diatribes, the long-standing house duo of Insub Records, had been on
hiatus while percussionist Cyril Bondi and electronicist d’incise
pursued other projects, sometimes together, sometimes apart. That hiatus
has ended, at least for now. This year, 2026, has gifted us four
realizations of a single score, L’apport (French for “the
contribution”), each featuring the diatribes core in collaboration with
a different musician (or in the sole case of Sound the alarm, a team of
five) to round out a third rotating seat.
diatribes and Stefan Thut - L'apport : Lâ dèchigeâ (Insub, 2026)
Composer and cellist Stefan Thut has collaborated with d’incise and
Bondi in the Insub.8tet (many of whose members appear on the 7tet
release featured below), but, as far as I can tell, never just with the
diatribes duo. Recorded in situ in the Wallis Mountains of Switzerland,
this realization of L’apport comes across as a cross section of Thut’s
minimalism (coupled with short references to Swiss folk songs), d’incise
and Bondi’s forays into field-recorded environmental improvisation (see
their Polytopies project), and all three’s long-standing fascination
with long-tones. Bird chirps introduce Lâ dèchigeâ and abound
throughout. With Bondi now on shruti box and d’incise on objects and
laptop, the ambient bird, breeze, and other nature sounds provide the
underlying soundtrack with which the trio interacts. Maybe by default of
volume, Thut stands out the most with his intermittent legato drawls
over the textures laid by the nature sounds and diatribes’s soft
incidental contributions. A fine, divergent complement to the other
performances released here and recommended especially to those drawn
toward hyper-minimalism and musical interventions into nature sounds.
Insub.7tet - L'apport : Sound the alarm (Insub, 2026)
L’apport: Sound the alarm is the outlier in this project, as it expands
the diatribes +1 core to a full seven. In addition to d’incise and
Bondi, the group is rounded out by two vocalists, Antoine Läng and
Natalie Peters, violinist Anouck Genthon, and reedists Christophe
Verthet and Esther Vaucher, respectively on soprano and tenor. Because
of the size of the group, one might be tempted to assume Sound the alarm
is the apex of the project. However, I am not sure that this realization
is any more complete than the others. L’apport is that open.
This final installment unfolds as slowly as the others, but with more
elements and a more frequent trade-off between them. Läng and Peters
voices add a human dimension and, following the dedication, a sense of
urgency as they intermingle with, supplant, and yield to the various
instruments that calmly vie for space. The resulting sense of calm is
disquieting rather than comforting. One gets the sense of drowning, or
the dolorous moans of those present and past contending to be heard
among a series of other soft ribbons of sound and muted alarm pulses
about 13 minutes and the more forceful soundings starting 26 minutes in.
Sound the alarm, indeed. Let us hope there are ears open enough to hear.
NB: All proceeds from purchases of L’apport: Lâ dèchigeâ will benefit
the Ghasan Abu Sita children’s fund.
diatribes, the long-standing house duo of Insub Records, had been on
hiatus while percussionist Cyril Bondi and electronicist d’incise
pursued other projects, sometimes together, sometimes apart. That hiatus
has ended, at least for now. This year, 2026, has gifted us four
realizations of a single score, L’apport (French for “the
contribution”), each featuring the diatribes core in collaboration with
a different musician (or in the lone case of Sound the alarm, a team of
five) to round out a third rotating seat.
diatribes and Jean-Luc Guionnet - L'apport : An awkward position (insub,
2026)
Jean-Luc Guionnet is one of the most uncompromising saxophonists around.
He plays maximalist, and he plays minimalist. He also produces
electro-acoustic sound art, more in the latter vein than the former,
which give him the ears and unique set of chops to deal with the current
understated incarnation of diatribes. The title, L’apport: An awkward
position, is likely meant with some irony. No member’s contribution is
awkward, nor does any seem to throw the others for an unwieldy loop.
This is slowly churning, meticulously constructed granular music. Gone
are the beats of d’incise’s early days. This is abstract music conducted
in real-time at the molecular level. Turn the headphones up and indulge
in the beautifully rendered textures, punctuated periodically by a few
choice honks, squawks, flutters, and clucks from a deeply attuned
Guionnet. This is certainly among the the spikiest and most active of
the L’apport series.
diatribes and Clara Levy - L'apport : Ke ya me transí (insub, 2026)
Ke ya me transí (Sesotho for I’m taking the train) features diatribes
with violinist Clara Levy. It is a slow, cumulative affair. Unlike An
awkward position, this realization is based on drones, including Bondi’s
methodical exploration of a vibraphone. Images of the hum of bees on a
sultry day, sunlight refracted through a wispy fog, its counterpart in
the tentative excavation of a hazy memory flit by. Six minutes in, the
drama thickens in a pulsing marcato run, and from there the piece
departs on a heavier expanse of long tones over various rings, rattles,
and other sounds. Out of this sonic brume, Levy periodically engages in
passages of melodies that play both with medieval Sephardic scales (as
the notes indicate) and remind me of Johnny Chang and other contemporary
lowercase violinists, who blend quiet, amelodic structures with strained
classical and folk motifs. Fifteen minutes in, the repeating notes mark
a break, then a heavier atmosphere, again returning to a series of vying
long tones. (This type of break repeats periodically throughout the
single track.) A wonderful and deeply introspective album, and a
consummate example of what the chamber music tradition still has offer
when cambered through the right lens.
diatribes and Lise Barkas - L'Apport : Apprendre la manière (Insub,
2026)
The third installment in the series invites Lise Barkas’s bagpipes and
hurdy gurdy to the crew. The result is a unique blend of the
contemporary – long tones, false starts and stops, the elevation of the
experiment over some consummative realization, electronics – early
bardic traditions – Barkas’ contributions and the interaction between a
single measure leitmotif and a thudding bass drum. In its circular
ritualism, this resembles d’incise and Bondi’s recent work in their La
Tène trio. For her part, Barkas helps pull the music from the dance hall
inclinations of that project to sprightlier, if also halting, terrain.
