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Since relocating to Portland in 1986, Louis has continued the trend, working with blues & soul artists Solomon Burke, Howard Tate, Robben Ford, Bo Diddley, and, from the NW, Curtis Salgado, Linda Hornbuckle, Lloyd Jones, and Paul deLay. He's also gigged and recorded with jazz musicians Mel Brown, Thara Memory, Dan Faehnle, Tom Grant, Jerry Hahn, and Dan Balmer. 

This & That:

Louis is a charter member of Portland's popular Mel Brown B-3 Organ Group. Dubbed “Jimmy Mak's signature band” by The Oregonian, this exciting group has been performing to packed houses on Thursday nights for over eleven years now. . .Louis is the organizer of The Portland Soul All-Stars, a soul tribute band. . .In 2002, Louis played on and co-produced a live CD featuring drum legend Bernard "Pretty" Purdie and "Blues Brother" Rob Paparozzi, “Purdie Good Cookin.’” On that project, as on many of Louis’ gigs and recordings, he "kicked bass" on the organ. As John Foyston, music critic for The Oregonian wrote, “A real Hammond guy--and Pain is one of those--isn’t happy unless he’s using more appendages than a helicopter pilot trying to hold a high hover over Manhattan.”. . .Tracy Pain, Louis’ Hawaiian-born wife & manager (and flight attendant), not only tolerates his collection of Hammond organs (Bertha, Beulah, & Belinda), but also cooks up a mean fried rice for Louis’ rehearsals. . . As a sideline, Louis and Tracy rent out the best B-3's in the Northwest (Pain Organ Rental Service) . . .To read a long profile of Louis from the Cascade Blues Society's Blues Notes, check this link:

SWEET BABY JAMES, vocals & conga: Sweet Baby James has been one of the most entertaining and soulful vocalists in the Northwest since the heyday of Portland's legendary Williams Avenue scene in the '50s. As a youngster, James played semi-pro basketball, and eventually he hooked up with the Chicago Hottentots, a spin-off of the Harlem Globetrotters. As part of that team's routine, James would walk to the side of the court and play chords on a piano. That was the beginning of his musical career! Later, James played drums and sang with pianist Frank Martin, the Del-Tones, and others. While the material was mainly bebop and standards, James' style never strayed far from the blues & gospel he'd heard growing up near the Arkansas/ Louisiana border. James became popular with the Hollywood crowd in the early '60s (John Wayne, Connie Stevens, et al), and they'd regularly fly him to Vegas to perform at their private parties.

Back in Portland, James operated a barbecue joint/ jazz club out his home, dubbed “The Backyard.” Featuring soul food, jam sessions (there were two pianos and a drum kit on site) and barebones accomodations (i.e., sleeping bags), James' place was THE hang for local and visiting Black entertainers alike (even luminaries like Sammy Davis Jr.). The success of The Backyard eventually led to James opening a regular night club, “Jimmy's House of Jazz,” but after one successful year the city shut him down.

After that, James put his musical career on hold until recently. But NW audiences are glad he returned to the scene. As Willamette Week wrote, “Sweet Baby James is a human landmark of Portland jazz.”

This & That:

To learn more about the Williams Avenue scene and Baby James' role in it, pick up a copy of "Jumptown: The Golden Years of Portland Jazz, 1942-1957," by Robert Dietsche. . . Also, read Oregonian writers Lynn Darroch & Fred Leeson's recent pieces about James, posted below.

RENATO CARANTO, sax: Renato Caranto arrived in the U.S. From his native Philippines with no possessions save a suitcase full of clothes and his horn. After touring the West Coast for a decade with a Philippine Top 40 band, Renato settled in Portland in 1992 and began playing the kind of music he loved: blues, soul, & jazz. Soon he was recognized as the best blues sax player around, winning the Cascade Blues Association's award for best saxophonist in '94, '95, '97, and '98. But jazz was Renato's true passion, and he never stopped studying and practicing with the goal of breaking into Portland's jazz scene.

Gradually, Renato began playing more jazz gigs and recording sessions, appearing with top Portland players including Mel Brown and Thara Memory. (Along with Louis Pain, Renato is a charter member of the popular Thursday night band, the Mel Brown B-3 Organ Group). After a flirtation with smooth jazz on his first CD, Renato's aptly titled 2001 release, “Straight Ahead,” announced his transition to blues-rooted modern jazz. In publicizing the release of that recording, The Oregonian called Renato “one of Portland's most soulful jazz saxophonists.” All the hard work had paid off. Renato is now in constant demand, picking and choosing the projects he wants to participate in. Among his favorites: King Louie & Baby James. Renato's dad was a sax player from James' generation, and Renato loves nothing better than to enter the "Way-Back Machine" and play in his dad's style behind James' crooning vocals!

