© -Steven
Cerra , copyright protected; all rights reserved.
“In less than five years from
his debut with Miles Davis, Coltrane moved from virtual obscurity to acclaim as
the tenor saxophone innovator of the decade. With his own quartet, he became a
hero of the free jazz movement, although he had relatively little in common
with other figures in the movement. By 1965 he had become a cult idol.”
- Doug Ramsey, Jazz author, critic and
blogger
''… [John Coltrane] was a
very good musician. But he was young; he hadn't perfected his style. That began
when he was with Miles Davis. With Miles, it was obvious that he had gone deep
into applying harmonies over standard chord changes. He became a master at
superimposing secondary dominants over standard songs and his own compositions.
He developed a sound that was original and personal, and an approach to
rhythmical improvisation that I had never heard before. He introduced
innovations in harmony, melody, rhythm, form and sound that influenced a lot of
people.”
- Yusef Lateef, Jazz saxophonist
"I can't explain
anything,” he said. "It's all in the music. Come to the club and hear the
music."
It's all in the music.
It's all in the music.
- John Coltrane to Doug Ramsey
It’s a banner day
whenever the editorial staff at JazzProfiles has the opportunity to
present more of the writings of Doug Ramsey on the blog.
For over fifty
years, Doug has produced some of the most insightful and well-written work on
the music and its makers in the canon of Jazz literature.
Not surprisingly,
then, when we looked for information on John Coltrane’s formative years before
he achieved iconic status in the 1960s, we found it all in the introduction
that Doug wrote for the CD boxed-set entitled John Coltrane: The Prestige Recordings.
We asked Doug for
his permission to represent that essay here and he graciously offered his
consent as did Nick Phillips who is the Vice President, Catalog and Jazz
AR for Concord Music Group, the current owner of the Prestige copyrights.
You can find a
link to his site, as well as, links for ordering copies of John Coltrane: The Prestige
Recordings through Concord and Amazon at the conclusion of this
feature.
© -Doug Ramsey/Concord Records; used with
permission, copyright protected; all rights reserved.
“John Coltrane: In The Fifties”
John Coltrane
died at the age of 40 on July 17, 1967 . A month or so later, Julian
"Cannonball" Adderley was my guest on a radio program. Asked to reflect
on his saxophone partner in the Miles Davis sextet of the late 1950s, Adderley
said that it might be too soon to try to talk about Coltrane, but that he would
try. Hearing his reply on tape is still an emotional experience. A man known
for his volubility finds himself unable to speak.
"We were very
close. I learned more from him than from anybody." Julian's voice trails
away as he finishes the sentence. He can be heard swallowing hard as he blinks,
looks away, and says, almost inaudibly as his voice breaks, "That's it, that's
all," and waves me off.
That is not all,
of course. There was no further opportunity to take up the question with
Cannonball. But what he learned from Coltrane can be heard in Adderley's
playing from the time when they worked with Davis to the end of his life.
Cannonball's music
was enriched and strengthened. The Coltrane component of his playing can be
heard forming as early as July 1958 in Davis's Newport Jazz Festival recordings
on Columbia, blossoming six months later in radio broadcasts recently issued
on the French label Jazz Band Records, and full blown in the Sixties on pieces
like "Nippon Soul" on Riverside and "Fun" from his Mercy,
Mercy album on Capitol.
Adderley's study
of Coltrane gave him greater complexity and daring, but Cannonball remained
Cannonball. His control of his mature style was firm. Other saxophonists,
veterans and novices alike, were submerged, overwhelmed, their musical
personalities subsumed by the most pervasive saxophone influence since Charlie
Parker. A generation of tenor saxophonists was held captive by Coltrane's
power, the force of his ideas, his departures from the strict guidelines of
Parker's bebop, his sheer virtuosity. When, in the mid-1970s, a young tenor
player named Scott Hamilton emerged in the tradition of Coleman Hawkins and Ben
Webster, he was viewed as an anomaly, a product of the Coltrane era who had
somehow escaped or ignored the Coltrane imperative.
This compilation
contains virtually everything John Coltrane recorded as a leader or sideman for
Prestige (and its New Jazz subsidiary) from May 7, 1956 to December 26, 1958 , a period encompassed by his membership in
the Miles Davis quintet and sextet. In a field notable for early and rapid
growth of musicians, it is all but impossible to find documentation of another
career to match the pace and intensity of his artistic development during those
32 months.
