In 1957, at the age of 12, Norman Sylvester boarded a train in rural Louisiana, leaving behind a childhood steeped in bayou fishing and gospel hymns, bound for the distant promise of Portland, Oregon. His father had ventured west seeking better opportunities, and when he sent for his son, Sylvester felt uprooted from paradise. The fall of 1957 marked his arrival in Oregon, a state with a deeply problematic history regarding Black residents. From 1844 until 1926, Oregon enacted exclusion laws barring Black people from settling within its borders, and the 1850 Donation Land Act explicitly prohibited them from claiming any land. Oregon notably refused to ratify the 15th Amendment, and its Supreme Court upheld racial discrimination in public spaces as late as 1917. By the 1920s, the Ku Klux Klan had established its most significant chapter in the Western United States within the state.

Despite this hostile environment, Black pioneers were among Oregon’s earliest settlers, forging lives and advocating for equality. The Portland chapter of the NAACP, founded in 1914, stands as the oldest continuously operating chapter west of the Mississippi. However, the state’s anti-Black policies acted as a potent deterrent, resulting in a Black population that constituted less than 1% of Oregon residents by the time Sylvester arrived. Portland’s African American community was the smallest among major West Coast cities, a stark contrast to Sylvester’s Southern upbringing. Stepping off the train at Union Station, he encountered profound culture shock.

Sylvester was set to begin seventh grade at his first integrated school, and a haircut was his immediate priority. His destination was a barbershop near the intersection of Williams Avenue and Russell Street in North Portland. Upon arrival, he found the area vibrantly alive. A distinguished brick building with an onion-shaped cupola graced one corner, while homes and businesses—a cafe, a drugstore, a produce market—lined the others. Most strikingly, he saw an abundance of African American people, not as outsiders, but as proprietors, drivers of fine cars, and confident pedestrians. He later likened the scene to Harlem, but on that day, it simply reminded him of the home he had left behind. Thousands of miles separated him from the muscadine grapes of his grandmother’s farm, yet standing at that intersection, he felt an immediate sense of belonging, the air thick with the familiar aromas of Southern cooking and the lively strains of gospel and jazz. "The place just embraced me," Sylvester recalled. "Everybody was singing the same song, if you know what I mean."

This bustling intersection was, in fact, the heart of a neighborhood known as Albina. In the early 1900s, Black Portlanders, many employed as railcar attendants, began to settle in Albina due to its proximity to Union Station. Over the subsequent decades, discriminatory housing practices, including a 1919 Portland Realty Board ruling deeming it unethical to sell homes in white neighborhoods to non-white buyers, coupled with institutional policies, systematically excluded Black residents from other parts of the city, concentrating the community within Albina. By 1940, over half of Portland’s Black population, then numbering just under 2,000 individuals, resided in this district.

The outbreak of World War II brought a significant influx of over one hundred thousand newcomers to Portland, including approximately 20,000 African Americans drawn by jobs in the city’s booming shipyards. Among these migrants were Sylvester’s parents, aunt, and uncle, who settled in a defense housing development called Vanport. Constructed behind a railroad embankment in the floodplain of the Columbia River, Vanport was the nation’s largest wartime housing project, with African Americans comprising about a quarter of its over 40,000 residents, making it by far the largest Black community in Oregon.

Following the war, residents began to depart Vanport. While Sylvester’s mother returned to Louisiana, his uncle secured employment at a local hospital, and the rest of the family chose to remain in the vicinity, continuing to reside in Vanport due to racial exclusion from most other neighborhoods. On Memorial Day in 1948, the Columbia River, swollen by spring rains and snowmelt, breached the embankment, inundating Vanport. Within 40 minutes, the community was submerged, resulting in at least 15 deaths and leaving over 18,000 residents, a third of whom were Black, homeless.

Sylvester’s family, like most African Americans displaced by the flood, found refuge in Albina, the only Portland neighborhood that welcomed them. By the time Sylvester settled in the city, four out of every five Black Portlanders lived in this district. Despite issues of overcrowding and dilapidated housing stemming from redlining, a lack of public investment, and negligent landlords, Albina was a close-knit and vibrant community, teeming with Black-owned businesses, churches, and gathering places. "Everything you needed in a community was right there," Sylvester shared.

