newyorker--2020-01-12--Pharoah Sanders: “If You’re in the Song, Keep on Playing”

Jazz musicians have always placed a premium on “ saying something.
” Technique , training , and theory will only get you so far , and may even lead you in the wrong direction ; what matters is the ability to hit on an emotion or an idea that feels at once familiar and revelatory—to speak a common language in a decidedly uncommon way .
From this standpoint , few musicians have said more than the saxophonist Pharoah Sanders .
Born in Little Rock , Arkansas , the son of a school-cafeteria cook and a city employee , Sanders moved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the height of jazz ’ s postwar avant-garde—also known as “ free jazz ” or “ the new thing ” —which was spawned by the late-fifties experiments of the saxophonist Ornette Coleman and the pianist Cecil Taylor .
Sanders ’ s début album , recorded in 1964 for the ESP label , garnered little attention , but his playing caught the ear of John Coltrane .
Coltrane invited Sanders to join his band in 1965 .
The following year , Impulse !
, the label that had been exhaustively documenting Coltrane ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ record as a leader .
The result was the surging and expansive “ Tauhid , ” an album that positioned Sanders as both Coltrane ’ s foremost disciple and an artist with ideas of his own .
Coltrane died in 1967 , and Sanders recorded some with his widow , Alice Coltrane , a multi-instrumentalist and composer , before returning to the studio for Impulse !
two years later , with his own group .
The resulting album , “ Karma , ” set the template for a remarkable five-year run .
While @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had developed an interest in soaring , magisterial melodies , and the rhythms of his recordings , while dense and multi-layered , often hewed toward a steady groove .
He also incorporated unexpected elements : non-Western instruments , yodelling by the sui generis vocalist Leon Thomas .
As the title of “ Karma ” suggests , Sanders , like Coltrane , felt that music had a spiritual dimension .
“ The whole musical persona of Pharoah Sanders is of a consciousness in conscious search of a higher consciousness , ” Amiri Baraka later @ @ @ @ @ @ @ such as “ Jewels of Thought , ” “ Thembi , ” and “ Black Unity , ” extended a musical quest that has now , in one form of another , lasted more than fifty years .
But for someone who has said so much through music , Sanders has said very little to the press , doing only a handful of interviews in the course of his career .
I spoke with Sanders earlier this fall , in Los Angeles , where he had just celebrated his seventy-ninth birthday by playing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ still projects a distinctly Southern brand of soft-spokenness , one that ’ s equal parts humility and aversion to fuss .
Although he is an acknowledged master who has been honored at the Kennedy Center , he speaks of himself—and seems to sincerely regard himself—as just another working musician trying to make a living .
We talked about his beginnings as a musician , his approach to recording over the years , and his collaborations with jazz legends .
But Sanders was more inclined to reflect on the challenge of finding a good @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
What really mattered , it seemed , was his feeling that he could never get it right .
Over the course of the conversation , it became clear that he wasn ’ t being compulsively hard on himself or willfully oblivious .
Rather , he was still searching , possibly for something that he knew he would never find .
The interview has been edited and condensed .
You just had your seventy-ninth birthday—happy birthday !
What keeps you going , musically ?
Why are you still out there touring ?
Well @ @ @ @ @ @ @ living .
I haven ’ t retired .
I ’ m not working that much , but , you know , jobs come through .
What are you trying to accomplish artistically at this point ?
Right now , I don ’ t even know myself !
Your sets these days touch on all the different things you ’ ve explored in your career .
I saw you play in Portland earlier this year , and you played some standards and ballads as well older , more open-ended material , like “ The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 1 from “ Karma.
” I just play whatever I feel like playing .
It ’ s hard to keep a band together these days , so I never know most of the time who ’ s going to be in the band .
Whoever I decide to use , if I can use them , well , that ’ s it !
Let ’ s go back to the beginning .
Before you took up the saxophone , you played the clarinet in church ?
Oh , I didn ’ t know @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clarinet .
I went to church every Sunday , and there was this memo up in church that someone had a metal clarinet .
That person just passed away maybe a few days ago .
