Given the fact that he was only 25 years old when he departed from the plane — The Plane, The Plane —- you know — the shuffling off of the ol’ mortal coil — dispensing with the — what — 9, 10, 14, to 21 (or, so) senses and the 3-D physical universe…
Clifford Brown, the phenom-anomaly who ROCKED a trumpet, left an immortal imprint. Oh, sure. Louis was King; Dizzy played circles around ‘em all; Maynard had ear splitting axioms; Miles’ mucho mellow modal molded contemporary jazz (and Herb Alpert amassed quite a fortune)…but, Clifford’s approach and legacy was the result of all of the above (minus the good fortune), in addition to what must’ve been a colossal corpus callosum… and a really nice personality.
Clifford was the original “straight edge”… a true L7, but, one whose volume was out of the proverbial box. WHAT? No BOOZE? Yes. The absence of which did not equal “No Blooze”. Blow was plain, unadulterated blow…a sensei sans sensi. No H? Fluidity and lucidity not prescribed by mg’s of opiates to dull his 3-D senses? Speed — execution, baby — not the result of the “alpha” contribution of amphetamine abuse. His drug of choice: Doughnuts.
Of self-assuredness, not arrogance, Brownie was 100 proof. Depth of tone and intent achieved, done it was indeed — magnificently. Mastery beyond his ¼ centi: warm, lyrical creativity admired and astonishing. He knew who he was. He knew what he was doing at all moments. He loved what he was doing. He lived what he was doing. Nobody dissed or dismissed Brownie because nobody ever had a reason to do so. Does that make him irrelevant in the wonderful world of the dysfunctional and brilliant? Hell, no. Take it from jazz force-factor-of-form, Wynton Marsalis, who took notes on and from the man, as did anyone worth their weight in brass — always in the right place at the right time was Brownie.
But, on June 26, 1956, Brownie was in the right place at the wrong time. It was his wife La Rue’s birthday and the couple’s second anniversary when he, along with Ritchie (Bud Powell’s brother) and Nancy Powell (Richie’s wife), went over a 75 foot embankment on the way to a gig in Chicago with drummer Max Roach. They were on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, west bound (just after Bedford, a pretty/hilly area for those of you who never have driven it.) with Nancy at the wheel of Brownie’s Buick. It had been raining. Not long after midnight, the “definitive bop group” —survived by Roach, Harold Land, and George Morrow — was no more.
Clifford Brown is buried in Mt. Zion Cemetery, Wilmington, Delaware. Apparently the once segregated cemetery is not well kept and is in disrepair much of the time. Anyone making a pilgrimage might want to consider taking a pair of gloves and shears to help tidy up the area. It would be a small contribution in remembrance of a great talent who has been largely forgotten, except by those who recognize the ease with which Brownie trumped all trumpeters. Usually it’s the players who remember Clifford. That’s high praise — above the triple C’s.
*“Believe me, I remember Clifford still.”
HAPPY B♭ Day Brownie.
Check out I Remember Clifford by Benny Golson, *lyrics by Jon Hendricks…and listen to Brownie in any incarnation and group formation. He will blow you away.