sheets of sound

tomorrow (september 23) is john coltrane's birthday. if he were still alive, he would turn 80.

i can barely describe what his body of recorded work means to me. there is much non-musical hero-worship baggage that weighs down his otherwise fleet legacy, but it is easy for me to ignore all that; what remains still burns mightily, and permeates my senses more fully than any frankincense-stoked ceremonial urn. countless hours of repeated listening to his extemporizations, from mating call to wise one and beyond, followed by countless hours of practicing (well, compared to mr. coltrane, probably easily counted), haven't taken away any of the awe and wonder. as much as i love wardell gray, lester young, dexter gordon, joe henderson, wayne shorter, john gilmore, clifford jordan, sam rivers, hank mobley (to name only tenors), john coltrane remains an indescribably powerful influence, and inspiration. a few favorite albums:














i have about forty others. and then there are those miles davis records...





i know every note of those records.

just the other day i discovered this newly-released session, of which i was totally unaware. i felt like a kid again, buying a record without hearing because i knew how incredible it would be. and it is incredible; trane was really getting into some shit at that point, but clearly (in retrospect, that is) needing to find another kind of setting, something more open-ended, perhaps.



and what is even more profound to contemplate, given my more recent musings as to the influence of the recording process on the art of the improvisor, is how much of trane's work was unrecorded. to be sure, his creative journey was captured in better than average detail, and it is possible to hear many similarities in different solos (particularly with certain chord changes in certain keys). he had pet phrases the way we all do. but imagine: what would be the impact of only hearing him play live, never being able to go back and take apart in minute detail those intricate series of substitutions and harmonic embellishments, only trusting his direction and letting yourself be carried wherever it was he was going that night, in that club, for those hours.

that would have totally fucking incredible.

~\.°=°./~\.°=°./~\.°=°./~\.°=°./~\.°=°./~\.°=°./~

i took the photograph of the highway marker on us 74, in hamlet north carolina a number of years ago. i used to pass through there on my way from the family beach vacation to the mountains from the beach for some solo backpacking. over the years an expressway has been built diverting traffic around the town, so this spot will be overlooked by even more persons as the years go on.

but i was struck by the elegant understatement of the sign's text: "influential stylist". how true. "work spanned bebop to avant garde." also so completely true.
the sign is a bright spot along us 74, which is officially known as the "andrew jackson memorial highway"; persons indigenous to the area have been trying to get that changed for years, for reasons that should be obvious to any student of american history. to make matters worse, some distance west of hamlet there is a stretch dedicated to jesse helms. whenever i would see that sign i was tempted to put the car right into the nearest ditch, rather than drive on that asshole's road.