current_resume_9.13.16.1-1.pdf
Table of Contents (with page numbers)
Chapter One — The Van Dyke Years
Chapter Two — The Bandstand Wars
Chapter Three — Legends in a Small Room
Chapter Four — The Misbehavior Files
Chapter Five — The Business of Jazz
Chapter Six — The Brazilian Connection
Appendix — Press & Testimonials
Chapter One — The Van Dyke Years
“Bassist Don Wilner alone is worth a trip to Miami Beach.” — Yahoo Travel Guide
When I first set foot in the Van Dyke Café, I wasn’t thinking about running a jazz club. I was
just called as a sideman — me and a piano player, nothing fancy. I played there a few weeks
before I realized one of the owners, Jeff Davis, had been a classmate of mine back at
Rockland Community College. Funny how life circles back like that.
Not long after, Jeff and his partner, Mark Soyka, called me in for a meeting. They asked if I’d
like to take over the music. Just like that, I went from sideman to music director. I started
booking the club seven nights a week, upgrading the lights and the sound system, making
sure the place looked and sounded the way real jazz should.
Why did I say yes? Because it was an opportunity to play and present music exactly the way
I wanted to. By then, I’d been through it all — jazz, classical, Broadway pits, you name it. I
had just finished my doctorate and could have gone into teaching, but playing was natural
for me. My bachelor’s was in classical and jazz, my master’s in jazz composition and
electronics, and my doctorate in performance. Everything in my training pointed to this
moment. The Van Dyke gave me a platform to put it all into practice.
There were incredible nights on that stage, but one stands above the rest: when Toots
Thielemans came to play. Mike Renzi was on piano that night. The place was packed — so
full that even the stairway was jammed shoulder to shoulder. Normally, the room was noisy.
Not that night. You could’ve heard a pin drop. And when Toots played “If You Go Away,” the
whole house wept. I’ll never forget the sight of tears streaming down the staircase.
As a bassist, I loved playing there because I was in complete control of the sound. I
unplugged from the soundboard and ran everything myself. My philosophy was simple: I
wanted the sound system to reproduce exactly what I was hearing on stage — no more, no
less. We even piped it downstairs and outside so people could hear the same balance. That
kind of honesty made all the difference.
But it wasn’t all smooth. This was Miami Beach, not exactly filled with seasoned jazz
audiences. Plenty of tourists treated it like background music, and I fought constant battles
to protect the sanctity of the room. In the early days, one group actually sat in the front row
with a ghetto blaster, playing it at us and telling us this was real music and what we played
was garbage. I had them thrown out. More than once I lost my temper. I remember shouting
“SHHHH!” into the mic so loud the manager came running upstairs, thinking there’d been a
fight. Sometimes I turned the tables with sarcasm — complimenting noisy crowds on how
“well” they knew how to listen. It was a war, but one worth fighting.
The audiences were mixed. In the summers, when the tourists left, the locals came in — the
ones who really wanted to hear the music. That was when the room felt best. Many of the
University of Miami jazz faculty hardly ever came, which disappointed me, but celebrities
did wander in. Joe Williams once came by and sat in. Lots of local musicians wanted to sit in
too, but I only let the best do it — the ones who understood what was happening musically.
That didn’t win me any popularity contests, but it kept the standard high.
People told me the Van Dyke was the number one jazz club in South Florida. I wasn’t
thinking about that at the time. I was just doing my best to put the right musicians on that
stage and keep the sound honest. Apparently, that was enough.
The club gave me plenty. I used the room — and the owners’ money — to record seven CDs
of my own, often with big‑name players I had booked into the club. It pushed me to play at
the highest level of my life. The frustrations were many — especially with managers who
thought they knew music better than I did and who’d blast garbage music over the system
during set breaks. But the rewards outweighed the grief.
