2026 IS THE CENTENNIAL YEAR OF JOHN COLTRANE (b. September 23, 1926--d. July 17, 1967)
Today, September 19, 2026 we feature the life, art, and legacy of the iconic and legendary musician and composer John Coltrane--Part 2
MILES DAVIS
(b. May 26, 1926–d. September 28, 1991)
JOHN COLTRANE
(b. September 23, 1926–d. July 17, 1967)
FIDEL CASTRO
(b. August 13, 1926–d. November 25, 2016)
CHUCK BERRY
(b. October 18, 1926–d. March 18, 2017)
OSCAR BROWN, Jr.
(b. October 10, 1926–d. May 29, 2005)
MICHEL FOUCAULT
(b. October 15, 1926–d. June 25, 1984)
Today, September 19, 2026 we feature the life, art, and legacy of the iconic and legendary musician and composer John Coltrane--Part 2
MILES DAVIS
(b. May 26, 1926–d. September 28, 1991)
JOHN COLTRANE
(b. September 23, 1926–d. July 17, 1967)
FIDEL CASTRO
(b. August 13, 1926–d. November 25, 2016)
CHUCK BERRY
(b. October 18, 1926–d. March 18, 2017)
OSCAR BROWN, Jr.
(b. October 10, 1926–d. May 29, 2005)
MICHEL FOUCAULT
(b. October 15, 1926–d. June 25, 1984)
https://soundprojections.blogspot.com/2024/02/welcome-to-new-sound projections_0151320914.html
https://soundprojections.blogspot.com/2015/09/john-coltrane-1926-1967-legendary.html
JOHN COLTRANE (1926-1967): Legendary, iconic, and innovative musician, composer, arranger, music theorist, ensemble leader, and philosopher
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/richard-brody/listening-to-miles-davis-and-john-coltranes-final-tour
Richard Brody
Listening to Miles Davis and John Coltrane’s Final Tour
by Richard Brody
March 15, 2018
The New Yorker
Miles Davis and John Coltrane onstage in 1960, in Chicago. Photograph by Ted Williams / Iconic Images / Getty
There’s a great story behind “Miles Davis and John Coltrane—The Final Tour,” the sixth volume in Sony’s “Bootleg Series” of live recordings by Davis (it comes out March 23rd), and that story makes itself heard in the music. In 1960, the trumpeter Miles Davis, along with his regular band, was booked to go on a concert tour in Western Europe as part of the ongoing, and internationally famous, “Jazz at the Philharmonic” concert series. However, at exactly that time, Coltrane, who played tenor saxophone, was preparing to leave Davis’s quintet and form his own working group. Coltrane had been a sideman with Davis on and off since 1955; they were both born in 1926, but their careers took drastically different paths. Davis was already a minor star in 1945, at the age of nineteen, when he recorded with Charlie Parker. Three years later, at twenty-two, he led a nonet, featuring intricate arrangements, that proved vastly influential. (They’re gathered under the title “Birth of the Cool.”) Davis had a huge and significant discography as a leader by the time he hired Coltrane, an unheralded musician best known as a rarely soloing sideman, who’d never yet led a record date. With Davis, Coltrane quickly found his voice, and expanded it during a stint in 1957 with Thelonious Monk. Coltrane had led dates on several labels; recorded the influential “Giant Steps,” in 1959; and was ready to go out on his own.
Davis’s group, featuring the pianist Wynton Kelly, the bassist Paul Chambers, and the drummer Jimmy Cobb—which had been a sextet for several years, featuring Cannonball Adderley’s alto sax alongside Coltrane’s tenor—was now depleted. Adderley left in the fall of 1959, and Coltrane was feeling his oats. On club dates, Cobb said, Coltrane “would play an hour solo himself, and we were only supposed to be on the stand for forty minutes or something.” Prior to the European tour, Coltrane told Davis that he wouldn’t join him there, and even recommended another tenor saxophonist to Davis, Wayne Shorter, who was only twenty-six. (Davis actually hired him—in 1964.) But, because Coltrane was familiar with the band’s material, Davis prevailed upon Coltrane to join him one last time for the European tour. Coltrane agreed, grudgingly; according to Cobb, Coltrane displayed his discontent throughout the tour: “He sat next to me on the bus, looking like he was ready to split at any time. He spent most of the time looking out the window and playing Oriental-sounding scales on soprano.”
Coltrane’s solos range from the overwhelming to the astonishing to the devastating to the outrageously playful. He developed ideas that he had been working on throughout the late fifties, ideas that took the harmonic complexities of bebop to a new level. What he had been doing in the late fifties was, essentially, playing every note of the chords that provided the tune’s harmonic structure—and when he substituted (in the classic bebop form) new chords for familiar ones he played all of those notes, too. It made for lots of notes that he played very fast, in long breaths, with a vibrato-free, hard-steely tone that led one critic of the era, Ira Gitler, to immortalize Coltrane’s style at that time as “sheets of sound.” In “The Final Tour,” the sound is of Coltrane ripping the sheets to shreds. He played plenty of high-velocity rushes of notes here, too, but also broke off and fragmented those long lines. He wrenched them apart with low-end blasts, mid-range cries, and high-pitched shrieks, moving away from the musical sense of notes and chords toward pure sound—a dramatic tendency that he took to ecstatic extremes with his own groups.
Before this release, the music from the quintet’s European tour was available—exactly as the “Bootleg Series” suggests—through unauthorized releases. (Several of these concert recordings, including the ones in the Sony set, were officially made for radio broadcast.) They’re already familiar—mainly to fanatics trawling used-CD shops. (I’ve collected bootlegs of the tour for decades; there are about eight disks full of them, and they’re among my favorite jazz recordings.) “The Final Tour” offers three of the group’s concerts, including the two crucial ones from the tour. In their Paris performance, on March 21, 1960, the first night of the tour, Davis starts playing full-throated and elbows-out, and Coltrane responds by going wild, throwing down a gantlet, not to Davis or even to his audience but to himself. His performances were received as a succès de scandale. During and after several long and furious solos, members of the audience can be heard whistling (the local equivalent of booing). But there are also plenty of boisterous cheers. (I heard, anecdotally, from a friend who attended the concert, as a teen-ager, that even the passionate cognoscenti—meaning he and his friends—were Davis aficionados who came in knowing little about Coltrane but took him up as a new hero that night.)
The next night, in Stockholm, Davis seems somewhat guarded, not struggling to keep up but wary, as if he were defending some border of musical order. By contrast, Coltrane followed his Paris outburst with some lofty philosophical playfulness, picking a pair of notes from the melody and repeating them, rocking back and forth between them as if examining their gleam in the light, working them out bit by bit, line by line, until they build to an outrageous complexity that seems to astonish even him as it rushes by.
For that matter, the entire band is a delight. Kelly’s solos, following Coltrane’s, have a ripplingly songful, easygoing but intriguingly varied lyricism; Chambers offers a firm melodic and percussive counterpoint, and Cobb displays a rhythmic foundation that’s as foot-tappingly strong as it is polyrhythmically supple. Yet, as great and essential as “The Final Tour” is, its four disks tell only part of the story. I wouldn’t want to be without Coltrane’s furious outbursts from Frankfurt, Germany, the following week, or the concerts from later in the tour, in early April, when Davis seems to come out from Coltrane’s shadow, as in three tracks believed to have been recorded in Munich. By the end of the tour, Coltrane seems somewhat transfigured—his playing seems at times not appeased or tamped down but burned away to a spiritual essence, foreshadowing the mood and the content of much of his music from his own classic quartet, which finally began to coalesce in the summer of that year. As for Davis, he sought bold new musical directions as well; it took a new quintet, which he assembled in 1963-64, for him to find them.
ISAIAH COLLIER celebrates JOHN COLTRANE | Frankfurt Radio Big Band | Live
hr-Bigband – Frankfurt Radio Big Band
ISAIAH COLLIER | Saxofone JOHN BEASLEY | Conductor hr-Bigband / Frankfurt Radio Big Band
VIDEO:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dDbpIcihog
There’s a great story behind “Miles Davis and John Coltrane—The Final Tour,” the sixth volume in Sony’s “Bootleg Series” of live recordings by Davis (it comes out March 23rd), and that story makes itself heard in the music. In 1960, the trumpeter Miles Davis, along with his regular band, was booked to go on a concert tour in Western Europe as part of the ongoing, and internationally famous, “Jazz at the Philharmonic” concert series. However, at exactly that time, Coltrane, who played tenor saxophone, was preparing to leave Davis’s quintet and form his own working group. Coltrane had been a sideman with Davis on and off since 1955; they were both born in 1926, but their careers took drastically different paths. Davis was already a minor star in 1945, at the age of nineteen, when he recorded with Charlie Parker. Three years later, at twenty-two, he led a nonet, featuring intricate arrangements, that proved vastly influential. (They’re gathered under the title “Birth of the Cool.”) Davis had a huge and significant discography as a leader by the time he hired Coltrane, an unheralded musician best known as a rarely soloing sideman, who’d never yet led a record date. With Davis, Coltrane quickly found his voice, and expanded it during a stint in 1957 with Thelonious Monk. Coltrane had led dates on several labels; recorded the influential “Giant Steps,” in 1959; and was ready to go out on his own.
