By Steve Provizer
There's a syllable for every note of Coltrane's soprano solo. I've tried to make the typography scan as close to the rhythm as possible. Play the song Central Park West and hopefully, you can follow.
Sun's last rays,
Filter shyly though a
Grey urban haze;
Close the day.
Streetlights now shed...ghostly light...to light the way
To the
Place of which we speak...
Central Park, but not East or South but West, you can
Sense a difference, in the pace of this
Special place...
Secrets of its own, remain, unknown, but can
Be reflected in song, as John
Coltrane wanted to capture time and feelings and places;
Moments in time
Pass us by, but
Live again in song...
Breath of life and breath of peace;
Day's final breath, night's release.
[Piano Solo]
Black to grey and grey to white;
Birth of shadows, death of darkness, dawn of day;
Silence stilled by the
Rising sounds, of the city as it wakes...
The quickening pulse of a giant grown restless
Gathering, momentum,
Finding living rhythms...For each
Life, and for each
Place a melody hidden but waiting;
To be found, to be freed;
Let it sound;
Let its magic, be unbounded;
Secrets told, and hearts, that unfold with this song,
Central Park.
There's a syllable for every note of Coltrane's soprano solo. I've tried to make the typography scan as close to the rhythm as possible. Play the song Central Park West and hopefully, you can follow.
Sun's last rays,
Filter shyly though a
Grey urban haze;
Close the day.
Streetlights now shed...ghostly light...to light the way
To the
Place of which we speak...
Central Park, but not East or South but West, you can
Sense a difference, in the pace of this
Special place...
Secrets of its own, remain, unknown, but can
Be reflected in song, as John
Coltrane wanted to capture time and feelings and places;
Moments in time
Pass us by, but
Live again in song...
Breath of life and breath of peace;
Day's final breath, night's release.
[Piano Solo]
Black to grey and grey to white;
Birth of shadows, death of darkness, dawn of day;
Silence stilled by the
Rising sounds, of the city as it wakes...
The quickening pulse of a giant grown restless
Gathering, momentum,
Finding living rhythms...For each
Life, and for each
Place a melody hidden but waiting;
To be found, to be freed;
Let it sound;
Let its magic, be unbounded;
Secrets told, and hearts, that unfold with this song,
Central Park.
