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It happened 2018 a lot in jazz. Rarely have re been so many great, some even innovative, publications like this year. Wher Marcus Miller’s laid back or Michael Wollnys Oslo/Wartburg-Doublette, Kurt Ellings questions and apparently fallen into a fountain of youth Rolf Kühn with yellow blue – not to forget new Epic Heaven Earth of acclaimed novice Kamasi Washington: You They all make music with exclamation marks. But headlines produce something like this in exceptional cases. Short stories maybe, if at all. Welcome to Niche.
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Even if it were appropriate, term “sensation”, which is used in some places, is hardly a journalistic cutlery in this genre. Of course, it throws a sad light on current state of jazz, which derives its relevance mainly from past, from times when everything was somehow a little more mystical, exciting and legends still proliferate on every street corner through asphalt Could. And we are experiencing again such a phenomenon, heated by superlatives, speculations, spinning mills, as if entire history of modern music had to be rewritten.
This Friday, a new, undiscovered, complete studio album by Saxophone-god John Coltrane appears on traditional label impulse. A message that has a similar explosive force, as if somewhere in a suitcase John Lennon’s had found tapes of a previously unknown Beatles work or discovered on a Salzburg store notes for Mozart’s 22nd opera. Of course everything is possible. But if something like this happens once, n a huge quake passes through scene, and it seems that she was just waiting for a revival moment like this. The salvaged treasure bears Sibylline title both directions at once – Lost album, which in principle already describes programmatic of Überraschungseis, which is greatest saxophonist of all time at vertex between Decongesting bebop wave and its Spiritual, ecstatic, high-altitude flights reaching cosmic expanse of Freejazz.
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They wrote 6th of March 1963. For John Coltrane, n 37 years old and slowly but surely losing his marriage and his life completely to jazz, a day like everyone else. Little to no sleep, hours of self-tearing exercise excesses, almost every evening gigs in New York’s Birdfield, along with plans for recordings with singer Johnny Hartman, who should go on stage on day, as well as preparations for Album Impressions. Why he drove to studios of Rudy Van Gelder in Englewood Cliffs in spite of this busy diary, to or side of Hudson, can only be guessed. Perhaps he simply followed his instinct, realizing that at that moment he had probably reached height of his playing art, which it was absolutely necessary to document.