PETER DAMMANN, guitar: Peter was the original guitarist with KL & BJ. (You can hear him on the group's first CD, "Live at the Waterfront Festival.") But as other demands on Peter's time increased, he bowed out of the band and was admirably replaced by Eddie Martinez. Eddie has now left KL & BJ to focus on putting together his own band, and Peter has returned to the fold.

Peter grew up in the Chicago area, listening to Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy, and all the other Chicago blues greats. Speaking of the blues, Peter and Louis Pain played together in the late, great Paul deLay's band for ten years. Additionally, Peter and Louis co-led the No Delay Band (featuring soul diva Linda Hornbuckle on vocals) for three years while deLay worked on his songwriting at "Club Fed."

Since deLay's untimely passing in 2006, Peter has kept busy working with the DK-4, led by soulful pianist-vocalist DK Stewart, as well as acting as talent coordinator for the Safeway Waterfront Blues Festival.

MICAH KASSELL, drums: Like a lot of talented young drummers, Silverton, OR native Micah Kassell is expert in many contemporary styles. He can play challenging jazz material, rock, Latin, funk—you name it. But he can also play a blues shuffle like someone who grew up in the 1950s. That versatility is what makes Micah such a perfect fit for King Louie & Baby James.

Micah has worked regularly with Curtis Salgado, Lloyd Jones, Go By Train (led by Dan Balmer), Mike Pardew, Damian Erksine, and Ray Frazier. He's also shared the stage with Steve Miller, Kim Wilson, Charlie Musselwhite, Jimmy Vaughn, and Little Charlie & the Nightcats. Finally, Micah has his own group with Scott Pemberton & Norm Buccola, iCONANZA

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Here's The Oregonian's preview of the band's 6-27-08 gig/recording session @ Jimmy Mak's:

WILLIAMS AVENUE'S SWEET BABY JAMES

By Lynn Darroch

"I guess I've had my 15 minutes of fame," Sweet Baby James says, "but with these guys, I'm starting to look for it again."

He's talking about the band that's given him renewed enthusiasm: King Louie and Sweet Baby James. They're recording Friday night at Jimmy Mak's for the group's second CD, and James will bring more than his jump rhythms and talking blues to the stand. He'll bring history with him.

James Benton was christened "Sweet Baby" by a sharp-dressing hustler called Sweet-Smellin' Eddie during the heyday of jazz along Portland's North Williams Avenue. That's where Benton was inspired by a singer known as Little Sonny. "I saw all those girls pulling on him up and down Williams, and I said, 'That's what I want to be!'" And that's what he did.

Fifteen minutes of fame was pretty good for a guy who grew up in Vanport during World War II and learned to sing in a car between games with the Chicago Hottentots, a semi-pro basketball team. He scored a regional hit with "The Body," which radio banned for suggestive lyrics, and he worked with the Del-Tones for 17 years, an attraction for a Hollywood crowd who flew him to Vegas to perform for them. He even had a stint playing fairs and rodeos with country star Bobby Bare: "Four Colored Cowboys West of the Pecos," he recalls with a laugh. As a member of the Original Cats in the '90s, Benton worked with other veterans of the Williams Avenue scene, a group that was "like family," he says.

But his major contribution to local culture came literally in his own backyard at his house off Williams Avenue in the 1950s. "The Backyard" became music central, with its barbecue pit, three golf holes, a garage converted to a theater and even stars such as Sammy Davis Jr. hanging out.

"All the musicians would congregate over there around noon, barbecue like crazy, and if you felt like playing, you went inside and played," recalls bandleader Mel Brown, who got his start in Benton's garage. "When the gigs were over, everybody came back and we'd jam until five in the morning."

Benton isn't the only band member bringing history. Eddie Martinez a former New York studio guitar legend, recorded with such stars as Tina Turner and Celine Dion. Versatile saxophonist Renato Caranto, who works with Brown, has won a pile of blues awards. Drummer Micah Kassell, though younger, is a master of the shuffle beat. And co-leader Louis Pain, Portland's boss of the B-3, reminds us of the reason James was able to make history.

"James just oozes soul; it's impossible to be in his presence without feeling good," says Pain, who worked with Paul deLay. "He's one of the most charismatic people I've met."

