I still remember the first time I heard Bobby Hutcherson on record. I was 16 and taking advantage of our great library system in Montgomery County which for strange reasons that I'll never understand had a bunch of Blue Note discs which were never taken out by anyone except a close friend and I. I had heard that Eric Dolphy's Out to Lunch was one of those masterful albums that could help me understand the new jazz, so naturally I got it out. When I put it on that wonderful dissonance touched me in a strange way and I knew immediately that these guys were speaking to me. Afterwards I did seek out the many gems where Bobby adds his distinctive touch to the multitude of ensembles he collaborated on: Iron Man with Dolphy;Idle moments with Grant Green; Judgement! and Andrew!!! with Andrew Hill; Firebirds with Prince Lasha and Sonny Simmons; Destination Out with Jackie Mclean; Evolution with Grachan Moncur; Time for Tyner with McCoy; and of course his own discs from this era which include Dialogue and Happenings! And that is only scratching the surface. A musician who could appeal to many diverse sensibilities and who consistently delivered thoughtful music and solos throughout his 50 year career. Ciao, Bobby.
Mr. Hutcherson produced a singularly beautiful sound on the vibraphone, a resonating metal-and-wood percussion instrument used mostly for novelty effect until jazz musicians like Lionel Hampton made it swing in the 1930s. The lyrical bebopper Milt Jackson made it sing with a richness, warmth and grit that inspired a kid from Pasadena to take up the vibraphone and expand its expressive range.
Mr. Hutcherson came of age in the tumultuous 1960s, playing vital, original music with Hancock and Tyner — with both of whom he continued to make memorable music over the decades — trumpeter Freddie Hubbard, the avant-garde reed man Eric Dolphy and other brilliant young players and composers associated with Blue Note records.
A master of harmony who could accompany like a pianist with a pair of red-tipped mallets in each hand and fly high as a soloist, Mr. Hutcherson struck those metal bars in a way that made them ring with uncommon intensity and tenderness — earthy and celestial.
He unleashed joyously unbounded solos shaped on the fly with long ribbons of melody, bluesy ostinatos and the declamatory single tones he hammered out with a slicing body English that made them shimmer and swell.
He could also play ballads sublimely, the way he does with “I Loves You Porgy” on his 1994 duet recording with Tyner, “Manhattan Moods,” by sounding the melody with little or no embellishment.
“I’ve always loved playing with Bobby,” Rollins said in a 2012 Chronicle article. “He’s a consummate musician and extremely gifted in jazz improvisation. It’s always been fun, enlightening and intellectually challenging playing with Bobby, and always emotional as well.”
Known for his sly wit and lack of guile, Mr. Hutcherson was “a very honest person,” Rollins went on, “like (Thelonious) Monk was. Bobby couldn’t play the way he did without that honesty.”
Mr. Hutcherson was born in Pasadena and grew up in its vibrant African American community. His father, Eli, was a master mason — he crafted the big fireplace in the cozy Montara home Mr. Hutcherson built with royalties from his funky 1970 hit “Ummh” — and his mother, Esther, a hairdresser.
His sister Peggy was a singer who did a stint as a Ray Charles Raylette. His older brother Teddy was a bricklaying jazz fan who listened to records with his buddy Dexter Gordon, the virile saxophonist with whom Bobby would later record, and with whom he acted in Bernard Tavernier’s 1986 film “’Round Midnight” (Mr. Hutcherson first appeared onscreen in 1969 as the bandleader in “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?”).
Mr. Hutcherson, who’d played some piano and absorbed the music at the First African Methodist Episcopal Church, found his calling one summer day in 1955 as he strolled down Pasadena’s Lincoln Avenue and heard the sound of Milt Jackson’s grooving vibes wafting from a record shop. He bought the album, “Miles Davis All Stars, Vol. 2,” and wore it out.
“The way Milt played made me feel like I had money in my pocket,” Mr. Hutcherson recalled in 2012. “It was so satisfying. The sound was warm and round. I’d heard Lionel Hampton and Red Norvo before, but Milt really spoke to me. He played those long lines, and it was very soulful, very talking-to-you. I thought I could duplicate that. It took me a long time to realize that those are Milt’s cookies, leave ’em alone.”