The irregular beats are more conducive to prancing around a dance-fire
than bobbing around some warped chthonic club. The edges are frayed. The
contours are ruffled and twisted. The abrupt stops can be distracting at
times in the first realization, but are often deployed to great effect,
especially in the glitchier passages and the more robust second one.
Recorded at the Kammermusiksaal Deutschlandfunk in Cologne, the piece from bassist and composer Reza Askari features Lina Allemano (trumpet), Stefan Karl Schmid (tenor sax), Christopher Dell (vibraphone), Fabian Arends (drums) and Askari. According to the composer, the composition forms the third part of his Maining Suite and is dedicated to pianist and composer Felix Hauptmann. It revisits and reshapes several motives from Maining Part Two—first documented on the 2022 album Roar feat. Christopher Dell—while introducing a new motive that will evolve further in future installments of the suite.
Also, seenEyal Hareuveni's review of xAYb v8v dYAx(Boomslang, 2026).
Paris in the 1920s, with Picasso, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Gide and Gertrude
Stein sitting at the Shakespeare & Co.; the Bauhaus with Oskar
Schlemmer's theater and the themed parties; the boppers at Minton's
Playhouse on 118th Street; the CBGB's in 1976. In a word: The Scene. Is
anyone indifferent to its call? Certainly not us. In many cases, it arises
from the suggestions of historians, journalists, and/or enthusiasts who
shape it “ex post”, but who cares? Thinking of a group of people, in a
specific historical and social context, sharing a common cultural sentiment,
simply generates unparalleled fascination. Just a few years before the
explosion of the punk supernova of the Ramones, Television, and Patti Smith,
around the same geographic perimeter (Village, Lower East Side, Soho),
seismographs recorded a new artistic ferment. Inspired by the AACM in
Chicago and the Black Artists Group in St. Louis, a group of musicians,
writers, and actors repurposed abandoned spaces such as lofts, warehouses
and industrial buildings into creative hubs in which to live, play, record,
teach, discuss: Loft Jazz was born. Wise Old Man Wadada Leo Smith summarized
it this way: “There's the mainstream, and you're not part of it, so you have
to build your own reality. And that reality is not a protest against, but
something for ourselves.”
There are two main hotspots: the hottest is Studio
Rivbea at 24 Bond St., where Sam Rivers lives with his wife, Bea; then Ali's
Alley at 77 Greene St., Rashid Ali's home, club, recording studio, and
headquarters of his Survival Records. Contributing to the cause are James
DuBois and Juma Sultan with Studio We; Warren Smith with Studio WIS; David
Murray and Stanley Crouch with Studio Infinity; the theater/music space La
MaMa and The Soundscape. Without predefined aesthetics or boundaries of any
kind, the rules of engagement are crystal clear: Community and Freedom. This
extraordinary bonfire of creativity spanned almost the entire 1970s,
extinguishing in 1979. For those who didn't experience it firsthand, the
reference bible has always been the five Wildflowers albums recorded at
Rivbea in 10 days in May 1976, featuring all the key players. The records
have become difficult to find, even in the 3-CD version, but don't despair,
because in Lithuania, NoBusiness Records' mission is to soothe our regrets
and to grant our wishes. And they do so with Loft Jazz as well. First and
foremost, with the 2009 box set "Muntu Recordings," celebrating saxophonist
Jemeel Moondoc, then with the “Rivbea Live” series by Oliver Lake, Jimmy
Lyons, Arthur Blythe, and Maurice McIntyre, recorded at Rivbea, which take
us back to Downtown, allowing us to relive the magic of that extraordinary
season. Four unmissable albums, period.
From a chronicles perspective, to
date, the only one who has dealt with that scene is Michael Heller with
“Loft Jazz: Improvising New York in the 1970s.” As an ethnomusician, Heller
focuses his analysis on the economic, social, and urban aspects of early
1970s New York, crucial to generating the breeding ground without which the
scene would never have taken shape. We said “to date”, because NoBusiness
Records draw a line, putting an end to the topic, now and ever. It does so
with Ed Hazell, a Boston musicologist and curator of Sam Rivers' musical
legacy, who, with "Energy Center," provides us with the ultimate book on the
Loft movement and its epicenter, Studio Rivbea.