Davis’s group, featuring the pianist Wynton Kelly, the bassist Paul Chambers, and the drummer Jimmy Cobb—which had been a sextet for several years, featuring Cannonball Adderley’s alto sax alongside Coltrane’s tenor—was now depleted. Adderley left in the fall of 1959, and Coltrane was feeling his oats. On club dates, Cobb said, Coltrane “would play an hour solo himself, and we were only supposed to be on the stand for forty minutes or something.” Prior to the European tour, Coltrane told Davis that he wouldn’t join him there, and even recommended another tenor saxophonist to Davis, Wayne Shorter, who was only twenty-six. (Davis actually hired him—in 1964.) But, because Coltrane was familiar with the band’s material, Davis prevailed upon Coltrane to join him one last time for the European tour. Coltrane agreed, grudgingly; according to Cobb, Coltrane displayed his discontent throughout the tour: “He sat next to me on the bus, looking like he was ready to split at any time. He spent most of the time looking out the window and playing Oriental-sounding scales on soprano.”
Coltrane’s solos range from the overwhelming to the astonishing to the devastating to the outrageously playful. He developed ideas that he had been working on throughout the late fifties, ideas that took the harmonic complexities of bebop to a new level. What he had been doing in the late fifties was, essentially, playing every note of the chords that provided the tune’s harmonic structure—and when he substituted (in the classic bebop form) new chords for familiar ones he played all of those notes, too. It made for lots of notes that he played very fast, in long breaths, with a vibrato-free, hard-steely tone that led one critic of the era, Ira Gitler, to immortalize Coltrane’s style at that time as “sheets of sound.” In “The Final Tour,” the sound is of Coltrane ripping the sheets to shreds. He played plenty of high-velocity rushes of notes here, too, but also broke off and fragmented those long lines. He wrenched them apart with low-end blasts, mid-range cries, and high-pitched shrieks, moving away from the musical sense of notes and chords toward pure sound—a dramatic tendency that he took to ecstatic extremes with his own groups.
Before this release, the music from the quintet’s European tour was available—exactly as the “Bootleg Series” suggests—through unauthorized releases. (Several of these concert recordings, including the ones in the Sony set, were officially made for radio broadcast.) They’re already familiar—mainly to fanatics trawling used-CD shops. (I’ve collected bootlegs of the tour for decades; there are about eight disks full of them, and they’re among my favorite jazz recordings.) “The Final Tour” offers three of the group’s concerts, including the two crucial ones from the tour. In their Paris performance, on March 21, 1960, the first night of the tour, Davis starts playing full-throated and elbows-out, and Coltrane responds by going wild, throwing down a gantlet, not to Davis or even to his audience but to himself. His performances were received as a succès de scandale. During and after several long and furious solos, members of the audience can be heard whistling (the local equivalent of booing). But there are also plenty of boisterous cheers. (I heard, anecdotally, from a friend who attended the concert, as a teen-ager, that even the passionate cognoscenti—meaning he and his friends—were Davis aficionados who came in knowing little about Coltrane but took him up as a new hero that night.)
The next night, in Stockholm, Davis seems somewhat guarded, not struggling to keep up but wary, as if he were defending some border of musical order. By contrast, Coltrane followed his Paris outburst with some lofty philosophical playfulness, picking a pair of notes from the melody and repeating them, rocking back and forth between them as if examining their gleam in the light, working them out bit by bit, line by line, until they build to an outrageous complexity that seems to astonish even him as it rushes by.
For that matter, the entire band is a delight. Kelly’s solos, following Coltrane’s, have a ripplingly songful, easygoing but intriguingly varied lyricism; Chambers offers a firm melodic and percussive counterpoint, and Cobb displays a rhythmic foundation that’s as foot-tappingly strong as it is polyrhythmically supple. Yet, as great and essential as “The Final Tour” is, its four disks tell only part of the story. I wouldn’t want to be without Coltrane’s furious outbursts from Frankfurt, Germany, the following week, or the concerts from later in the tour, in early April, when Davis seems to come out from Coltrane’s shadow, as in three tracks believed to have been recorded in Munich. By the end of the tour, Coltrane seems somewhat transfigured—his playing seems at times not appeased or tamped down but burned away to a spiritual essence, foreshadowing the mood and the content of much of his music from his own classic quartet, which finally began to coalesce in the summer of that year. As for Davis, he sought bold new musical directions as well; it took a new quintet, which he assembled in 1963-64, for him to find them.
ISAIAH COLLIER celebrates JOHN COLTRANE | Frankfurt Radio Big Band | Live
hr-Bigband – Frankfurt Radio Big Band
ISAIAH COLLIER | Saxofone JOHN BEASLEY | Conductor hr-Bigband / Frankfurt Radio Big Band
VIDEO:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dDbpIcihog
Streamed live on September 17, 2026
HR-SENDESAAL
ISAIAH COLLIER | Saxofone JOHN BEASLEY | Conductor hr-Bigband / Frankfurt Radio Big Band
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-intoxicating-promise-of-john-coltranes-lost-album
Dear L,
Please go buy this recording and CD as soon as possible and listen carefully. It’s so damn beautiful and yes ELEGANT and strong and tough and powerful and intense and soothing and so damn RICH that it actually makes me jump for fucking joy while sitting perfectly still. Everything that real music could ever be and yet has always been at its very best is to be found and cherished in the magisterial sounds this amaazing quartet makes. Just think only 4 muthafuckas playing with all their heart, mind, and soul can actually change your life but that of the entire fucking world. How truly humbling, citing, and REAL is that? This music reminds me of why I’m alive and what it all means when I’m not taking it all for granted. Know what I mean sister? You do? Good…I thought/knew you would…
Love and Struggle,
Kofi
“What’s Past is Prologue…”
All,
IT'S TIME TO CELEBRATE A GIANT. TODAY SEPTEMBER 23, 2022 MARKS THE 96TH BIRTHDAY OF THE LATE AND ALWAYS GREAT JOHN COLTRANE (1926-1967), ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT, INSPIRING, PROFOUND, AND ENDURING ARTISTS OF THE 20TH CENTURY AND BEYOND. MAY HIS ETERNAL SPIRIT AND TREMENDOUS CREATIONS CONTINUE TO PROVIDE GUIDANCE, LOVE, AND SUSTENANCE TO AND FOR THIS WORLD AND OTHERS WE HAVE YET TO KNOW AND APPRECIATE..
Kofi
https://soundprojections.blogspot.com/.../john-coltrane…
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-intoxicating-promise-of-john-coltranes-lost-album
Cultural Comment
The Intoxicating Promise of John Coltrane’s “Lost Album”
by Amanda Petrusich
July 19, 2018
The New Yorker
John Coltrane recorded “Both Directions at Once” in 1963, a period when he was seized by the tension between rhapsodic devotion and measured elegance. Photograph by Herb Snitzer / The LIFE Images Collection / Getty
On March 6, 1963, the saxophonist John Coltrane, the bassist Jimmy Garrison, the drummer Elvin Jones, and the pianist McCoy Tyner—the same crew responsible for some of the world’s most plainly transcendent jazz records—gathered at the Van Gelder Studio, in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey. Coltrane was thirty-six years old, under contract with the young imprint Impulse!, and in the midst of an electric run of shows at Birdland, a club on West Fifty-second Street. He lived with his wife, Naima, and her six-year-old daughter in a small brick house in St. Albans, Queens, but it’s difficult to explain precisely where he existed back then, in the spiritual sense—the signal he was channeling. In the liner notes to “Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album,” the historian Ashley Kahn describes the quartet’s work from this era as “injecting the ecstatic message of the black church into the polite world of jazz: Sunday morning on a Saturday night.” That precise tension—rhapsodic devotion versus a kind of measured elegance—is present, in one form or another, in nearly every great work of American art. In the spring of 1963, Coltrane was fully seized by it.
When the studio engineer Rudy Van Gelder gave Coltrane a mono tape of the music the quartet had recorded that day, Coltrane handed it off to Naima. (Did he relisten to the tape himself? No one can say for sure.) Impulse! eventually relocated to Los Angeles, and the master tapes of the session were placed in a storage facility. Then, in the nineteen-seventies, in an effort to cut down on fees, they were unceremoniously tossed, along with every other unissued tape in the label’s archive. Coltrane himself didn’t make it out of the sixties; he died, in 1967, of liver cancer. He and Naima split up a few months after the session at Van Gelder; she died in 1996, of a heart attack. The new songs were never slotted for release in 1963, for reasons that remain somewhat mysterious—maybe Coltrane didn’t think of them as a record. Maybe he wanted to wait.
This past June, fifty-five years later, the session was released commercially—Naima’s family had found the tape, and finally decided to put it out. (Her estate worked closely with Coltrane’s son Ravi, who co-produced the record with Ken Druker.) The title, “Both Directions at Once,” could, of course, allude to any number of things—the sacred versus profane binary that Kahn nods to in his notes, the challenge of trying to recreate the experience of a live performance while pent up in a recording studio, the bridging of jazz’s traditional past with a more delirious and experimental future. The official word is that it comes from something Coltrane once said to the saxophonist Wayne Shorter, “about starting a sentence in the middle, and then going to the beginning and the end of it at the same time . . . both directions at once.” Kahn suggests that language was always the “go-to metaphor” for the great improvisers of Coltrane’s generation—it was the way they spoke about and analyzed their work. (Shorter has also said that he and Coltrane would occasionally slam out clusters of notes on the piano, and Coltrane would say, “See if you can find a story in there!”)