Central to Albina’s vitality was its rich musical landscape. In the decades following Sylvester’s arrival, the neighborhood resonated with music. Gospel choirs filled churches, while soul bands packed the Cotton Club, then the Pacific Northwest’s premier destination for soul music. Jazz, blues, and funk could be heard almost nightly in numerous venues, including teen clubs and all-ages spaces, with bands forming in basements, backyards, schoolrooms, and churches.

At age 13, Sylvester received a guitar purchased by his father, who worked two jobs to afford the $11.95 pawnshop acoustic. His father promised an electric guitar if he learned three songs. Teachers were readily available in Albina; Sylvester learned his initial licks from a Creole man who owned his family’s home and later received blues instruction from a high school peer. Sylvester proved to be a rapid learner, and the guitar became a transformative tool. Once shy and prone to stuttering among Portland’s urban youth, he found his voice through his instrument. "But with my guitar in front of me, I could express myself," he stated.

Now 80 years old, Sylvester has dedicated his life to musical expression. His first band, Rated "X," was among Portland’s pioneering soul groups. Though local success followed the recording of a 45 in 1972, a graveyard shift at the trucking company where he worked forced him to leave the band. He continued to play, eventually establishing himself as a prominent blues musician with the Norman Sylvester Blues Band, which has performed for 40 years. He has shared stages with legends like B.B. King, Buddy Guy, and Mavis Staples, and was inducted into the Oregon Music Hall of Fame in 2011.

Sylvester’s considerable achievements are but one facet of Albina’s profound musical heritage. He is part of a vast and interconnected network of Black musicians, educators, and arts advocates who converged in the area during the latter half of the 20th century, transforming the region into a Western music hub. However, for many years, the story of Albina’s musical history remained largely confined to the memories and private collections of its residents, a generation of musicians now advancing in years.

By the early 2000s, when Bobby Smith moved to Albina, the neighborhood bore little resemblance to the predominantly Black community of Sylvester’s youth. Smith, a white schoolteacher and occasional freelance music journalist, was aware of Albina’s vibrant jazz scene in the 1940s and ’50s, as documented in Robert Dietsche’s 2005 book Jumptown. He wondered, however, about the trajectory of Black music in Portland beyond 1957. Scouring used record stores for commercial recordings of Portland’s Black musicians from the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s yielded few results, with Sylvester’s Rated "X" 45 being one of the only records he could find from those decades. Concurrently, he engaged with neighbors, frequented parks where music was played, and spent time at Clyde’s Prime Rib, one of the city’s few venues regularly featuring elder Black performers.

In 2014, Smith began DJing for XRAY-FM, a community radio station broadcasting from Albina. He brought his growing collection of regional recordings to the airwaves and invited local musicians to discuss them. Calvin Walker, a drummer, bandleader, and self-proclaimed "child of Albina," was one of his earliest guests. What was scheduled as a 30-minute interview evolved into a three-hour conversation, during which Walker shared his life story and mapped out an extensive network of musicians and educators who had shaped and been shaped by Albina. He provided Smith with a list of key individuals to contact, pledging his assistance.

Smith’s weekly radio show soon became a vital platform for elder Black musicians to share their narratives. Despite facing barriers to the recording industry, Albina’s musicians had diligently documented their work, leaving behind a wealth of unreleased recordings: demos, reel-to-reels, cassettes, and VCR tapes. This growing trove of music and memorabilia revealed an extraordinary legacy of Black arts and culture in Portland, an untold chapter of Oregon’s history.

In 2015, Walker, Smith, and local musician and community leader Ken Berry founded the Albina Music Trust (AMT). Their ambitious goal was to preserve thousands of obsolete and decaying media items and make them accessible to the public. Elder engineers donated equipment and trained volunteers in operating archaic machinery. Each item was digitized and cataloged into a comprehensive database. After a decade of dedicated work, AMT launched the Albina Community Archive in 2024, believed to be the only community archive in the United States specifically focused on restoring a Black community’s music culture.