The work is divided into two
parts that represent the axes along which the author's exegesis moves. The
first 100 pages lead us to the Loft through the personal and musical journey
of Sam Rivers and his wife Beatrice, whose centrality to the story comes
finally to light in all its entirety. If you think you already know
everything about the subject, our humble advice is to not skip a single
line; we're sure you’ll find something worth reading. The next 200 pages are
the book's cornerstone and hallmark: the sessionography. A mind-blowing
session history, detailed by date and musicians, will satisfy even the most
compulsive completist, providing the reader with vivid evidence of what an
incredible musical powerhouse Rivbea was. The list of recordings released at
the Studio completes such a philological, gigantic labor of love. A word
more about the iconographic content. The photographs, many previously
unpublished, are astonishing and, in their timeless, b&w beauty,
confirm, once more, how much jazz owes to photography and vice versa. Still
not enough? Then take a look at the reproductions of dozens and dozens of
ads, brochures, and flyers related to Rivbea's activities: a golden
cornucopia that will bring tears to your eyes. Could you ask for more from a
book? Honestly, NO. File under: Holy Grail.
“Whatever you want it to be. Come on. I’m going to ring some bells.””
-Quoted by Ben Ratliff in Coltrane: The Story of a Sound.
John Coltrane’s sax-drums duo album with Rashied Ali,
Interstellar Space, stands as a singular achievement in the history of free jazz. The duo’s
restlessness, their commitment to musical exploration and the profound
communication taking place between them would create a template that has
animated the practice of free jazz to this day.
Stef Gijssels, in his 2007 post on this website, wrote the following about
that combination of instruments:
“[It] offers a total freedom of interaction, but it's like poetry without
rhyme, there is no comfort zone to fall back into, no safe haven, no safety
net, it's swim or drown.”
I think any jazz musicians wanting to tackle the drums/sax duo format must
be very brave indeed, knowing that a comparison to
Interstellar Space
is almost inevitable. But they would also realize the freedom of unfettered
expression that comes with it. And great musicians would view that as an
opportunity to create something new, to engage in a genuinely novel musical
conversation. Best of all, we get to eavesdrop on that conversation.
I’ll always click on a drum/sax duo when I come across one on bandcamp. But
I was especially happy to see this particular combo as I was familiar with
both musicians and had very much appreciated earlier work of theirs. Both
were in a trio album with Tim Berne, Poiēsis, one of the best
albums of 2025. Drummer, percussionist Nava Dunkelman was also in a
tremendous duo with violinist gabby fluke-mogul, titled
Likht.Saxophonist Masayo Koketsu has a solo album, entirely on
alto, called Ballade in which she plays jazz standards. She even
covers Lover Man. (Seriously, I discovered this album in the course
of writing this review and it’s exceptional. Do check it out.)
The first track here, 初雷–hatsurai, begins with a thunderburst from Koketsu.
Dunkelman matches her intensity. Google Translate tells me the title means
First Thunder. Yup. I’ve listened to this album a bunch of times
now and it still snaps my head back. These musicians are serious and they
want your attention. Both musicians genuinely bring thunder on this track.
There’s so much good music on this album, and what’s most impressive is the
great variety of ideas to be found. The third track, 露の玉–tsuyu no tama,
meaning Dewdrop Ball, is beautiful. Koketsu begins with lightning
quick shards of notes with Dunkelman responding with bells. A reference to
Interstellar Space? Then there’s a brief bit of Ayler and then the
musicians are off to explore more new ideas.
The final and longest track 夕霧–yūgiri, meaning Evening Mist, is the
best. It begins with plaintive playing from the saxophone with very light
percussion. Then Koketsu’s playing gains in intensity and her lines become
more complex. Dunkelman happily matches her and then takes over. Now she’s
bringing the thunder and Koketsu again responds. Here, and throughout the
album, these two musicians seem so in tune it’s a delight to listen to.
Possibly the most surprising thing about this album is the first sentence of
the liner notes:
“Masayo Koketsu and Nava Dunkelman met for the first time in this studio
session.”
As I already had the privilege to write a feature about the posthumously
released album Stellar Regions on this blog, i want to stretch this
even a bit further. Here, I take a look at the period to follow, which
eventually and fatally turned out to be the last five months in John
Coltrane’s life. My focus is on the production of music in this final stage,
as far it has been recorded and released, rather than John’s personal or
health condition.
On 15 February 1967, John had recorded the tracks eventually released as
Stellar Regions in 1995 (see my earlier feature) with the quartet.
One week later, on 22 February 1967, he returned with Rashied Ali for a
saxophone – drums duo session, eventually to be released as
Interstellar Space
(see Gary Chapin‘s feature on this album).
On 07 March 1967, in another session with the quartet again, he recorded two
tracks, as far as we know, Ogunde and NumberOne.
Ogunde is, first of all, a relatively short piece at a few seconds
over 3 ½ minutes. A noticeable parallel to Stellar Regions, where
the title track and Iris have approximately the same length and
concise structure. The track takes its title presumably from an
afro-brazilean folk song „Ogundu Varere“, rougly translated as a prayer to
the gods. John occupied himself with spiritual traditions especially from
Africa. John uses his forceful, cry-like late saxophone sound, overblowing
his instrument, which gives an emotional urgence to the piece. The theme
starts with a solemn, hmyn-like melody, but breaks out in free, atonal
outbursts, before it fades away. In summary, John condenses the intensity of
his (at that time) usually half-hour long live improvisations into less than
a handful of minutes (but see below, what happened live).
