The Indubitable Magic of Jimmy Borges
In his heyday, this maestro of jazz ruled Waikiki, and eventually, my heart
Jimmy…what can I say?
I got to know the great Jimmy Borges better when I began reviewing jazz for a living.
Uncle Jimmy, the person, not the famous jazz entertainer. Although I knew that side of him too from the many gigs he called my husband to do throughout the years.
Borges is, or was, quite famous — our unofficial ambassador of aloha, holding court to celebrities, locals, and tourists pouring into Waikiki in droves, just to see him perform. He appeared on “Hawaii Five-0,” the 1970s original and the 2010 reboot. Hosted numerous galas, often standing-room only, where everyone — regardless of status — felt a part of his insider’s club.
“Those were the days,” he’d say, before getting back to the subject at hand, whether it was where to find the best Minute Chicken Cake Noodle or whether it’ll rain tomorrow.
I found him unfailingly kind, quirky, engaging, outrageous, mercurial, perfectionistic, insightful…always looking for the best, most inventive right hook in every musical request, big or small.
The courage came later, when he’d battle back-to-back cancers until he decided to go out peacefully, without the harrowing chemo, at age 80.
Days before his birthday, and before he won his first Nā Hōkū Hanohano Award (Hawaii’s equivalent of the Grammys) in May 2016 for his first and only fully realized album of jazz standards (he made his own), Borges left this earth for a better gig.
Probably with Frank Sinatra, an icon he was frequently compared to, hashing out classic arrangements from the Great American Songbook.
Oh yeah, Borges was the only civilian to receive the nod of approval from “Ole Blue Eyes” himself for full access to The Vault, an archive of Sinatra’s recordings.
“…That came with the Hawaiian chutzpah that I had. I said, I wanted to do a concert, and I wanted to do a tribute, not to Frank Sinatra, but to the music of Frank Sinatra. And I said, But the only way I can do that is getting his music, and I don’t know him well enough to ask. So I asked Frank Valenti, who was here, from Milici Valenti. And I knew that Frank knew Frank Sinatra. I said, Can you call Mr. Sinatra for me and ask him if I can borrow some of his arrangements to do a symphony concert in honor of his music? Well, he did; he called. And about seven weeks later, I got a call back from the Sinatra office, Frank Sinatra office, which was at Warner Brothers Studios at that time. And the lady—I can’t remember her name now, she calls; she says, Mr. Borges, Mr. Sinatra said that you can have access to his library…”
— Jimmy Borges, The Ballad Continues, Long Story Short by Leslie Wilcox, Nov. 16, 2011
Uncle Jimmy knew everyone, and I mean everyone. He could chat up Richard Pryor, then turn around and let a young up-and-comer from the sticks go up onstage to join his infamous late-night jam session with his local all-stars and visiting, big-name artists at the Jazz Cellar or Lewers — places to be back in the day.
Then, he’d saunter over during a break to make honeymooners from Pearl City feel welcome…talk story…like they were his best friends. Because they would be, by the time he was through.
Jimmy had that way about him.
In his last days, we talked often. I interviewed him several times before guessing that he would soon pass away from a cancer that moved up from his liver to his lungs. He didn’t want anyone to know quite yet.
He wanted to go out with dignity, with a mic in his hand, surrounded by musicians, ohana, wonderful, glorious music, belting and improvising and crooning like he used to.
For the most part, he did.
Before he died, I dreamt of him looking over at me one last time before taking the stage for a celebration of his life. He winked and told me he would be fine, disappearing into the ether and the throngs of outstretched hands.
I told him about the dream. He nodded and said, “Sounds about right.”
He told me a lot of things. How proud he was of me. How grateful to have met me. Me, a nobody in his world. How I made him laugh and think and gasp with my straightforward honesty.
“Never lose that,” he would say. That’s your calling card, what makes you special, he added. “Most people I’ve met hide behind the bullshit. Not you. I always know where I stand with you.”
He released his 12-track album early in 2015 on Mountain Apple, featuring local musicians he’d played with and trusted, mere months before his awards, birthday, and death. He didn’t think he ever would, didn’t think one was needed to say what he wanted to say…didn’t think he could do it justice.
What he — and I — discovered was no minor revelation.
After decades upon decades of scrambling for the limelight as an Asian, Pacific Islander in a black-and-white Rat-Pack glam world, honing his casual-folksy-down-home island narrative, and making a name for himself among the stars, what remained was a crackling weather vane of realness to his once-smooth, supple, velvety voice that once could hold any note, no matter how impossible, twist in any wind, and resonate with every kind of people.
Now, he let it all go…the finessing, fussing, and fighting to make a perfect vision float. All of it, turning music in a kind of confessional art, fluttering, settling wherever it may land.
I could almost see him waving goodbye, as he sorted through the fine-wine rubble of tunes he once flawlessly commandeered, cajoled, charmed, and dominated into life: “Night & Day,” “Here’s to Life,” “Old Devil Moon,” and his grand finale, the fitting Queen Liliʻuokalani anthem, “Aloha O’e.”
Within the bands of those notes, real, lived, hard-fought-and-won experience, the difference between a rum and Coke…and barrel-aged whiskey.
He asked me what I thought of his singing on that album. What I really thought.
“You let everything out in your voice, as is, without covering up, pretense, or artifice. It’s the real you, after all the gigs are over and you’re ready to go.”
He smiled, chuckled, and agreed. “That’s why I like your reviews, Carol. You’re honest. I hear that, too.”
When he was alive, not only would he light up a room, but he fully and completely tuned into everyone’s frequency in that room. Their worries were his worries, their triumphs his reason for jubilation.
He immediately loved our son James, then eight, adopted him as his hanai son…the son he never had…and assumed we’d honored him with the namesake. Who were we to steer him wrong?
I’ll never forget how seamlessly our family blended in with his ohana, forever more…how he lifted up a nobody and made her feel worthy of attention…how he asked for my opinions and really listened…how he could galvanize people into doing something with their lives…
…how he could turn a tune into a moment.
The world is a lonelier place without him.
Every so often, I’ll return to that dream, where’s he’s holding court in the Rainbow Room with Frank and the greatest big band ever, calling out tunes on the fly, bending narratives to his folksy-local wit, and pulling originality and pure, uplifting emotion from a nothing of a B side of a song.
The great Jimmy Borges also has an uncanny knack of dropping in when I least expect…
Like when a K-drama character — Ahn Suk-Hwan’s noble, mischievous Choi Jang-Mul, one of the wealthiest chaebol in “The Uncanny Counter” — kicks some serious ass at the school after bullies tries to ruin a young superhero-in-training’s life by pulling their influential parents’ strings.
Or Ke Huy Quan’s parallel-universe-riding Waymond Wang, going from milquetoast husband to crime-fighter in “Everything Everywhere All At Once.”
Their quick-step cadence, champagne-bubble lilt of a voice, a tilt of the head, the effortless charm flowing like a waterfall…a twinkle in their eyes before heading into battle…
…Pure Jimmy.
Sometimes, I miss him so much I can almost feel a hole gaping open inside. Other times, I feel his presence fill me up so much I forget I’m lonely and lost and close to despair, the kind that wants to give up.
Aloha ʻOe.
A beautiful tribute to Jimmy!