The online repository now houses over 13,000 items from 180 sources, encompassing not only music—live recordings, out-of-circulation albums, and unreleased demos—but also film, newsprint, posters, handbills, and oral histories. This extensive collection serves as the foundation for the archive, functioning more as a seedbank for historical artifacts that are then brought to life through various projects. An art installation titled Wall to Wall Soul features restored and recolored posters and photographs, exhibited across the city and now permanently displayed at Clyde’s Prime Rib. Under the record label of the same name, AMT releases vinyl albums of previously unheard music from Albina’s past, alongside new works by contemporary local artists. An audio tour, The Albina Soul Walk, guides listeners on a mile-long journey through Albina, visiting the sites of former venues and gathering places, narrated by musicians and club owners recounting the neighborhood’s history. Listening to the tour provides an immersive experience, bringing an unseen dimension of the community’s past into sharp focus.

During a summer visit to AMT’s modest office in Northeast Portland, Smith, Walker, and Berry’s camaraderie was palpable. Their conversation flowed seamlessly, a testament to years of shared passion and collaborative effort. Settling into the office, surrounded by shelves of labeled boxes and a fascinating array of vintage audio equipment, felt more like joining a family gathering than attending a formal meeting. The discussion, much like Smith’s initial encounter with Walker, extended far beyond the planned hour, leading to a shared meal at a nearby taqueria.

Ken Berry arrived in Oregon from Kansas in 1953 at the age of four. His family settled in Southeast Portland, where he became the first Black student at Laurelhurst Elementary. However, two years later, due to complaints from anti-integration neighbors, their landlord demolished their home, prompting the Berry family to relocate to Albina. There, he began playing piano during Sunday school at the New Hope Missionary Baptist Church, earning 75 cents a day. He joined the choir at Jefferson High and, after graduation, began playing a Hammond B3 organ at The Upstairs Lounge, then Albina’s most prominent jazz club. It was there he met Thara Memory, a trumpeter from Florida who, while en route to Seattle with his band, was captivated by Albina’s charm and community spirit. Memory decided to stay, and he and Berry later formed Shades Of Brown, one of many collaborations that would profoundly shape Albina’s musical culture for decades.

Around the same time, Walker encountered Memory at another vital Albina hub, the Albina Arts Center. As a teenager, Walker frequently performed at the center with his jazz-infused funk band, The Gangsters. Memory’s masterful trumpet playing deeply impressed Walker, leading him to focus on drums while Memory joined on trumpet. In the summer of 1970, the American Legion convention in Portland led to Vortex 1, the only state-sponsored rock concert in U.S. history, organized to divert potential war protesters. Although The Gangsters were not officially invited, they transported their equipment to the festival and, upon arrival, Memory asserted their presence, highlighting the lack of Black bands. Within thirty minutes, they were on stage, performing for an hour and a half and even receiving payment, as Walker fondly recalled.

Despite its historical significance, this pivotal event was largely omitted from retrospective coverage, including books and documentaries, because researchers were unaware of it. This oversight underscores how Albina’s history was embedded within the community, not institutionalized. As Smith noted, while public libraries and historical societies have existed for over a century, AMT, in just ten years, has become the largest digital repository of Black arts and culture in Oregon. Walker affirmed this trust, stating, "People are putting their lives in our hands because they trust that their story will be told accurately."

AMT is part of a growing nationwide movement of community archives dedicated to preserving collective histories overlooked by mainstream institutions. Over 300 such archives are cataloged across the country, each documenting distinct facets of American life, from LGBTQ+ experiences in the Deep South to Indigenous women activists. In an era where historical narratives are increasingly weaponized, community archives like AMT expand the authorship of history, fostering a more inclusive and multifaceted understanding of America.

The Gangsters’ recordings, made in the 1970s, remained unreleased for 40 years, stored in a closet. Even Memory’s daughter, Tahirah Memory, an acclaimed vocalist and songwriter, was unaware of these recordings until AMT rediscovered them in 2017. Tahirah, who performs about 90 shows annually, drawing influence from jazz and soul traditions, grew up immersed in Albina’s music scene but did not fully grasp the obstacles faced by musicians of her mother’s generation. "The archive fills in a lot of gaps," she stated, acknowledging the systemic exclusion of Black history. In 2018, AMT released The Gangsters’ album on vinyl, accompanied by a booklet detailing the band’s oral histories and photographs. The album’s release concert, reuniting historic groups with contemporary musicians, sold out the 300-seat Alberta Rose Theatre within hours.