Only his
recordings with the Davis band are not included here. They are all to be found in Miles
Davis: Chronicle, the complete Prestige recordings of that artist from
1951 to 1956 (PCD-012-2).
John Coltrane was
born in 1926 in Hamlet, North Carolina , a town of 4,500 in the south of the
state. He grew up in High Point , a small city 75 miles to the north. His father, a tailor,
played violin, clarinet, and ukulele and taught John the essentials of music.
At 12, the boy was playing clarinet in school and learned the E-flat horn. When
the family moved to Philadelphia in 1944, he had been playing alto saxophone for about three
years. He studied at the Ornstein School of Music and the Granoff Studios in Philadelphia . During his stint in the service in 1945
and 1946, he was in a Navy band in Hawaii .
Before he was 21,
Coltrane was on alto in bands headed by King Kolax and Joe Webb. He adapted to
the tenor saxophone to work with alto player and blues singer Eddie
"Cleanhead" Vinson in 1947 and 1948. Later, he used alto or tenor as
needed in bands led by Jimmy Heath, Howard McGhee, Earl Bostic, Dizzy
Gillespie, and a handful of barely remembered rhythm and blues outfits.
Coltrane’s first recording was in the saxophone section of Gillespie's big band
in 1949, on alto, for Capitol Records. His first commercially recorded solo, on
tenor, was on Gillespie's "We Love to Boogie" on the Dee Gee label in
1951.
With Johnny Hodges
in 1953 and 1954, and with Davis and Thelonious Monk from 1955 to 1960,
Coltrane was exclusively on tenor. (The only exception was when he picked up
the alto for a 1958 Gene Ammons Prestige session, included in this collection.)
In the early 1960s Coltrane added the soprano saxophone, inspiring a jazz
resurgence of that instrument.
Yusef Lateef, an
early admirer of Coltrane, remembers him first as "a humble human being,
memorably so, because those moral fibers have transcendent being. He was a
very gentle, kind person." Six years older than Coltrane, Lateef was with
Dizzy Gillespie when he first heard the young saxophonist in 1948.
''He was a very
good musician. But he was young; he hadn't perfected his style. That began when
he was with Miles Davis. With Miles, it was obvious that he had gone deep into
applying harmonies over standard chord changes. He became a master at
superimposing secondary dominants over standard songs and his own compositions.
He developed a sound that was original and personal, and an approach to
rhythmical improvisation that I had never heard before. He introduced
innovations in harmony, melody, rhythm, form and sound that influenced a lot of
people.”
Lateef admires
Coltrane unreservedly. He says that he finds value in the music from every
period of Coltrane's odyssey, including the mystical search that he seemed to
be on at the end of his life, when Miles Davis and other Coltrane admirers
found his playing pointless and repetitious.
Andrew White, a Washington , D.C. tenor saxophonist and musicologist, has
for years run a Coltrane cottage industry. White has transcribed hundreds of
Coltrane solos and published them in a ten-volume set, The Works of John Coltrane.
The material is divided into four creative periods. Saxophonists and other
musicians from all over the world seek out White's transcriptions and analyses
of Coltrane's music as they work through the challenges set by his recorded
solos. "After all," says James Moody, one of White's customers,
"the best way to find out what somebody's doing is to look and see how
they do it. And when the changes are coming every two beats, what musicians now
call 'Coltrane changes,' you have to study them. You can't wing it."
Moody, an
established star five years before Coltrane's name was generally known, first
heard Coltrane before the Miles Davis period and says Trane was playing like
Sonny Stitt and Dexter Gordon. "It was hipper than that," Moody says,
"but that was the sound. He was already exploring new avenues of chord
changes. I heard him in Cleveland playing alto saxophone with a bandleader
name Gay Crosse, and I said, 'damn, who was that cat?' Trane was smokin'. He
had another kind of drive. He sounded different from Charlie Parker and Dexter
and everybody. Then, later when he got into what they called sheets of sound,
he gave us all a hell of a saxophone lesson to work on for a long time to
come."
The "sheets
of sound" aspect of Coltrane's playing was alluded to by Ira Gitler in the liner notes for Traneing
In in 1957, when he enthusiastically wrote of the "...
excruciatingly exhilarating intensity of rapid, exigent runs with their
residual harmonic impact/' Later, Gitler actually applied the phrase to Trane's
solos in discussing "Russian Lullaby" from the 1958 Soultrane
album.
