Always Mister Brown

I first met Mel Brown as an eighth-grader when he came and taught a drumming clinic for all the drum students in our school district. He talked about rudiments and technique, gave some demonstrations, and then invited brave students to come up and try playing his kit.

Several boys went up, gulped, and tried their hand at playing various rock beats. Lots of fills, lots of notes, a couple dropped sticks and blushes, lots of big sounds.

I was the last student who came up. The only girl, of course (it was 1978), and the only one who asked if he could lend me a pair of brushes. I wasn’t very confident on the drum kit yet but I knew how to accompany my parents with brushes when they sang.

Mr. Brown smiled broadly as I laid down a simple brush beat and kept it going, with only an occasional fill.

When I finished, he shook my hand in both of his and said, “that was some lovely brush work. Please keep playing. Please.”

I walked on air for the rest of the afternoon.

I’ve seen him in jazz clubs in Portland and it was wonderful to see him the other night at Revival Drum Shop. And to this day, I can’t bring myself to call him Mel. He remains in my heart, lovingly and with deep respect, Mr. Brown.