The Legend of Jim Pepper
Imagine two thousand people, standing, swaying, crying, all singing along with Jim:
“Witchi-Tai-Tai …. Water spirit feeling springin’ ‘round my head, makes me feel glad that I’m not dead … Witchi-Tai-Tai …” sang Jim, his hit, anthem, spiritual experience for listeners, but Jim wasn’t a spiritual guy, more earthy – he liked women, booze, food, whatever made you feel good … glad he wasn’t dead.
But angry, too: cursed audience in Montana, some performances more wound than healing. Hard to walk in two worlds with one spirit, but it made him a hero – because sometimes, he did.
… Folk hero, Flying Eagle, child of Kaw and Creek, urban Indian, dancer, drug user, jazzman, singer, spoke in his own voice. And for a moment, glistening bright in the sun, he commanded the wave before it tossed him ….
Swimming against the current, leaping falls in late summer … a flash of silver.
Born in ‘41, when America entered the War, Jim grew up poor in Vanport, coal heat, beaverboard apartments where he came running one day from game of cowboys and Indians, “Dad,” he cried, “they won’t let me be the Indian!” So Gilbert dressed him in feathered Pow Wow costume; by god, they let him be the Indian then and ever after, Jim was the Indian …
… even as handsome four-sport star at Madison High, dated prettiest girls and toured with The Young Oregonians — in feathers for Indian dance, tuxedo for tap, then Zoot suit with the band, do everything Jim, always “Let’s go, let’s go …” the best always full of energy, “Let’s go, let’s go …” raising hell ….
… but he remained an outsider who gave up sports for his horn, lured by wild bop to Bud Grant’s record store, Williams Avenue, seeking his voice …
… then in New York became jazz-rock pioneer with pop hit “Witchi-Tai-To,”’71, but music too commercialized; compromise never an option, retreated to Alaska, to pitching fish boat decks, to dive bars, seeking there a path through two worlds.
Returned from Alaska wilderness with a vision of Native music fused with jazz, urged on by spirit guide Ornette, who said, “Use your heritage.” So Jim recorded with his father, played Pow-Wows, wrote Indian songs for jazz shows ….
… Songs both sweet and fierce, of healing and hate, gentle love song and war dance: two worlds, turmoil and the times made him demand emotion from the band. He’d stop until they got it, only Jim decided when.
“He’d invite me for a drink then beat me up about my playing,” Gordon remembers, compassionate and combative; simple melodies, explosive bursts: sudden leap of salmon, obsidian flash of claw. I was afraid of him.
Called himself Polar Bear then, humorous but dominate, playing “on the edge of the tone” like native singers, he said, on a path leading faraway, Carnegie Hall, Kennedy Center, respect, three years in Austria a rising star … until he came home to die.
The last time I saw Jim, his performance on a Festival side stage seemed small in the big stadium. Brown felt hat over head bald from chemo, walked with a stoop. Small, but up close, you could hear:
“You must not forget me when I’m long gone because I loved you so dearly,” he insisted over and over again: “You must not forget me …. You must not forget ….” music bigger than the man.
“Jim’s still getting me gigs,” laughs Gordon. “His spirit’s still alive, inspiring me to do things I haven’t done.” Remembers Jim say, “Always from your heart, man, always play from your heart.”
And Sean Cruz, who bought the Pepper family home on Fremont, Jim’s spirit saved his life. “I was very much alone, but I never felt alone in this house,” Jim’s songs gave strength and comfort after losing his kids.
“Its good where we’ve been and where we’re going,” sang Jim, and the music was bigger than the man. “Its good where we’ve been and where we’re going.”