A shared resting place for Pharoah Sanders
Autumn is here in the Western hemisphere, and with it the anniversary of the birth of John Coltrane, Sept. 23rd, a jazz holiday I call Coltrane's equinox. It's the season when Black improvised music sounds the most lush, most like itself, as if its acoustics are designed for the late September comedown from summer, a reprieve from the thick, almost discouraging heat. There is something about the texture of the air and the vague amber light in the sky and the idea of the inventors of the style woodshedding in New York clubs around this time, in its nascent years. Fall is when jazz folklore and hagiography make the most sense; a persistent but fleeting beauty, not unlike the music, emerges from the thinning air and won't let up for months. We fall in love under the dread of winter and everything is at once more and