And then there was the greatest gift of all: I met my wife there. I was looking for a new
Brazilian singer — the one I had wasn’t working out. A singer named Beatriz Malnic came in
to audition. She sang in tune, knew her keys, knew how to handle intros and endings. Her
delivery was fantastic. Her stage presence needed a little shaping, but she learned that
working with me. I wasn’t looking for a wife, but that’s what I found.
In the end, the Van Dyke outlasted any other jazz club around. Plenty of places called
themselves jazz clubs, but they weren’t presenting serious music night after night. The Van
Dyke was the real thing. No bullshit.
[Photo: Mike Gerber at the piano.]
[Photo: New Year’s Eve 1999 — Eddie Higgins (piano), Wendy Pedersen (vc),Don Wilner
(bass), Gilly Di Benedetto (sax).]
Chapter Two — The Bandstand Wars
“The Van Dyke has become a proving ground for Miami’s top players — and the kind of place
where the music can erupt into battle at any moment.” — Miami New Times
The Van Dyke was a small room, and when it was crowded, the audience was right up
against the bandstand. That closeness could create magic — or chaos.
One weekend Jerry Brown — a great drummer who had worked with Stevie Wonder and
Diana Ross — was playing with me. This was his chance to stretch out and play jazz in
Miami Beach. The place was packed, wall to wall. Then some idiot in the crowd picked up
one of Jerry’s drumsticks and started hitting a drum. When I looked back, Jerry had the guy
by the throat. That’s how thin the line was between music and madness.
My rule of thumb with sound never changed: if it sounds right on stage, don’t reinvent it out
front. That’s why I unplugged from the board, mixed from the bandstand, and sent the same
sound downstairs and outside. Honesty over hype — always.
[Photo: Sammy Figueroa (perc), Don Wilner (bass), Dave Valentin (fl), James Martin (dr).]
Chapter Three — Legends in a Small Room
“When he plays in the Van Dyke Café’s upstairs bar, he reveals himself to be the heppest of
hepcats… As the Van Dyke’s musical coordinator, he keeps the room humming seven days a
The room could shrink around a great player like a lens. Toots Thielemans, of course,
turned the upstairs into a chapel. Joe Williams wandered in one night and reminded
everyone what phrasing really means.
Another night, Dr. Lonnie Smith floated in wearing his trademark headdress and sat at the
organ. Suddenly the room had church in it — grease and grace at the same time. That’s the
magic of a small room: legends sound bigger, not smaller.
[Photo: Toots Thielemans with Don Wilner.]
[Photo: Dr. Lonnie Smith(org), with Bob Devo (gt).]
Chapter Four — The Misbehavior Files
“The Van Dyke sustains a weekly jazz/blues format because Don Wilner, an old‑school South
Florida jazzman, books the talent.” — Miami New Times
Running the music at the Van Dyke meant I saw the best of jazz — and some of the worst
behavior that came with it. Musicians, audiences, even managers… everyone had their
moments. Some I’ll never forget.
• The Drumstick Incident — Jerry Brown and the audience member who learned the hard
way not to touch a drummer’s kit.
• Mike Orta’s Sidewalk Fireworks — My number‑one pianist for years was brilliant and
complicated. Unhappily married, chasing singers. One night his wife came in disguised,
waited till the set ended, and confronted Mike and his girlfriend on the sidewalk. Fireworks
• Turk Mauro and the Stolen Mics — Old‑school tenor, cash‑only guy. After a drunk set, he
was told a new system meant weekly checks. He grabbed every microphone in the room and
held them hostage until I brought cash. We nearly came to blows. Mike Orta brokered the
• Sinatra Tuesdays — Tony Fernandez was a handsome kid with a fine voice, loved by the
owner’s right‑hand man Ryan and his large crowd. He sang the records, exactly. He also
rotated girlfriends weekly. One Tuesday, last week’s girlfriend arrived drunk, saw the new
one, and began stripping in front of Tony mid‑song. I stopped the band and told the pianist,
“Play ‘The Stripper.’ A gentleman wouldn’t let her do this without music.” The floor manager
sprinted upstairs and dragged her out.