What a beautiful and freeing idea—to “begin anywhere,” as the composer John Cage once said, and explode your way out. “Both Directions at Once,” which features seven tracks on the single-disk edition, and fourteen on the deluxe edition, was hungrily received by Coltrane’s devoted public. Sonny Rollins described it as “like finding a new room in the Great Pyramid.” I first heard about the release on Twitter, when the wonderful jazz writer Nate Chinen posted a link to a Times story. It was an otherwise unremarkable Thursday afternoon, made miraculous. A lost album! By John Coltrane! All summer, the headlines had been getting people down. Life felt ugly and difficult: children were being held in cages, young and beloved figures were committing suicide, and so on. New music from a true American visionary—who was, by all accounts, also a gentle, elegant, and searching man—gave us a sudden flash of hope. Something pure in a rotten world! When my LP arrived in the mail, I unfolded the liner notes, spread them out on my apartment floor, lit a candle, and took a breath before dropping the needle. It felt like a kind of séance.
“Both Directions at Once” is subtitled “The Lost Album,” which is maybe a bit of a fiction. (It’s unclear whether it was ever an “album,” exactly, or just how lost it was.) The classification itself is intoxicating, though: lost albums, particularly from singular artists, suggest that profound beauty might be lurking in the back of every overstuffed coat closet in America. I can’t think of an idea more instantly engrossing than “You’ve just got to find it.” For decades, classic-rock fans have been hyperventilating over lost records by artists like Neil Young (in 1975, as his marriage to the actress Carrie Snodgress began to deteriorate, Young recorded a batch of heartbroken, confessional songs for an album to be called “Homegrown,” then later scrapped it all because it was gloomy and “too personal”) and Jimi Hendrix (in 1970, he recorded a sixteen-song suite on an acoustic guitar—he called it “Black Gold”—and handed the tapes off to the drummer Mitch Mitchell, who then forgot about them for several decades), among others. The Beach Boys’s original “SMiLE,” the electric version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Nebraska,” the entire contents of Prince’s vault at Paisley Park—what can they offer us?
As my colleague Richard Brody suggests in his excellent review of the new Coltrane release, studio recordings can sometimes defang great jazz: “The new release of ‘Both Directions at Once’ has both the odd virtue and the essential disadvantage of domesticating, in the literal sense, these musical ecstasies,” he writes. But holding the record is nonetheless a thrill. It’s easy to see why lost albums can feel like potentially sacred totems—the proverbial missing puzzle piece in our scramble to feel whole. It’s also tempting, in tumultuous times, to look backward for clues left behind by our predecessors, for anything that might help us charge into an uncertain future. “Both Directions at Once” contains two previously unheard original compositions (“Untitled Original 11383” and “Untitled Original 11386”). I’ve been listening to both tracks more or less constantly since I acquired the record; I’m still trying to comprehend and unpack their lessons. It is preposterous to think of these songs as transmissions from another plane—Coltrane, after all, was just a regular, flesh-and-blood dude when he made them—but this summer, especially, I am grateful for their weird magic. Coltrane appreciated the ballads of the past as much as the free jazz of the future; he was simultaneously reverential and questing. But he also liked making up his own way of doing things. His best songs contain elements of all three approaches. The chord substitutions that he made while improvising later came to be known as “Coltrane changes.” They suggest, like the arrival of this album, that there are still very good surprises to be had, if we keep our hearts open.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Amanda Petrusich is a staff writer at The New Yorker, and the author of “Do Not Sell at Any Price: The Wild, Obsessive Hunt for the World’s Rarest 78rpm Records.”
Read more »
https://www.musicandliterature.org/features/2017/7/13/signifying-with-the-dead-musical-memorialization-at-john-coltranes-funeral
Signifyin(g) with the Dead:
Musical memorialization at John Coltrane’s Funeral
July 13, 2017
by Kevin Laskey
Music and Literature
Fifty years ago this month, on July 17, 1967, saxophonist John Coltrane died of liver cancer at Huntington Hospital in Huntington, New York. He was forty years old. Coltrane was arguably the central figure of the rapidly evolving New York jazz scene, and his death came as a shock to the musical community. Trumpeter Miles Davis, one of Coltrane’s former bandleaders, said, "Coltrane's death… took everyone by surprise. I knew he hadn't looked too good... But I didn't know he was that sick—or even sick at all.” Coltrane’s funeral would be held four days later at St. Peter’s Lutheran Church on Lexington Avenue and 54th street in Manhattan. St. Peter’s was an ideal setting for the funeral, as under the leadership of pastor John Garcia Gensel, the church had embraced New York’s diverse jazz community through a “jazz ministry” founded in 1964 (a commitment that has continued into the present day). Reporters estimated that nearly one thousand people filled the church for the service, including a who’s who of jazz musicians: Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, Gerry Mulligan, Archie Shepp, Milt Jackson, and Nina Simone, to name a few.
The service featured readings, including Coltrane’s friend, the trumpeter Calvin Massey, reciting the former’s poem “A Love Supreme”, and musical performances by Coltrane’s saxophonist-peers Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman. Ayler’s quartet, featuring Donald Ayler on trumpet, Richard Davis on bass, and Milford Graves on drums, opened the ceremony, while Coleman’s quartet, featuring David Izenson and Charlie Haden on bass, and Charles Moffett on drums, played just before the benediction. Both of these incendiary performances were captured on portable recording equipment—albeit with fairly low fidelity—and were eventually released on record. (Ayler’s performance can be found on the compilation Holy Ghost: Rare & Unissued Recordings (1962-1970), released by Revenant Records in 2004, while Coleman’s performance was originally released under the title “Holiday for a Graveyard”, on the album Head Start by the Bob Thiele Emergency on Flying Dutchman Records in 1969.)
Befitting his overarching influence on the direction of jazz in the 1960s, Coltrane’s funeral was the largest public memorial service for a jazz musician to date. (While Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington would receive even larger public displays of mourning, they lived until 1971 and 1974, respectively.) The range of musicians who came to the service was evidence of the outsized role Coltrane had played in shaping several strains of modern jazz—post-bop (as on his 1959 album Giant Steps), modal jazz (as on 1961’s My Favorite Things and 1965’s A Love Supreme), and free jazz (on his later albums, like 1966’s Ascension). His influence could be heard in players from across the stylistic spectrum, and he was still in the prime of his career. Egged on by Coltrane’s inveterate search for new ways of playing, jazz was quickly becoming an accepted form of art and experimental music. How could one properly and publicly memorialize such a central figure in the jazz world—a task with very few prior antecedents?
Because of Coltrane’s musical stature and the public nature of his funeral, the performances by Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman had the power to establish the conventions of a modern jazz requiem—how to properly memorialize a member of the jazz community. In their performances, Ayler and Coleman memorialized Coltrane not through imitation or pale attempts at resurrection, but by organically integrating aspects of Coltrane’s playing into their own distinct styles—a form of musical signifyin(g).
***
After Coltrane, Ornette Coleman and Albert Ayler were easily the two most talked-about saxophonists of jazz’s avant-garde. When Coleman brought his quartet to the Five Spot club in the East Village for a two-week residency in November 1959, he turned the jazz world on its head. While Coleman’s tunes had roots in the blues and bebop, the improvisational structures were much looser, sometimes bordering on the non-existent. Coleman himself was less concerned with harmonically complex lines in the vein of Charlie Parker than with playing with as vocal a tone quality as he could. While Coleman’s approach provoked sharp divisions within the New York jazz community, Coltrane was intrigued by it. In a 1963 interview, Coltrane noted:
I feel indebted to [Coleman], myself. Because actually, when he came along, I was so far in this thing [the "harmonic structures"], I didn't know where I was going to go next. And, I didn't know if I would have thought about just abandoning the chord system or not. I probably wouldn't have thought of that at all. And he came along doing it, and I heard it, I said, "Well, that—that must be the answer."
In 1960, under the Atlantic Records imprint, Coltrane recorded a series of Coleman tunes with the members of Coleman’s working quartet—Don Cherry on trumpet, Charlie Haden on bass, and Ed Blackwell on drums—though the recordings wouldn’t be released until 1966.
Ayler was several years younger than Coleman and made a splash in New York in 1963, playing alongside pianist Cecil Taylor. Ayler had a big, burly sound evocative of bluesy swing-era players like Coleman Hawkins, but with the intensity turned up to eleven. For some, his broad vibrato went beyond the confines of good taste into buzz saw territory. He was interested in simple, hummable melodies, but would stretch them to their breaking point, rarely playing against a solid, swinging beat. With this controversial approach to music, Ayler had a difficult time finding opportunities to perform and record. However, his music caught Coltrane’s ear, and Coltrane would become Ayler’s most prominent artistic supporter, helping him secure a recording contract with his label, Impulse! Ayler would in turn influence Coltrane’s later moves toward free improvisation, and his consequent emphasis on tone quality over melodic syntax.
While Ayler and Coleman were both associated with Coltrane in the larger jazz scene, they never recorded with him. In addition, despite both players’ influence on Coltrane, it would be a misnomer to say that their styles and approaches truly resembled each other. In terms of creating the form of a proper jazz requiem, it is telling that the musical performances were offered by fellow musicians with their own strong personalities, rather than Coltrane’s own closest collaborators—pianists McCoy Tyner and Alice Coltrane; bassist Jimmy Garrison; drummers Elvin Jones and Rasheed Ali; saxophonists Pharaoh Sanders and Archie Shepp. Ayler and Coleman did not even play Coltrane’s tunes, instead offering either original compositions or free improvisations. It is clear that Ayler and Coleman were after a new form of memorialization that would not freeze Coltrane’s memory in stone, but that interacted with Coltrane’s legacy as a still-living agent.
