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Bret Primack's avatar

Clark Terry wasn’t just a great trumpeter—he was a radiant human being whose life was a harmony of soul, swing, and service. I was lucky—blessed—to know Clark, hear him live many times, and call him a friend. The world felt brighter in his presence. The music felt deeper.

CT was one of those rare musicians you could identify in two notes flat. That buttery, golden tone—half sunlight, half velvet—could dance, croon, cry, or crack you up. His horn didn’t just play. It spoke. It whispered secrets, it shouted joy, it told jokes that made your soul chuckle. His phrasing was pure conversation—fluent, playful, alive.

He mentored a young Miles Davis in St. Louis. He played with both Count Basie and Duke Ellington, mastering the elegance of swing, then bridged generations to nurture the fire of bebop and beyond. Few musicians walked so gracefully between eras. Fewer still brought such humanity with them.

Technically, Clark was razor-sharp. But he never played for the sake of complexity. He played with heart. Especially on flugelhorn—his signature sound—he poured out warmth and wit and wonder. His time feel was sublime. Whether inside a tight ensemble or stretching out on his own, he swung like joy itself had learned to walk.

And of course—Mumbles. That gibberish scat character, slurring and stumbling with perfect pitch, was absurd and brilliant and unforgettable. It was satire and soul. It made people laugh—and through laughter, listen.

In his later years, Clark became a lighthouse for young musicians. He mentored thousands, from wide-eyed kids to future legends like Quincy Jones. He taught with patience, with joy, with a generosity that was downright spiritual. Born into poverty and shaped by racism, he refused to grow bitter. He grew better. He lifted people up. He opened doors. He gave more than he ever took.

Even when diabetes took his legs. Even when blindness set in. He kept teaching. He kept smiling. He kept swinging.

Watch Keep on Keepin’ On—his beautiful, aching documentary about mentoring blind pianist Justin Kauflin. It’ll break your heart wide open, then sew it back together with love and music.

In a business full of ego and insecurity, Clark was humble. Funny. Profoundly kind. He treated janitors and jazz royalty the same way—with respect, warmth, and a spark of mischief.

He was one of those rare souls whose greatness wasn’t just in how he played, but why. And who he was while doing it.

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Paul Wells's avatar

I was a barely better-than-average high-school trumpet player when I borrowed my dad's car to drive to Toronto with two friends to see Clark Terry in a club with a local rhythm section in 1984. At the set break I told him I played in my school band and asked if he'd play "Ow," the Dizzy Gillespie tune. I'd heard him play it in Detroit several months earlier. Near the end of the next set, he said, "This next tune was requested by a *colleague* of mine..." and proceeded to absolutely breathe fire on "Ow." That's my story; thanks so much for yours.

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