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Before Sunday afternoon, Vivian and The Merry Makers Steel Band had never performed without its leader.The seven-member group hadn’t needed to. Frontman Vivian Walsh was early to every gig, dressed in a crisp Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants, his signature straw hat and a contagious smile. He commanded every stage he graced, making East End audiences of all ages dance to his Caribbean beats since the 1960s.
Last weekend, when guitarist Frank “Bucky” Silipo—a 28-year band veteran—found himself in front of a packed crowd without Mr. Walsh by his side, he was at a loss.
His longtime friend, who had been suffering from stage four pancreatic cancer, had died four days earlier on Wednesday, March 26, at age 76 at Southampton Hospital.
“We ask you to open up your hearts and voices, and help us,” Mr. Silipo said to the mourners overflowing into the hallway of the Yardley and Pino Funeral Home in Sag Harbor, escaping the afternoon mist. “If you could help us sing the chorus, I’m sure Vivian will hear us.”
Then, the band began to play. It wasn’t long before more than 60 voices, in unison, drowned the instruments out.
“This is my island in the sun,” they cooed. “Where my people have toiled since time begun/I may sail on many a sea/Her shores will always be home to me.”
They sang to remember their friend. They sang to honor their leader. Their brother. Their father. Their confidant.
Their Merry Maker.
Vivian Walsh was born on the beautiful Caribbean island nation of Dominica on December 3, 1937—a date unknown by most, until recently.
Once, Merry Makers drummer Jerome Liggon made the mistake of asking, he recalled during the memorial. But only once.
“S’man, that’s rude!” Mr. Walsh, in his native accent, had replied to his longtime friend’s question. “That’s rude to ask someone their age!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, brotha!” Mr. Liggon had replied. “Wow.”
Mr. Walsh was a very private, borderline secretive, man, according to his goddaughter Debra George, whose father grew up with the future Merry Maker on Dominica. They got into all sorts of innocent trouble when they were kids, she said, hitting the clubs on Friday nights where the local musicians played.
But during the day, after working his shifts as a mailman—which is how he developed a particular disdain for dogs—a young Mr. Walsh would often find himself inside record stores or band leaders’ houses, where he learned how to play steel drums, Ms. George said.
“Trust me,” she said. “He was just as popular in Dominica as in the Hamptons.”
In 1964, Mr. Walsh moved to the United States and soon settled on the East End. He was in his late 20s, working odd jobs here and there—starting at The Hedges Inn in East Hampton—while pioneering the Caribbean sound that would define his legacy.
Seemingly overnight, Mr. Walsh was booked for countless events across the East End—from weddings and birthdays to celebrity summer parties and concerts, including at Agawam Park in Southampton and the annual Blessing of the Fleet in Montauk Harbor. That was his favorite gig, according to longtime friend David Raynor, tied with playing the Sag Harbor Elementary School.
The music was his life’s driving force, Mr. Silipo said. Mr. Walsh taught his band how to be performers—pounding on drums and sweating through the 95-degree heat, Mr. Liggon said—and lived to watch his audiences stand up and dance.
“I feel so blessed to be able to have been on stage with him for 28 years. To be a part of that magic,” Mr. Silipo said. “He was at one with himself and knew his purpose while he was playing and making people happy.”
Offstage, the musician picked up side jobs from his friends and worked his way into their families. Mariah Kelly first met Mr. Walsh when she was just 4 years old, in the backyard of her home in East Hampton. He was her babysitter.
“I’ll never forget, me and my sister were on the teeter-totter swing set when my dog fell through the ice of our pond in the backyard, and I had fallen off the swing at the same time,” Ms. Kelly said last week during a telephone interview. “And Vivian was just so upset. He ran into the house to get me a lollipop so I’d stop crying. But he was so panicked, he literally walked right through the sliding glass door. He was standing on the porch with glass all over him, ran over to me, handed me the lollipop and went to rescue the dog.”
Forty-seven years later, Ms. Kelly looked back at that memory with a half-hearted laugh. Just about every Sunday since, Mr. Walsh had called her to catch up and talk about life—in his kind, optimistic, loving way.
“He is what we should all be more like, honestly,” she said. “This planet we live on could use a lot more Vivians. I will never have the absolute joy of having this kind of relationship again. But aren’t I lucky that I had it?”