Witnessing the emergence of Albina’s past through AMT has been a profoundly healing experience for Tahirah. "The archive is as much about social change as it is about music," she explained. "It’s a record of how Black people have leaned on art to make a way." She believes that resilience and creativity often flourish in the face of adversity, stating, "Some of the best magic has come out of Albina because it was a place where not-great things happened."

By the time The Gangsters recorded their music, Albina had undergone significant transformations. Following World War II, cities nationwide engaged in "urban renewal," using federal funds to clear perceived "slums" and redevelop neighborhoods, often displacing hundreds of thousands of residents. Black and minority communities were disproportionately targeted as "blighted" and subsequently demolished. James Baldwin articulated this reality in 1963, describing urban renewal as "Negro removal." Portland was no exception.

In the late 1950s, hundreds of homes in Albina were razed to make way for Interstate 5 and the Memorial Coliseum. Then, in the late 1960s, Portland secured federal funding to bulldoze 76 acres for the expansion of Legacy Emanuel Hospital. This project encompassed hundreds of residences, community gathering spots like the Seven of Diamonds teen club, and the commercial heart of Albina, including the intersection of Williams and Russell. Black leaders actively resisted this destruction, advocating for rehabilitation rather than clearance. The Albina Neighborhood Improvement Project, formed in 1961, successfully halted demolition in some areas, leading to the rehabilitation of hundreds of homes and the creation of a park.

However, other projects proceeded. Lower Albina neighborhoods were leveled to accommodate the Portland Public School District’s headquarters and the Water Bureau. In the early 1970s, the hospital expansion was approved, leading to the condemnation and demolition of the Williams and Russell intersection. The only physical remnant, the onion-shaped cupola, was relocated to a gazebo in Dawson Park. This project displaced 171 households, three-quarters of whom were Black. The hospital expansion itself never materialized, leaving the land vacant for the next 50 years. In total, "urban renewal" efforts destroyed over 1,100 housing units in Albina, along with dozens of businesses and community centers.

Following these demolitions, banks further redlined the remaining neighborhood, denying residents access to mortgages and home improvement loans. Those seeking to purchase homes or invest in businesses faced the choice of leaving Albina or resorting to private, often predatory, lenders. This exodus contributed to a proliferation of vacant buildings by the 1980s, with one activist documenting 900 abandoned structures.

As Albina’s businesses and clubs shuttered or were demolished, racial tensions escalated across Portland in the wake of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination. Downtown venues often excluded Black bands, fearing alienation of white audiences. Competition from new forms of entertainment, such as late-night television and disco, coupled with stricter drunk driving laws and instances of police brutality, reduced patronage of live music venues. These factors made it increasingly difficult for musicians to earn a living, exacerbating problems stemming from chronic disinvestment, including unemployment, gang violence, and the drug trade. Despite these challenges, music remained a vital cultural force. "It was a way of maintaining camaraderie, a connecting piece for people’s spirits," Berry reflected. During these years, Albina’s musicians, educators, and community leaders intensified their efforts to sustain Black music culture in Portland.

In 1976, Berry co-founded the World Arts Foundation, a nonprofit dedicated to celebrating African American culture through community choirs, orchestras, marching bands, and after-school programs. Their annual "Keep Alive the Dream" event, showcasing these ensembles, stands as one of the nation’s longest-running tributes to Martin Luther King Jr. Thara Memory, aiming to reconnect musicians who had strayed from their path and introduce new audiences to Black music traditions, helped establish a concert series called TimeSound. The inaugural performance in 1981 featured a 24-piece ensemble at the Civic Auditorium in downtown Portland, successfully transcending the racial barriers that often restricted access to downtown venues.

Inspired by TimeSound, Albina’s musicians initiated a similar big band and choir program for young people called YouthSound. Bringing together hundreds of students for weekly practices at the New Hope Missionary Baptist Church, the program was inclusive, spanning genres from jazz to classical, though many participants were Black. For many white students, it provided their first exposure to gospel music. This initiative led to a series of programs offering music education to underserved children in Portland. Notably, several alumni of these programs have gone on to achieve international acclaim, including Domo Branch, Charlie Brown III, and five-time Grammy winner Esperanza Spalding, widely regarded as the foremost female jazz bassist of her generation.

