Rainforest Jazz — The 3rd edition Sepilok Jazz Festival

“Let’s party all night until the Sepilok orangutans chase us home!” With a flushed face and a striking resemblance to local writer K.S. Maniam, the festival organizer raised his arm in declaration, officially opening the Sepilok Jazz Festival. One wonders whether Buddy Bolden, hailed as the first man of jazz a century ago, could have imagined that this music genre—rooted in African rhythms and blending ragtime, blue notes, and swing to rival white ballroom waltzes—would one day echo in the rainforests of Borneo, on the far side of the world.

Philip Larkin once described jazz as “an amazing code spoken equally to all nations and all intelligent people in the first half of the 20th century.” But that era feels so far away now, it’s hard for me to fully grasp how jazz blossomed across the United States and grew into a global phenomenon. When I first saw the signs announcing that Sepilok, a rainforest research center, would be hosting jazz bands from different regions, what intrigued me most was: how could the wild, untamed rainforest resonate with a genre that had evolved in ballrooms, bars, and theatres?

Yet, Sandakan itself has always had a kind of jazz soul—laid-back, spontaneous, and a beat behind. There were some hiccups during ticketing, and the lines grew longer, but no one seemed to mind. The staff quickly improvised solutions, and somehow, everything worked itself out like magic. Inside the venue, the chairs weren’t neatly arranged; the organizers allowed people to pull their seats into little circles. Groups of friends clustered around the space, creating an organic order without any need for instruction.

The warm-up acts featured young faces taking turns on stage. The host revealed they were just high school students. Though amateurs, they displayed impressive musical skill.
Jazz, with its African American roots, emphasizes repetition. The host invited each band to send a representative to form a spontaneous “combo” for improvisation. Saxophone, guitar, keyboard, and bass took turns soloing. The students were hesitant at first but quickly found their groove.

Suddenly, I understood why the festival sold two-day passes. Because jazz lives in the moment—its joy is in the present. No two performances are alike; each subtle variation leaves a distinct imprint. Over the next two hours of flawless performances, I finally comprehended what Haruki Murakami meant when he described jazz as something that must be heard live—music that requires the audience to watch each note rise and fall, feel the performer’s breath rhythm, and in doing so, grasp its inner value.

Sabah’s Battle Anthem

In this MBTI-obsessed age, if I had to sketch a personality profile of Sabahans, it might be ESFP: outgoing, enthusiastic, practical, adaptable. The moment the intro of “Tinggi-Tinggi Gunung Kinabalu” played, Sabahans in the crowd seemed to spring to life, calling out, “Let’s go! Let’s dance!”

The front of the stage transformed into a public dance floor, open to all. Kadazandusun dancers dressed in traditional black costumes, sequins glittering at their collars, moved with outstretched arms, hands flicking rhythmically upward like flocks of free black birds. The troupe had apparently won international accolades and frequently toured Europe to exchange dances with performers from around the world.

It’s an intriguing cultural phenomenon—the more rooted in tradition something is, the more global it becomes. Grassroots culture often needs to reach international platforms before being recognized at home. When I first arrived in Sandakan, I bemoaned the cultural desert, especially compared to the more touristy and vibrant Kota Kinabalu. Yet this local troupe showed me that one must stay in a place long enough before earning the right to judge it.

As people danced in unison to this near-second state anthem, “Tinggi-Tinggi Gunung Kinabalu”, a deep emotional resonance filled the air. In that moment, Sabah embodied what Malaysia—perhaps even the whole utopian world—should be: every ethnic group proudly keeping its identity and heritage while freely engaging with the world, welcoming everyone as one of their own. Diversity is this land’s strongest soft power. I felt a sudden sting in my nose, my eyes welling with tears.

Following the traditional dancers was Sabah’s own band, LeLucky. Wearing denim jackets over black vests, the dual vocalists called on the audience to stand up and dance. “Get moving, or get out of the way!” I’d once read an essay by Chinese writer Lin Yi, quoting old Chinese scholars who criticized jazz dancing as “neurotic convulsions.” Harsh as that may be, it strangely captures the wild abandon of the moment.

LeLucky had rearranged their songs with heavy blues notes to suit the jazz theme, but none of it felt melancholic. They made ample use of jazz’s “call and response,” sometimes using beatboxing to imitate Donald Duck’s sliding squeals, sometimes conducting the crowd to echo the chorus. The cicadas’ high-pitched, constant hum became a natural backing track; butterflies and crickets occasionally flitted into the audience—like beautiful off-notes in a jazz composition. The energy was infectious. The whole rainforest seemed to dance along.

