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