He was about ninety-three or ninety-four .
That ’ s how I got my first instrument .
Seventeen dollars !
When did you switch to saxophone ?
Well , in high school I was always trying to figure out what I wanted to do as a career .
What I really wanted to do was play the saxophone—that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ really loved .
I started playing the alto .
It ’ s similar to the clarinet—if you can play the clarinet , you can play the saxophone .
Why did you switch to tenor from alto ?
What did you like about the sound ?
Tenor was the most popular instrument at that time to get work .
I would rent the school saxophone .
You could rent it every day if you wanted to .
It wasn ’ t a great horn .
It was sort of beat-up and out of condition @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I finished high school and went to Oakland , California .
I had a clarinet , and so I traded that for a new silver tenor saxophone , and that got me started playing the tenor .
The minute I bought it , I wanted an older horn , so I traded my new horn for an older model .
I read that you went to Oakland because you were studying art and you were going to go to art school .
I was painting all the time , pictures .
I got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to do all that kind of work .
Have you painted at all since then ?
No , I haven ’ t done anything for many , many years .
I ’ ve wanted to go back into it , but I just haven ’ t .
After just a couple of years in Oakland , you moved to New York .
Had you decided to focus exclusively on music ?
I had to get it all together .
I didn ’ t know enough about lots of things—basic things .
I knew @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in order to get into playing saxophone , because I wanted to play jazz .
So I had to cut out a lot of activities that I was doing and spend more time practicing scales and stuff like that .
Is it true that you were homeless when you first moved to the city ?
I didn ’ t have nowhere to stay .
Everybody was talking about , “ You should go to New York.
” They said , “ That ’ s the place to go !
” So that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ New York .
I hitchhiked a ride to New York .
What year was this ?
So , when you get there , the avant-garde—or whatever you want to call it—is in full swing .
It ’ s been three years since Ornette Coleman ’ s residency2 at the Five Spot.3 Sun Ra has moved the Arkestra4 from Chicago to New York .
Were you following all of this ?
I didn ’ t know what was going on .
I was trying to survive some kind of way .
I used to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , earn five dollars , buy some food , buy some pizza .
I had no money at all .
I used to give blood and make fifteen dollars or ten dollars or whatever .
I had to keep eating something .
But you managed to establish yourself as a musician .
I always wanted to work with my own band , so I got some guys together and started working down in New York , in Greenwich Village .
I could pick up a few little weekend jobs .
You had to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in that band with you , your first band ?
I would ask around for some musicians , and we played—I didn ’ t even hardly know their names .
Was Billy Higgins5 in that band ?
I read that you two knew each other—and that he was homeless , too .
Billy Higgins , he would come around in that location a lot , in the Village .
I met him , and I heard him play .
On occasion , we kind of talked a little bit about the music , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was .
I started listening to some of his recordings .
Like I said , all the time , I was still trying to find some type of job or work—it didn ’ t matter whether it was playing music or whatever it was .
There was one time I got a job being a chef , cooking , in order to survive .
You started working with the Arkestra in 1964 , and then , in September , 1965 , you joined Coltrane ’ s band.6 That was a lot of people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Do you know why he chose you ?
I don ’ t even know the reason myself .
I don ’ t feel like he needed me or another horn .
I think he just felt like he was going to do something different .
What was it like to work with him ?
There ’ s an idea of him as this saint-like figure .
His whole demeanor reminded me of a minister .
He didn ’ t act like a lot of musicians that I ’ ve met in my life @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quiet .
He didn ’ t say anything unless you asked him something .
I never asked him anything about music .
But he was making a conscious choice to work with younger musicians .
He always had some kind of a way of looking to the future , like a kaleidoscope .
He saw himself playing something different .
And it seemed like he wanted to get to that level of playing—I don ’ t know if it was a dream that came to him , but that ’ s what he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t figure out why he wanted me to play with him , because I didn ’ t feel like , at the time , that I was ready to play with John Coltrane .
Being around him was almost , like , “ Well , what do you want me to do ?
I don ’ t know what I ’ m supposed to do.