Lynn Darroch is a Portland freelance writer; ldarroch@easystreet.net

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Here's The Oregonian's 11-14 review of the CD:

MIRTHFUL MUSICIANS

By Tom D'Antoni

The live recording of “King Louie & Baby James” (organist Louis Pain and singer Sweet Baby James Benton) is a rollicking good time.

Benton is one of the last links—and surely the most visible—to Portland's jazz heritage. He was also the “proprietor” of a garage-turned-jazz-salon in his backyard, where the top players in town and those coming through town would meet. “The music went all day, every day,” he said with a chuckle, “and you could always eat.”

That is precisely the spirit captured on this recording.

Pain—part of Mel Brown's B-3 Organ Group, and for years Paul deLay's keyboardist/arranger—has one foot in jazz and one in the blues, exactly the tradition from which Benton springs. Add guitarist Eddie Martinez and tenor saxophonist Renato Caranto, plus drummer Micah Kassell, and you've got a delightful mix of virtuosity and deep soul.

In his 78th year, Benton is the star. He might not have the vocal chops he had 30 years ago, but the delight he takes at still being in front of an audience is obvious, as is the freedom to say pretty much what he wants.

The tunes are warhorses, old shoes the band wears comfortably. On the instrumentals, Caranto, Pain and Martinez have never sounded better.

It's hard to leave this album without a smile on your face.

Tom D'Antoni is a Portland free-lance writer; tvpdx@gmail.com

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Here's the liner notes to the CD (released at Jimmy Mak's on 11-15-08), written by Oregonian critic Marty Hughley:

Jimmy Mak's ain't no chicken shack, but it's always cookin'.

Actually, it's a nicely appointed place in Portland's vibrant Pearl District, and the food's mostly Greek. Call it a calamari palace if you prefer -- though that just doesn't have the same shang-a-lang. Because what makes the club a special place is a funky, down-home feeling that makes your muscles a little looser, your cares a little lighter, your eyes a little brighter.

You want a heavy-duty dose of that feeling? Drop by when King Louis & Baby James are in the house. The joint's full of your friends, whether you've met them yet or not, and the stew of jazz, blues and soul bubbles appetizingly from the very first notes.

Who's doin' the cookin'? The man with the recipe, Louis Pain on the Hammond B-3, locking in on the groove with drummer Micah Kassell. For that flavor to savor, it's Renato Caranto on tenor serving up the depth of the human condition in every solo. Bringing the heat on guitar, that's Eddie Martinez, who, if he weren't so humble, would need an 18-wheeler to carry around his résumé (Mick Jagger, Robert Palmer, and so on). And serving it up with style is the keeper of the flame himself, venerable veteran vocalist Sweet Baby James.

Travel around the world and you won't find many musical experiences that can make you feel like this.

--Marty Hughley, The Oregonian

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Here's an Oregonian feature on Sweet Baby James, published on 9-11-08:

THE SHOW GOES ON FOR SWEET BABY JAMES

by Fred Leeson

Sweet Baby James Benton is one of Portland's last links to its postwar days as a great jazz city, back when Portland's Albina district was filled with nightclubs and a thriving African American community. The mellow tenor they call Sweet Baby James has just finished his first song, "It Had to Be You," before a packed audience at Jimmy Mak's when disaster hits.

Louis Pain detects something amiss with his Hammond organ and shuts down the five-piece band. He pulls out a blue plastic tool kit and plunges into the organ's mechanical innards.

Baby James is mortified. He likes to start on time, establish a groove and keep his music flowing. An impatient patron leaving early would be a sign of personal failure.

Worse yet, unbeknown to the crowd, the show is being recorded for a new CD by the band called King Louie and Baby James. Every minute lost on stage means less music available for consideration.

Yet the audience sees none of James' inner turmoil. The Buddha-like figure taps a gentle rhythm on the red conga in front of him. He flashes his best smile and jokes about ex-wives. He waves to friends in the audience.

Pain snaps the tool kit shut. He's ready. The band glides effortlessly into "Mood Indigo."

Was the delay minutes or seconds? Whatever, it was too long to suit James. But James won't second-guess Pain's decision to fix a problem that not everyone could hear. "Louis is the best organist I've ever heard," the singer says later. "He's incredible. This is the best band I've been in."

The show goes on. Just as it has for nearly six decades for Sweet Baby James Benton.

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People say Portland is a good music town. Rock bands blast your ears in clubs in nearly any neighborhood. Names such as Seafood Mama, Mel Brown, and Paul Revere and the Raiders bring knowing smiles. The story of "Louie Louie" almost ranks with the Boston-Portland coin flip in local lore.