She choked up and continued, “I’m sorry. You just have these moments when it’s overwhelming,” she continued. “When I realize I’m not going to get that Sunday phone call.”
It is unimaginable that one person could be “everybody’s friend, everybody’s brother, everybody’s father,” longtime friend Pam Miller said during her eulogy. But that is who Vivian Walsh was.
He was an unforgettable character, his friends agreed, often breaking out into song unexpectedly. And he never left home without a hat—he owned close to 80—whether he was going to the Kentucky Derby or out to dinner.
Sometimes, James Reister—who is 6-foot-9-inches tall—found himself playing bodyguard to his musical friend if they were at the same restaurant and it came to his hat.
“People would want to take his hat off, maybe try it on,” Mr. Reister laughed. “He was very adamant about anybody touching his hat.”
Around town, Ms. Miller would play “Where’s Waldo?” with Mr. Walsh—without his knowledge, of course. “You walk around and, boom,” she said, “There’s Vivian in all these obscure places.”
One time, she found him during her regular, late-night King Kullen shopping trip. He was broken down with car trouble, so she gave him a lift back to his home in Sag Harbor.
“I remember him thanking me for giving him a ride back to Sag Harbor and thinking, ‘Well, you kind of did me the favor,’” she said. “You hear all these stories and songs about saints that you run into and they take a ride along with you. That’s how I think of that now.”
When he went inside, he turned off his outdoor light, which let his neighbor, Joan Dudley, know that he was home. It was their routine for the last 10 years. Only then could the St. Lucia native rest easy, she said during the memorial.
Mr. Walsh, once one of the three year-round residents on his block, looked after Ms. Dudley and her daughter when her husband was not home, she said. He called in the middle of the night if there was a noise. He brought the little girl gift baskets. He even insisted on shoveling their driveway after a snowstorm.
“I would beg him that I was young enough to do it,” Ms. Dudley said. “But he said, ‘No, Mrs. Dudley. You’re a lady and I have to take care of you.’”
For two nights last week, after Mr. Walsh died, the outdoor light was switched off. And Ms. Dudley felt like a piece of herself was gone, she said.
“I know he had a great life and as we celebrate him, it’s really hard for me because I’ll be on a block with nobody else,” she said. “Our other neighbor died and Viv had promised me that he’d be there. The two of us would be there to see this through. He’d always be there. But his time came.”
During the three weeks he was in the hospital, dozens of visitors stopped by Mr. Walsh’s hospital bed. Longtime friend Gary Madison was there every day.
The pair met on the music circuit in 1972, Mr. Madison said after the memorial, and they forged a fast bond. Over the years, he watched Mr. Walsh socialize with all walks of life, he said, from high to low. He saw the worth of every person, Mr. Madison said, no matter where they came from or what they did.
“He was a gentleman, to the very...” Mr. Madison trailed off, regaining his composure. “’Til the end.”
Sometime in the coming months, Mr. Walsh’s ashes will be spread in the ocean, Ms. George said, followed by a musical celebration on the East End. He is survived by his twin daughters, Valancia and Valantine Walsh, and his grandchildren, Claycia Louisy Joseph, Shem Touissaint and Ronnie Luke.
“My loving dad, Vivian, will be missed by many,” Valancia Walsh, who lives in St. Thomas, said through tears during the memorial. “Touched many lives. Special place in my heart. I will never forget. I know today, my dad is in heaven. Angels are rejoicing.”
Ms. Walsh shook the tambourine as The Merry Makers finished their final song. The audience applauded quietly, watching Mr. Liggon slump over his conga drum.
“Oh, man...,” he sighed.
But before he could crumple, longtime friend David Robertson ran out from the funeral home’s hallway, clapping his hands over his head.
“And as Vivian would say, ‘Everybody party! Party, party, party!’”
The audience members looked to one another, bewildered out of their grief, and back to Mr. Robertson—now dancing in the middle of the room to Mr. Liggon’s conga drum.
“This is for Vivian, c’mon!” he boomed. “Get up! How ya feelin’? Hot, hot, hot!”
And just like that, not one person was sitting. Everyone was on their feet—smiling despite their tears, moving to the beat while trying not to cry.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Mr. Robertson said. “Just like that. Just like that, Vivian.”
on Mar 27, 2014