Mr. Hutcherson, who in high school jammed with smart young L.A. musicians like Dolphy and saxophonist Charles Lloyd, baked his own cookies after moving to New York in the early ’60s. He drove a cab to support himself, his first wife, Beth Buford — their interracial romance had stirred some friction in Pasadena — and their infant son, Barry, for whom Mr. Hutcherson wrote the classic jazz waltz “Little B’s Poem.”
He connected with other creative musicians who were expanding the language of jazz, performing as a sideman and leader on a batch of classic Blue Note recordings, including Dolphy’s wild “Out to Lunch,” Grant Green’s bluesy “Idle Moments” and Hutcherson keepers like 1966’s “Happenings,” which includes spellbinding performances of Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage” and Mr. Hutcherson’s “Bouquet” (Hancock, who’s on piano, joined Mr. Hutcherson and bassist Ron Carter in 1985 to reprise “Bouquet” in a splendid live performance available on YouTube).
After a pot bust, Mr. Hutcherson, who quit dope and drinking two decades ago, lost his New York cabaret card and taxi license. He moved back to Los Angeles, forming a band with saxophonist Harold Land and later settling in San Francisco, where a friend had opened the Both/And club. He fell in love with the woman taking tickets, Rosemary Zuniga, who became his second wife.
An international star and pride of the Bay Area jazz world, Mr. Hutcherson found respite from the road in Montara, where he grew dahlias and tulips and hung out with family and friends such as the late, great San Francisco drummer Eddie Marshall. He could be counted on to perform at benefits for musicians in need, playing with the same passion whatever the occasion.
“Bobby can play one note and generate 10 times more energy than someone who would play 50 notes in that space,” Stefon Harris, one of many vibraphonists inspired by Mr. Hutcherson and the one who followed him in the SFJazz Collective, said in 2012.
“He took this pile of metal and wood and really turned it into a vehicle to express his individuality. He transcended the instrument.”
The celebrated saxophonist Joshua Redman played with Mr. Hutcherson in the Collective’s first incarnation in 2004.
“We talk a lot about how music expresses universal values, experiences and feelings. But you don’t often witness that so clearly and so profoundly as you do with Bobby,” Redman said in 2012. “His music expresses the joy of living. He connects to the source of what music is about.”
itting in his sun-dappled yard one afternoon, Mr. Hutcherson put it this way:
“Eric Dolphy said music is like the wind. You don’t know where it came from and you don’t know where it went. You can’t control it. All you can do is get inside the sphere of it and be swept away.”
Guitar.com: What do you remember most about growing up in Mississippi?
Otis Rush: It was tough, man. It was a struggle to go to school, even no longer than I went. To eat, to live was hard. We were sharecroppers. That's when you don't own your own place but you want to make some kind of living, you know, so you had to go to the white man's place and sharecrop with him and work his land. He'd furnish your tools or whatever you need, and at the end of the year, out of the crop, he'd get half of it. And all of the costs and the wear and tear, I gotta pay that outta my half. I just get what's left. You'd have very little left, sometimes not enough
Guitar.com: You first learned to play on your brother's acoustic. Did he teach you anything?
Rush: I learned to play by myself. Nobody helped me. Nobody teached me. That's why I play left-handed. If somebody would have been there to teach me how to play the right way, I would have had my strings strung up the right way. But nobody was there, so I learned a note here and a note there, and here I am, still trying to learn.
Guitar.com: You must have found religion when you arrived in Chicago and started seeing people like Muddy Waters in person.
Rush: Each time I went, I could hear 'em from outside before I walked in the club. And I was always like, 'That's a record playin'!' But I'd walk in and see 'em playin' on stage, and man, I just froze right there.
Guitar.com: Although you'd learned about the guitar in Mississippi, did these club shows provide more inspiration?
Rush: Man, after one of those first shows, I went home a bought me a little, cheap guitar called a Kay. That amplifier was so light, you'd play a note and it would almost jump off the floor and dance. I'd start practicing, and I just went from there. I started tryin' to make those sounds that they was makin'. I was up on the third floor [of his sister's apartment] of 3101 Wentworth in Chicago, South Side. The neighbors wanted to call the police on me, mad at me for making that noise. I was like, 'Man, I'm tryin' to learn how to play this guitar like Muddy Waters!'
Guitar.com: You've crossed paths with so many guitar legends. How did they affect your playing abilities?
Rush: You learn from listening to any guitar player. If you're interested in learning about music, you just pick up things from each one. And from that, you put it into your style. But you don't forget those particular notes, so you make up your own song. We all play like each other in a sense. If we all had to play our own music, there wouldn't be too many musicians. [laughs]
Guitar.com: After a lifetime of this, what comes next?