But Portland's roots as a music town go deeper than most of today's fans realize. Urban changes and human mortality have slowly erased the memory of Portland as a great jazz city for a decade or more after World War II.

Sweet Baby James is one of the last reminders.

"He definitely was and still is one of the premier singers," says Robert Dietsche, a jazz devotee and historian who published "Jumptown, the Golden Years of Portland Jazz" in 2005. "He knew everyone. A lot of young musicians got their start with him."

The postwar musical boom was spawned by Portland's first large infusion of African Americans, lured to the region by Bonneville Dam construction and the Kaiser shipbuilding yards. Railroads were the primary means of transportation, and entire blocks of businesses sat on a street grid later erased by Interstate 5 and the Memorial Coliseum.

"Williams Avenue used to be like Northwest 23rd Avenue is today," Benton says. "Traffic ran in both directions. There were dozens of businesses. The sidewalks were full of people. Everybody dressed flashy. There was lots of food and lots of clubs."

Clubs such as The Frat Club, Savoy, Acme, McClendon's Rhythm Room, Paul's Paradise and the Olympic Room. The building that held the largest club, the Dude Ranch at 240 N. Weidler St., is the only one left after the freeway, Coliseum and an Emanuel Hospital urban renewal project obliterated Albina's business district starting in the late 1950s. The building is being remodeled for multiple uses, including a craft brewery.

Dietsche says the railroad was a key ingredient in Portland's musical prominence. National stars such as Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong frequently played downtown ballrooms. Railroad porters could deliver the latest records from Chicago to jukeboxes at Ed Slaughter's popular pool hall on Williams Avenue faster than the records could reach stores.

"If you were touring on the West Coast, of course you stopped in Portland," Dietsche says. "There were a lot more clubs than there are now. Portland got a lot of action. Now they can fly right over."

Portland was racially segregated during the Williams Avenue glory years. Black patrons were not welcome at downtown venues, with the exception of McElroy's Ballroom — on the block now occupied by the Portland Building — where Cole McElroy promoted mixed dances complete with chaperones.

Elsewhere, "you didn't chance it," Benton says. After numerous attempts dating to 1937, the Oregon Legislature finally passed a public-accommodations bill in 1953. But even during segregation, black clubs were open to whites who came to dance, listen and party. There were occasional fights, Benton says, but they were prompted by squabbles over women, not race. "People were allowed to be people," he says.

While not violent, the club milieu included figures who made their money from gambling, prostitution, drugs and hustling pool. "I could deal with the other side, too," Benton says.

Benton's father brought his family to Portland from Crossett, Ark., in 1940 after a brief stop to work on Hoover Dam near Las Vegas. James was 10. The family settled in Vanport's wartime housing but moved months before the devastating 1948 flood. James Benton graduated from Jefferson High School in 1949.

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His first venture as an entertainer was as a basketball player. A Chicago promoter took Benton's Police Athletic League team on tour, hoping to catch the attention of Abe Saperstein, founder of the Harlem Globetrotters. Saperstein never called, but Benton found his tenor voice while singing and traveling with his teammates.

Back in Portland, Benton transformed his two-car garage on North Shaver Street into a veritable venue, with 39 theater chairs, a stage and two pianos. For the next few years, it became the scene of "hair-cuttin'" contests, in which musicians would try out new songs and compete for instrumental superiority.

"It really caught on," Benton says. "The musicians' grapevine was something else. Cats came from New York and L.A. We had a lot of heavyweight guys. There was always a big pot cooking in back with black-eyed peas and greens. And there was the barbecue."

Benton took a lesson from the garage, now long demolished. He'd stick with standards rather than write his own tunes. "Not everybody is a Gershwin," he says. "Lots of people think what they write will blow somebody's mind. They're not going to make a living doing that. They're probably living with their mothers or with ladies who collect musicians. Those ladies are out there, you know."

It was about 1960 when the "Sweet Baby James" nickname was bestowed on Benton, a decade before East Coast singer-songwriter James Taylor wrote a popular song of the same name. The Portland version came from a Williams Avenue denizen known as Sweet-Smelling Eddie. Eddie's pomade and cologne left an aroma wafting behind him for several feet.

Eddie nominated Benton to carry on the tradition. The name stuck. "Nobody knew what his real name was or where he lived," Benton says of Sweet Smelling Eddie. "You only saw him in the clubs. What happened to him? Nobody knows. You don't see characters like that anymore."

Benton spent much of the 1960s touring on a Pacific Northwest circuit, but earth-shaking changes were occurring both in music and on Williams Avenue. The meteoric success of Elvis Presley whittled interest in jazz and show tunes. The rapid spread of television changed entertainment habits.