” He always told me , “ Play.
” That ’ s what I did .
What was your relationship with him like ?
I loved being around @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that much , either .
It was just good vibes between us both .
We were just very quiet .
All the time that I ’ d been listening to John , I ’ m hearing something else , just being around him .
He would never start some kind of conversation—he would say something , but it wouldn ’ t last that long .
He never would elaborate , or go deep into it .
He said a few words , and that was it .
Was he funny at all ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ had a sense of humor about him , I think .
One time , Jimmy Cobb was playing with him , and his stick got loose , and it went across to John and hit him , or something .
John said , “ Yeah , he ’ s just trying to get back at me.
” His sense of humor was in his music .
Sometimes he ’ d remind me of Monk.7 John would play things Monk would play , but it was a little bit different , faster .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say , “ Oh .
O.K.
” Monk ’ s music is definitely humorous , but I don ’ t think many people hear that in Coltrane .
He got a lot of stuff from being around Monk .
He didn ’ t sound like Monk , but he understood the humor .
After John passed away , you continued recording with Alice Coltrane.8 You know , her playing was amazing .
I loved what she was doing .
But I always felt like what I was doing wasn ’ t good enough @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bit more dominant than what she wanted—she seemed more intellectual than I was .
But I tried to play something close to the concept that she was doing .
At one point , I had told her , “ I don ’ t know if you like the way I ’ m playing or not .
I don ’ t know whether this fits , or what.
” She said , “ You ’ re doing O.K .
Just keep on playing .
Keep on blowing.
” Around this time you also start @ @ @ @ @ @ @ start recording for Impulse !
as a leader .
Did you feel like you knew what you were doing then ?
No , I don ’ t think I was really ready .
But I had to go on anyway , and study while I was trying to get it all together .
I knew I had to be better than what I was .
I had to keep moving .
I learned a lot from John .
I remember I used to talk to Philly Joe Jones.9 I talked to a lot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ !
records , you ’ re experimenting a lot with non-Western instruments , finding ways to use vocals in a freer context , and getting into more groove-oriented rhythms .
Were you thinking through things in advance or just figuring them out in the studio ?
We just worked it out while we was there .
That kind of spontaneous move .
You started working with some musicians who people didn ’ t know well at the time , like Leon Thomas,10 Lonnie Liston Smith,11 Sonny Sharrock.12 What were you looking for when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for musicians who played with lots of energy .
I wanted to be able to play that way myself .
In order to do that , I had to find musicians to work with who had that kind of energy .
You were making incredibly intense music during this period , on albums like “ Jewels of Thought ” and “ Thembi.
” Was that just where your head was at that time—constantly in a kind of heightened state ?
I don ’ t know .
I was still trying to reach for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what .
Today people call this music “ spiritual jazz.
” But it wasn ’ t like anyone sat down at a table and said , “ Let ’ s invent this whole new kind of music.
” It just happened .
That ’ s the way I look at it .
It just happened .
I was never satisfied with my playing , for a long , long time .
Still sort of have problems like that .
Still ?
Do you feel like you ’ ve ever had a moment , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ve been , like , “ I got this one right ” ?
I used to hear other bands , other groups , when they were making a recording .
And a lot of musicians I ’ d hear would be working on one song maybe for , could be a week , or a few weeks .
Make sure everything is right .
You , on the other hand , were recording two or three albums a year with Impulse !
Was that how often the label wanted you in the studio @ @ @ @ @ @ @ number of records a year , being signed with somebody .
The thing you don ’ t want to do is make them too close together , playing the same way as you were before .
You ’ ve got to do something fresh .
Some people like to wait for that kind of thing to happen .
But that ’ s not how you approached it .
I just felt like going in there and doing what I wanted to do .
Would the label give you any direction , or were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you know how many songs to play .
I just kind of ignored it .
Sometimes , I would just play one tune for the whole side .
I just kept on playing , like it was a suite .
Looking from one thing to another .
If you ’ re in the song , keep on playing .
No , we never rehearsed .
Did you ever do more than one take ?