***
Within each of their performances, Ayler and Coleman play as if Coltrane is in the band as well, offering his own improvisational commentary on the music. In other words, elements more commonly associated with Coltrane’s style actually inflect Ayler’s and Coleman’s melodic lines.
To open the service, Ayler played a short medley of three original tunes. The first—“Love Cry”—was a relatively new tune that Ayler would record later that summer for Impulse! The next two, “Truth is Marching In” and “Our Prayer” (the latter composed by his trumpet-playing brother Donald), were standards in the Ayler repertoire. Both had been recorded live at the Village Vanguard that previous December and released by Impulse! earlier in 1967. (Coltrane was in the audience for this concert.) “Love Cry” consists of a somber, searching melody in B-flat major over a bass drone and frenetic cymbal textures. The melodic contours are reminiscent of a spiritual, or a Muslim call to prayer. “Truth is Marching In” is more hymn-like in its contours and harmonies, a messy chorale in D-major at a dirge tempo. “Our Prayer” has the same key and hymn-like feel as “Truth is Marching In,” but features fewer melodic notes held for longer periods of time, creating more space for Ayler to comment on the melody.
After “Our Prayer,” Ayler moves back to playing melodic material in B-flat major, very much in the vein of the “Love Cry” melody. Over this line, Albert begins to scream-sing, sometimes hitting discernible notes, other times unleashing more complex noise. Ayler’s vocalizations simultaneously evoke both terror and joy, inspiring the rest of the band to improvise at fever pitch. Ayler then brings the saxophone back to his mouth and cues the band to fade with a plaintive melodic resolution, an “Amen.”
Since the medley’s latter two tunes were recorded the previous December, we can compare the respective performances in order to reconstruct Ayler’s conception of the jazz requiem. In the earlier versions of both pieces, Ayler’s playing is dense and highly energetic. His lines are less rooted than in his funeral performance, jumping across the register of his horn. His phrases are more clipped, emphasizing harsh articulations rather than the quality of sustained tones. Motivically, Ayler focuses on little cambiata-like figures that ornament and circle a central note. These aspects are quite indicative of Ayler’s style, reflecting his desire to explore extreme timbral contrasts.
On the other hand, in his funeral performance, Ayler’s lines have a strong sense of directionality. Instead of jumping quickly between different ranges, he constructs lines that move up and down, stepwise, slowing as they reach their crest. The pointillistic quality of his typical improvisations is replaced with a new linear quality—a quality more associated with Coltrane’s improvisational style. Even as Coltrane moved from a dense, post-bop-oriented harmonic language to a looser and eventually completely open one, his melodic sense still retained its linear, bop-like character. This gave his music a searching quality that underscored the themes of spiritual pursuit present in much of his later music. While Ayler does not play phrases in his funeral performance that would be mistaken for Coltrane’s—they aren’t nearly as dense and traditionally virtuosic—the notable linear qualities of his improvisation show Ayler integrating the feel and character of Coltrane’s music into his own style, performing as if he hears Coltrane playing along with him.
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/07/arts/music/john-coltrane-lost-album-both-directions-at-once.html?
On March 6, 1963, the saxophonist John Coltrane, the bassist Jimmy Garrison, the drummer Elvin Jones, and the pianist McCoy Tyner—the same crew responsible for some of the world’s most plainly transcendent jazz records—gathered at the Van Gelder Studio, in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey. Coltrane was thirty-six years old, under contract with the young imprint Impulse!, and in the midst of an electric run of shows at Birdland, a club on West Fifty-second Street. He lived with his wife, Naima, and her six-year-old daughter in a small brick house in St. Albans, Queens, but it’s difficult to explain precisely where he existed back then, in the spiritual sense—the signal he was channeling. In the liner notes to “Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album,” the historian Ashley Kahn describes the quartet’s work from this era as “injecting the ecstatic message of the black church into the polite world of jazz: Sunday morning on a Saturday night.” That precise tension—rhapsodic devotion versus a kind of measured elegance—is present, in one form or another, in nearly every great work of American art. In the spring of 1963, Coltrane was fully seized by it.
When the studio engineer Rudy Van Gelder gave Coltrane a mono tape of the music the quartet had recorded that day, Coltrane handed it off to Naima. (Did he relisten to the tape himself? No one can say for sure.) Impulse! eventually relocated to Los Angeles, and the master tapes of the session were placed in a storage facility. Then, in the nineteen-seventies, in an effort to cut down on fees, they were unceremoniously tossed, along with every other unissued tape in the label’s archive. Coltrane himself didn’t make it out of the sixties; he died, in 1967, of liver cancer. He and Naima split up a few months after the session at Van Gelder; she died in 1996, of a heart attack. The new songs were never slotted for release in 1963, for reasons that remain somewhat mysterious—maybe Coltrane didn’t think of them as a record. Maybe he wanted to wait.
This past June, fifty-five years later, the session was released commercially—Naima’s family had found the tape, and finally decided to put it out. (Her estate worked closely with Coltrane’s son Ravi, who co-produced the record with Ken Druker.) The title, “Both Directions at Once,” could, of course, allude to any number of things—the sacred versus profane binary that Kahn nods to in his notes, the challenge of trying to recreate the experience of a live performance while pent up in a recording studio, the bridging of jazz’s traditional past with a more delirious and experimental future. The official word is that it comes from something Coltrane once said to the saxophonist Wayne Shorter, “about starting a sentence in the middle, and then going to the beginning and the end of it at the same time . . . both directions at once.” Kahn suggests that language was always the “go-to metaphor” for the great improvisers of Coltrane’s generation—it was the way they spoke about and analyzed their work. (Shorter has also said that he and Coltrane would occasionally slam out clusters of notes on the piano, and Coltrane would say, “See if you can find a story in there!”)
What a beautiful and freeing idea—to “begin anywhere,” as the composer John Cage once said, and explode your way out. “Both Directions at Once,” which features seven tracks on the single-disk edition, and fourteen on the deluxe edition, was hungrily received by Coltrane’s devoted public. Sonny Rollins described it as “like finding a new room in the Great Pyramid.” I first heard about the release on Twitter, when the wonderful jazz writer Nate Chinen posted a link to a Times story. It was an otherwise unremarkable Thursday afternoon, made miraculous. A lost album! By John Coltrane! All summer, the headlines had been getting people down. Life felt ugly and difficult: children were being held in cages, young and beloved figures were committing suicide, and so on. New music from a true American visionary—who was, by all accounts, also a gentle, elegant, and searching man—gave us a sudden flash of hope. Something pure in a rotten world! When my LP arrived in the mail, I unfolded the liner notes, spread them out on my apartment floor, lit a candle, and took a breath before dropping the needle. It felt like a kind of séance.
“Both Directions at Once” is subtitled “The Lost Album,” which is maybe a bit of a fiction. (It’s unclear whether it was ever an “album,” exactly, or just how lost it was.) The classification itself is intoxicating, though: lost albums, particularly from singular artists, suggest that profound beauty might be lurking in the back of every overstuffed coat closet in America. I can’t think of an idea more instantly engrossing than “You’ve just got to find it.” For decades, classic-rock fans have been hyperventilating over lost records by artists like Neil Young (in 1975, as his marriage to the actress Carrie Snodgress began to deteriorate, Young recorded a batch of heartbroken, confessional songs for an album to be called “Homegrown,” then later scrapped it all because it was gloomy and “too personal”) and Jimi Hendrix (in 1970, he recorded a sixteen-song suite on an acoustic guitar—he called it “Black Gold”—and handed the tapes off to the drummer Mitch Mitchell, who then forgot about them for several decades), among others. The Beach Boys’s original “SMiLE,” the electric version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Nebraska,” the entire contents of Prince’s vault at Paisley Park—what can they offer us?
As my colleague Richard Brody suggests in his excellent review of the new Coltrane release, studio recordings can sometimes defang great jazz: “The new release of ‘Both Directions at Once’ has both the odd virtue and the essential disadvantage of domesticating, in the literal sense, these musical ecstasies,” he writes. But holding the record is nonetheless a thrill. It’s easy to see why lost albums can feel like potentially sacred totems—the proverbial missing puzzle piece in our scramble to feel whole. It’s also tempting, in tumultuous times, to look backward for clues left behind by our predecessors, for anything that might help us charge into an uncertain future. “Both Directions at Once” contains two previously unheard original compositions (“Untitled Original 11383” and “Untitled Original 11386”). I’ve been listening to both tracks more or less constantly since I acquired the record; I’m still trying to comprehend and unpack their lessons. It is preposterous to think of these songs as transmissions from another plane—Coltrane, after all, was just a regular, flesh-and-blood dude when he made them—but this summer, especially, I am grateful for their weird magic. Coltrane appreciated the ballads of the past as much as the free jazz of the future; he was simultaneously reverential and questing. But he also liked making up his own way of doing things. His best songs contain elements of all three approaches. The chord substitutions that he made while improvising later came to be known as “Coltrane changes.” They suggest, like the arrival of this album, that there are still very good surprises to be had, if we keep our hearts open.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Amanda Petrusich is a staff writer at The New Yorker, and the author of “Do Not Sell at Any Price: The Wild, Obsessive Hunt for the World’s Rarest 78rpm Records.”