At some time in spring (David S. Wild confirmed in the liner notes for
Stellar Regions
that this track was not recorded on 15 February, so the actual recording
date remains unknown), John must have recorded To Be, where he
plays flute and is rejoined by Pharoah Sanders on piccolo flute. He shows a
very calm, introspective and meditative side here. At over 16 minutes
playing time, this track feels like a spiritual retreat. The two flutes give
it an airy, almost floating mood. Alice Coltrane’s flowing piano style
provides a mystic, harp-like cushion. Rashied Ali on drums and Jimmy
Garrison on bass keep it calm and subdued. All together, the piece lacks a
trditional jazz pulse, even leaves traditional jazz structures completely
and makes a profound structural switch towards a meditative, open-end
spiritual incantation. It stands as one of the most explicit artifacts of
the creative partnership between John and Alice at that final stage and
already mirrors the „cosmic jazz“ landscapes that Alice would pioneer on her
own in the years to follow in her landmark solo releases (Universal
Consciousness, Journey in Satchidananda). Not to forget about
Pharoah Sanders (Karma).
Also unknown is the exact recording date for the piece titled
Expression
in spring 1967 with the quartet, which later lended its title to the
album.
23 April 1967 is the date of the last live recording, The
Olatunji Concert.
This performance, originally recorded for a radio broadcast, is featured by
Fotis Nikolakopoulos on this blog, so see there. With due respect to Fotis, I will limit myself here to the absolutely striking contrast between the
live version of Ogunde and the studio version. Performed live, it
swells to 28 minutes playing time. The studio recording’s tight and
condensed structure is only preserved in the theme at the beginning to which
it returns only at the very end. In between, it gets overwhelmed by a
storm-like wave of pure energy. After the introduction of the melody as
theme, the structure collapses completely in a ritual storm. A dense,
polyrhythmic vortex is unchained in Rashied Ali’s drumming. Alice Coltrane
plays cascade-like runs on the piano. On saxophone, Pharoah Sanders adds his
bone-rattling, ecstatic overblowing cries. Yes, the quartet has been
expanded here. Pharoah Sanders is back at it on the second saxophone. Two
additional percussionists joined in, Algie DeWitt and Jumma Santos.
The last ever live gig came at Baltimore’s Famous Ballroom on May 7, 1967.
No audio recording of that performance is known to exist.
On 17 May 1967, exactly two months before John’s death, a sextet met for a
last studio recording. The master tapes have been lost or at least unissued
so two tracks with the titles None Other and Kaleidoscope
have been unreleased so far and do not even appear on retrospective
compilations.
With the recorded material, a last studio record was conceived during John’s
lifetime. It was given the title Expression. John was actively
involved in the production and met with Bob Thiele.
On side 1, it had Ogunde as the opening track (the studio version,
as above, of course). Track #2 was To Be with John and Pharoah
Sanders on flutes (as above). At over 16 minutes, it was the longest track,
making up for nearly half of the original album’s playing time, and the only
track on the album in which Pharoah Sanders made an appearance.
Side 2 opened with the majestic ballad Offering, the only track
chosen from the 15 February session, thus making it the only track on the
posthumous album Stellar Regions (see there) that had been released
before and had an original title. Hank Shteamer has just featured this track
prominently in the New York Times and put it into the larger context of
spiritual jazz, for which a piece like Offering „would seem like a
perfect prototype“ (Hank Shteamer, Spiritual Jazz Has Turned Cozy. John
Coltrane Demanded More. New York Times, September 18, 2026). The original
album closed with the title track Expression,John‘s last studio
recording to ever be released. In the later CD release only,
Number O
ne, recorded on the same day as Ogunde, was added as a bonus track
(the track, however, had been released for the first time in a 1978
compilation album).
Obviously, the most recent recording session of May 1967 was not considered
in the process at all (at that time, the tapes at least should still have
been around, I guess?).
John reportedly selected the four tracks for the original album release and
their exact sequence himself. On Friday, 14 July 1967, three days before his
death, he met Bob Thiele, handed the master tapes over to him and finally
authorised the title and the release of the album, but expressed his
opposition against liner notes.
Expression, as John Coltrane’s final statement, was released in
September 1967, two months after his death, containing John‘s
chronologically last audible studio recordings and being the first
posthumous release of his music.
Reading back into the reviews of this recording, from over the past decades,
you encounter the word “relentless” a lot, probably more than for any other
album in the history of albums. It’s interesting because, when I first heard
Interstellar Space, “relentless” was the word that occurred to me —
right after the introductory bells of track one faded. Till then, I hadn’t
realized that “relentless” was a thing that music could be, and that
relentlessness was awesome. Even transcendent.
It’s not a complicated record. You’ve got your tenor and drums. Each piece
starts with a theme, enters the improvisation, and then winds down and
restates the theme. Each improvisation travels a similar arc, beginning in a
saner space, rising intensity and ecstasy, whipping us into a frenzy, then
easing off into … well, not serenity, but you get close to it as you hear
the shaken bells that begin the next piece.
The joys of Interstellar Space come not from structural intrigue,
but from the cascadingly brilliant improvs. Coltrane and Ali were both
ridiculously ON that day. (Ali actually felt he had underperformed because
he didn’t know they were doing a duet session until he arrived at the
session.) And the duet setting makes the music almost transparent. Aside
from the beauty of Trane and Ali’s playing, you also get a sense of exactly
what Coltrane was trying for. His insistent explorations (relentless) are
laid bare. This is an excellent entry to Coltrane’s later works. His playing
is like water moving through the ground, trying to find its way through a
shelf of granite. Eventually, the water finds the crevices, freezes,
expands, thaws, and breaks the stone to pieces. The water always wins. A
force of nature.