Not all critics
were as admiring as Gitler. John S. Wilson of The New York Times wrote that Coltrane "often plays his tenor
sax as if he were determined to blow it apart, but his desperate attacks almost
invariably lead nowhere." Philip Larkin, the British poet, traditional
jazz enthusiast, and cranky detractor of modern jazz, wrote upon Coltrane's
death, "If he was boring, he was enormously boring. If he was ugly, he was
massively ugly. To squeak and gibber for sixteen bars is nothing; Coltrane
could do it for sixteen minutes, stunning the listener into a kind of hypnotic
state__"
Possibly
considering it praise, The New Yorker's
Whitney Balliett wrote that Coltrane proved "that ugliness, like life, can
be beautiful."
Some musicians
came later than others to what James Moody calls the saxophone lesson. Bill
Perkins, of whom Stan Getz once said, "Perk is playing more than any of
us," was in the 1950s an admired and warmly individual musical offspring
of Lester Young. His solos on the classic album, 2 Degrees East, 3 Degrees West
are among the most lyrical tenor playing of the decade. In recent years, his
work has had a harder edge, more dynamism, and a complex approach to harmony.
Perkins credits the change to a firmer intellectual understanding of the
achievements not only of Coltrane, but of Sonny Rollins and Charlie Parker. His
remarks are interesting for their insight into the change Coltrane's example
worked on a successful veteran musician.
"It's just in
the last ten years that John Coltrane has had a tremendous effect on my
thinking about music," Perkins told me in early 1991. "Before that, I
enjoyed his music peripherally and had great respect for him from the time I
first heard him live."
That was in 1956,
when the Davis quintet played Jazz City on Sunset Boulevard and Western Avenue in Los Angeles . Perkins said the in-person impact of
Coltrane's playing was enormous, as, ultimately, was his example of diligence.
"It felt like
he was struggling. His phrases were short and chopped, whereas Miles was smooth
and flowing, melodically. He was like an engine that was sputtering. But he
would get some things off that were utterly remarkable. It came out in bursts.
I kept listening. A couple of years later, he had made it all come together.
"The experience
was punctuated by the fact that I spoke to him in the back room of the club
that night. I was impressed with what a gentleman he was and how helpful he was
to me about mouthpieces and reeds, the usual saxophonist talk. He was studying
out of Nicolas Slonimsky's* book, a thesaurus of scales. I looked at it and it
didn't mean anything to me. Even today, I go to lesser books on scales because
Slonimsky requires tremendous perseverance. It's strictly dry mathematics.
John went through it and found scales he liked, maybe one out of a hundred that
would work for him. He did a lot of study. He was a serious man.
[*Born in Russia in 1894, Slonimsky was active at the Eastman School and later in Massachusetts and California ; composer, conductor, teacher, author of
deeply difficult theoretical works on music.]
"Slonimsky
was on the Tonight Show a couple of years ago, by the way, and said Coltrane
had made him famous. People all over the world bought his book on the basis of
Coltrane's use of it. Slonimsky said his real intention was to do a
mathematical run-through of every possible scale. But he was being
self-deprecating; he's a great humorist."
I suggested that
many people have accused Coltrane of doing a mathematical run-through of every
possible scale. No, Perkins said. Emphatically, no.
"Personally,
I get tremendous poetry out of his playing. He had a direction. It was so
formidable, so powerful that you feel it today in his music, 20 and 30 years
later. I have to say that it's only in the last four or five years that I've
been able to grasp the harmonic content of what he was doing. Until then, I
hadn't even gotten into scales developing out of chords. That approach frees
you. Now, it makes total sense to me and, obviously, to a whole generation of
younger players. I try not to imitate; it's too late for me to do that because
the influences are all in place. But his sound on the tenor saxophone was so
powerful, it's had its effect."
Shortly after
Coltrane died, the Assembly, the lower house of the California legislature, unanimously approved a
resolution honoring a man it called "a musical genius," certainly a
popular characterization of Coltrane. It is not, however, necessarily an
accurate description or the most fitting tribute. In a stimulating 1978 essay
that accompanied an earlier reissue of some of the recordings in this
compendium, Andrew White took a clear-eyed approach to the proposition that
Coltrane was a genius. Writing from the perspective of his exhaustive Coltrane
scholarship, White implied that to assume that Coltrane's achievements were the
spontaneous products of genius (or, in some circles, of divinity) is to
downgrade or ignore the diligence that made his innovations possible. It is a
much greater recognition of the man, White suggested, to acknowledge him as
"a very diligent and studious player"... “an extremely gifted player
who matched his talent with equal amounts of hard work and of
self-indulgence."