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https://www.musicandliterature.org/features/2017/7/13/signifying-with-the-dead-musical-memorialization-at-john-coltranes-funeral
Signifyin(g) with the Dead:
Musical memorialization at John Coltrane’s Funeral
July 13, 2017
by Kevin Laskey
Music and Literature
Fifty years ago this month, on July 17, 1967, saxophonist John Coltrane died of liver cancer at Huntington Hospital in Huntington, New York. He was forty years old. Coltrane was arguably the central figure of the rapidly evolving New York jazz scene, and his death came as a shock to the musical community. Trumpeter Miles Davis, one of Coltrane’s former bandleaders, said, "Coltrane's death… took everyone by surprise. I knew he hadn't looked too good... But I didn't know he was that sick—or even sick at all.” Coltrane’s funeral would be held four days later at St. Peter’s Lutheran Church on Lexington Avenue and 54th street in Manhattan. St. Peter’s was an ideal setting for the funeral, as under the leadership of pastor John Garcia Gensel, the church had embraced New York’s diverse jazz community through a “jazz ministry” founded in 1964 (a commitment that has continued into the present day). Reporters estimated that nearly one thousand people filled the church for the service, including a who’s who of jazz musicians: Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, Gerry Mulligan, Archie Shepp, Milt Jackson, and Nina Simone, to name a few.
The service featured readings, including Coltrane’s friend, the trumpeter Calvin Massey, reciting the former’s poem “A Love Supreme”, and musical performances by Coltrane’s saxophonist-peers Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman. Ayler’s quartet, featuring Donald Ayler on trumpet, Richard Davis on bass, and Milford Graves on drums, opened the ceremony, while Coleman’s quartet, featuring David Izenson and Charlie Haden on bass, and Charles Moffett on drums, played just before the benediction. Both of these incendiary performances were captured on portable recording equipment—albeit with fairly low fidelity—and were eventually released on record. (Ayler’s performance can be found on the compilation Holy Ghost: Rare & Unissued Recordings (1962-1970), released by Revenant Records in 2004, while Coleman’s performance was originally released under the title “Holiday for a Graveyard”, on the album Head Start by the Bob Thiele Emergency on Flying Dutchman Records in 1969.)
Befitting his overarching influence on the direction of jazz in the 1960s, Coltrane’s funeral was the largest public memorial service for a jazz musician to date. (While Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington would receive even larger public displays of mourning, they lived until 1971 and 1974, respectively.) The range of musicians who came to the service was evidence of the outsized role Coltrane had played in shaping several strains of modern jazz—post-bop (as on his 1959 album Giant Steps), modal jazz (as on 1961’s My Favorite Things and 1965’s A Love Supreme), and free jazz (on his later albums, like 1966’s Ascension). His influence could be heard in players from across the stylistic spectrum, and he was still in the prime of his career. Egged on by Coltrane’s inveterate search for new ways of playing, jazz was quickly becoming an accepted form of art and experimental music. How could one properly and publicly memorialize such a central figure in the jazz world—a task with very few prior antecedents?
Because of Coltrane’s musical stature and the public nature of his funeral, the performances by Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman had the power to establish the conventions of a modern jazz requiem—how to properly memorialize a member of the jazz community. In their performances, Ayler and Coleman memorialized Coltrane not through imitation or pale attempts at resurrection, but by organically integrating aspects of Coltrane’s playing into their own distinct styles—a form of musical signifyin(g).
***
After Coltrane, Ornette Coleman and Albert Ayler were easily the two most talked-about saxophonists of jazz’s avant-garde. When Coleman brought his quartet to the Five Spot club in the East Village for a two-week residency in November 1959, he turned the jazz world on its head. While Coleman’s tunes had roots in the blues and bebop, the improvisational structures were much looser, sometimes bordering on the non-existent. Coleman himself was less concerned with harmonically complex lines in the vein of Charlie Parker than with playing with as vocal a tone quality as he could. While Coleman’s approach provoked sharp divisions within the New York jazz community, Coltrane was intrigued by it. In a 1963 interview, Coltrane noted:
I feel indebted to [Coleman], myself. Because actually, when he came along, I was so far in this thing [the "harmonic structures"], I didn't know where I was going to go next. And, I didn't know if I would have thought about just abandoning the chord system or not. I probably wouldn't have thought of that at all. And he came along doing it, and I heard it, I said, "Well, that—that must be the answer."
In 1960, under the Atlantic Records imprint, Coltrane recorded a series of Coleman tunes with the members of Coleman’s working quartet—Don Cherry on trumpet, Charlie Haden on bass, and Ed Blackwell on drums—though the recordings wouldn’t be released until 1966.
Ayler was several years younger than Coleman and made a splash in New York in 1963, playing alongside pianist Cecil Taylor. Ayler had a big, burly sound evocative of bluesy swing-era players like Coleman Hawkins, but with the intensity turned up to eleven. For some, his broad vibrato went beyond the confines of good taste into buzz saw territory. He was interested in simple, hummable melodies, but would stretch them to their breaking point, rarely playing against a solid, swinging beat. With this controversial approach to music, Ayler had a difficult time finding opportunities to perform and record. However, his music caught Coltrane’s ear, and Coltrane would become Ayler’s most prominent artistic supporter, helping him secure a recording contract with his label, Impulse! Ayler would in turn influence Coltrane’s later moves toward free improvisation, and his consequent emphasis on tone quality over melodic syntax.
While Ayler and Coleman were both associated with Coltrane in the larger jazz scene, they never recorded with him. In addition, despite both players’ influence on Coltrane, it would be a misnomer to say that their styles and approaches truly resembled each other. In terms of creating the form of a proper jazz requiem, it is telling that the musical performances were offered by fellow musicians with their own strong personalities, rather than Coltrane’s own closest collaborators—pianists McCoy Tyner and Alice Coltrane; bassist Jimmy Garrison; drummers Elvin Jones and Rasheed Ali; saxophonists Pharaoh Sanders and Archie Shepp. Ayler and Coleman did not even play Coltrane’s tunes, instead offering either original compositions or free improvisations. It is clear that Ayler and Coleman were after a new form of memorialization that would not freeze Coltrane’s memory in stone, but that interacted with Coltrane’s legacy as a still-living agent.
***
Within each of their performances, Ayler and Coleman play as if Coltrane is in the band as well, offering his own improvisational commentary on the music. In other words, elements more commonly associated with Coltrane’s style actually inflect Ayler’s and Coleman’s melodic lines.
To open the service, Ayler played a short medley of three original tunes. The first—“Love Cry”—was a relatively new tune that Ayler would record later that summer for Impulse! The next two, “Truth is Marching In” and “Our Prayer” (the latter composed by his trumpet-playing brother Donald), were standards in the Ayler repertoire. Both had been recorded live at the Village Vanguard that previous December and released by Impulse! earlier in 1967. (Coltrane was in the audience for this concert.) “Love Cry” consists of a somber, searching melody in B-flat major over a bass drone and frenetic cymbal textures. The melodic contours are reminiscent of a spiritual, or a Muslim call to prayer. “Truth is Marching In” is more hymn-like in its contours and harmonies, a messy chorale in D-major at a dirge tempo. “Our Prayer” has the same key and hymn-like feel as “Truth is Marching In,” but features fewer melodic notes held for longer periods of time, creating more space for Ayler to comment on the melody.
After “Our Prayer,” Ayler moves back to playing melodic material in B-flat major, very much in the vein of the “Love Cry” melody. Over this line, Albert begins to scream-sing, sometimes hitting discernible notes, other times unleashing more complex noise. Ayler’s vocalizations simultaneously evoke both terror and joy, inspiring the rest of the band to improvise at fever pitch. Ayler then brings the saxophone back to his mouth and cues the band to fade with a plaintive melodic resolution, an “Amen.”
Since the medley’s latter two tunes were recorded the previous December, we can compare the respective performances in order to reconstruct Ayler’s conception of the jazz requiem. In the earlier versions of both pieces, Ayler’s playing is dense and highly energetic. His lines are less rooted than in his funeral performance, jumping across the register of his horn. His phrases are more clipped, emphasizing harsh articulations rather than the quality of sustained tones. Motivically, Ayler focuses on little cambiata-like figures that ornament and circle a central note. These aspects are quite indicative of Ayler’s style, reflecting his desire to explore extreme timbral contrasts.
On the other hand, in his funeral performance, Ayler’s lines have a strong sense of directionality. Instead of jumping quickly between different ranges, he constructs lines that move up and down, stepwise, slowing as they reach their crest. The pointillistic quality of his typical improvisations is replaced with a new linear quality—a quality more associated with Coltrane’s improvisational style. Even as Coltrane moved from a dense, post-bop-oriented harmonic language to a looser and eventually completely open one, his melodic sense still retained its linear, bop-like character. This gave his music a searching quality that underscored the themes of spiritual pursuit present in much of his later music. While Ayler does not play phrases in his funeral performance that would be mistaken for Coltrane’s—they aren’t nearly as dense and traditionally virtuosic—the notable linear qualities of his improvisation show Ayler integrating the feel and character of Coltrane’s music into his own style, performing as if he hears Coltrane playing along with him.
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/07/arts/music/john-coltrane-lost-album-both-directions-at-once.html?