Truth must be said from the beginning, I’m not, even a little, objective
when it comes to John Coltrane’s last chapter in life and in music. Those
two are inseparable in any case. Second truth is that this last period that
starts roughly sometime in 1964, prior to A Love Supreme, and ends with his
death is my favorite music. He and all his comrades, especially Alice,
Pharoah, Rashied and Jimmy managed to create a body of music of
transcendence –an ascension for the soul and deep meditation for the mind.
My album of choice is this last live recording (where the aforementioned
musicians are joined by Juma Santos and Algie DeWitt on percussion),
recorded just three months before his death at the Olatunji Center of
African Culture in Harlem, N.Y.C. In a quite symbolic move (the place: deep
in an African-American neighborhood, the name: African Culture and tradition
as a starting point) the music of the players, even though both
geographically and in name still black, still jazz but free, is already a
new entity.
With this recording, one that the sound is not so hi-fi, Coltrane’s sound
seems to be in the final stage of the total freedom that Ascension initiated. Listening to the unrelenting growls, howls and their thick wall
of sound created by Trane and Pharoah, one could easily comment that the two
tracks, Ogunde of almost half an hour and the total reconstruction of My
Favorite Things that clocks in thirty four uncontrollably joyous minutes,
are pure noise.
This ferocious a la Ayler attack by the two locked in reeds brothers,
provides a rough field, like a magic carpet flying in the air, for the
others to give everything they have. And they have to give a lot to the not
so big crowd attending, as their collective struggle to follow or lead at
some points, or intertwine with small gestures like the
polyrhythmic-not-so-rhythmic barrages by Rashied, the lovingly plucked piano
chords by Alice and the even though not always audible, monstrous strength
by Jimmy on double bass.
Allow me to humbly comment that Coltrane’s music channeled everything in
black tradition and went beyond that. He created his own tradition.
You also don’t need me to say that this is an amazing recording. One that
encapsulates all the stated goals by John Coltrane himself. Total freedom,
love, myriads of feelings and a spiritual unity that could be the final
Truth.
If there’s something to think about, to question, it could be this: where
could his music go after this? Did he, before even turning 41, reached a
point of no return?
The reason I like John Coltrane’s Concert in Japan best out of all
my Coltrane albums is that it includes one of my all-time favorite tracks:
“Peace on Earth”. And as good as “Meditation/Leo (Part One),” “Leo (Part
Two),” and “Part Three” are - “Peace on Earth” outshines them all.
When John Coltrane arrived in Japan in 1966, he was welcomed like a king. He
arrived at Haneda Airport on July 8, 1966, along with his wife Alice,
Pharoah Sanders, Jimmy Garrison, and Rashied Ali. Ali, who later recalled
the trip, said they were greeted by thousands of Japanese fans. At the
airport, there were huge, life-size cardboard cutouts of the musicians, a
red carpet leading from the plane to the terminal, and bouquets of flowers.
And Coltrane had a message, it was no coincidence that he wanted to perform
in Japan. He insisted on traveling to Nagasaki to visit the Peace Memorial
at the site of the atomic bombing. He laid down a wreath and prayed for a
long time. The place had a profound emotional and spiritual impact on him.
On the evening of his concert in Nagasaki, he played “Peace on Earth” - at
that time a new piece and a kind of musical prayer for peace. At a press
conference during the tour, when asked about the Vietnam War, he said: “I
dislike war, period. It should stop, and any other war.”
On Concert in Japan - and on “Peace on Earth” in particular - one
can see how Coltrane’s thirst for new sounds is inextricably linked to his
desire to view the universe from a spiritual perspective; his music radiates
a cosmic aura. The piece begins with an incredibly beautiful melody that
floats above Alice’s arpeggios, Garrison’s bass sprinklings, and Ali’s
sparse drumming. It seems like the musical embodiment of the Garden of Eden.
Nearly six minutes of pure harmony - but then deliberate atonality creeps
in, paradise is threatened, only heavenly saxophone lines save it for the
time being. Then, however, a dissonant storm is conjured up, shaking this
world to its very foundations. The piece is thrown into utter disarray;
block chords replace the arpeggios, and the bass and drums throw the meter
overboard. At the very end, however, harmony returns, and the melodies
resurface, albeit different from how they began.
In July 1966, John Coltrane was just one year away from his untimely death,
yet his zest for life was greater than ever. His musical explorations were
more adventurous than before, and “Peace on Earth” brilliantly captures the
essence of what his music is all about. Or, as my friend Thomas Weber puts
it: “On the one hand, it’s utter extravagance and exhaustion, on the other,
it’s the dissolution of boundaries. Free jazz with melodies.”
To celebrate and commemorate John Coltrane’s 100 th birthday,
drummer extraordinaire Don Berman will reprise at the Chapel
Performance Space in Seattle his original composition,
'Ascension Northwest', written in the spirit of Coltrane’s Ascension (Impulse!,
1966). As in the original, Berman has11 musicians playing a series of
mantras interspersed with spirited soloing over improvised support from
subsets of other players, including a double-bass duet.
As a contribution for the FJB Coltrane birthday column, I’ve asked the
11 musicians performing 'Ascension Northwest' (myself included) to
reflect on Coltrane’s Ascension and its impact on their musical
journey. Below, our answers (gingerly edited). The questionnaire is
reproduced at the very end.