Rush: I'm gonna keep recording and gigging, and keep tryin' to learn how to play my guitar and sing. You never learn it all. There's always something to learn. I don't care if you're the greatest, there's always something to learn on that instrument. You know what I mean?
I met Julius Eastman in early 1981. We were both hired to be vocalists in a theatre piece by Jim Neu for which Hugh Levick was writing the music. At the first 10 a.m. rehearsal, Julius showed up in black leather and chains, drinking scotch! Julius, while externally outrageous and almost forbidding, was genuinely generous and warm, and not unkind. He was brutally honest, which doomed him (as well as many others) in a field which, if not dishonest, certainly is not forthcoming and can be surprisingly timid and conformist (and which has become increasingly so since that time).
In the fall of 1998, I was asked to teach a course in composition at Cal Arts for "real" instruments. I thought a really interesting approach would be to focus on music for multiples—pieces written for four or more of one instrument—and one piece for multiple cellos that I knew I wanted to include was Julius's The Holy Presence of Joan d'Arc (Joan) for ten cellos. I had attended the premiere of it at The Kitchen in 1981, and I loved its energy and sound. Thus began an almost quixotic seven-year search for the music of Julius Eastman who died in 1990 and whose final years were a life spiraled out of control to the point where he was living in Tompkins Square Park. He'd been evicted from his apartment in the East Village—the sheriff having dumped his possessions onto the street. Julius made no effort to recover any of his music. Various friends, though, upon hearing of this, tried to salvage as much as they could. Most was probably lost.
One of the problems of writing about Julius is that it is difficult to state anything with certainty. A lot of the information out there, if not contradictory, has slightly different details. Julius Eastman (born in 1940) was a gay African-American composer of works that were minimal in form but maximal in effect, who had a life of minimal possessions combined with outrageous behavior. He was also an incredible performer (vocalist and pianist), best known for singing on the 1973 Grammy-nominated Nonesuch recording of Peter Maxwell Davies's Eight Songs for a Mad King. Raised in Ithaca, New York, where from an early age he was a paid chorister, he started studying piano at fourteen and was playing Beethoven after only six months of lessons. He went to Ithaca College for a year, then transferred to Curtis as a piano major where he studied with Mieczyslaw Horzowski but soon switched to composition. Although best known as a vocalist, he never formally studied voice. While at Ithaca College, in the course of accompanying dance, he also took up choreography, and eventually choreographed dances to some of his compositions. In 1968 he moved to Buffalo where he was a member of the Creative Associates, which was under the leadership of Lukas Foss and later Morton Feldman. While in Buffalo, he performed and toured music by many of the most prominent contemporary composers, as well as had his own music performed. He eventually moved to New York City, where he was associated with the Brooklyn Philharmonic, then also led by Foss. Julius performed in jazz groups with his brother, Gerry, a guitarist and bass player in many jazz ensembles, including the Count Basie Orchestra. (The only work by Julius registered with the U.S. Copyright Office is as a lyricist, with his brother listed as composer.)
Looking over what has been written about him, I notice a number of misperceptions. For instance, Tom Johnson, who wrote so well about the New York Downtown scene for the Village Voice during the seventies and early eighties, wrote in 1976 that Julius was a performer discovering his voice as a composer by writing pieces that he could perform. However, Julius had been writing ensemble pieces that were widely admired before that time. Even though the pieces had quite a lot of performances, perhaps they hadn't been performed in New York, or Tom hadn't attended those concerts. I have a feeling that once Julius left Buffalo, he didn't have a ready group of musicians to perform his work any more, so he started to write pieces that he could perform. Indeed, a look at his list of compositions shows that his earliest pieces were for solo piano, and then, once he got to Buffalo, he wrote compositions for ensembles and/or instruments that he didn't play.
Another observation that I've made is that once he left Buffalo, the tone of the titles of his pieces started to change, from The Moon's Silent Modulation (1970) to If You're So Smart, Why Aren't You Rich (1977), Evil Nigger (1979), etc. Not only had Julius left the protective and nurturing environment of Buffalo, but in New York the divisions between Uptown and Downtown were more evident, and Julius was caught between both worlds. He had a foot in both camps. He appeared with the Brooklyn Philharmonic and performed works by Hans Werner Henze and Peter Maxwell Davies. Meanwhile, he was also performing and/or conducting with Downtown composers such as Meredith Monk, Peter Gordon, and Arthur Russell. Evan Lurie, who studied composition with Julius, told me that Julius insisted on clear penmanship when writing scores, the correct way to notate music, which materials to use, etc., while at the same time producing scores that could test the patience of a saint to figure out.