James Moody and
many other musicians recall stories of friends who visited the Coltrane home to
find Trane practicing. His typical greeting procedure was to point out the
refrigerator and the bathroom and return to his labors with the saxophone,
leaving the visitor to entertain himself. In Miles, his autobiography,
Miles Davis tells of Coltrane often playing three sets in a club, then
practicing in his hotel room for three hours while the other band members were
out winding down from the night's work.
Having been
dismissed by his leader because of the undependability that grew out of his
narcotics addiction, there were two momentous events in Coltrane's life, one a
redemption, the other an epiphany. Shocked by the firing and disgusted with himself,
he stayed at his mother's house in Philadelphia and painfully kicked the drug habit, cold
turkey. (Davis did Coltrane three great favors. He hired
him, he fired him, and he gave him his first soprano saxophone.)
About shedding his
addiction, Coltrane told Ralph J. Gleason in 1961: "I went through a
personal crisis, you know, and I came out of it. I felt so fortunate to have
come through it successfully, that all I wanted to do, if I could, would be to
play music that would make people happy. That's basically all I want to do. But
so many other things come in along the way and I often forget that. I let
technical things surround me so often that I kind of lose sight. I can't keep
them both together, you know. Maybe, if I think of it more, I may be able to
find a way, a path to follow...."
Then came the
epiphany that put him on the path. Trane began a six-month association with
Thelonious Monk.
The conventional
wisdom is that during their long engagement at the Five Spot Cafe in New York , Monk brought out in Coltrane the
qualities that took him from accomplishment to greatness. There is little
reason to doubt the conventional wisdom. The gift, the dedication, the hard
work and study, the searching that had the qualities of a mythic quest; all of it
coalesced that summer. In the heat of this compressed development, suddenly
those secondary dominants Yusef Lateef talks about began to be applied with
great complexity in longer and longer solos, played with increasing confidence.
Monk fed Coltrane’s
capacity for vertical improvisation, for exploring all of the possibilities in
a chord, for organized flows of notes so crowded it seemed incredible that they
were coming from one instrument. Indeed, one note at a time wasn't enough for
Coltrane, and he said that Monk was the one who showed him how to make two or
three at once, a feature technically known as multiphonics that he used
increasingly in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Otherwise, Coltrane was sketchy
in his description of what he gained from Monk, except for his celebrated paean
in a Down Beat interview in 1960:
"Working with
Monk brought me close to a musical architect of the highest order. I felt I
learned from him in every way—through the senses, theoretically, technically.
I would talk to Monk about musical problems and he would sit at the piano and
show me the answers by playing them. I could watch him play and find out the
things I wanted to know. Also, I could see a lot of things I didn't know at the
time."
From at least the
time he joined Miles Davis in 1955, Coltrane was a player of extraordinary concentration
and intensity. After Monk, the intensity took on a Monkish aspect that had as
much to do with improvising on themes as with using harmonic changes. That
approach was some of what Coltrane absorbed during his half-year with Monk. It
was a method that would meld into the improvisation on modes and scales that Davis was to perfect in his sextet from 1958
through 1960 and that was to have so profound an impact on Coltrane. But in early
1958, Coltrane's primary legacy from the Monk relationship seemed to have been
assurance. All but swaggering, he moves through songs, at any tempo, with none
of the frustration and groping sensed in some of his early solos with the Davis quintet.
As for those long
solos, objects of criticism and even derision, Coltrane had ambivalent feelings
about them. He told Ralph Gleason, "...if I'm going to take an hour to say
something I can say in ten minutes, maybe I'd better say it in ten minutes then
have another horn there and get something else.... I wanted to expand myself
musically because I've been soloing for years, and that's about all, and I feel
a need to learn more about the production of music and expression and how to do
things musically. I could really go on just playing like I am now, I mean I
enjoy it, playing that long. It does me a lot of good to play until I don't
feel like playing any more, though I've found out I don't say that much
more."
Friends and
musical contemporaries inevitably remember Coltrane for his warmth and
gentleness, his musical gift, and his hard work and study even through periods
of ill health and destructive habits. Others heard or read into his music
things that made him a symbol of their yearnings. The Vietnam war and the black
struggle in American were at their most intense during the years immediately
preceding and following the death of Coltrane.