While developing musical skills was a primary objective of these projects, their creators harbored a broader vision. As Berry recounted in an oral history included with YouthSound, an AMT album of the ensemble’s 1982 performance, "Each person in the choir is an individual, and when we sing, we’re making sure to let one another know that, even though we’re different individuals, we’re all connected. We have to deal with the same things together. I’m talking about social justice. I’m talking about peace, joy, happiness. That’s what the music did for all of us that were in the choir."

During a visit to AMT’s compact office, the deep bond between Walker, Smith, and Berry was evident in their seamless conversation, a testament to their shared commitment. Their respect for one another, transcending age and race, mirrored the synergy of a skilled musical ensemble. The experience evoked the feeling of listening to a great band jam, each member contributing a unique element to create a collective sound far greater than the sum of its parts. Berry’s parting gift, a copy of YouthSound, came with a request for a text upon safe arrival home. That evening, as the album played, the liner notes revealed the collective spirit of the performance: "It was all about listening," one student recalled. "Anybody could put out a tune. But your tune gotta match the person standing next to you. This was about teamwork. We needed to sound as one."

AMT’s work, while deeply rooted in preserving the past, is fundamentally oriented toward the future. "In another 50 years, we don’t want a couple of guys like me and Ken sitting around talking about the good old days," Walker remarked. To ensure this continuity, the Trust collaborates with Portland schools and nonprofits, expanding access to arts education and connecting students with Albina’s rich Black music legacy.

Last June, at a school district headquarters event called "Rhythms of Tomorrow"—one of 38 public events AMT hosted in 2025—the collaboration between AMT and Portland Public Schools marked the first district-wide celebration of Black Music Month. A stop for lunch on Mississippi Avenue, in historic Albina, revealed a neighborhood transformed. The area, once the heart of Portland’s Black community, now predominantly catered to a younger, largely white demographic, with cafes advertising trendy beverages and boutiques selling expensive plants. Yoga studios and brewpubs abounded.

Decades after urban renewal projects razed Albina, a new wave of displacement occurred. In the 1990s, the neighborhood’s affordable housing attracted individuals priced out of other areas. City investments, including efforts to curb predatory lending and housing abandonment, primarily benefited newcomers. Consequently, housing prices soared, pushing many long-term residents out. By 2000, less than a third of Black Portlanders resided in Albina, and the area lost its Black majority for the first time since the 1960s. "A lot of folks are out in The Numbers now," Sylvester observed, referring to the eastern reaches of Portland, lamenting the diminished sense of community connection.

A mile south of Mississippi Avenue, the sprawling 10.5-acre campus of the school district headquarters, itself a product of the 1960s "urban renewal" projects, presented a stark contrast to the vibrant energy within. Despite the drab exterior, the day’s event buzzed with activity. Children darted around, enjoying refreshments, while adults greeted each other warmly. A DJ set a buoyant tone with music filling the room. Norman Sylvester opened the event, his guitar an extension of his being. Rooted in the blues, he explained his connection to the genre, inspired by the dedication and resilience of artists like Muddy Waters and Son House. "Those journeys just mean something to me, so I want to keep that going," he stated, underscoring the importance of preserving that spirit. His performance, a blend of aching melancholy and sweet melody, served as a powerful reminder that music itself is a form of archive, a repository of life’s experiences.

Following Sylvester’s set, a gospel quartet comprising MaryEtta Callier, Arietta Ward, Nafisaria Mathews, and LaRhonda Steele took the stage. Ward and Mathews, sisters, are the daughters of Janice Scroggins, an Albina music legend, renowned pianist, educator, and composer. Scroggins’ musical journey began in childhood, where piano brought her solace. A generous parishioner sponsored her formal lessons, teaching her not only musical fundamentals but also that music was a viable path for women.

When Scroggins moved to Albina in the 1970s, she joined a community rich with talented female musicians. While some, like singers Linda Hornbuckle and bassist Marianne Mayfield, have passed on, many others, including Steele, Callier, and Shirley Nanette, continue to perform. The archive reveals a historical underrepresentation of women in the music industry, a reality that persists today, with male artists and producers dominating mainstream music. Ward shared her own experiences of being offered less pay than male performers for identical shows, highlighting the tenacity required for women in the industry. "It takes tenacity," she stated, "but it makes you stronger."

