As a listening mind, you'd think God was dead and Coltrane is - at best - also dead thus ascending in a flurry of failed resurrections, maugre all those silent angelic balls of light in badly rendered Hollywood shitstorms. You'd think that he finally found his cartridges empty in some muddy pit following the stench of a drunkard - God or not, by then it was all the same - so I chose to follow his (foot/blue)prints in a way deemed societally wrong. And I have found an unchristian god with no capitals teeming with emptiness in everything which is why I'm a sidewinding idiot all the time. I'd have eaten static right off the screen had I heard comprehensive music, some familiar love song, cheap and loveless, but you can't hear shit in the middle of the woods. And later, you can't see shit. He found that he was biologically predetermined not to hear or see. Not destined, predetermined. He was not destined to do anything, so he was destined to do everything in contra-predetermined cathartic postdetermination for a non-annihilationist destiny where the day was still beautiful as described by Andrew Hill, who had no doubt seen an ascension or ascended himself. What he's trying to say is: realize what you know before it's too late.
I'm as witty as an asscension. (break)
Most people went ahead and compared it to Ornette Coleman's Free Jazz, but if we all followed each other then we'd just end up running in circles.
A Love Supreme
They call this one the one. Coltrane comes pretty close to the title - you know, it's as much as we could ask of any man / woman. Even that asshole Bono likes it, but for god's sake don't let it put you off. Coltrane's prayer levitates in-between God's giant and smaller steps and the unquestionable unknown chaos that had spiraled downward from the heavens into his prophetic fingers and mad lips. It is the vinyl spinning 'twixt his buttcheeks, the most beautiful excrement propelled by a raging flush through the toilette that is the global human consciousness.
I tore pages out of the New Testament and slapped a sticker of Paul Gascoigne on the front-cover. I got drunk and I tore those pages and I let them rain all over and around me like a flock of gulls on their cloudy-blue deathbed 'cause I saw myself in Coltrane sullenly circle-spreading petals of his withered hopes when nothing came back except rain.
Impressionist music, this jazz, sure. I can tell because I see all the nervous, unhappy brushstrokes and composition such as to make one unable to understand which way to listen, from where, what angle, how to position one's ears that grow older and wiser with every note anyway. It's like walking a long long walk, when you have loads of time to think and you inspect the environment thoroughly. At one point all the ground is obviously blue and there are patches of grass on the clouds. At another point you're the blue thing and below you are the deepest depths of the sea of you. Memories afloat as we reflect in images - some we are proud of, some we shun and they eat us up inside. Just like that, madly impressed he gives it his all, but John is still blue after the rain. Maybe some memory-tree he couldn't bring himself to cut down, growing in the middle of the room.
One day he climbs that tree, finds himself lying all tar-stained on the roof, watching the sun go up and down, losing it in-between. 'Cause hey, there are certainties which will never cease to amaze, leaving an everlasting impression of awe.
Let me tell you something-
John Coltrane is Claude Monet. (break)
At 6AM I was sitting in the tenement hallway playing with a big fat cat. How awesome is that? It's a solid-shape communist era building, but let me tell you something else; I don't hear any army choirs lately, for the times they are a-changin'. For better or worse, who knows, but I hear those two go hand in hand.
Listen to Tunji. How do you describe that shit? I mean, how do you describe the atmosphere? I'll tell you how - goddamn cyberpunk, Blade Runner or something, 6 years before Dick wrote the first one off his drug-crazed mind, 20 years before Scott screened his best movie ever, 22 years before Neuromancer mindfucked sci-fi like a giant mecha fucking up the unhappy contra-cultural rollercoaster hurtin' for a soulmate, 32 years before the unmistakable Global Communication seventy-six-minutes-fourteen-seconds-long imagist scene straight back from the Kenji Kawai soundtrack riddled future (and, well, past), 41 years after Zamyatin spat out the truth about We all mad on maths and love and the insanely beautiful combination of the two (fuck you Huxley, and fuck even you, Orwell; fuck you), a goddamn 93 years after Dostoyevsky cried out for sweet Jesus and killed sweet Jesus in existential futility. I'm saying that Coltrane was the prophet at the top of the skyscraper, man. He dreamt of dystopian landscapes and megastructural industry and Africa in smoke spirals from the old Earth-heart of darkness Yeats could never even imagine.