Maybe on a few things we did , something where I didn ’ t really like the way I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ playing .
But whenever I heard it back , I kind of liked it , so I said , “ Well , I should have kept it.
” Anyways , it ’ s too late now .
It kind of taught me something else .
It made me think , Why do I have to do it this way ?
Let ’ s keep on playing until it all comes together .
That ’ s what we did .
That ’ s what I always do .
You know , try to keep @ @ @ @ @ @ @ several times now having not liked how your playing sounded—this seems tied into the idea of your always searching for something new .
Is there any recording where you ’ re happy with your sound ?
I haven ’ t made it yet .
Sometimes on my horn , a couple of notes , I ’ m feeling satisfied with it , but the rest of the notes just is not sounding right .
So I ’ m still working on that .
I have a problem with finding the right reeds , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ horns .
I used to buy boxes of reeds , and if they don ’ t play right I ’ d just throw them right on the floor , put them in the trash .
Maybe a box of threes , or a box of fours .
They never sound the same .
Do you think most musicians think this way ?
Are you all just perfectionists ?
I don ’ t know .
I know when I listen to other musicians , they sound beautiful to me .
When I hear myself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beautiful .
I just wonder , what are they all using ?
What do you listen to these days ?
I haven ’ t been listening to anybody .
I haven ’ t been listening to anything .
I listen to things that maybe some guys don ’ t .
I listen to the waves of the water .
Train coming down .
Or I listen to an airplane taking off .
Have you always been listening for sounds like that ?
I ’ ve always been like that , especially when I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hearing old car doors squeaking… .
Maybe it ’ s something you ’ re really into , then maybe you ’ ll get a sound like that .
I just wondered , Would that be a good sound ?
Sometimes , when I ’ m playing , I want to do something , but I feel like , if I did , it wouldn ’ t sound right .
So I ’ m always trying to make something that might sound bad sound beautiful in some way .
I ’ m a person @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to play , and make it turn out to be maybe some beautiful music .
When you were first in the public eye , with Coltrane , people didn ’ t get that .
I don ’ t know if I got it myself .
Do you go back and listen to your recordings ?
Yeah , I look at them sometime .
I ’ ll change it up if I ’ ve been playing something that I ’ ve maybe played before .
The goal is to never repeat yourself ?
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like I do at times .
Then I stop playing and catch myself and say , “ Let me try something else.
” It ’ s almost like I play one idea and then I just try to look at it , like , “ O.K.
, I ’ m going to try to see if I can play it backward.
” People still associate you with the kind of music you were making in the sixties and seventies .
But over the years you started doing a lot more traditional playing .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ a lot of things—like ballads .
I was playing a lot of those before I came to New York , before I started recording .
Maybe I just kind of slowed down a little bit .
A whole lot .
What are your favorite ballads to play ?
I like “ Berkeley Square.
” 13 I feel like I haven ’ t played enough on it .
Every time I play it , I try to play something different .
It makes me think of Coltrane ’ s “ Ballads.
” People were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ didn ’ t think of him as that kind of player .
John always loved to play ballads .
He played some ballads when I was working with him , when he kind of opened up more freely .
On some jobs I did with him , he played a ballad every now and then .
Then he got back in his spaceship and took off again .
That ’ s where he was .
You never knew what he was going to do next until he did it .
He just started @ @ @ @ @ @ @ start coming in .
Whatever time we felt like we were needed , we came in .
Do you still feel like that ?
Like you have no idea where you ’ re headed and are just going to see where the music takes you ?
A lot of time I don ’ t know what I want to play .
So I just start playing , and try to make it right , and make it join to some other kind of feeling in the music .
Like , I play one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mean love .
And then another note might mean something else .
Keep on going like that until it develops into—maybe something beautiful .

Jazz musicians have always placed a premium on “saying something.” Technique, training, and theory will only get you so far, and may even lead you in the wrong direction; what matters is the ability to hit on an emotion or an idea that feels at once familiar and revelatory—to speak a common language in a decidedly uncommon way.