The legend of
Coltrane created since 1967 exists alongside his music as if on a separate
plane. It is of a divinely inspired mystic with an appropriately mystical name,
Ohnedaruth, who ultimately transcended music to deliver to the world a
spiritual message of love and salvation. In the late 1960s and early 70s, I saw
in the pads of youngsters in San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury and the French
Quarter of New Orleans shrines with the centerpiece a print of the cover
photograph from Coltrane's album A Love Supreme. Coltrane became a
convenient object of the search for heroes, for martyrs. In San Francisco in the early 1980s, the One Mind Temple
Evolutionary Church of Christ distributed to schools loaves of bread bearing
Coltrane's picture. It was called the daily bread. The church's leader said his
congregation saw Coltrane as "the will of God, the incarnation truth."
In light of the
comfort thus gained, it may be of no real importance beyond the satisfaction of
accuracy that (except for his very real religious conviction toward the end
of his life) during his 12 years of living fame all that Coltrane said he
aspired to was to be the best musician he could become. He told Ralph Gleason
in that 1961 interview that when it came to opinions on virtually anything, he
inevitably took a middle position, usually saying nothing. He told Ralph that
all of his conviction and aggressiveness was expressed in his playing.
Coltrane's solos
had grandeur, passion, frenzy, conviction, fervor, inner peace. People seize
upon such attributes in art and transmute them into emotional and intellectual
capital that they can spend to satisfy their own needs. It is a tribute to the
power of music and a commentary on the human condition that after Coltrane
died he became the metaphoric representative of a range of concerns rooted in
politics, class and ethnic aspirations, longings for faith, searches for
ideologies.
The legend created
disciples. Many of them were saxophonists who chose as their entry point in
music the arena of freedom from the conventions of harmony, rhythm, and form in
which Coltrane was searching during his final years. Lacking their idol's
encyclopedic musical knowledge, his work ethic, his capacity for painstaking
study and practice, they thrashed about in imitation of the playing of his free
period. Some worked through the engulfing influence of Coltrane to develop
individual means of expression. Others continue to flail.
For all of his
innovations, his speed and technique, his harmonic and rhythmic mastery, in
the final analysis the most gripping aspect of Coltrane's playing was its vocal
quality, its incredibly human sound. Most laymen who love Coltrane's playing
wouldn't know a secondary dominant from a rim shot; his music pulls at them
because it speaks to them. During the period of searching and growth
represented by the recordings in this collection, he sustained an effusion of
humanity and warmth. By December 1958, when his Prestige connection ended
("Time After Time" was the ultimate Prestige track), the "sheets
of sound" phase was coming up. There are hints of its development in
places in these recordings: strongly in "Little Melonae," as an
example, and, most emphatically, in "Lover.”
In his remarkable
blues solo on "By the Numbers” Coltrane both affirms his roots and
announces a new direction, making harmonic leaps more daring than anything he
attempted on either take of the August 1957 blues variously titled "Slowtrane"
and "Trane's Slo Blues.” By the time of "Bahia ," in late 1958, he was running out of
patience with the standard song form as a vehicle for improvisation. His
energies were increasingly directed into modal and scalar channels that would
lead him to some of the most expansive and, ultimately, mysterious creative
expression in all of jazz. "Bahia "
and "Goldsboro Express" present Coltrane still working within the
song form, and he practically explodes it. In the ballads of the period, he
caresses the melodies and embellishes the chords as if preparing to bid them a
reluctant farewell.
In an interview on
Swedish radio shortly before he left Miles Davis for the last time, Coltrane
was asked about charges by critics that his music was "unbeautiful"
and angry. "Do you feel angry?" the interviewer asked.
"No, I
don't," Coltrane replied. "Maybe it sounds angry because I'm trying
so many things at one time. I haven't sorted them out. I have a whole bag of things
I'm trying to work through and get the one essential. There are some set things
that I know, some harmonic devices that will take me out of the ordinary path
if I use them. But I'm not familiar enough with them yet to take the one single
line through them. So I play all of them, trying to acclimate my ear so I can
hear.
"Tonewise, I
would like to be able to produce a more beautiful sound, but now I'm primarily
interested in trying to work what I know down into a more lyrical line —That's
what I mean by beautiful... so that it can be more easily understood."
Coltrane was asked
how the association with Davis had influenced his style. His answer was typically
generous.