Portland voters preferred an eastside location for the Coliseum, and the new I-5 wiped out the spine of the Williams Avenue club scene. The last of the old Albina business district, once "a city within a city," in Dietsche's words, was eliminated by plans for an Emanuel Hospital expansion that lost its funding after the land was cleared.

Wearying of the road & dash; "I couldn't stand the smell of a club for about seven years" — Benton spent nine years working in a Portland foundry and another 14 as a Teamster driving trucks.

In the late 1980s, he teamed up with two contemporaries from the Williams Avenue era, Cleve Williams and Bobby Bradford, and played often at Billy Reed's as the Original Cats. After the Cats broke up, Benton joined Pain and gradually added sax player Renato Caranto, drummer Micah Kassell and guitarist Peter Dammann.

"I'm playing with guys in their 30s, 40s and 50s," Benton says. "I'm old as dirt. It's fun being with them. When everyone's hitting, you get chills."

While Benton's career is re-energized, so is Williams Avenue. The long run-down street is starting to pop with new eateries and shops. Blocks north of the old Albina district, Williams is beginning to take its place with Alberta Street and Mississippi Avenue in Portland's urban revival.

And when City Hall started thinking about trying to add new life around the Rose Garden arena a few years ago, planning consultants suggested tearing down Memorial Coliseum and replacing it with the old street grid that would allow a new neighborhood to grow.

Removing the Coliseum gained no traction, but Ethan Seltzer, director of urban studies at Portland State University, thinks it's still a long-range option as deferred maintenance continues to mount at the 1960 arena.

"There is a real desire to find a better way to connect the east side with the neighborhoods around it and to the west side," he says. "There is a realization that the Coliseum is a barrier at this point."

While there's no guarantee a new neighborhood would recapture the feel of the old one, "my sense is that there is great interest in figuring out how to make that work," Seltzer says.

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Back at Jimmy Mak's, in Northwest Portland, the second set by King Louie and Sweet Baby James goes down perfectly smooth. People eat and drink. A few dance. Some women strut in seductive summer party dresses.

Louis Pain and Renato Caranto trade rousing solos on the organ and saxophone. Sweet Baby does his signature version of "Georgia on My Mind." Listeners can close their eyes and hear Ray Charles.

"I've made my living singing 'Georgia' and other Ray Charles tunes," Benton says later. "I never met him. But every tune he ever recorded, I felt I knew where he was coming from."

The ovation is loud. Some people stand to cheer. Dressed in black with turquoise jewelry, Sweet Baby James makes his way through the audience, smiling and hugging and shaking hands.

Six decades later and on the wrong side of the river, maybe this is Williams Avenue.

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Here's The Oregonian's review of King Louie & Baby James' first CD, "Live At the Waterfront Blues Festival":

COME AND GET IT

By Marty Hughley

When you notice somebody cookin', the first and usually wisest impulse is to come around and get some while it's hot.

That maxim is the defining characteristic of the debut release from King Louie & Baby James, a hard-grooving band led by Hammond B-3 organ ace Louis Pain and the singer who is known as Sweet Baby James but definitely is not to be confused with James Taylor. Baby James is something of a living legend in Portland's jazz and blues community, from his many years as both a musician and a kind of de facto social director. Pain, having cast his lot with the B-3 when it was out of fashion, has made his mark as a right-hand man to such revered Portland bandleaders as Paul deLay and Mel Brown.

Once these two talents decided to team up, they didn't waste any time before serving up something tasty.

In fact, the performance captured on “Live at the Waterfront Park Blues Festival” was only the quintet's third gig. Actually, though, it was a sextet for this show; in case guitarist Peter Dammann, who serves as talent coordinator for the mammoth festival, got called away midset, Pain called in support from the superb jazz/blues/gospel pianist Janice Scroggins.

Baby James balances easygoing charm and soulful grit on ballads such as “Georgia On My Mind” and “Help Me Make It Through the Night” and the bedroom blues “All I Want to Do.” Though excessive echo shows up on (or rather, after) his voice on occasion, it's not enough to distract. Saxophonist Renato Caranto, who also plays with Pain in one of Brown's bands, makes his horn strut and growl, soar and cry sweetly. Yet even in his company, Scroggins' at once churchy and earthy piano delivers the most striking solos.

The band's blend of blues, soul and jazz really comes together, though, in the interplay between Pain's jabbed and smeared chords and understated bass lines and the fluidly funky authority of Anthony Jones, surely one of the best young drummers in the Northwest.