Written by Dave Sumner ~
On October 9th, we lost one of the good ones. Dave Poarch—friend, bandmate, fellow jammer, fine musician, kind human—passed away from cancer. His passing left a large hole. We knew it was coming. He had received the bad news that the cancer was back almost a year ago now; but somehow, we were all in a bit of denial. We couldn’t imagine our world without him.
I first got to know Dave through the McMinnville jam. He was also a founder of the Wolves and People in Newberg. Dave was a particularly fine guitarist—also playing mandolin and fiddle—and had a clear and sweet baritone voice. At the jams, he loved to introduce new tunes and to push the genre a bit. He might lead us in a traditional fiddle tune but then have us all doing something more folky like “Pay My Money Down.” And although he exuded musical talent, most of all he exuded musical generosity.
All the jam regulars were affected by Dave. When I mentioned I would be writing a memorial, many of them shared their memories with me. A consistent theme was Dave’s encouragement and joy in music.
Here are a few of the comments from jam regulars:
“After COVID, Dave and his wife Vicki became fast friends with my wife Caroline and me. My favorite memory was sitting in a park at sunset on the island of Maui, picking fiddle tunes at sunset with migrating whales spouting and surfacing near the shore. I’m sure they wanted to hear Dave pick his mandolin as much as we did. I will miss my friend and the good times we shared. ”
“Of the many wonderful people in the musical community, Dave and Vicki Poarch really stand out. They were quick to extend some welcoming warmth to a newcomer. Dave had a real knack for digging up lesser-known tunes that become favorites. He and Vicki will always hold a cherished place in my heart.”
“One Saturday earlier this year I tried to get a last-minute jam going at Wolves and People. It wasn’t a nice day in the Valley so the only other person that showed up was Dave. We tucked under the tent, I pulled out my banjo and he grabbed his guitar. After about an hour I’d played through most of the traditional bluegrass songs that I know well enough to lead.
Dave asked me, “What else you got?”
”I know a lot of music but that’s about the end of my bluegrass zone.”
Dave said, “Let’s do it.”
We started with newer bluegrass musicians, Billy Strings, Sierra Ferrell, The Steel Wheels, and more. Eventually we made our way to punk, ska, and even a little southern rock. As we packed up and I thanked Dave for the fun he said,
“Don’t let a jam turn into an old guy sing-a-along.” When new folks show up to any circle, I’ve got Dave’s voice reminding me to make sure everyone is welcome, no matter who they are or what they play.”
“I had watched from afar as the W&P jam sessions unfolded—watching a man who always had a song to offer, kept pace when others faltered, and laughed at himself easily. I lingered in the music that was so familiar to my soul and watched Dave and the dynamics unfold within the group. In this space, Dave was a friend, music teacher, confidant, father figure, and gifted musician. Life-altering events led me to grab hold of what was familiar, step in, and participate in the bluegrass jam arena.
Dave’s smile and friendly greeting—which always included my name—kept me coming back. Watching him put down an instrument of choice (for he played many) to sit with a kiddo and share music reflected the core of who Dave was: a man of few words, a quiet spirit, and a smile that ushered peace into any room. Dave loved his life and the gift of music. As a result, he and Victoria lived a life of generosity, freely sharing their story, food, time, and encouragement. I will forever be grateful for the time I shared with this man.”
As mentioned above, I knew Dave casually from the jam, but a little over four years ago, one of our bandmates in the Bootleg Jam moved to the coast and we needed another musician. Dave asked if he could join. I was a bit skeptical at first only because I’m the guitarist and he’s a much better guitarist than I am. But to my relief, he assured me he wanted to play mandolin. Yet, there was also the issue of the other band members. Rob, Joel, and I have been together for a long time, and if you’ve ever been in a band, you know that there’s a lot more to making it work than just the music. I was the only one who knew Dave, so we invited him to a rehearsal with a “let’s see how it goes” attitude. I don’t think we were ten minutes in before it was clear to all of us that he was a fit.
So, for the past four years or so—between rehearsals, gigs, and jams—I’ve had the absolute privilege of spending several hours each week with Dave Poarch. He had a knack for binging great new songs to the band, and he had a great ear. We used to joke that he had a tuner firmly lodged up his…well, you get the idea. The four of us have laughed, traveled, worked out arrangements, performed, and earned tens of dollars together. And few people have helped me grow more as a musician than Dave Poarch.
If you knew Dave, despite his generosity and talent, he hated to be the center of attention and he really hated to think he might be a burden, so he often kept his struggles to himself. But last February, shortly after this new cancer was discovered, I was a bourbon or two in one evening, feeling concerned and sentimental. I sent him a long text expressing my and the other bandmates worries, telling him how much we all cared about him. He sent the kindest reply, a reply that reflects, I think, who he was. “Thanks Dave for your concern and love,” he wrote. “Being in the band has been a highlight of my musical life, and it’s not so much about the music, but more about hanging out with truly great humans. I’m a lucky guy.”
We all love the music, but it’s really about the great humans. And Dave was at the top of that list. So Dave, right back at you. I feel the same way, and so do so many others. To have known you, I’m a lucky guy.