I didn't know Julius all that well, but I did have conversations with him about composers of that time, and he was dismissive of a lot of them. I think that what it boiled down to was integrity.
Along came a Peruvian duo with a very long name, Dengue Dengue Dengue!, in 2011, and a project to release a new sonic-selfhood or indigenismo. Read Simon Bolivar’s “Letter From Jamaica” where he denounces the killings of the continents previous landowners but also the limits placed on persons like himself born in the Americas by Spaniards and you will understand how serious indigenismo is: reason for revolution.
They are young but they are proud. They are also cosmopolitans and would like to meld the world into Peruvian sound and song. For the cover of their most recent release Siete Raices, the name of a Peruvian punch beverage that is an aphrodisiac, they wear masks, as many non western cultures, including those of tribes native to the Americas, do. Like their name, dengue is the name of a fever, the album screams “Feverrr!” as La Lupe does so on her recordings spectacularly. It is an album of 9 songs, each a gem of ambient, sultry, electronic, clinical rhythm, layers of instrumentation, and sometimes singing.
The songs are fun but their intent is clear: these are cultural songs that seek to replenish nation and culture. “Guarida” is a plunge of song – there is text and grave singing to the rhythm that we are introduced to slowly but surely. “Dubcharaca” also begins slowly to quickly move into dance-able excitement. Listening to “Amazonia” is a walk through a world somewhat psychedelic but maybe indigenous. “Badman” is a great dance song.
With radio length for each song and through intricate layering on facile rhythm to a time of heightened affordable hedonism but also of public dissent, this duo offers their native culture modernity and complexity and us the ability to feel cosmopolitan Peru.
“Music, uniquely among the arts, is both completely abstract and profoundly emotional. It has no power to represent anything particular or external, but it has a unique power to express inner states or feelings. Music can pierce the heart directly; it needs no mediation. One does not have to know anything about Dido and Aeneas to be moved by her lament for him; anyone who has ever lost someone knows what Dido is expressing. And there is, finally, a deep and mysterious paradox here, for while such music makes one experience pain and grief more intensely, it brings solace and consolation at the same time.”
Oliver Sacks, “Lamentations: Music, Madness and Melancholia”
What was your musical upbringing like and how did Meridian Brothers start?
I was educated as a classical guitarist and I studied composition. Later I specialized in electronic and electroacoustic music, and in recent years I've been involved in the new Colombian music movement as a producer, teacher and musician. I formed Meridian Brothers around 1998 as a solo project. I begun recording on cassettes overdubbing myself with several instruments in a kind of experimental pop style.
After a while I begun to experiment with traditional music from Colombia, changing the style and guiding it towards Latin influences such as Caribbean music and styles of the interior of the country.
Since this beginning I’ve worked alone in the studio and then put together the music for the live situation with the band. The group consist of María Valencia (sax, percussion, clarinet), Alejandro Forero (keyboards and electronics), César Quevedo (bass), Damián Ponce de León (drums) and Juan Camilo Montañez / Mauricio Baez as sound technicians. For me these are two different languages, the live set and the studio set. So far with Meridian Brothers I've released six studio albums, a compilation and three singles and we've done several tours around Europe, U.S and Latin America.
Your latest record ‘Los Suicidas’ draws on a very specific musical history. Can you explain?
It's a project dedicated to the organ. I was inspired by the ambient Hammond organists in Latin America, a style that developed in parallel to easy listening music genres in 60’s & 70’s. Organists from Colombia, Ecuador, Mexico, Panamá and Brazil developed a remarkable style performing with backing bands that played traditional instruments, with the organ as the central instrument – in some cases achieving really beautiful results. A sub-genre of organ cumbia was created also. This music is still played at some of the "sonideros" parties in Mexico and is very popular in Ecuador.
Starting from some of these records, I decided to investigate this style, using the timbre of the organ, but developing the style further and turning it into a kind of "impossible organ" music – a kind of un-easy listening. I used the same background instrumentation as was used in some of the tunes I was inspired by: double bass pizzicato, jazz-like drums and the organ (using software and hardware synthesizers). Occasionally, I also used drum machines and other electronic sounds. Because it's very difficult to play it on the organ alone, I used the sequencing capabilities of Ableton Live and Max for Live in order to achieve this "impossible" sound I wanted.