• Walt Andrus, Almost Live — The Sinatra ringer from the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra loved
the Van Dyke. I planned a live recording. The GM warned me: “I love Walt, but not if he’s
drunk.” I told Walt he couldn’t drink in the club, so he drank before he came. By the first
break he could barely stand. He stumbled outside and collapsed into the GM’s arms.
• The Bob Devo Incident — Bob looked like the farmer from American Gothic and spoke
about as often. The night after New Year’s, one loud couple sat inches from the bandstand,
ignoring the music. I stopped the band to say something. Bob beat me to it: “Why don’t you
shut the fuck up?” She stood: “You shut the fuck up.” Chaos. My friend, the GM Frank, said I
had to fire Bob. I called him the next day, fired him — and rehired him in the same breath,
booking him for the next two weeks. Sometimes that was the truest music we played.
[Photo: Doris Spears (present the night of “The Incident”).]
[Photo: Lenard Rutledge, vocalist.]
Chapter Five — The Business of Jazz
“Best Jazz Club in Miami.” — Miami New Times, Best of Miami Issue
Running the music wasn’t just about calling tunes and hiring bands. It was a daily
negotiation between art and business. Floor managers fought me over volume, set lengths,
and — worst of all — the break music. I’d build a listening room, and they’d fill it with
garbage CDs the moment we stepped off stage. Those fights nearly cost me my job more
The audience split down the middle: some paid the cover because they wanted to hear the
music; others paid just to rent a chair and talk through the set. I tried diplomacy, humor,
shame, and sheer volume. It wore me down, but it also clarified what I believed: jazz
The money game was constant. Musicians wanted cash. Owners wanted checks. Some nights
were packed; some nights I paid the band anyway. Still, I turned the business into art
whenever I could. I used the club’s reputation — and sometimes the club’s money — to
record seven CDs of my own with world‑class players. The Van Dyke was my studio as much
I’ll admit it: I lost my temper more than once. I regret that. But the same fire that made me
blow up at a manager or a noisy table is the fire that went into my playing. My temper, my
passion, my investment — they weren’t separate from the music. They were the music.
[Album cover: Figments of My Imagination.]
[Photo: Mark Soyka, owner of the Van Dyke Café.]
Chapter Six — The Brazilian Connection
“With the addition of Brazilian nights, the Van Dyke broadened its palette — a blend of samba,
bossa, and straight‑ahead that drew new audiences without sacrificing quality.” — Local Press
Brazilian music had always pulled at me — the sway of samba, the quiet ache of bossa, the
harmony and the air around the notes. At the Van Dyke I went looking for the right voice.
I already had a Brazilian band, but the singer wasn’t a fit. I auditioned one after another
until Beatriz Malnic walked in. She sang in tune, knew her keys, handled intros and endings,
and delivered with grace. Stage presence can be learned; musical truth can’t. She had it.
We built Brazilian nights that gave the room a new pulse: bossa nova, samba, MPB. She
brought authenticity; I brought arrangements and discipline. The audiences leaned in
differently. The music taught me new ways to hear and feel.
What started on stage became a partnership in life. Beatriz and I built not just a band, but a
home. That’s one of the great gifts the Van Dyke gave me.
[Photo: Brazilian band — Goetz Kujack (dr), Mike Orta (pno), Rose Max (voc), Don Wilner
[Photo: Beatriz Malnic and Don Wilner.]
[Album cover: Estrada do Sol.]
“The Van Dyke Café, for nearly two decades, was Miami Beach’s premier jazz club — a place
where legends and locals met upstairs, every night of the week.” — WLRN Public Media
The Van Dyke Café stood on Lincoln Road for nearly two decades, and during that time it
became something bigger than a club. For Miami, it was the place where you could hear
serious music seven nights a week. Not background jazz, not cocktail‑hour wallpaper — the
We weren’t just a local room, either. We hosted the JVC Jazz Festival more than once, and
that’s how players like Cedar Walton found their way onto our stage. The room rose to meet
them; legends felt even larger in that upstairs space.
