Coltrane: On Green Dolphin Street
Looking into jazz music in its pinnacle years is an exercise in peering into the web of silkworms and drawing out the resemblances and nuances of our soul – from sublime simplicity to great profundity, where it starts and where it ends is anybodys guess. But that’s the intense fun of it all – it’s the art form of those who enjoy the element of fantasy, crave the avant garde and hold an inner child waiting to come out. When listening attentively we let ourselves drift into the craft, into the mastery of the music carried on impulse and whim of consciousness. The emotion arrives so quintessentially that we needn’t a notepad and pen to ponder it later; we live in the moment of the movement and comprehend its universal language. Meanwhile the surface simplicity, with its infinite variety, probes us, programs us with its basic code. We know in the moment of the music – when snares fall, when the smoke rises into the air, when the whiskey swirls over ice-cubes, we imagine a bitterly cold evening where rain sweeps on sidestreets. In our minds’ eye, we imagine the scales yielding rapture, the hammering of ivory keys indenting notes in our hearts, bass lines tugging at time, reminding us, pleasantly, of the passing moment. Class, creed, race are suspended in an ectoplasm, replaced by the dissonant hum, lost in the rift of the sonorous song.
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