Tom Varner (French horn)
1. I knew about Coltrane and loved his music from his time with Miles,
and also his ‘classic’ quartet recordings, when I was in high school and
getting into jazz. I did not know about Ascensionuntil a bit
later, perhaps early in college. Even though I loved Ornette Coleman,
and even Albert Ayler, I must say that very late Coltrane and
Ascension
was a bit :”Whoa! This is too heavy for me!” at first listen. I think I
wanted to hear the ‘melodic line’ no matter how ‘out’ it was, and this
music went beyond that. Eventually I grew to love it, letting go of the
‘I must hear a clear line’ worry and just enjoying being carried away in
the power of the SOUND. I.e., that sound of a ‘scary but then NOT scary’
glorious totality of several improvisers all going full steam ahead at
once. The JCOA Michael Mantler ‘Communications’ 3-LP set, from 1968,
with Pharoah Sanders and other greats, was a kind of bridge for me to
the world of Ascension. To a kind of ‘beautiful crying battle’
as opposed to just noise. Within one or two years, I was open to playing
in those settings!
1a. Ascension opened up a new world of “multiple new
sound-creating improvisers” creating new avenues that were not ‘just’
chord change or single-line orientated. From then on, Coltrane’s world
and the worlds of, say, Xenakis and Ligeti, were not so far apart!
1b.Moving into the ‘90s, I worked with ensembles that had 6, 7, 8 winds
with bass and drums. I was going for that high energy sound where it was
‘ok’ to not hear individual single lines and just get swept away in the
sound. The best example of this is my own “Death at the Right Time,” on
“The Mystery of Compassion” on Soul Note (1992). 5 saxes, three low
brass, bass and drums.
1c. Ascension kind of gave us ‘permission’ to create beautiful
and powerful structures with very little or no written music, just
ideas, and trusting that the improvisers will create a lasting artwork
on the spot. I love that!
2. This is very corny, but at age 18, I clearly remember thinking “Well,
remember, Tom, if things get bad in the future, or very challenging,
don’t forget to listen to Coltrane—that music is healing. That music
will always be there.” And, I would also simply say, “thank you, Mr.
Coltrane.”
Jim Knodle (trumpet)
I heard Ascension when it was released in 1966. I regard it as a
companion to Ornette's double quartet project Free Jazz. The
interaction between Scott LaFaro and Jimmy Garrison is really something!
Perry Robinson told me that the whole thing started at the Federal
Prison in Lexington where everyone practiced in the same room at the
same time. They didn’t want them to rehearse, so they just played
ad hoc
.
Kenny Mandell (alto sax)
1. I was probably 19 when I first heard Ascension. 1972 or so.
Being in college, I had heard free jazz players in NYC, and I knew Sun
Ra’s music. Ascension was way more organized than a lot of Sun
Ra’s music insofar as it kept the traditional jazz form where there was
thematic material followed by solos. There are motifs but there aren’t
any chord changes to speak of, and there is some degree of cacophony.
Depending on the player, some of the solos were more traditional, others
were, I would say, divinely inspired, like Eric Dolphy’s.
In my listening life at that time, I quickly went from Led Zeppelin to
the Art Ensemble, Albert Ayler, Archie Shepp, and Cecil Taylor. Most
people thought I was crazy. I related to the energy of it. The
dissonance never bothered me per se. Ascension showed me that
the big band format could be stretched. The rock stuff was relatively
static in comparison. Hendrix was close. Everybody else stayed in the
form. I see Ascensionas important but not seminal. It’s
certainly part of the canon.
1b. I’ve put many large groups together over the years. Part of the game
plan for large group improvisation is to establish a level of trust.
I’ve learned to pick people who are comfortable recognizing that the
traditional limits or strictures put on playing are actually optional,
and one can use or not use those depending on what sort of statement the
whole piece wants to make. Murray Bookchin’s
Post-Scarcity Anarchism
(1971, 1986) was pivotal (early 1970s) for me as much as any of this music. I tried
to use those principles in music and in organizing. My book some day
will be called The Tyranny of Harmony. Piano chords in
particular limit your choices as an improvisor.
It’s also the case that as I’ve gotten older and found that the audience
just hasn’t been there for totally unstructured, large-form music, I’ve
tended to select pieces or write pieces that give the audience some sort
of repeated motif to ground their listening experience.
1c. Ascension opened the door. After A Love Supreme
(1965), people thought Coltrane took an extreme left turn into the world
of sound exploration as it could be manifested in improvisation and
group interaction. Ascension put into stark reality the
challenges of making and of listening to that kind of music. I don’t
think they got to the level that the Art Ensemble of Chicago did over
the years, and some of Cecil’s groups that stayed together for years:
Jimmy Lyons, Sirone, Andrew Cyrille, they practiced incessantly and got
telepathic.
2. John Coltrane had an obsession with achieving a certain sound.
Coltrane—his essence for me–is that ceaseless searching. This is what I
love about music probably the most, it’s that it never ends.
Dick Valentine (tenor sax)
I reflected at length on the questions you posed, and on the evolution
of my attitudes, responses and relations with Coltrane’s music, which I
understand in a context of almost 60 years trying to educate myself and
participate in contemporary expressions of Great Black Music. In the
end, despite that his recorded output made a tremendous impact on my
playing ‑‑ and was a singular factor in motivating my drive to make
music ‑‑ I think it fair to say Ascension, the recording, has
not occupied as big a space in my development or conceptualization as
some other works.