For me, the Van Dyke was more than a job. It was my laboratory, my stage, my testing
ground, my home. It pushed me to play at the highest level of my life. It gave me seven
albums’ worth of chances. It taught me hard lessons about business, temper, and patience. It
gave me nights of magic — like the evening Toots Thielemans brought a roomful of
strangers to tears. And it gave me Beatriz.
When I think back on those years, I don’t think about being “number one.” I think about the
investment I made — emotional, musical, personal. Every note I played, every fight I fought,
every night I kept that stage alive, it came from me. That’s who I am. The Van Dyke is gone
now, but its sound and spirit live on — in the musicians who played there, in the audiences
[Photo: Cedar Walton with Don Wilner (JVC Jazz Festival).]
[Photo: James Martin (dr), Mose Allison (center), Don Wilner (b).]
[Photo: Mark Marineau (pn), Don Wilner (b), Pete Minger (flg)
[Photo: Bill Charlap (pn), Don Wilner (b)
[Photo: Randy Brecker (tpt), Don Wilner (b), Gary Campbell (tn), Adam Nussbaum (dr)]
[Photo: George Coleman (tn), Don Wilner (b)]
[Photo: John Abercrombie (gt), Don Wilner (b)]
[Photo: Freddie Cole(pn), Don Wilner (b)]
[Photo: Don Wilner (b), Houston Person (tn) Eddie Higgins (pn)]
[Photo: Kenny Drew, Jr. (pn),Don Wilner (b)]
[Photo: Don Wilner (b), Don Freidman (pn), Tom Harrell (tpt)]]
Appendix — Press & Testimonials
“Bassist Don Wilner alone is worth a trip to Miami Beach.” — Yahoo Travel Guide
“When he plays in the Van Dyke Café’s upstairs bar, he reveals himself to be the heppest of
hepcats… As the Van Dyke’s musical coordinator, he keeps the room humming seven days a
“The Van Dyke sustains a weekly jazz/blues format because Don Wilner, an old‑school South
Florida jazzman, books the talent.” — Miami New Times
“Best Jazz Club in Miami.” — Miami New Times, Best of Miami Issue
“With the addition of Brazilian nights, the Van Dyke broadened its palette — a blend of samba,
bossa, and straight‑ahead that drew new audiences without sacrificing quality.” — Local Press
“The Van Dyke Café, for nearly two decades, was Miami Beach’s premier jazz club — a place
where legends and locals met upstairs, every night of the week.” — WLRN Public Media
New Year’s Eve 1999 — Eddie Higgins (p), Don Wilner (b), Gilly Di Benedetto (ts).
Sammy Figueroa (perc), Don Wilner (b), Dave Valentin (fl), James Martin (dr).
Toots Thielemans (harm) with Don Wilner (b).
Dr. Lonnie Smith (org) with Bob Devoe (gtr).
Tony Fernandez (voc) — Sinatra Tuesdays.
Album cover: Figments of My Imagination.
Mark Soyka — owner of the Van Dyke Café.
Brazilian band — Goetz Kujack, Mike Orta, Rose Max, Don Wilner, Ramatis Moraes.
Cedar Walton (p) with Don Wilner (b) — JVC Jazz Festival.
James Martin (dr), Mose Allison (voc/p), Don Wilner (b).
Dr. Don Wilner is a bassist, composer, and bandleader who has performed across jazz,
classical, and Broadway stages. For more than a decade, he was the driving force behind
Miami Beach’s Van Dyke Café, presenting world‑class jazz seven nights a week. He has
recorded multiple albums as a leader, including Figments of My Imagination and Estrada do
Sol. A passionate performer and educator, he continues to share his love of music with
Donald L. Wilner, D.M.A. 