To me, Clark Terry is the Johnny Hodges of the trumpet, one of the few brass players of whom it may be truly said that he imposes his will over the trumpet–and not the other way around.
And while that may be a cunningly crafted illusion, Clark has always had a way of making the trumpet and flugelhorn do his bidding, with an ease of execution, a deep feeling for the blues, burnished tone, sophisticated harmonic sensibility and a degree of rhythmic-melodic fluency that are as warm, elegant and ebullient as the master himself.
I had the opportunity to spend a half an hour on the phone with Clark Terry back in 2000 upon the release of fourteen lovingly recorded encounters with a who’s who of jazz piano players for the Chesky label, entitled ONE ON ONE, appropriately enough—a joyfully engaging recital.
And a most gratifying experience, because Clark Terry is among the classiest, most nurturing, affable, engaging souls I’ve ever met: a truly loving, gentle man, and not only a master performer, instrumentalist and humorist, but a direct conduit to the entire history of jazz, much of which he experienced first hand, with a great teacher’s gift for distilling things into deceptively simple principles, making the medicine go down easy—and imparting the unshakeable belief that you can do this, too.
At several points in our conversation he elucidated some musical point by vibrating away with naught but his embouchure, buzzing away like a Bach Cello Suite by bringing a solitary forefinger to his lips.
Did I say buzzing? When I affix a forefinger to my own lips, on a good day I might elicit some vague semblance of sonic flatulence.
When Clark got to buzzing, there were notes, overtones, even chords—with nothing but his chops!
We are talking tone, people. Each and every note an embryonic entity encapsulated in the luminous amniotic fluid of soul.
(In case you think I’m jiving, check out Clark’s amazing blues solo on nothing but his mouthpiece from a video clip of a Jazz at The Philharmonic performance with T-Bone Walker in the UK in 1966. Damn!)
I was flabbergasted. He made the basic principles of the trumpet come alive for me as no one ever had; in fact, being in his presence was so inspiring, I thought, “Hey, I can do that.”
Clark Terry and Snoop Dog
Well, not really.
Still, after getting got off the phone with Clark (way sooner than I wanted, but even back then his health was beginning to go south, and I didn’t want to wear his ass out), the first thing that popped into my head was that “If I am ever privileged enough to get more face time with this man, I am going to damn sure know more about the horn than I presently do.”
In due course, my dear friend, master trumpeter Ron Miles, gifted me a 1911 Holton Cornet. I practiced just enough to glean some rudimentary insights into the overtone series and how you make a sound, more or less–which further enhanced my respect for trumpeters in general and Clark Terry in particular.
I never did get to speak with Mister Terry again, but our brief encounter is indelibly etched in my recombinant DNA.
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