From this standpoint, few musicians have said more than the saxophonist Pharoah Sanders. Born in Little Rock, Arkansas, the son of a school-cafeteria cook and a city employee, Sanders moved to New York in 1962, at the height of jazz’s postwar avant-garde—also known as “free jazz” or “the new thing”—which was spawned by the late-fifties experiments of the saxophonist Ornette Coleman and the pianist Cecil Taylor. Sanders’s début album, recorded in 1964 for the ESP label, garnered little attention, but his playing caught the ear of John Coltrane. Coltrane invited Sanders to join his band in 1965. The following year, Impulse!, the label that had been exhaustively documenting Coltrane’s evolution, gave Sanders another chance to record as a leader. The result was the surging and expansive “Tauhid,” an album that positioned Sanders as both Coltrane’s foremost disciple and an artist with ideas of his own.
Coltrane died in 1967, and Sanders recorded some with his widow, Alice Coltrane, a multi-instrumentalist and composer, before returning to the studio for Impulse! two years later, with his own group. The resulting album, “Karma,” set the template for a remarkable five-year run. While remaining as fiery as ever, Sanders had developed an interest in soaring, magisterial melodies, and the rhythms of his recordings, while dense and multi-layered, often hewed toward a steady groove. He also incorporated unexpected elements: non-Western instruments, yodelling by the sui generis vocalist Leon Thomas. As the title of “Karma” suggests, Sanders, like Coltrane, felt that music had a spiritual dimension. “The whole musical persona of Pharoah Sanders is of a consciousness in conscious search of a higher consciousness,” Amiri Baraka later wrote.
Subsequent Impulse! releases, such as “Jewels of Thought,” “Thembi,” and “Black Unity,” extended a musical quest that has now, in one form of another, lasted more than fifty years. But for someone who has said so much through music, Sanders has said very little to the press, doing only a handful of interviews in the course of his career. I spoke with Sanders earlier this fall, in Los Angeles, where he had just celebrated his seventy-ninth birthday by playing two shows in the area. Sanders still projects a distinctly Southern brand of soft-spokenness, one that’s equal parts humility and aversion to fuss. Although he is an acknowledged master who has been honored at the Kennedy Center, he speaks of himself—and seems to sincerely regard himself—as just another working musician trying to make a living.
We talked about his beginnings as a musician, his approach to recording over the years, and his collaborations with jazz legends. But Sanders was more inclined to reflect on the challenge of finding a good reed than to dilate on his legacy. What really mattered, it seemed, was his feeling that he could never get it right. Over the course of the conversation, it became clear that he wasn’t being compulsively hard on himself or willfully oblivious. Rather, he was still searching, possibly for something that he knew he would never find.
The interview has been edited and condensed.
You just had your seventy-ninth birthday—happy birthday!
Thank you.
What keeps you going, musically? Why are you still out there touring?
Well, I still try to make a living. I haven’t retired. I’m not working that much, but, you know, jobs come through.
What are you trying to accomplish artistically at this point?
Right now, I don’t even know myself!
Your sets these days touch on all the different things you’ve explored in your career. I saw you play in Portland earlier this year, and you played some standards and ballads as well older, more open-ended material, like “The Creator Has a Master Plan,”1 from “Karma.”
I just play whatever I feel like playing. It’s hard to keep a band together these days, so I never know most of the time who’s going to be in the band. Whoever I decide to use, if I can use them, well, that’s it!
Let’s go back to the beginning. Before you took up the saxophone, you played the clarinet in church?
I started playing drums first.
Oh, I didn’t know that.
Then I wanted to play clarinet. I went to church every Sunday, and there was this memo up in church that someone had a metal clarinet. That person just passed away maybe a few days ago. He was about ninety-three or ninety-four. That’s how I got my first instrument. Seventeen dollars!
When did you switch to saxophone?
Well, in high school I was always trying to figure out what I wanted to do as a career. What I really wanted to do was play the saxophone—that was one of the instruments that I really loved. I started playing the alto. It’s similar to the clarinet—if you can play the clarinet, you can play the saxophone.
Why did you switch to tenor from alto? What did you like about the sound?