"It has led
me into most of the things I'm doing now. I've been so free here, that almost
anything I want to try, I'm welcome to do it. The freedom has helped me to
experiment."
A couple of
stories about Miles and Coltrane on the stand apply to the freedom principle.
On one occasion, irritated by the long bombardment of a tenor solo, Davis asked Coltrane why he went on at such
length.
"It took that
long to get it all in," said Coltrane, an answer that satisfied Miles.
Another time, another marathon solo, another Davis question about duration, another Coltrane
answer: "Sometimes, I just don't seem to be able to stop."
"You might
try taking the horn out of your mouth," Davis said, apparently good-naturedly; with
Miles, you're never quite sure.
Coltrane's idioms
and innovations of the 1950s now flow as a primary current of the mainstream of
music. Even casual listeners can respond to the incandescence and human feeling
in his work. But in pieces like "Black Pearls" and 'The
Believer" there are strings of sixteenth notes, complete with secondary
dominants, ripped off with such precision and passion that it is not difficult
to understand why Coltrane's music seemed forbidding to laymen first hearing
it, let alone to other saxophonists. There had never been anything like it.
Finally, of
course, looking for what he described in his final years as a "universal
sound," Coltrane set aside the standard song in favor of approaches that
freed him from the strictures of traditional forms. In light of the bursting
force and rushing ideas to be heard here, it was probably inevitable that he
would have to work outside the song form. But it was the very struggle against
containment by the pieces he played that resulted in the tension that
contributes so greatly to the attraction of the work of his middle period. Even
in the supreme relaxation of a ballad like "I See Your Face Before
Me," there is a certain impatience and sense of urgency as he begins to
rummage through the chords for possibilities.
In less than five
years from his debut with Miles Davis, Coltrane moved from virtual obscurity to
acclaim as the tenor saxophone innovator of the decade. With his own quartet,
he became a hero of the free jazz movement, although he had relatively little
in common with other figures in the movement. By 1965 he had become a cult
idol. Following the coherence and spiritual peak of his 1964 album A
Love Supreme, he moved deeper into personal and musical mysticism. His
performances began to be dominated by percussion. He took up chanting.
His great quartet
with McCoy Tyner, Elvin Jones, and Jimmy Garrison dissolved. Coltrane was often
surrounded by sidemen who were not qualified to be in his company. His music
had virtually become pure energy. For the most part, it was impenetrable.
Nonetheless, he was still capable of focusing. As late as February of 1967, in
a duo album of free music with the drummer Rashied Ali, his playing had
astounding clarity and power, and the lyricism he mentioned in the interview in
Sweden .
When the last of
the sessions in the album at hand were recorded, Coltrane had ascended to a level
of artistic development attained by few musicians. He had rejoined Davis in that incredible sextet with Cannonball
Adderley, Bill Evans, Paul Chambers, and Philly Joe Jones. The influence of the
concept made real in the Kind of Blue album was to set Coltrane on a course
that took him to "Giant Steps," "My Favorite Things,"
"A Love Supreme," and the search for further revelation that he was
on when he died.
To those who
worship Trane as a burning prophet, I commend his playing of the second half of
the 1950s for its humor and humanity; to the instrumentalists who think that
music started with Coltrane and that Coltrane started with freedom, for its
discipline; and to listeners in search of agony, for its lyricism and beauty.
In 1962, I asked
John Coltrane for an interview. He declined.
"I can't
explain anything,” he said. "It's all in the music. Come to the club and
hear the music."
It's all in the music.
- Doug Ramsey
It's all in the music.
- Doug Ramsey
Doug Ramsey is a
longtime annotator, reviewer, and observer of the jazz scene. He is the author
of Jazz
Matters: Reflections on the Music and Some of Its Makers (University of
Arkansas Press; 1989). This book also includes Doug's Coltrane/Prestige essay. More recently, Doug authored TAKE FIVE : The Public and Private Lives of Paul
Desmond [Seattle : Parkside, 2005].
Doug’s blog can be
located at http://www.rifftides.com/
Here’s the link to
the Amazon page for ordering the Coltrane/Prestige set: http://www.amazon.com/The-Prestige-Recordings-John-Coltrane/dp/B000000ZC3/.
And you’ll find
the Coltrane/Prestige set on the Concord Music Group site via this link: http://www.concordmusicgroup.com/albums/The-Prestige-Recordings/.