On March 6, 1963, John Coltrane and his quartet recorded at the Rudy Van Gelder Studio in New Jersey. The session was never released — until now.Credit: Chuck Stewart
Lost John Coltrane Recording From 1963 Will Be Released at Last
“Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album” was cut by the saxophonist’s classic quartet two years before “A Love Supreme.” Then it was stashed away.
On March 6, 1963, John Coltrane and his quartet recorded at the Rudy Van Gelder Studio in New Jersey. The session was never released — until now. Credit: Chuck Stewart
by Giovanni Russonello
June 7, 2018
New York Times
If you heard the John Coltrane Quartet live in the early-to-mid-1960s, you were at risk of having your entire understanding of performance rewired. This was a ground-shaking band, an almost physical being, bearing a promise that seemed to reach far beyond music.
The quartet’s relationship to the studio, however, was something different. In the years leading up to “A Love Supreme,” his explosive 1965 magnum opus, Coltrane produced eight albums for Impulse! Records featuring the members of his so-called classic quartet — the bassist Jimmy Garrison, the drummer Elvin Jones and the pianist McCoy Tyner — but only two of those, “Coltrane” and “Crescent,” were earnest studio efforts aimed at distilling the band’s live ethic.
But now that story needs a major footnote.
On Friday, Impulse! will announce the June 29 release of “Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album,” a full set of material recorded by the quartet on a single day in March 1963, then eventually stashed away and lost. The family of Coltrane’s first wife, Juanita Naima Coltrane, recently discovered his personal copy of the recordings, which she had saved, and brought it to the label’s attention.
There are seven tunes on this collection, a well-hewed mix that clearly suggests Coltrane had his sights on creating a full album that day. From the sound of it, this would have been an important one.
Lost John Coltrane Recording From 1963 Will Be Released at Last
“Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album” was cut by the saxophonist’s classic quartet two years before “A Love Supreme.” Then it was stashed away.
On March 6, 1963, John Coltrane and his quartet recorded at the Rudy Van Gelder Studio in New Jersey. The session was never released — until now. Credit: Chuck Stewart
by Giovanni Russonello
June 7, 2018
New York Times
If you heard the John Coltrane Quartet live in the early-to-mid-1960s, you were at risk of having your entire understanding of performance rewired. This was a ground-shaking band, an almost physical being, bearing a promise that seemed to reach far beyond music.
The quartet’s relationship to the studio, however, was something different. In the years leading up to “A Love Supreme,” his explosive 1965 magnum opus, Coltrane produced eight albums for Impulse! Records featuring the members of his so-called classic quartet — the bassist Jimmy Garrison, the drummer Elvin Jones and the pianist McCoy Tyner — but only two of those, “Coltrane” and “Crescent,” were earnest studio efforts aimed at distilling the band’s live ethic.
But now that story needs a major footnote.
On Friday, Impulse! will announce the June 29 release of “Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album,” a full set of material recorded by the quartet on a single day in March 1963, then eventually stashed away and lost. The family of Coltrane’s first wife, Juanita Naima Coltrane, recently discovered his personal copy of the recordings, which she had saved, and brought it to the label’s attention.
There are seven tunes on this collection, a well-hewed mix that clearly suggests Coltrane had his sights on creating a full album that day. From the sound of it, this would have been an important one.
“Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album” is due on Impulse! on June 29.Credit
“In 1963, all these musicians are reaching some of the heights of their musical powers,” said the saxophonist Ravi Coltrane, John Coltrane’s son, who helped prepare “Both Directions at Once” for release. “On this record, you do get a sense of John with one foot in the past and one foot headed toward his future.”
That’s true — though as Mr. Coltrane was careful to point out, his father always lived in a state of transition. The poet and critic Amiri Baraka wrote in 1963 that Coltrane’s career was one of simultaneous “changes, resolutions and transmutations.” As the public came to depend on the grounding wisdom of his saxophone sound in the late 1950s and ’60s, Coltrane kept shifting and expanding it.
By the time he signed with Impulse! in 1961, he had mostly left behind the swift harmonic movement of his earlier work. He was resolutely exploring other elements: drones influenced by North African and Indian music; unbounded and jagged melodic phrasing. One of Coltrane’s earliest biographers, C.O. Simpkins, described the quartet’s shows in these years — with Mr. Jones lighting fires and Mr. Tyner splashing them with multihued harmonies — as a kind of euphoric cleanse. The quartet, he wrote, “would beat the unclean air until it begged for mercy.”
But Coltrane had a funny problem: He was also quite commercially successful, particularly for an improvising musician of such rigor. He had arrived at Impulse! shortly after scoring a megahit with “My Favorite Things,” and the producer Bob Thiele felt obligated to provide a stream of concept-driven and consumer-friendly projects. The other albums he made in 1963 with Coltrane were “Ballads,” “Duke Ellington and John Coltrane” and “John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman.”
“In 1963, all these musicians are reaching some of the heights of their musical powers,” said the saxophonist Ravi Coltrane, John Coltrane’s son, who helped prepare “Both Directions at Once” for release. “On this record, you do get a sense of John with one foot in the past and one foot headed toward his future.”
That’s true — though as Mr. Coltrane was careful to point out, his father always lived in a state of transition. The poet and critic Amiri Baraka wrote in 1963 that Coltrane’s career was one of simultaneous “changes, resolutions and transmutations.” As the public came to depend on the grounding wisdom of his saxophone sound in the late 1950s and ’60s, Coltrane kept shifting and expanding it.
By the time he signed with Impulse! in 1961, he had mostly left behind the swift harmonic movement of his earlier work. He was resolutely exploring other elements: drones influenced by North African and Indian music; unbounded and jagged melodic phrasing. One of Coltrane’s earliest biographers, C.O. Simpkins, described the quartet’s shows in these years — with Mr. Jones lighting fires and Mr. Tyner splashing them with multihued harmonies — as a kind of euphoric cleanse. The quartet, he wrote, “would beat the unclean air until it begged for mercy.”
But Coltrane had a funny problem: He was also quite commercially successful, particularly for an improvising musician of such rigor. He had arrived at Impulse! shortly after scoring a megahit with “My Favorite Things,” and the producer Bob Thiele felt obligated to provide a stream of concept-driven and consumer-friendly projects. The other albums he made in 1963 with Coltrane were “Ballads,” “Duke Ellington and John Coltrane” and “John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman.”
Coltrane, the drummer Elvin Jones, the bassist Jimmy Garrison and the pianist McCoy Tyner in the studio.CreditJim Marshall
“Coltrane” and “Crescent,” the albums that show us Coltrane condensing his quartet’s live persona for posterity, are marvelous. They balance deep blues playing with lengthy, minor-key chants, laced through with an explosively rhythmic group dynamic. But in the two years between their recording — spring 1962 to spring 1964 — we had little to go on until now.
[Read Ben Ratliff on “the miracle of Coltrane.”]
“Both Directions at Once” was recorded at the Rudy Van Gelder Studio in New Jersey, small-group jazz’s premier recording habitat, on March 6, 1963. Two days earlier, Mr. Tyner had taped “Nights of Ballads and Blues” there (it’s an underrated gem that shows the lush shading and ardent poise of his playing). The day after “Both Directions at Once” was recorded, Coltrane’s quartet — which was in the midst of a two-week run at Birdland in Manhattan — returned to the studio with Hartman, a baritone crooner, to knock out that album, which became a classic.
But on this newly discovered collection, we hear something close to the breadth of what Coltrane and his associates were delivering onstage. “You get a lot of that musical meat, but in a context that will be more accessible to a lot of listeners,” said Lewis Porter, a pianist and scholar, who was sent an early copy of the album.
On “Slow Blues,” Coltrane lights into split-toned incantation almost immediately, then carries a steady improvisation forward for nearly the entire 11-and-a-half minutes of the track, interrupted only by a brief Tyner solo.
“Coltrane” and “Crescent,” the albums that show us Coltrane condensing his quartet’s live persona for posterity, are marvelous. They balance deep blues playing with lengthy, minor-key chants, laced through with an explosively rhythmic group dynamic. But in the two years between their recording — spring 1962 to spring 1964 — we had little to go on until now.
[Read Ben Ratliff on “the miracle of Coltrane.”]
“Both Directions at Once” was recorded at the Rudy Van Gelder Studio in New Jersey, small-group jazz’s premier recording habitat, on March 6, 1963. Two days earlier, Mr. Tyner had taped “Nights of Ballads and Blues” there (it’s an underrated gem that shows the lush shading and ardent poise of his playing). The day after “Both Directions at Once” was recorded, Coltrane’s quartet — which was in the midst of a two-week run at Birdland in Manhattan — returned to the studio with Hartman, a baritone crooner, to knock out that album, which became a classic.
But on this newly discovered collection, we hear something close to the breadth of what Coltrane and his associates were delivering onstage. “You get a lot of that musical meat, but in a context that will be more accessible to a lot of listeners,” said Lewis Porter, a pianist and scholar, who was sent an early copy of the album.
On “Slow Blues,” Coltrane lights into split-toned incantation almost immediately, then carries a steady improvisation forward for nearly the entire 11-and-a-half minutes of the track, interrupted only by a brief Tyner solo.
