#Coltrane

There's a moment about forty seconds into Coltrane's "A Love Supreme" where the saxophone becomes something more than an instrument. It's 1964, Van Gelder Studio, and you can hear the room itself breathing—the bass humming beneath like a heartbeat, the piano offering small prayers, and then that horn comes in, not playing notes but speaking in tongues. This isn't music you listen to; it's music that listens to you, finds what's broken and unspoken, and holds it up to the light.

What strikes me each time is Coltrane's commitment to

searching

I first heard Coltrane's

A Love Supreme

in my twenties, sprawled across a threadbare dorm room carpet, headphones pressing against my ears like a secret. The opening bass line—simple, meditative, almost like a prayer—pulled me into a space I didn't know music could create. It wasn't background noise. It was a conversation between Coltrane and something larger than himself, a four-part suite structured like a spiritual pilgrimage. The tenor saxophone didn't just play notes; it searched, yearned, questioned, and ultimately surrendered.