Tenor was the most popular instrument at that time to get work. I would rent the school saxophone. You could rent it every day if you wanted to. It wasn’t a great horn. It was sort of beat-up and out of condition. I never owned a saxophone until I finished high school and went to Oakland, California. I had a clarinet, and so I traded that for a new silver tenor saxophone, and that got me started playing the tenor. The minute I bought it, I wanted an older horn, so I traded my new horn for an older model.
I read that you went to Oakland because you were studying art and you were going to go to art school.
I was painting all the time, pictures. I got into music very late. I used to do all that kind of work.
Have you painted at all since then?
No, I haven’t done anything for many, many years. I’ve wanted to go back into it, but I just haven’t.
After just a couple of years in Oakland, you moved to New York. Had you decided to focus exclusively on music?
I had to get it all together. I didn’t know enough about lots of things—basic things. I knew I needed to get some studying in, in order to get into playing saxophone, because I wanted to play jazz. So I had to cut out a lot of activities that I was doing and spend more time practicing scales and stuff like that.
Is it true that you were homeless when you first moved to the city?
I didn’t have nowhere to stay. Everybody was talking about, “You should go to New York.” They said, “That’s the place to go!” So that’s the reason I went to New York. I hitchhiked a ride to New York.
What year was this?
1962.
So, when you get there, the avant-garde—or whatever you want to call it—is in full swing. It’s been three years since Ornette Coleman’s residency2 at the Five Spot.3 Sun Ra has moved the Arkestra4 from Chicago to New York. Were you following all of this?
I didn’t know what was going on. I was trying to survive some kind of way. I used to work a few jobs here and there, earn five dollars, buy some food, buy some pizza. I had no money at all. I used to give blood and make fifteen dollars or ten dollars or whatever. I had to keep eating something.
But you managed to establish yourself as a musician.
I always wanted to work with my own band, so I got some guys together and started working down in New York, in Greenwich Village. I could pick up a few little weekend jobs. You had to do something to survive.
Who was in that band with you, your first band?
I would ask around for some musicians, and we played—I didn’t even hardly know their names.
Was Billy Higgins5 in that band? I read that you two knew each other—and that he was homeless, too.
Billy Higgins, he would come around in that location a lot, in the Village. I met him, and I heard him play. On occasion, we kind of talked a little bit about the music, and I found out how great he was. I started listening to some of his recordings. Like I said, all the time, I was still trying to find some type of job or work—it didn’t matter whether it was playing music or whatever it was. There was one time I got a job being a chef, cooking, in order to survive.
You started working with the Arkestra in 1964, and then, in September, 1965, you joined Coltrane’s band.6 That was a lot of people’s first exposure to you. Do you know why he chose you?
I don’t even know the reason myself. I don’t feel like he needed me or another horn. I think he just felt like he was going to do something different.
What was it like to work with him? There’s an idea of him as this saint-like figure.
His whole demeanor reminded me of a minister. He didn’t act like a lot of musicians that I’ve met in my life. John, he was always extremely quiet. He didn’t say anything unless you asked him something. I never asked him anything about music.
Really?
Never.
But he was making a conscious choice to work with younger musicians.
He always had some kind of a way of looking to the future, like a kaleidoscope. He saw himself playing something different. And it seemed like he wanted to get to that level of playing—I don’t know if it was a dream that came to him, but that’s what he wanted to do. I couldn’t figure out why he wanted me to play with him, because I didn’t feel like, at the time, that I was ready to play with John Coltrane. Being around him was almost, like, “Well, what do you want me to do? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
He always told me, “Play.” That’s what I did.
What was your relationship with him like?
I loved being around him because I don’t talk that much, either. It was just good vibes between us both. We were just very quiet. All the time that I’d been listening to John, I’m hearing something else, just being around him. He would never start some kind of conversation—he would say something, but it wouldn’t last that long. He never would elaborate, or go deep into it. He said a few words, and that was it.
Was he funny at all? Did he ever joke around?
He had a sense of humor about him, I think. One time, Jimmy Cobb was playing with him, and his stick got loose, and it went across to John and hit him, or something. John said, “Yeah, he’s just trying to get back at me.”