PHOTO: Mr. Tyner, left, and Coltrane. Mr. Tyner recorded his album “Nights of Ballads and Blues” two days before the lost session. Credit Joe Alper
Impulse! is releasing the album as a single disc, featuring one rendition each of the seven tunes the band cut that day. (Ravi Coltrane and the record executive Ken Druker chose the order.) But for those who buy the deluxe edition, with seven alternate takes from the same session on a separate disc, the biggest score will be the four renditions of “Impressions.” Meditative but headlong, this piece had been the quartet’s concert centerpiece for two years at that point, but Coltrane still hadn’t given it a name. (On the tape box that was found, it was untitled.)
An expansive live version would be released later in 1963, on an album called “Impressions,” but this March recording session marked the second and, apparently, final time Coltrane would attempt to wrangle “Impressions” into a studio recording. All the versions hover around the four-minute mark, but each take is different; on two of them, the band rides along at a comfortable, medium tempo with Mr. Tyner adding a chiming, two-chord pattern. On the final two takes, Coltrane ticks the tempo up higher, and slashes boldly without a piano beneath him.
The album also includes two original tunes that seem to have been committed to tape here for the first and only time. They’re identified by the numbering system that Thiele used in the studio. The first, “11383,” is a brisk minor blues, with the swirling momentum typical of Coltrane’s live performances and his most affecting records.
Then there’s “11386,” a shimmying melody that begins with a wide-flung first section — pulpy chords resounding from Garrison’s bass — then a passage of beaming swing. It bears some structural similarity to Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” arrangement. But as Mr. Porter pointed out, the tune also sounds a lot like the writing of Mr. Tyner. Indeed, throughout the 1960s, the pianist was writing pieces with this same kind of fast, dancing melody, and a similar balancing act between swing and straight rhythms.
“He’s so on top of that piece. It’s just a thought,” Mr. Porter said, referring to Mr. Tyner’s avid playing on all three versions of “11386” featured here. “Where is it written that everything they played had to be by Coltrane?”
It’s a tempting, provocative question, and a good one. It’s one of many that this discovery allows us to start asking about the work of an epochal band in its prime.Related Coverage
CRITIC'S NOTEBOOK; The Miracle of Coltrane: Dead at 40, Still Vital at 75
Reviving the House Coltrane Built
April 22, 2014
It Feels Like Home: The Sounds of Coltrane
Sept. 24, 2009
Impulse! is releasing the album as a single disc, featuring one rendition each of the seven tunes the band cut that day. (Ravi Coltrane and the record executive Ken Druker chose the order.) But for those who buy the deluxe edition, with seven alternate takes from the same session on a separate disc, the biggest score will be the four renditions of “Impressions.” Meditative but headlong, this piece had been the quartet’s concert centerpiece for two years at that point, but Coltrane still hadn’t given it a name. (On the tape box that was found, it was untitled.)
An expansive live version would be released later in 1963, on an album called “Impressions,” but this March recording session marked the second and, apparently, final time Coltrane would attempt to wrangle “Impressions” into a studio recording. All the versions hover around the four-minute mark, but each take is different; on two of them, the band rides along at a comfortable, medium tempo with Mr. Tyner adding a chiming, two-chord pattern. On the final two takes, Coltrane ticks the tempo up higher, and slashes boldly without a piano beneath him.
The album also includes two original tunes that seem to have been committed to tape here for the first and only time. They’re identified by the numbering system that Thiele used in the studio. The first, “11383,” is a brisk minor blues, with the swirling momentum typical of Coltrane’s live performances and his most affecting records.
Then there’s “11386,” a shimmying melody that begins with a wide-flung first section — pulpy chords resounding from Garrison’s bass — then a passage of beaming swing. It bears some structural similarity to Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” arrangement. But as Mr. Porter pointed out, the tune also sounds a lot like the writing of Mr. Tyner. Indeed, throughout the 1960s, the pianist was writing pieces with this same kind of fast, dancing melody, and a similar balancing act between swing and straight rhythms.
“He’s so on top of that piece. It’s just a thought,” Mr. Porter said, referring to Mr. Tyner’s avid playing on all three versions of “11386” featured here. “Where is it written that everything they played had to be by Coltrane?”
It’s a tempting, provocative question, and a good one. It’s one of many that this discovery allows us to start asking about the work of an epochal band in its prime.Related Coverage
CRITIC'S NOTEBOOK; The Miracle of Coltrane: Dead at 40, Still Vital at 75
Reviving the House Coltrane Built
April 22, 2014
It Feels Like Home: The Sounds of Coltrane
Sept. 24, 2009
From the Family Closet, a New Coltrane Album
A version of this article appears in print on June 8, 2018, Section C, Page 2 of the New York edition with the headline: A Lost Coltrane Session Will Beat the Unclean Air. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper
See more on: John Coltrane, Ravi ColtraneA version of this article appears in print on June 8, 2018, Section C, Page 2 of the New York edition with the headline: A Lost Coltrane Session Will Beat the Unclean Air. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper
https://www.theatlantic.com/past/docs/unbound/jazz/strickla.htm
As originally published in
The Atlantic Monthly
December 1987
What Coltrane Wanted
The legendary saxophonist forsook lyricism for the quest for ecstasy
by Edward Strickland
JOHN COLTRANE died twenty years ago, on July 17, 1967, at the age of forty. In the years since, his influence has only grown, and the stellar avant-garde saxophonist has become a jazz legend of a stature shared only by Louis Armstrong and Charlie Parker. As an instrumentalist Coltrane was technically and imaginatively equal to both; as a composer he was superior, although he has not received the recognition he deserves for this aspect of his work. In composition he excelled in an astonishing number of forms--blues, ballads, spirituals, rhapsodies, elegies, suites, and free-form and cross-cultural works…a journey from hard-bop saxist to daring harmonic and modal improviser to dying prophet speaking in tongues.
Asked by a Swedish disc jockey in 1960 if he was trying to "play what you hear," he said that he was working off set harmonic devices while experimenting with others of which he was not yet certain. Although he was trying to "get the one essential . . . the one single line," he felt forced to play everything, for he was unable to "work what I know down into a more lyrical line" that would be "easily understood." Coltrane never found the one line. Nor was he ever to achieve the "more beautiful . . . more lyrical" sound he aspired to. He complicated rather than simplified his art, making it more visceral, raw, and wild. And even to his greatest fans it was anything but easily understood. In this failure, however, Coltrane contributed far more than he could have in success, for above all, his legacy to his followers is the abiding sense of search, of the musical quest as its own fulfillment.
BORN and raised in North Carolina, Coltrane studied in Philadelphia and after working as a clarinetist in Navy marching and dance bands in 1945-1946 he began a decade of playing with Eddie "Cleanhead" Vinson, Dizzy Gillespie, Earl Bostic, and Johnny Hodges, and also such undistinguished rhythm-and-blues artists as King Kolax, Bull Moose Jackson, and Daisy Mae and the Hepcats. He came to wide notice in 1955 in the now legendary Miles Davis Quintet and was immediately acknowledged as an original--or an oddity. Critics who in Coltrane's last years all but waved banners to show their devotion to him were among those casting stones for much of his career. At first many urged Davis to fire the weird tenor, but when, in April of 1957, after a year and a half with the quintet, Coltrane left or was dropped (the truth remains unclear), the reason seems to have been indulgence not in stylistic extremism but in heroin and alcohol, problems he conquered that same year. The controversy had to do not only with his harmonic experimentation, on which Dexter Gordon was initially the chief influence, but with the speed (to some, purely chaotic) of his playing and the jaggedness (to some, unmusical) of his phrasing.
All three characteristics were intensified in 1957 during several months with Thelonious Monk at the Five Spot, after which he rejoined Davis, who was now experimenting with sparer chord changes, and became fully involved in what Ira Gitler, in Down Beat, called the "sheets of sound" approach. This technique of runs so rapid as to make the notes virtually indistinguishable seems itself to have been a by-product of Coltrane's harmonic exploration. Coltrane spoke of playing the same chord three or four different ways within a measure or overlapping chords before the change, advancing further the investigation of upper harmonic intervals begun by Charlie Parker and the boppers. Attempting to articulate so many harmonic variants before the change, Coltrane was necessarily led to preternatural velocity and occasionally to asymmetrical subdivision of the beat. Despite Davis's suggestion that Coltrane could trim his twenty-seven or twenty-eight choruses if he tried taking the saxophone out of his mouth, Coltrane's attempt "to explore all the avenues" made him the perfect stylistic complement to Davis, with his cooler style, which featured sustained blue notes and brief cascades of sixteenths almost willfully retreating into silence, and also Monk, with his spare and unpredictable chords and clusters. Davis, characteristically, paid the tersest homage, when, on being told that his music was so complex that it required five saxophonists, he replied that he'd once had Coltrane.
Although in the late fifties Coltrane released a number of sessions for Prestige (and, more notably, Blue Train and Giant Steps for Blue Note and Atlantic respectively) in which he was the nominal bandleader, it was really after leaving Davis for the second time, in 1960, shortly after a European tour, that he came into his own as a creative as well as an interpretive force. His first recording session as leader after the break, on October 21, 1960, produced "My Favorite Things," an astonishing fourteen-minute reinterpretation, or overhaul, of the saccharine show tune, which thrilled jazz fans with its Oriental modalism and Atlantic executives with its unexpected commercial success. In it Coltrane revived the straight soprano sax (whose only previous master in jazz had been Sidney Bechet), and in so doing led a generation of young musicians, from Wayne Shorter to Keith Jarrett to Jon Gibson, to explore the instrument. The work remained Coltrane's signature piece until his death (of liver disease) despite bizarre stylistic metamorphoses in the next five and a half years.