The record features some very intricate rhythms, how did you go about programming them?
Each organ voice goes on one track. The idea behind this is to simulate a three-manual organ. However, each of the manuals is actually a different synthesizer / sound, so each track sends MIDI to a different software or hardware synthesizer. I use a Dave Smith Mopho x4 analog synthesizer, a Nord Lead Synthesizer, an MFB analog monophonic Synthesizer and other synths, programmed in Max/MSP. All the instruments are sequenced and performed in Live.
The different parts are all polyrhythms. This is an interest I’ve had for some years, and I often compose melodies at different speeds and time signatures, but related to a master tempo. This effect actually divides the perception of the music, giving it an unusual effect, like something familiar but moving faster or slower than expected. Some of the melodies are played, some others are programmed (the very difficult ones!). For these I made a sketch of the composition in MIDI (via Sibelius) and then completed everything, playing and recording in Live.
Why did you choose mostly acoustic percussion sounds?
The format these organists usually use is a small traditional percussion or drums, bass (acoustic most of the times) and the Hammond organ. I decided to follow this idea by playing a jazz-like drum set, some other percussion – both electronic and acoustic, and a cello, to make the bass parts in pizzicato. All in order to imitate this sound which seems is very particular and interesting to me.
What is the significance of the title ‘Los Suicidas’?
Actually, Los Suicidas is a tequila brand made up (I think) by writer Roberto Bolaño. It's a very strong tequila, and it appeared in a part of the book "Los detectives salvajes" [“The Savage Detectives”]. The passage describes a reunion of three guys, talking about poetry and drinking. I took the name of the album from it.
Rafael Cortijo Verdejo es una de las figuras más innovadoras e importantes para la historiografía musical puertorriquena. Su ingenio marcó un hito en pleno desarrollo de la bomba y la plena, sirviendo de punta de lanza para el posterior surgimiento del sonido de la salsa. Cortijo nació el 11 de diciembre de 1928, en la calle Colón de la parada 21 de Santurce. Aprendió a dar toques de tambor en rumbas callejeras, sin realizar estudios en música. Aun así, fue un sabio de la tumbadora y desarrolló un estilo único con destrezas nunca antes escuchadas entre los músicos de la época. Innovó en la creación de su combo, introduciendo dos trompetas, dos saxofones, piano y timbales en la ejecución de bombas y plenas, pero reteniendo su sabor tradicional y su base rítmica. "Fue un científico del ritmo y un hombre lleno de ideas. Sus iniciativas (musicales) lo hicieron grande", opina Sammy Ayala, su compadre y uno de sus primeros cantantes. La proyección de su trabajo transportó nuestros ritmos nacionales fuera de los arrabales para situarlos en los mejores escenarios dentro y fuera de Puerto Rico. Sus arreglos musicales -en gran parte trabajados por Quito Vélez- no eran muy elaborados, en cambio su sonoridad devolvió a la percusión el predominio que había perdido por la fuerza que habían adquirido agrupaciones estilizadas, como la Orquesta Siboney y la de Rafael Munoz.
Rafael Cortijo constituyó la primera banda integrada por negros -rompiendo la barrera del racismo- y logró trabajar en los más prestigiosos hoteles de San Juan. Como líder de grupo, Cortijo marcó una nueva etapa de progreso para sus músicos -hasta entonces tratados con indiferencia por su extracción social y racial- e insistió en subirles el salario. Antes, cuenta Sammy Ayala, sólo se pagaba $25 por seis noches por considerarse "músicos de la calle y sin escuela". Con Cortijo llegaron a cobrar hasta $12 por baile. Su propuesta artística fue revolucionaria. Su conjunto fue toda una atracción porque sus integrantes tocaban de pie y los cantantes no paraban de bailar. En los momentos de auge del salón neoyorquino El Palladium -donde se lucía Tito Puente, Machito y sus Afro Cubans y Tito Rodríguez- Cortijo hizo vibrar la sala en cada una de sus actuaciones. A los 14 anos de edad, Rafael Cortijo tocaba congas y bongó en las orquestas de Frank Madera, Miguelito Miranda y Agustín Cohen. También transitó por el Conjunto de las Hermanas Sustache, el Grupo de Monchito Muley, la Orquesta de Parques y Recreos, la Sonora Boricua, Miguelito Miranda, Frank Madera y el Grupo de Mario Román. En 1942 se inició como músico profesional en el Conjunto Monterrey de Juan Palm ("Mentokín") y en 1954 figuró como conguero en el combo del pianista Mario Román. Ese mismo ano, Román se fue de la Isla cediéndole al músico de Santurce los derechos del grupo y su contrato en el sector la Marina de San Juan, surgiendo así Cortijo y su Combo. En 1955 integró al cantante de la Orquesta Panamericana, Ismael Rivera, para que lo acompanara en una grabación con el sello Seeco. El primer álbum fue "Cortijo y su combo: Invites you to dance", en el que aparece como vocalista Nelson Pineda cantando el tema "Zumbador". En esa producción también figura Roy Rosario, el sonero original del grupo, quien interpretó "Conocí a tu papá" y "Amárrala con cadena". Junto a ellos, Sammy Ayala e Ismael Rivera.