His sense of humor was in his music. Sometimes he’d remind me of Monk.7 John would play things Monk would play, but it was a little bit different, faster. I’d turn around and look and say, “Oh. O.K.”
Monk’s music is definitely humorous, but I don’t think many people hear that in Coltrane.
He got a lot of stuff from being around Monk. He didn’t sound like Monk, but he understood the humor.
After John passed away, you continued recording with Alice Coltrane.8
You know, her playing was amazing. I loved what she was doing. But I always felt like what I was doing wasn’t good enough. Maybe I was playing a little bit more dominant than what she wanted—she seemed more intellectual than I was. But I tried to play something close to the concept that she was doing.
At one point, I had told her, “I don’t know if you like the way I’m playing or not. I don’t know whether this fits, or what.” She said, “You’re doing O.K. Just keep on playing. Keep on blowing.”
Around this time you also start leading your own bands, and you start recording for Impulse! as a leader. Did you feel like you knew what you were doing then?
No, I don’t think I was really ready. But I had to go on anyway, and study while I was trying to get it all together. I knew I had to be better than what I was. I had to keep moving. I learned a lot from John. I remember I used to talk to Philly Joe Jones.9 I talked to a lot of different people.
On those Impulse! records, you’re experimenting a lot with non-Western instruments, finding ways to use vocals in a freer context, and getting into more groove-oriented rhythms. Were you thinking through things in advance or just figuring them out in the studio?
We just worked it out while we was there. That kind of spontaneous move.
You started working with some musicians who people didn’t know well at the time, like Leon Thomas,10 Lonnie Liston Smith,11 Sonny Sharrock.12 What were you looking for when you heard them?
I was looking for musicians who played with lots of energy. I wanted to be able to play that way myself. In order to do that, I had to find musicians to work with who had that kind of energy.
You were making incredibly intense music during this period, on albums like “Jewels of Thought” and “Thembi.” Was that just where your head was at that time—constantly in a kind of heightened state?
I don’t know. I was still trying to reach for something, I didn’t know what.
Today people call this music “spiritual jazz.” But it wasn’t like anyone sat down at a table and said, “Let’s invent this whole new kind of music.”
It just happened. That’s the way I look at it. It just happened. I was never satisfied with my playing, for a long, long time. Still sort of have problems like that.
Still? Do you feel like you’ve ever had a moment, or a record, where you’ve been, like, “I got this one right”?
No.
Really?
I used to hear other bands, other groups, when they were making a recording. And a lot of musicians I’d hear would be working on one song maybe for, could be a week, or a few weeks. Make sure everything is right.
You, on the other hand, were recording two or three albums a year with Impulse! Was that how often the label wanted you in the studio?
Well, they wanted a certain number of records a year, being signed with somebody. The thing you don’t want to do is make them too close together, playing the same way as you were before. You’ve got to do something fresh. Some people like to wait for that kind of thing to happen.
But that’s not how you approached it.
I just felt like going in there and doing what I wanted to do.
Would the label give you any direction, or were they hands-off?
They tried to let you know how many songs to play. I just kind of ignored it. Sometimes, I would just play one tune for the whole side. I just kept on playing, like it was a suite. Looking from one thing to another. If you’re in the song, keep on playing.
Did you rehearse?
No, we never rehearsed.
Did you ever do more than one take?
Maybe on a few things we did, something where I didn’t really like the way I first got started up and started out playing. But whenever I heard it back, I kind of liked it, so I said, “Well, I should have kept it.” Anyways, it’s too late now.
It kind of taught me something else. It made me think, Why do I have to do it this way? Let’s keep on playing until it all comes together. That’s what we did. That’s what I always do. You know, try to keep on creating.
You’ve mentioned several times now having not liked how your playing sounded—this seems tied into the idea of your always searching for something new. Is there any recording where you’re happy with your sound?
I haven’t made it yet. Sometimes on my horn, a couple of notes, I’m feeling satisfied with it, but the rest of the notes just is not sounding right. So I’m still working on that.
