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Preface by Quincy Jones, xi,
Foreword by Bill Cosby, xiii,
Introduction by David Demsey, xv,
1. Big Dreams, 1,
2. First Instruments, 2,
3. Kicked Out, 8,
4. The Vashon High Swingsters, 11,
5. First Road Gig, 22,
6. Nigga, 28,
7. Ida Cox, 33,
8. Stranded, 39,
9. Lincoln Inn, 42,
10. On the Road Again, 48,
11. Tennis Shoe Pimp, 56,
12. Jailed, 58,
13. Len Bowden, 62,
14. Navy Days, 64,
15. Gray Clouds, 69,
16. The Big Apple, 73,
17. George Hudson, 75,
18. The Club Plantation, 80,
19. Galloping Dominoes, 85,
20. Tempting Offers, 87,
21. Lionel Hampton, 90,
22. Road Lessons, 94,
23. Pauline, 96,
24. Charlie Barnet, 102,
25. Count Basie, 110,
26. Big Debt, 115,
27. Duke Ellington, 122,
28. Leaving Basie, 126,
29. The University of Ellingtonia, 128,
30. Working with Duke, 132,
31. Duke's Team, 136,
32. Duke's Management Arts, 142,
33. Miles and Bird, 143,
34. Billy Strayhorn, 146,
35. Endurances, 148,
36. Flugelhorn, 152,
37. Europe, 155,
38. Norman Granz, 158,
39. Norman's Battles, 160,
40. Q, 165,
41. NBC, 170,
42. Jim and Andy's, 173,
43. Johnny and Ed, 174,
44. Mumbles, 176,
45. First House, 179,
46. Big Bad Band, 182,
47. Carnegie Hall, 187,
48. Etoile, 188,
49. Jazz Education Arena, 191,
50. Those NBC Years, 198,
51. Storms, 202,
52. Black Clouds, 205,
53. Keep on Keepin' On, 212,
54. New Love, 220,
55. Whirlwinds, 224,
56. Through the Storm, 230,
57. Second Chance, 239,
58. The Biggest Surprise, 250,
Acknowledgments, 259,
Honors and Awards, 269,
Original Compositions, 279,
Selected Discography, 283,
Index, 303,
Big Dreams
I made my first trumpet with scraps from a junkyard. My friend Shitty helped me find the pieces on a blazing hot summer day in 1931. I coiled up an old garden hose into the shape of a trumpet and bound it in three places with wire to make it look like it had valves. Topped those with used chewing gum for valve tips. Stuck a piece of lead pipe in one end of the hose for a mouthpiece. And for the bell on the other end, I found a not-too-rusty kerosene funnel. I was a ten-year-old kid, blowing on that thing until my lips were bleeding, but I was trying to play jazz! It may have sounded like a honking goose, but it was music to my ears.
Jazz was everywhere in my hometown, St. Louis, Missouri. My brother-in-law played it in a band; I heard it on the radio, in parades, in the parks, in my neighborhood at block parties and the Friday night fish fries, and from the riverboats that I watched from the banks of the Mississippi River.
That junkyard trumpet, I made it right after I heard Duke Ellington's band play on a neighbor's graphophone (a predecessor to the gramophone) at a fish fry. I wanted to be involved with music like that.
Duke's band was different from any other band I'd ever heard! The sound. Those horns. That rhythm. It was powerful, like a freight train. Everybody knew about Duke's band. I had heard about him—heard that he was the most respected band leader anywhere. And that night, I heard why.
Nobody's band moved me like that. Nobody's. It blew my mind! Stopped me dead in my tracks. I couldn't do anything but listen to that music. It was like the whole world disappeared. Nobody was left but me and that band. I wanted to learn how Duke did it.
Twenty years later, I was fortunate enough to be hired by Duke. I was thirty years old. It was Armistice Day, November 11, 1951, at the Kiel Auditorium in St. Louis. Huge place. All the latest sound and lighting. Believe me, I'd paid a lot of dues before then. Lots of acid tests, situations that seemed impossible—but nothing like the changes I had to go through that night in Duke's band. Back in '47, when I first joined Charlie Barnet's band, what he came up with for an acid test didn't compare. The way that Basie made me prove myself in front of his band in '48 was hard as hell! But even that couldn't touch what Duke whipped on me. That was the lay of the land: put the new kid on the spot. You either passed the test or got the ax!
Many of my dreams have come true, but what I've learned is that dreams change. New dreams come into play. What I thought I wanted most of my life changed, too.
I'd always thought that the most important thing was to play my horn—to get into this band or that band or Duke's band, to have my own band, to perform, record. And I did enjoy these things. Worked hard to achieve them. But later on, I had a new dream: helping young musicians to make their dreams come true. That became my supreme joy and my greatest aspiration.
CHAPTER 2First Instruments
The only person I knew who didn't love jazz was my old man. He liked country music. He was a short man, just over five feet tall—"Five foot two," he always said, smoking or chewing on a handmade Hauptmann cigar. He was a strong man. Didn't take crap from anybody! I remember when his union was trying to get the workers to go on strike at his job. He worked for Laclede Gas and Light Company, and the union wanted better wages, but Pop wouldn't cooperate. He said, "I got too many mouths to feed to play a white man's game." So some white union guys came to our flat after work. They were shouting from the street up to our front window. Calling him by the name he hated.
"Shorty! Come on down!"
Pop sent my sisters down the back stairs, so they could slip out to our Aunt Gert's place next door to the flat below ours. Then he armed my brothers with pistols, knocked out our window pane, aimed his shotgun, and let his bullets do his talking. The men below were armed with pistols, baseball bats, crowbars, and chains. When they heard Pop's shotgun blasts, they took off like chickens running from a cook.
Everybody respected him. He wore nice clothes and hats. His name was Clark Virgil Terry, and we called him Pop, but everybody else called him Mr. Son, because his nickname was Son Terry. All my friends were scared of him, and I was, too. He'd beat me at the drop of a dime. None of my brothers and sisters. Just me. Except one time he beat my oldest sister, Ada Mae, when she stood up for me and begged him not to whip me after I broke the limb off a neighbor's tree while I was swinging on a rope.
When I told him that I wanted to play a trumpet, he said, "Rotten on that shit, Boy!" He had a weird way of cussing, but I knew what it meant. He said, "Remember your cousin Otis Berry? Always walking up and down the streets on his paper route, playing that damn horn! He got consumption and died! So, I'd better not hear tell of you playing no damn trumpet, or I'll beat your ass till you won't see the light of day again!"
That wasn't gonna stop me. I didn't believe that I'd get consumption. (That's what they called tuberculosis.) I'd wanted to play a trumpet in the worst way ever since I was five and watching those trumpets in the neighborhood parades. I loved the trumpet, because it was the loudest and it led the melody. And after I'd heard Duke's band at that fish...
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