In 1965, America was at a turning point. The Beatles played their first stadium concert, Bob Dylan went electric, Malcolm X was assassinated, Martin Luther King marched to Selma, NASA launched probes to the moon and Mars, and men first walked in space. Here in Seattle, the Space Needle had been pointing to the heavens for four years.
And on September 30, saxophonist John Coltrane and his ensemble would weave together all these threads at a 225-seat jazz club on the corner of First Avenue and Cherry Street and make history.
The venue was named the Penthouse, though it was on the ground floor of a ramshackle hotel. Owner Charlie Puzzo, a bartender with a penchant for the promiscuous, liked to name his clubs after nudie magazines. His other bar was called the Playboy.
Puzzo usually booked his favored mainstream jazz artists, like stately but nimble-fingered pianist Oscar Peterson or bossa nova cool saxophonist Stan Getz. But this booking was different. By the time Coltrane arrived in the city for his week-long Penthouse residency, he had been catapulted into the mainstream with a sound that led Downbeat to name him Jazzman of the Year with the Record of the Year, A Love Supreme. But Coltrane wasn’t settling. At the peak of his popularity and having just celebrated his 39th birthday on September 23, Coltrane was veering his band away from that sound, on a mission to ascend levels of consciousness through music.
The night of Monday, September 27, started like any other. At the club’s threshold, a sharply suited Puzzo charismatically ushered elegant audiences over carpeted floors to tables and booths, packing them as densely as possible. The club served beer and wine from a bar at the back, and the long red-brick side walls were dramatically lit in circles of brightness. The ceiling above the elevated stage was covered in mirrored tile so the audience could both look up at the musicians onstage and down on them from above.
At the ebony grand piano perched McCoy Tyner. A prolific composer and arranger, his percussive chords of perfect fourths and fifths defied traditional major and minor modes, allowing his improvised harmonic movement to shift in and out of the expected. At the drums sat the regal Elvin Jones with a toothy grin. His four limbs magically manifested an ensemble of Latin percussionists. It was said that Jones’ swing was so deep that even atomic clocks slowed down or sped up to get into the groove laid down by his size 13EEE feet. He was not subservient to any soloist, but would lift every musical idea with punctuation and propulsion.
Embracing the upright bass was little Jimmy Garrison, whose sound was anything but. He plucked and strummed at the low end of the strings, always colluding, never colliding, with the bottom notes of Coltrane’s tenor saxophone. Caressing a second upright onstage was Donald Garrett. His bow skills contributed long high notes complementing Garrison’s low short ones. He also played clarinet and kalimba. Beside Coltrane stood Pharoah Sanders, also with a tenor saxophone hanging from his neck. A wizard of sound effects, he could purr like a cat or screech like nails on a chalkboard.
In the audience was an old friend of Coltrane’s, saxophonist Joe Brazil. They had met a decade earlier, when Brazil had a house in Detroit and Coltrane came through with trumpeter Miles Davis. Coltrane attended some of the many late-night jam sessions in Brazil’s basement and practiced there during the day. Brazil moved to Seattle in 1961 for a job at Boeing. By the time Coltrane visited Seattle, his first and only visit, Brazil was working as a computer programmer in the Applied Physics Laboratory at the University of Washington. While the rest of the band stayed at a downtown hotel that week, Coltrane moved in with Brazil to work on music and hang out.