Coltrane never played Birdland very much in those days after Miles. But this one night trane was lost in the cosmos of My Favorite Things, exploring the inner mysteries of his own spirit; the pain and the anguish of the movements of the Sixties, civil rights, the fires wrecking the fibers of the American flag, and, of course, Viet Nam. Lost deeper in a solo searching for God or gods somewhere out there, mired in the confusion of a heroin illusion. Trane keep right on exploring and the sweat was running off Elvin Jones making even Horace Silver look as dry as the Mohave desert. His soprano saxophone becoming one with the person, creating a feeling of unease at the Birdland tables with a $3.00 minimum; the peanut gallery sucking it all up with watered down scotch on the rocks. Trane was taking the Julie Andrews favorite into hallowed and forbidden grounds. Lost far beyond spirituality and space.
Meanwhile, Pee Wee Marquette was getting pissed off. The midget M.C. looking at his watch through exaggerated cufflinks realizing Trane was playing way beyond his allocated time for his set and still on the same tune made the high pitched Pee Wee furious. “This nigger is done," he must have thought. So in the middle of the fortieth chorus and trane not nearly through with his explorations, Pee Wee came on over the mic with..."how bout a nice big hand for John Coltrane....JOHN COLTRANE."
Coltrane at the Five Spot
No one will ever believe that night at the Five Spot. I was by myself at the bar watching and trying to hang on to all of Trane's notes. When in she walks, younger, extraordinarily beautiful, sophisticated and all the rest, Elizabeth Taylor. When she walked past to the few tables in the rear, we all looked at each other at the bar in disbelief. Nah, it couldn't be. Our doubts would be confirmed in a few seconds when Eddie Fischer, disheveled and stoned, comes trailing in tow. Holy Shit! Elizabeth Taylor at the Five Spot to see Coltrane. What next? She orders Champagne, a vintage not usually stocked at this Bowery establishment. So the manager sends one of the waiters uptown to find it in one of the plusher uptown joints. At this point it's difficult to focus on Trane, even when Eric Dolphy comes by to share the stage with him. I keep twisting my neck trying to get a peek. I wonder what she's whispering to Eddie Fischer? The chauffeur stands guard at the door. He looks to be a wiseguy that would pop out eyeballs should someone get too out of hand.
Well before the waiter returns with the champagne, they turn tail and exit the Five Spot. Maybe Trane was too deep for them. Or maybe they expected Bobby Short or something. Or maybe they only wanted to briefly be a part of something that was beyond their world, if only for the moment. Michael Jackson or Richard Burton were yet to happen for Elizabeth.
Coltrane started to bear down with Eric exploring other time patterns and disregarding the scales behind McCoy's percussive comping and Elvin's polyrhythmic inventions. Suddenly, forging into the Five Spot night, the waiter finally returned with the rare French vintage wine for the goddess of cinema only to find there was nothing left to celebrate.
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