John Coltrane: My Favorite Things (Not Including “My Favorite Things”)

Matt J. Popham By

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John Coltrane died on July 17, 1967 at the age of forty. Had he lived, he would have turned 90 on September 23rd of this year. When one considers the profound effect he had—not just on jazz, but on music as a whole—in the brief two decades of his career, it's not only daunting, but depressing, to try and imagine what he might have done with four or five more. Initially a gifted Hard Bop player, his own musical and philosophical quest would lead him to channel the energy and ingenuity of that spirited style through the prism of the avant-garde, making him, all at once, a virtuoso and a visionary. Despite hemorrhaging the support of many bewildered critics and fans during his last and most musically daring years, his untimely death sent shockwaves through the musical community at a time when many believed the future of jazz was already in doubt. In the years since, he has only become increasingly respected and revered—actually sainted in some circles—even eclipsing the great Charlie Parker as the iconic jazz saxophonist.

I was 13 years old when I discovered John Coltrane. Flipping idly through my father's CD's one afternoon, I came across the four disc Live in Japan recording. At this point, I knew nothing about Coltrane—or even jazz, really. I was a punk rock kid. But I had heard his name before and, always musically curious, I popped one of the CD's into the stereo. The initially mellow and meditative opening to "Peace on Earth" hooked me with its hypnotic power, but as I listened, the music began to stretch out, zig-zagging in unpredictable directions, pushing at its own boundaries with accelerating iterations, reaching for something unnamable, and eventually transcending every notion of music I had ever encountered. Coming from punk rock, nothing about the seeming chaos and cacophony of it was off-putting to me. In fact, it swept me away. It was, simultaneously, like nothing I had ever heard before and like being confronted by the musical manifestation of something I had been carrying inside me for as long as I could remember. By the time the track's 25 minutes were up, I was converted. I dove headlong into an exploration of Coltrane, who, in turn, opened the door to the entire jazz genre, leading me on a path of musical discovery I am still walking. But, to this day, even though I now count Monk and Powell, Prez and Sonny Rollins, among my all-time favorites, even though I am eagerly awaiting the next releases from Ambrose Akinmusire and Kris Bowers, no one—in any genre—hits home for me like Coltrane does.

Incredibly prolific, Coltrane appeared on something in the vicinity of 120 recordings during his life, either as sideman or leader. I think, at this point, I've heard them all. But there are a handful I find myself returning to again and again. These are the albums of his that, for whatever reason, have gotten inside me in their own very particular way. I find them, like all the greatest music, inexhaustible. Endlessly captivating. Unfailingly moving. I wouldn't necessarily call them Coltrane's best albums, per se. There are some pretty startling omissions (My Favorite Things, ironically, among them), but after all these years, what is there left to say about Kind of Blue or A Love Supreme...? Does anyone need to be encouraged to give them a fresh listen...? At the same time, I can't honestly leave off Giant Steps, because I probably listen to it at least once a week. No, true to the Coltrane spirit—some would say the spirit of jazz—this list is not intended to be definitive for anyone other than me. This is my Coltrane: A personal appreciation of an artist and musician who has had an unparalleled impact, not just on my life, but on the past 90 years.

Tenor Madness (Prestige, 1956)—Though Coltrane appears only on the title track of this Sonny Rollins classic, it marks the only time the two sax icons recorded together. Alternating call-and-response phrases in addition to lengthier solo stretches, the two budding geniuses cheerfully play off each other, forgoing the "top this" tone that would typically turn such pairings into a classic cutting contest, opting instead for a generous give-and-take. Rollins' thick, bluesy tone and Monk-inspired phrasing contrast perfectly with Coltrane's brighter, rapid-fire runs as each player digs into the tune in his own inimitable way. These two seminal jazzmen were only ever in competition with themselves, after all, and their lone collaboration stands as a dynamic document of their distinctive early styles and mutual respect.


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