Ward, performing as Mz. Etta, has carved out a successful career as a genre-fluid singer and bandleader in Portland, her powerful vocals captivating audiences. She credits her perseverance to the Albina community’s influence, emphasizing that her "great American songbook" is shaped by Black composers, demonstrating that "we can do anything in a time when other people said we couldn’t." Her mentors, including Berry, Hornbuckle, Sylvester, Steele, and her mother, instilled not only musical skills but also self-worth and a sense of freedom. Ward continues this tradition of mentorship through collaborations with AMT, amplifying the legacy of Albina’s female musicians, whose "imprint was very poignant."

The gospel quartet opened their set with Walter Hawkins’ "Be Grateful." Their voices intertwined, creating a sound so rich and layered it felt palpable. A young girl in the audience, momentarily pausing her cookie, stared in awe. The song’s immersive quality transported the audience, filling the space like water filling a vessel.

The event concluded with a performance by producers Tony Ozier and Jumbo, two of five artists who remixed archive recordings for AMT’s 2025 album, Soul Assembly. They described their role as a bridge, connecting the past to the present and empowering younger generations. Soul Assembly takes its name from a 1968 musical theatre production created by the Black Student Union at Jefferson High, which explored African American history and celebrated Portland’s Black community. Ozier, who moved to Portland 19 years ago expecting little Black cultural presence, was surprised to discover a deep-rooted music scene, largely thanks to Janice Scroggins introducing him to local funk musicians. He now teaches youth music classes, hoping AMT projects can connect young people to Albina’s musical heritage. "This is Black history in Portland—where else do you hear that?" he asked, emphasizing the formative influence of music on youth.

Ozier and Jumbo performed "Searchin’ for Love," originally recorded by Shades Of Brown in the 1970s and released by AMT in 2024. The song, with its catchy groove and poignant vocals, expressed the Albina community’s frustration with the city’s neglect. Jumbo’s remixed version layered his own coming-of-age music over the original, creating a powerful fusion of past and present. The track seemed to collapse time, mesmerizing the audience and serving as a potent reminder of history’s enduring impact, while simultaneously celebrating the human capacity for creation and renewal.

The TimeSound concert, revived by AMT as part of the Albina Library’s grand reopening celebration, offered a poignant connection to the neighborhood’s past. Standing at the intersection of Williams and Russell, the site where Norman Sylvester had arrived decades earlier, the contrast between then and now was striking. Apartments and a civil rights nonprofit occupied two corners, while a chain-link fence enclosed a vacant lot on the fourth, where the iconic brick building once stood. This vacant land, a symbol of displacement, is now slated for a residential and commercial development prioritizing those with generational ties to the neighborhood, a project supported by the city and the 1803 Fund, an organization committed to investing in Black Portland.

Juma Sei, community partnership manager for the 1803 Fund, discovered AMT shortly after returning to Portland in 2024. Despite Portland not typically being recognized for its Black culture, Sei found AMT’s extensive archive to be a "treasure trove." While Albina is no longer the demographic center of Black life in Portland, the TimeSound concert drew a predominantly Black audience, spanning generations, filling the revitalized library space.

Calvin Walker opened the concert with an expression of gratitude for the library’s presence in Albina, a neighborhood once overlooked. "There was a time when nobody wanted to live in Albina," he stated, "After Vanport, this is where we landed, and we made it vibrant. Now, it’s going to come back, and it’s going to come back with all of us."

The concert, directed by Arietta Ward, featured an intergenerational ensemble performing works by Albina’s Black composers, with a focus on female artists. Ward, initially experiencing trepidation stepping into a directorial role among her musical heroes, delivered a performance that resonated with deep admiration for Albina’s musicians. The selection of pieces, primarily composed by women, began with a song by her mother, evoking a profound sense of memory and connection for many in the audience.

Near the concert’s end, Ken Berry joined Ward on stage. Reflecting on a past performance at another Portland library decades earlier, he tearfully recalled seeing Ward and her sister as children. His smile, however, conveyed a powerful message of resilience: "It’s just so good to see that we are still whole when there’s been so much to break us apart." He then signaled the band to begin, allowing the music to speak for itself, a testament to the enduring strength and spirit of Albina’s community.