I played in Don Berman's three presentations of
Ascension Northwest
in 2016, and I'm very pleased indeed to get to do it again on the
Coltrane centenary. I really cherish the privilege of participating with
artists the caliber of those whom Don has persuaded. I look around the
room at the assemblage of musical knowledge, emotional depth, technical
proficiency, and aesthetic ambition, I am inspired and amazed and
humbled.
I’m long past accepting that I will never "understand" society. It seems
to me the “order that governs power and human relations” in our real
world is founded on out‑of‑date assumptions regarding what humanity
needs to flourish. I know that there are many people aware of this
damaging misalignment, and I can tell they mostly share my frustration
that fixing large‑scale misalignments is not in the offing, thanks
precisely to the systems that govern the distribution of power and
dictate humans' relationship with real resources.
So, on John Coltrane's centenary, we'll gather musicians, players and
audience in celebration. In a sense, a roomful is perhaps a model of
“society.” Everyone in the room will have some mental image of what
constitutes a successful event ‑‑ in context, the definition of the
community “flourishing,” right? As players, we have the responsibility
to provide physical, audible inputs to the outcome. There is a bit of
magic to what may happen here. Each player contributes to the global
fabric, whose nature he may not predict. It’s understood that
coordinated inputs are in some sense a prerequisite for success, and
communication is required for coordination. How is communication
achieved? By the act that constitutes that player’s input. It’s a bit
recursive, to say the least!
Neil Welch (tenor sax)
1. Ascension came my way when I was 15 or 16. I picked up the
album in cd format at a record store. This was my first experience with
Trane’s music on Impulse!. I picked up the album out of curiosity. I was
initially struck by three things:
1. The album cover ‑‑ Coltrane the seeker, looking beyond himself, and
beyond us to something cosmic.
2. The length of the album: Until this point, I didn't know that a
‘jazz’ album could be +/‑ 40 minutes in length.
3. The cd version had takes 1 and 2, which made it a double album. It
was the most expensive CD I had ever bought.
The response for me was immediate. I felt the album opened with a
declarative question. Coltrane begins with a theme, but it is
incomplete. The tonic is ‘missing’ from the first note he plays. He asks
the band a question with only the partial theme, and leaves it to the
band to complete that theme.
Ascension felt to me a major and inevitable document in
Coltrane’s music from this period. The emotional intensity of his solos,
and what he was asking of a small group, had reached a tipping point. I
found it deeply humbling and revealing that he used the vehicle of a
communal sound to further amplify the concept of the jazz musician as
soloist and group collaborator.
1a. After Ascension, I understood that in musical conversation,
a powerful theme could be stated with brevity. A short theme can grant
space for a complex response of virtually any length.
1b. Ascension helped me to experience song length as a
durational mind-set. A song could, and ought to be, exactly the length
needed to fulfill its musical and emotional aims.
1c.Ascension is, for me, an album of colliding forces and the
unity of embracing those forces towards a common mission. It’s like
people in a building. All these souls one floor atop the other.
Different lives, worldviews, needs, hurts, wants, but all share the same
vertical massing. If that building is on fire, they are invested in each
other's outcome. They’ve looked in the eyes of those people in the
elevator.
2. Can we as a society still sit with, and grapple with in real time,
discordance in art‑making? Can intensity of sound and emotion hold space
for us in our lives and aid us in the journey of deeper personal growth?
Steve Meyer (alto sax)
1. I must have been 14 or 15. I was just getting into Coltrane and came
across Ascension at my local record store. At that point I’d
only known some of his earlier quartet work and work with Miles. Seeing
that this was a larger group piqued my interest. And I recognized the
names of a lot of heavy players, though I doubt I’d heard most of them
at that point, so thought it would be a good album. After getting back
home, I’m in my bedroom and put on the album. I don’t know what I was
expecting but not too far into the first side (the first ensemble part)
I knew it wasn’t for me. I didn’t know what to make of it, and it didn’t
speak to me. I think I finished the first side but didn’t listen to the
second. A few years went by before I was ready to give it another try. I
was still an adventurous listener, so my first reaction didn’t turn me
off from listening to other “out”/free musics which I grew to appreciate
and enjoy more and more.
1a. If I don’t like what I hear on first listen, I remind myself that
there are works of art out there that I’m not ready for. Music will
speak to us when we’re ready to hear it.
1b. While I was listening to more out music in my teens it was years
later before I played free music – at least with others. In high school
this wasn’t the kind of music most of my musician friends would be into.
Even with the one or two who weren’t opposed to it, we never thought to
attempt it ourselves, at least not in any serious way, sticking to more
standard jazz and the fusion music of the day. (This is early 80s, btw.)
Even later, people I played with tended to be more conventional in the
foundation of their music. These days I’m fortunate to have a community
of musicians who embrace free/creative music. And, I have more
confidence in myself to nudge the conversation that way when playing
with others that I think will be receptive to it.
1c. I tend to not view music through a sociological lens, but
Ascension
and similar music has made me consider the normative orders of music in
the US. Mainly, they’ve shown me there are a lot of stories to be told
and a lot of different ways to tell them.
2. I want to thank Coltrane for his music and inspiration. The question
to ask myself: how can I harness the focus and questing spirit of Trane?
