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Leroy
Vinnegar died Tuesday, Aug. 3, at the age of 71, after suffering
from heart and lung ailments for years.That
night, the Mel Brown Sextet played Jimmy Mak's. "There was
just this incredible ferociousness to their playing," one
audience member says.
Atwater's,
a regular Vinnegar haunt, is hosting a benefit tribute in
the bassist's memory, and Brown is organizing a memorial
show by the Carlton Jackson Big Band at Berbati's, Monday,
Aug. 16.
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The first time I actually laid eyes on Leroy Vinnegar, I was
at the NBC studios in California shooting a TV special with
the Temptations and the Supremes. During a break, I went to
the bathroom. Right across the hall from the men's room, there
was another studio, and through this tiny window I could see
one of my heroes, Shelly Mann, playing drums, and Leroy Vinnegar.
Now, through that window, they just looked my size--about
average size.
When I came out of the bathroom, there they were walking
together down the hall, just cursing out their producer.
And it turned out they were huge, tall, imposing guys, each
about 6 feet 5 inches--and I thought, so that's Shelly
Mann, and that's Leroy Vinnegar.
The first time I actually met Leroy was about 1986, when
he came out here and we were going to play at a jazz festival
together. He called me up and said, "I understand we're
going to be working together," just like that. Then, in
about 1988, he had his own groups and I had my group, and
we were playing around town. There was no downtown jazz
to speak of in Portland then, and we decided we should move
the music around.
That's what I loved about Leroy--he was a visionary. He
was always trying to start something. He was working on
the big-band night at Berbati's, and that was just last
month! See, I'm from the old school. I grew up around floor
shows and showmanship, playing to the audience. A lot of
younger players, they're experimenting. They have no contact
with the audience, no interplay, and the audiences don't
stay around too long. That's what was missing, and Leroy
and I said, "Let's move around and get something going."
Everything that's happened since is because of Leroy.
Playing with Leroy--well, I'd compare it to driving. When
you first get a car when you're a teenager or in college,
it's your baby, but it's an old Chevy Malibu or something.
Then, you get older and make some money and buy a Lincoln
Town Car, and it's a smoother ride. Well, playing with Leroy
was like riding in a Rolls Royce as a opposed to an old
van. Smooth. It's nice to play when you aren't thinking
about having to hold the bass player together. It's like
driving a MAX train instead of a Tri-Met bus. You don't
have to be a rocket scientist. Just start the train and
stop the train. With Leroy it was like that--the music could
just come out.
You hear people talk about making memorials for Charlie
Parker or Miles Davis, and odds are they've never met or
seen those people. Well, Leroy was one of those people who
made the music. He created this music, and along
with the others he played with here, I got it from the horse's
mouth. It's hard to be a teacher when you've never been
a student, and for me now, it's not like I got this in some
college classroom from a professor who had a friend who
knew somebody. I got it directly from the source.
It's strange, because I had envisioned this period in my
life. When I was younger, I had idols and players I admired,
and they would teach me things on the condition that someday
I'd pass it on. That was Leroy's thing. He'd say, "I want
to create something, and I need you guys to carry it on
after I'm gone." I hope people will appreciate his dream
of keeping the music alive.
He's the creator of that music. He was our big brother,
our father, our teacher. And those of us who played with
him around town, we did promise him that we'd do our best.
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Willamette Week | originally
published August 11,
1999
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