The Artisan Jazz from Penang

After LeLucky’s unrestrained madness, I worried for the next act. The Penang-based jazz band Tonal Alchemy opened to a cold crowd. Their lead singer wasn’t as humorous as LeLucky’s duo, and the keyboardist-cum-band leader sternly told the tech crew not to release dry ice — an awkward moment followed.

However, the moment the musicians exchanged a knowing glance and launched into their set, I witnessed how this band, through sheer musical mastery and tight coordination, gradually heated up the lukewarm atmosphere. The bold-toned female lead, the agile and explosive drummer, and most importantly, the silver-haired band leader who had just scolded the tech team — his fingers danced at lightning speed, weaving syncopation, diminished chords, octave jumps, and countless other techniques that words can’t capture. It was like a seven-colored rain falling in the rainforest, dripping onto the blank canvas of our hearts, slowly completing an impressionist masterpiece.

It’s all about Jazz.

Compared to LeLucky’s more pop-influenced performance, every piece by Tonal Alchemy had a jazzy touch. Songs that had long been etched into public memory were transformed under the influence of jazz, to the point that the audience forgot the original versions. Their show had no wild dance floor — instead, it took a different path, with different methods, but led listeners to the same ecstatic, self-forgetting state. We tapped and nodded to the 2-4 rhythm, the tempo accelerating like an intensifying wind, its fervor surprising us. The crowd couldn’t contain their excitement, and waves of ecstatic cheers broke out — reminding me of that one spontaneous “Whoo!” captured by a microphone during Eric Clapton’s unplugged Layla solo on MTV.

This band was like traditional artisans who devote their lives to a single craft — mastering the rules only to break them, uninterested in showbiz glamor, intent only on perfecting their art. They earned the night’s first — and only — standing ovation.

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Harmony and Fusion

“The wine glass arrives. In the night,
The only sober paperweight.”
— Chen Ziqian, “Night Song — For Fabien Wong”

At the festival, alcohol flowed freely. Those who could drink toasted one another; those who couldn’t showed respect without wavering in their values. This — right here — was what Malaysia should be. Or to put it another way: how Malaysians could relate better, if only with a little more jazzy touch. Just like jazz’s core spirit: polyrhythm — different rhythms, different voices, yet all pulsing and evolving within the same song.

Famed jazz musician Gerald Clayton once said: “Many things are interconnected, even if they seem separate on the surface.” Jazz, with its immense inclusivity, has grown over time into a genre that transforms wherever it lands — spawning bossa nova, cha-cha, mambo in Latin America…

On the dance floor were Argentinians and Colombians, originally in Sepilok to see orangutans, now serendipitously swept into this jazz variation of their trip. The Australian vocal group SOULCUTZ, whether pre-arranged or spontaneously inspired, performed the Latin-flavored “Sway”:
“When marimba rhythms start to play / Dance with me, make me sway.”
A tall white man, realizing he had become the center of attention, twisted and turned with all the dance moves he could muster — his back nearly bending to the ground.

That shameless tall man set off a chain reaction. His brick brought forth a stream of jade, as more and more joined in. The lead singer — in white hat, white shirt, and white trousers — gallantly walked into the audience and invited an elegantly dressed woman to dance. She declined at first but eventually accepted — once onstage, both men and women let themselves go. Shadows tangled, and the night spun into a frenzy.

It reminded me how jazz once broke down racial barriers — a hybrid music born of struggle. Nina Simone once said: “Jazz is a white term to define black people. My music is black classical music.” Peel back jazz’s layers, and you cannot ignore its painful past — music once played at funerals, capturing poverty, injustice, and life’s hardships. And yet, across changing times, one spirit of jazz remains constant: inclusiveness — its universal pursuit of love, freedom, passion, ideals, and a better world.

In the September breeze, SOULCUTZ closed with Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September”:

Hey, hey, hey
Ba-dee-ya, say, do you remember?
Ba-dee-ya, dancin' in September
Ba-dee-ya, never was a cloudy day

Yes, I will remember.
I remember dancing with orangutans that night.
I remember the rainforest’s intoxication and wild ecstasy that night.