© -
Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.
With apologies to
James Joyce for modifying his book title, I’ve always enjoyed this story about
the young Clark Terry as told by Gene Lees .
“Clark Terry was
born in St.
Louis , Missouri , on December 14, 1920 , the son of a laborer at Laclede Gas and
Light Company, the seventh of eleven children, seven of them girls. Before Clark 's birth, one girl died. Clark 's brothers never escaped the destiny of their
father. Clark alone did. …
I'd known about
the garden hose for years.
"I must have
been ten, eleven years old," Clark said. "Twelve, maybe. My older sister's husband, Cy McField,
played tuba in the Dewey Jackson band — Dewey Jackson's Musical Ambassadors —
at a place called Sauter's Park in Carondolet in South St. Louis . That's where I was born.
“The park was all
Caucasian. We were not allowed to go in there. Us kids, we'd walk down there,
about three miles. Walk down to the end of Broadway, the county line. We'd
stand up on something behind the bandstand and we'd listen to the band that
way.
"I remember
one cat who played in Dewey Jackson's band, Mr. Latimore. He was a big, huge
guy, played lead trumpet. He used to like me and my brother-in-law used to take
me to all the rehearsals. He'd say, 'Son, you can watch my horn.' And I'd say,
4Oh thank you,' and I'd literally sit there and watch his horn. After so many
rehearsals, I became very, very close to him. He owned a candy store, and he
always kept a pocket full of caramels and mary janes, and he'd give me a couple
of caramels and a couple of mary janes and sometimes a couple of pennies. He
was the greatest cat in the world, so I wanted to play the horn he played. I'm
glad he wasn't a banjo player!
"So one time
they went on a break. He said, 'You watch my horn.' I said, 'Okay, Mr.
Latimore,' and by the time they came back, I had been magnetically drawn to
this horn, huffin' and puffin' away, trying to make a sound. And he walked in.
He said, ‘Ah, son, you're gonna be a trumpet player.' And I've always said,
'And I was stupid enough to believe him.'
“That, plus the
fact that on the corner called iron Street and Broadway, near where I lived,
there was a Sanctified church. We used to sit on the curb and let those rhythms
be instilled in us." Banging a beat with his hands, he sang against it a
strong churchy passage. "You know, with the tambourines, and the people
dancin' and jiggin' and all that. That was as much as you needed to be
instilled with the whole thing.
"We had this
little band. We used to play on the corner. My first thing was a comb and
tissue paper. The paper vibrates. Then I came across a kazoo, which is the same
principle. Later on in my life, we had to have kazoos as standard equipment in
the studio. Sometimes we would have do little things when you were recording
for different commercial products.
"We had a guy
named Charlie Jones — we called him Bones - who used to play an old discarded
vacuum hose, wound around his neck like a tuba, into a beer mug." Clark sang a buzzy bass line in imitation,
mostly roots and fifths. "It was a better sound than the jug." The
jug of course was the old earthenware jug used in country music and jazz.
"We had a cat
who played the jug, too. With the two of them, we had a good solid foundation.
My brother Ed played — we called him Shorts, he was a little short cat — played
the drums. He took the rungs out of some old chairs for sticks. In those days
we didn't have refrigeration, we had ice boxes, and when the pan wore out,
started leaking and got rusty, it would sound just like a snare. They had those
tall bushel baskets in those days, I haven't seen one in a long time. He'd turn
one of those upside down and hang the old discarded ice pan on the side and take
the chair rungs and keep a rhythm like that. He got an old washtub and put a
brick and fixed it so he could beat it." Clark laughed that delicious and slightly
conspiratorial laugh of his as he pounded a beat.
I said, "He
sounds like some kind of a genius."
"Yeah!" Clark said. "He was. Well, I got an old
piece of a hose one day and coiled it up and got some wire and tied it so that
it stuck up in three places so it would look like valves. I took a discarded
kerosene funnel and that was my bell. I got a little piece of lead pipe — we
didn't realize in those days that there was lead poisoning — and that was my
mouthpiece."
It struck me that Clark had invented a primitive bugle, on which
he could presumably play the overtones.
"Yeah!"
he said. "By the time I got into the drum and bugle corps, I had already
figured out the system like the Mexican mariachi players use. They were taught
back in those days to play the mouthpiece first."
He did a rhythmic
tonguing like a mariachi player, then pressed his lips together and buzzed.
"After a while I figured out how to change the pitch." Pursing his
lips, he did a glissando, up one octave and down, flawlessly. "And then
they could do that with the mouthpiece. After you got the mouthpiece under control,
and you got a bugle, you could play notes. You could make all the notes that
went from one harmonic to the other."
Never having seen Clark teach, I realized what makes him such an
incredible — and so he is reputed — pedagogue, and why young people who study
with him worship him. And all of it is communicated with laughter and a sense
of adventure.”
One of the
earliest Jazz long-playing records I ever heard was a Emarcy sampler which
included a track from Clark Terry’s first album as a leader. The tune is
entitled Swahili which I found out
many years later was co-composed by Clark and Quincy Jones. You can listen to it on the following video.
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