Ode to Chuck Clarke
The Clarke family home, located in the center of Birmingham, before it was replaced by the main intersection of freeway arteries in the city, next door to Kids Storyteller Dale Long’s aunt, was always a warm gathering spot for the older Clarke siblings and me and my siblings as a child. I had piano lessons there every Thursday evening. My two Uncles from New York, who remained single and very popular in music for many years, would come home for the holidays each year and always traveled with their horn or mouthpiece. (My father defected from playing in New York to return to Birmingham to raise a family.) Jam sessions were instant.
I grew up with music always in the atmosphere. My father performed jazz as a second job. His day job was as a (“trailblazer,” one of the first few Blacks hired) Claims Examiner for Social Security (he was a math whiz). He routinely plucked out arrangements on our piano. On many approaching weekends I asked, “Where are you playing?”, to see if I would be able to go. I would occasionally attend “with the band,” sometimes with the family, all through my childhood and young adult years. As younger children we silently had twinges of disappointment when my father predictably left home on Christmas mornings to play music for the elderly at the Retirement home. It was his “thing” to do every year. He was a grounded, kind, supportive, involved and generous man who loved his reflective time listening to music. He would enjoy waxing the floors or cooking while listening to music. He was a very “hands-on” Dad, who made our hot breakfast daily before school, cooked dinner twice a week on his off days, helped with homework and challenged our vocabulary. However we were proudest when he played his mellow saxophone.
He idolized Charlie Parker and was often compared to him in style. The audiences always reacted with strong appreciation. He often spoke about how “jazz” was becoming diminished in the commercialization of music. But he also embraced and appreciated his exposure to all the music genres in a household of five children.
A favorite period of mine was when he played with the house band at the A. G. Gaston Motel, where they hosted many famous traveling musicians performing there, such as Jimmy Smith, Cannonball Adderly. The shows were also broadcast on WENN radio so that we would be able to listen regularly. It became so common that we didn’t tune in much as busy teenagers. However, he played the annual holiday dances for all the Greek organizations in town – African American fraternities and sororities including the Deltas, Alphas, Omegas and Kappas. I made of habit of attending most of them in my young adult years – for fun.
There were also some “gigs” that my father played, at least a dozen or so over the years, at suburban, whites-only country club locations along the city perimeter (Mountain Brook and Leeds), that were disrupted by Ku Klux Klan (KKK) cross burnings. The band immediately stopped playing and urgently left. These times were terrifying.
When my father retired from his day job in 1976, he started his own group, “The Chuck Clarke Quintet.” He played at small bars downtown, and I especially enjoyed stopping in to listen at the Aqua Lounge on Fourth Avenue.
These are many fond memories. My father’s saxophone and tuxedo are on display at the Alabama Jazz Hall of Fame. He was thrilled and proud to have been inducted. At his funeral, an original composition by one of his musician friends was played, entitled “An Ode to Chuck Clarke.” I smiled, knowing how pleased he was.
Charlotte Clarke Houston, Ph.D., wrote this story in October 2019 in anticipation of a Kids Connect session on Birmingham’s Musical Circuit, hosted by her sister Jacquelin Clarke Bell and Jefferson Drew. Dr. Houston has given permission for Kids in Birmingham 1963 to publish this piece in July 2024.