03/05/2019

Jim Mesi, Portland Bluesman, dead - A personal remembrance

By DAVID KAHL // One Portland Blues legend remembers another on the occasion of the passing of guitarist Jim Mesi at 69

Portland Bluesman/bassist/legend David Kahl played with and knew Jim Mesi, who died yesterday from emphysema.

The first time I saw Jim Mesi play guitar was by accident, when his band, Brown Sugar, was performing on Mt. Tabor, in Portland, Oregon. I was visiting a guy who played harmonica and flute with my brother, a couple of high school buddies, and me, a vagabond who happened to be camping in the shrubbery close by. We heard the strains of music that was familiar, with an edginess that directly spoke to us. We followed the sound, only to come upon this band, playing to a crowd that, for all appearances, just came out of nowhere. It took a few months to find out the name of this band that had so many notable players, but it was this guitarist, Jim Mesi, who really stood out.

Even then, Jim had qualities that far surpassed his years. There was fluidity and there was fire, a stunning combination in anyone, let alone someone who was so young, and then there was his incredible tone, a hallmark that defies description or comparison. Over the years, I saw a lot more of Jim, particularly featured in the Paul deLay Band. During the 80’s, while I was with Lloyd Jones’ band – another Brown Sugar alumnus – there were many occasions when I’d catch these guys and, in passing, we would quip how, someday, we’d play together, something that, in the cases of both Paul and Jim, did come to pass.

Much is known about Paul deLay’s struggles, while Jim’s challenges aren’t so public. Jim was, admittedly, impulsive, something that worked when it came to his musicianship and nearly ruined him, personally and repeatedly, over the years. With all due respect, it was his indulgence that took its toll on him, though Jim did work on moderating impulse, but that’s not what we should remember.

He had returned to Portland, after a self-imposed exile to Seattle, and was ready to start his own band, a heady proposition, given his wasn’t a household name and that Jim wasn’t a front man. Though the lineup went through changes, it was the original settled grouping, with another Portland legend, Steve Bradley, that gave the band focus and Jim a musical and personal foil. Steve and Jim shared a plethora of passions – surf music, monster movies, Big Daddy Roth, and, of course, guitars. It was this pairing that came to be known as The Losers Club, the subject of a documentary, an excuse for friends to meet on a weekly basis, and, even when it was just the two of them playing, a master clinic in guitar wizardry.

Jim had some stellar fans, notably Billy Gibbons, Bo Diddley, and B.B. King, who bowed to Jim in passing after the deLay band opened for him. Jim was invited to perform with the Hellecasters and was brought up on stage in NYC to play a couple with none other than Les Paul. His wardrobe and his guitar collection were impeccable and, while it would be easy to suggest that the quality of his instruments helped, I can say, from direct experience, that this wasn’t necessarily so. There were several times when I heard Jim take the same guitar as others were playing, make imperceptible adjustments, if any, and crush with warmth, body, articulation, and movement that astounded, especially by comparison.

Then, again, there was his personal life, one heartache after another, beginning with the loss of a brother, at a young age, and of his mother, tragedies that haunted him. Jim seemed to settle down when fatherhood beckoned. Unfortunately, Jim’s son, Christopher, was born with serious birth defects and died in infancy, further driving his more indulgent tendencies and costing him yet another marriage. He managed to find other relationships that pulled him from the brink, but it was the final one that seemed to take him to a point of no return. One last time, Jim married a woman who knew his faults, loved him and was willing to care for him, even while she suffered relentless, debilitating pain. One night, after playing a gig, Jim came home to find, her depression and agony having gotten the better of her, his wife had committed suicide. The impact was crushing, and Jim fell into a state of isolation and self-neglect. The intervention of two good friends, well-known musicians, got him into a hospital and, at least for a while, improving, though the damage was done.

Again, Jim withdrew from his musical connections and found refuge with his older brother. We all knew Jim wasn’t doing well, but where he lived wasn’t conducive to just dropping in to say hi, the only excuse he would accept from his friends. Still, when we heard the news of his passing, the prevailing sentiment was one of numbness, a shock to the senses that can only come from the loss of an icon, emblematic of an era or a movement. There’s not enough room to fully examine why Jim Mesi, small of stature, yet one giant of a presence, represents both when it comes to the Portland Blues scene.

Jim Mesi has not just left the room. In typical Mesi style, he’s left every Portland venue that has ever had Blues played in it.

Learn more about Jim from this documentary, The Losers Club