The Coltrane-Flanagan Collection

This morning I submitted a comment on Truthdig to the effect that writing about music and musicians was far better for my spirits than writing about politics and politicians. This gave me a chance to celebrate publicly that the San Francisco Symphony has returned from their Christmas break, and it made me realize how hungry I am to resume attending live performances. So, by way of "priming my pump" for tonight's concert, I have decided to reflect on what some (probably including myself) would regard as one of the most important recordings ever made in the history of jazz.

By way of introduction, my decision to check Eunmi Shim's new book, Lennie Tristano: His Life in Music, out of the San Francisco Public Library reminded me that, some time ago, I had purchased a copy of John Coltrane: His Life and Music, by Lewis Porter, an earlier volume in a series of jazz titles published by The University of Michigan Press. The thing about Coltrane is how radically opinions about him diverge. I am sure there are those who, having been set up by the phrase "one of the most important recordings ever made in the history of jazz," felt an enormous letdown when this paragraph suggested that I was going to be writing about Trane. At the other extreme there are probably those champing at the bit for me to disclose which of the many major recordings of Coltrane I happen to have in mind. Indeed, Porter's book covers both Giant Steps and Kind of Blue in the same chapter because their respective recording sessions are separated by less than twelve months (Giant Steps in early 1959 and Kind of Blue in early 1960). These sessions are also important for the awesome contributions of their respective sidemen (not to mention that Kind of Blue was led by Miles Davis); and, indeed, Porter's account did much to trigger memories of one of those sidemen.

So, to break the suspense, the recording is Giant Steps; and the sideman is pianist Tommy Flanagan. I feel very fortunate to have heard Flanagan not too long before he died. It arose from the happy accident of a business trip to Manhattan with one of my former colleagues. We knew we had the evenings to ourselves, and we knew we had two of them. So my colleague opted for the Alvin Ailey Dance Company at City Center, and I saw that Flanagan was playing with his trio at Birdland. At the time I knew Flanagan more by "historical reputation" than by specific listening experiences. I really wanted to change that, and I am glad I was able to do so before it was too late.

Nevertheless, it took Porter to remind me that Flanagan was the pianist for the tracks released on Giant Steps, as well as of his previous association with Trane. Here is Flanagan's personal memory of Coltrane:

I had heard him with Monk before, and even before he was with Monk I'd heard him with Miles and I knew Paul [Chambers] of course from Detroit. Just from visiting [the Davis band] I got to know Trane, and I loved his playing. For my first record date, I called him—that date they called "The Cats" [Prestige Records, April 18, 1957].

Porter also cites one of Flanagan's more music-specific memories:

I had a song on there ["The Cats"] that was difficult for me, I wrote a piece called "Solacium." But I knew that Trane wouldn't have any problem with it, so I didn't hesitate to bring that to the date. … You know from that point he called me "Maestro" because of that tune, like he thought I could cover anything that he could write.

When I heard him, Flanagan was, indeed, as much of a "Maestro" as any conductor who deserves (or insists on) that sobriquet. Even more interesting was that his age was probably greater than the sum of the ages of the other two members of his trio. Neither of those guys was a "kid," in any sense of the word. One could not possible play the music I heard that night without a strong experience base in not only technique but also the "ear" necessary to comprehend what Flanagan was doing. In a better world I would have known to prepare for this evening before leaving for New York, but I still managed to make do with my own knapsack of comprehension skills.

When I wrote about the series of piano recitals that Marino Formenti gave here in San Francisco in April of 2007, I suggested that he could have organized them in terms of Titans, Olympians and heroes, and men. Within that framework, Porter's book is very much situated in the age of Olympians and heroes, reforging (rather than continuing) a world that Titans like Charlie Parker, Bud Powell, and Dizzy Gillespie had brought into being. If pressed to push the classification further, I suppose I would single out Monk, Miles, and Trane as the Olympians (and, if one wanted to invoke a cross-cultural "Holy Trinity," that would by my Father, Son, and Holy Ghost order). The rest, like Flanagan, Chambers, and Bill Evans are the heroes, ruled by the Olympians but not always following obediently. Unfortunately, when it comes to jazz I suspect I am far more reactionary than I am with classical music, since I find the jazz "men" of today far paler (if not downright boring) than the "men" of Formenti's recitals. If I had to guess at why this is the case, my working hypothesis would be that the composers Formenti presented were as capable of being good listeners as they were of being composers, while too much of today's jazz fails from an inability to listen perceptively not only to what has preceded and endured through recording but also to what is happening among one's fellow performers. I might go so far as to say that too many of today's jazz performers act as if they were in their own echo chamber, but that might lead me to drift back into politics!