Eric Ring (piano)
While A Love Supreme was life changing at 18, I’d surprisingly
never heard Ascension prior to preparing for this performance.
Don Berman (composer, drums)
1. A sax player at my summer Maine resort job, a student of Jackie
McLean, had introduced me to Coltrane’s Live at Birdland
(Impulse!, 1964). This was 1972. I heard an amazing spiritual element in
John Coltrane's music when I heard his quartet play “Alabama.” It struck
me incredibly deeply and I have adored jazz and playing jazz ever since.
(The piece was a deeply moving eulogy to the victims of bombing of the
16th street Baptist church in Birmingham, Alabama.) A couple of years
later, in my junior year of college, I heard Ascension and
realized that Trane had helped jazz expand its scope enormously to
express a wider range of feelings. With the Ascension session,
jazz composition and form had evolved light years from the beginnings of
jazz decades earlier. After Ascension, there was now a huge
universe of possibilities for jazz musicians to explore in their work.
1a.As I got further into jazz I particularly loved Miles Davis and John
Coltrane, because I saw how each had evolved continuously throughout
their musical journeys, from one period and chapter and style to
another. The way I think about music and music making after
Ascension
is part and parcel of how I feel about music and art in general. All of
the art forms have a rich and magical history. If you have studied and
played music for years and years, you have to discover who you are and
what your aesthetic is.
1b. For me, Ascension is part of what guided me further into
freer playing and improvising in the last 20 years. Creating my own
compositions has become more important for me. I organize pieces that
contain both written and improvised sections. For this I select
musicians that can both interpret written compositions and also
improvise very well.
2. I would ask others: How does Coltrane’s music move you and make you
feel about what feelings or sounds you play and express when you play?
The world is full of a truly amazing variety of music. There are masters
playing in each of those styles. I would ask others who take music
seriously to open their minds and make sure they hear the music of
master creators, live when possible, and in as many styles as possible.
Master the basic fundamentals, and take music as seriously as Trane did.
For those just seeking fun, that is fine too. A lot of striving people
in the arts take things too seriously, especially when they become too
self-absorbed and their egos interfere with what they are attempting to
do as musicians. As the great pianist and educator Kenny Werner teaches
his students and readers, “your value as a human being is not based upon
how well you play a musical instrument.”
Gregg Miller (baritone sax)
1. Around 1997 I bought a used CD copy of the compilation,
The Major Works of John Coltrane
(GRP Records, 1992) which included both takes of Ascension as
well as Om, Kulu Se Mama, and Selflessness. I
was stunned at the difference in intent between those recordings and
Giant Steps. In Giant Steps, I heard a restless
cramming of as many notes as quickly as possible within structures that
could barely contain them. In Ascension, Coltrane had left that
set of problems behind in favor of a compositional form that
foregrounded the free-playing (and listening, or not listening) of every
other player, a dense maelstrom that produced its own power without
regard to or in opposition to or transcending of the traditional tropes
of organized sound. To my ears, there was still an evident
structuredness to the resultant noise, but full-on interplay was now the
method and the lesson. It felt to me like a releasing of mutual respect,
a lifting of repression inherent in most musics, and a deliberate
shifting of power dynamics from a singular ordered mind that commands
obedience (and players willingly, often reverently submitting to that
control) to the shared embrace of others who jointly participate. Messy,
but beautiful. I was studying a lot of Habermas at the time, and so for
me, the link between music-making and communicative action was an easy
one to see/hear and understand. I wasn’t playing free music (or any
music) at the time, but the seed had been sown without me knowing it.
1a. In the late 1990s I would listen to Ascension and the other
tracks on Major Works over and again while studying. It was the
kind of music that permitted my mind to roam freely and/or easily
concentrate elsewhere without demanding I enter
its rhythms, melodies, cadence. There was something liberating in its
power to shape time and experience like that. Among other things, it
forced me to confront the limitations of pop music and its draw.
1b. As wild as Ascensions ometimes feels, it predicates without
having arrived at a music that depends foremost on collective
improvisation where listening and meaningful response have overtaken
chops and strutting (not that chops and strutting can’t be part of
meaningful communication). What opens up, then, is the possibility for
music-making where the reception of one’s own and others’ sound while
playing is governed by a feeling out of the pulse of the whole,
accepting contingency and accident as integral to the flow of making.
Musical “intention” in this context becomes an emergent property of the
experience of intersubjectivity.
1c. Most (90%?) deliberately made music appears to our ears in strict
time, where the musicians aim to become part of a single organism
beating in time, and their music tries to compel listeners to
imaginatively join that rhythmic organism. There is solace and belonging
offered in that vision of unity and unfreedom. I’ve had enough of that
music. How else might we imagine and experience collective practices of
meaning-making/moving/sounding as individual and collective
flourishing/belonging/being-with-others? Ascension.
Questionnaire
1. When did you first hear Ascension, or come to know about it? What was
your response? How did this event affect your understanding of Coltrane and
what he’s up to, of jazz music, and/or music and what it’s up to?
1a. How do you think about music and music‑making after Ascension?
1b. Has Ascension (or its ilk) informed your practice – of playing, of
organizing, of selecting musicians, of conceptualizing the field of music?
1c. Has Ascension informed your understanding of society, or, dare I say it,
the normative order(s) that govern(s) our understanding of power and human
relations?
2. What question would you want to ask of yourself, of others, about John
Coltrane @100?
