HUH1RZRIVRXQG$VN Dan Balmer. “If I’m in Japan with other mu- sicians — and naturally I speak English but not Japanese — none of that matters. If you are a jazz musician, your music simply falls into place. In 15 minutes you do speak Japa- nese. Japanese jazz. ” And they speak back! We have heard stories of jazz notables ZKR ZRXOG VKRZ XS LPSURPSWX DW D 1HZ York club at 2 a.m. Can I sit in, asks the mu- sician? Sure Friend, was usually the answer. If the stuff was good — it generally was — they stayed. 0LOHV'DYLVFDPHWRDFOXELQ1HZ<RUN to hear Mel Brown play his drums. Brown, hoping to impress Davis, played too big. He tried to show off. Davis didn’t like that and left. He didn’t bring Brown aboard. “I learned a valuable lesson,” says Brown, de- cades later. “That was a grand lesson,” says Shirley, his wife. So now Mel plays who he LV$QGZKRKHLVUHPDLQVH[FHHGLQJO\¿QH Mel is a lovely man, a gentleman. He drinks in moderation, talks in moderation, and leads you to believe that you too, are important. That he, the great American jazz master — that he — wishes to know what you think. What are your cares and aspira- tions? Right now, aspiration is the rich sequined sounds of drums, guitar, saxophone and or- gan. Sound swells and dances and charges and retreats. It is clear and clean and coor- dinated, coordinated in heads and minds and ¿QJHUDQGHDUV1RVKHHWPXVLF-XVWVXEOLPH ÀRZ6SRQWDQHRXVDQGFOHDQ+RZOXFN\FDQ we be? Dadoy dadoy dadoy dadoy! Poetry stanzas excerpted from “Jazz Kiss on 10th,” a poem in “Nevertheless: Poems from the Gray Area” by Astoria’s Florence Sage the arts VISUAL ARTS • LITERATURE • THEATER • MUSIC & MORE September 24, 2015 | coastweekend.com | 9