Coltrane signed with Impulse Records in April of 1961 and the next month began rehearsing and playing the long studio sessions for Africa/Brass, a large-band experiment with arrangements by his close friend Eric Dolphy. This was in part an extension of the modal experimentation in which he had been involved with Davis in the late fifties, notably on the landmark Kind of Blue. The modal style replaced chordal progressions as the basis for improvisation, with a slower harmonic rhythm and patterns of intervals corresponding only vaguely to traditional major and minor scales. The modal approach proved to be the modulation from bop to free jazz, as is clear in Coltrane's revolutionary use of a single mode throughout "Africa," the piece that takes up all of side one of the album. Just as his prolonged modal solos were emulated by rock guitarists (the Grateful Dead, the Byrds of "Eight Miles High," the unlamented Iron Butterfly, and others), so the astonishing variety Coltrane superimposed on that single F was, according to the composer Steve Reich, a significant, if ostensibly an unlikely, influence on the development of minimalism. The originator of minimalism, La Monte Young, acknowledges the influence of Coltrane's "My Favorite Things" on his use of rapid permutations and combinations of pitches on sopranino sax to simulate chords as sustained tones.
From the start, and especially from the opening notes of Coltrane's solo, which bursts forth like a tribal summons, "Africa" is the aural equivalent of a journey upriver. The elemental force of this polyrhythmic modalism was unknown in the popular music that came before it. Coltrane experimented with two bassists--a hint of wilder things to come, as he sought progressively to submerge himself in rhythm. He was later to employ congas, bata, various other Latin and African percussion instruments, and, incredibly, two drummers--incredibly insofar as Coltrane already had, in Elvin Jones, the most overpowering drummer in jazz. The addition of Rashied Ali to the drum corps, in November of 1965, made for a short-lived collaboration or, rather, competition between Jones and Ali; a disgruntled Jones left the Coltrane band in March of 1966 to join Duke Ellington's. But it was the culmination of Coltrane's search for the rhythmic equivalent of the oceanic feeling of visionary experience. Having employed the gifted accompanists McCoy Tyner and Jimmy Garrison during the years of the "classic quartet" (late 1961 to mid-1965), Coltrane tended to subordinate them, preferring that his accompanists play spare wide-interval chords and a solid rather than showy bass, which would permit him a maximum of flexibility as a soloist. Coltrane would often take long solos accompanied only by his drummer, and in his penultimate recording session, which produced the posthumous Interstellar Space, he is supported only by Ali. Solo sax against drums (against may be all too accurate a word to describe Coltrane's concert duets with the almost maniacal Jones) was Coltrane's conception of naked music, the lone voice crying not in the wilderness but from some primordial chaos. His music evokes not only the jungle but all that existed before the jungle.
COLTRANE'S spiritual concerns led him to a study of Indian music, some elements of which are present in the album Africa/Brass and more of which are in the cut from the album Impressions titled "India," which was recorded in November of 1961. The same month saw the birth of "Spiritual," featuring exotic and otherworldly solos by Coltrane on soprano sax and Dolphy on bass clarinet. Recorded at the Village Vanguard, the piece made clear, if any doubts remained, that Coltrane was attempting to raise jazz from the saloons to the heavens. No jazzman had attempted so overtly to offer his work as a form of religious expression. If Ornette Coleman was, as some have argued, the seminal stylistic force in sixties avant-garde jazz, Coltrane's Eastern imports were the main influence on the East-West "fusion" in the jazz and rock of the late sixties and afterward. In his use of jazz as prayer and meditation Coltrane was beyond all doubt the principal spiritual force in music.
This is further evident in "Alabama," a riveting elegy for the victims of the infamous Sunday-morning church bombing in Birmingham in 1963. Here, as in the early version of his most famous ballad, "Naima," Coltrane is as spare in phrasing as he is bleak in tone. That tone, criticized by many as hard-edged and emotionally impoverished, is inseparable from Coltrane's achievement, conveying as it does a sense of absolute purity through the abnegation of sentimentality. Sonny Rollins, the contemporary tenor most admired by Coltrane, always had a richer tone, and Coltrane himself said of the mellifluous Stan Getz, "Let's face it--we'd all sound like that if we could." Despite these frequent and generous tributes, Coltrane's aim was different, as is clear in his revival of the soprano sax. Rather than lushness he sought clarity and incisiveness. As with pre-nineteenth-century string players, the rare vibrato was dramatic ornamentation.
Coltrane's religious dedication, which as much as his music made him a role model, especially but by no means exclusively among young blacks, is clearest of all in the album titled A Love Supreme, recorded in late 1964 with Tyner, Jones, and Garrison. The album appeared in early 1965 to great popular and critical acclaim and remains generally acknowledged as Coltrane's masterpiece. In a sense, though, it is stylistically as much a summation as a new direction, for its modalism and incantatory style recall "Spiritual," "India," and the world-weary lyricism of his preceding and still underrated album, Crescent. Within months Coltrane was to shift his emphasis from incantation to the freer-form glossolalia of his last period--a transition evident in a European concert performance of A Love Supreme in mid-1965.
Meditations, recorded a year after A Love Supreme, is the finest creation of the late Coltrane, and possibly of any Coltrane. It may never be as accessible as A Love Supreme, but it is the more revolutionary and compelling work. While some of the creations of Coltrane's last two years are all but amorphous, Meditations succeeds not only for the transcendental force it shares with A Love Supreme but by virtue of the contrasts among the shamanistic frenzy of Coltrane and fellow tenor Pharoah Sanders in the opening movement "The Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost" and elsewhere, the sense of stoic resignation and perseverance in the solos of Garrison and Tyner, and the repeated, spiraling phrases of yearning in Coltrane's "Love" and the concluding "Serenity." This unity, encompassing radical stylistic and affective diversity, is the unique feature of Meditations, even in relation to its Ur-version for quartet, which has an additional and quite obtrusive movement. Nothing that came after Meditations approached it in structural complexity and subtlety.
These may be the missing ingredients in the music of Coltrane's final period. The drummer Elvin Jones said, "Only poets can understand it," though maybe only mystics could, for until his final album Coltrane seemingly forsook lyricism for an unfettered quest for ecstasy. The results remain virtually indescribable, and they forestall criticism with the furious directness of their energy. Yet their effect depends more on the abandonment of rationality, which most listeners achieve only intermittently if at all. In fact, it may be the listener himself who is abandoned, for it seems clear that Coltrane is no longer primarily concerned with a human audience. His final recording of "My Favorite Things" and "Naima," at the Village Vanguard in 1966, uses the musical texts as springboards to visionary rhapsody--almost, in fact, as pretexts. All songs become virtually interchangeable, and there is really no point any longer in requests. The only favorite thing he is playing about now is salvation. Coltrane's second wife, Alice, who had by then replaced Tyner as the group's pianist, has remarked, "Some of his latest works aren't musical compositions." This may be their glory and their limitation, the latter progressively more evident in the uninspired emulation by the so-called "Coltrane machines" who followed the last footsteps of the master, and also in the current dismissal of free jazz as a dead end by both jazz mainstreamers and the experimental composer Anthony Davis (who nonetheless recently used Coltrane as a model in the "Mecca" section of his opera X).
The last album that Coltrane recorded was Expression, in February and March of 1967. The album has an aura of twilight, of limbo, particularly in the piece "To Be," in which Coltrane and Sanders play spectral flute and piccolo respectively. The sixteen ametrical minutes of "To Be," which could readily have added to its title the second part of Hamlet's question, are as eerie as any in music.
The most striking characteristic of the album is its sense of consummation, which is clear in the abandonment of developmental structure and often bar divisions, and in the phantasmal rather than propulsive lines that pervade the work. There had always been in Coltrane a profound tension between the pure virtuosity of his elongated phrases and the high sustained cries or eloquent rests that followed. The cries, wails, and shrieks remain in Expression but they are subsumed by the hard-won simplicity that predominates in the album--the lyricism not of "the one essential" line he had sought seven years earlier and never found but one born of courageous resignation. Pater said that all art aspires to the condition of music. Coltrane seems to suggest here that music in turn aspires to the condition of silence.
Those who criticize Coltrane's virtuosic profusion are of the same party as those who found Van Gogh's canvases "too full of paint"--a criticism Henry Miller once compared to the dismissal of a mystic as "too full of God." In Coltrane, sound--often discordant, chaotic, almost unbearable--became the spiritual form of the man, an identification perhaps possible only with a wind instrument, with which the player is of necessity fused more intimately than with strings or percussion. This physical intimacy was all the more intense for his characteristically tight embouchure, the preternatural duration and complexity of his phrases, and his increasing use of overblowing techniques. The whole spectrum of Coltrane's music--the world-weary melancholy and transcendental yearning that ultimately recall Bach more than Parker, the jungle calls and glossolalic shrieks, the whirlwind runs and spare elegies for murdered children and a murderous planet--is at root merely a suffering man's breath. The quality of that music reminds us that the root of the word inspiration is "breathing upon." This country has not produced a greater musician.
Copyright © 1987 by Edward Strickland. All rights reserved. The Atlantic Monthly; December 1987; "What Coltrane Wanted"; Volume 260, No. 6; pages 100-102.