I have a problem with finding the right reeds, and the right mouthpiece, the right horns. I used to buy boxes of reeds, and if they don’t play right I’d just throw them right on the floor, put them in the trash. Maybe a box of threes, or a box of fours. They never sound the same.
Do you think most musicians think this way? Are you all just perfectionists?
I don’t know. I know when I listen to other musicians, they sound beautiful to me. When I hear myself playing, I sound like… They sound beautiful. I just wonder, what are they all using?
What do you listen to these days?
I haven’t been listening to anybody.
Not even older stuff?
I haven’t been listening to anything.
I listen to things that maybe some guys don’t. I listen to the waves of the water. Train coming down. Or I listen to an airplane taking off.
Have you always been listening for sounds like that?
I’ve always been like that, especially when I was small. I used to love hearing old car doors squeaking…. Maybe it’s something you’re really into, then maybe you’ll get a sound like that. I just wondered, Would that be a good sound?
Sometimes, when I’m playing, I want to do something, but I feel like, if I did, it wouldn’t sound right. So I’m always trying to make something that might sound bad sound beautiful in some way. I’m a person who just starts playing anything I want to play, and make it turn out to be maybe some beautiful music.
When you were first in the public eye, with Coltrane, people didn’t get that.
I don’t know if I got it myself.
Do you go back and listen to your recordings?
Yeah, I look at them sometime. I’ll change it up if I’ve been playing something that I’ve maybe played before.
The goal is to never repeat yourself?
I try not to, but it seems like I do at times. Then I stop playing and catch myself and say, “Let me try something else.” It’s almost like I play one idea and then I just try to look at it, like, “O.K., I’m going to try to see if I can play it backward.”
People still associate you with the kind of music you were making in the sixties and seventies. But over the years you started doing a lot more traditional playing.
Well, I was trying to do a lot of things—like ballads. I was playing a lot of those before I came to New York, before I started recording. Maybe I just kind of slowed down a little bit. A whole lot.
What are your favorite ballads to play?
I like “Berkeley Square.”13 I feel like I haven’t played enough on it. Every time I play it, I try to play something different.
It makes me think of Coltrane’s “Ballads.” People were surprised by that record, because they didn’t think of him as that kind of player.
John always loved to play ballads. He played some ballads when I was working with him, when he kind of opened up more freely. On some jobs I did with him, he played a ballad every now and then. Then he got back in his spaceship and took off again.
That’s where he was. You never knew what he was going to do next until he did it. He just started playing himself, and we all just start coming in. Whatever time we felt like we were needed, we came in.
Do you still feel like that? Like you have no idea where you’re headed and are just going to see where the music takes you?
A lot of time I don’t know what I want to play. So I just start playing, and try to make it right, and make it join to some other kind of feeling in the music. Like, I play one note, maybe that one note might mean love. And then another note might mean something else. Keep on going like that until it develops into—maybe something beautiful.


newyorker--2020-01-12--Donald Trump’s Iran Problem

Donald Trump’s Iran Problem

On September 19 , 1983 , during Lebanon ’ s long civil war , the Reagan Administration ordered Marine peacekeepers in Beirut to open fire on Muslim militias in the mountains overlooking the city .
The marines had been deployed for more than a year , after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon , to help hold together one of the world ’ s most fractured states .
Colonel Tim Geraghty , their commander , warned that an attack would cost the United States its neutrality and its mission ; nevertheless , U.S. ships fired more than three hundred rounds of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ As the sun set at the end of a tumultuous day , I remarked to members of my staff that my gut instinct tells me the Corps is going to pay in blood for this decision.
” On October 23rd , a suicide bomber drove a truck loaded with twelve thousand pounds of explosives into the peacekeepers ’ barracks .
Two hundred and forty-one Americans died .
The largest loss for the corps in a single incident since Iwo Jima was carried out by a Lebanese group that became Hezbollah—but it was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ warplanes to destroy an Iranian military post in Lebanon , but called off the strike .
The marines moved to underground containers ; a few months later , they sailed home , their mission abandoned .
“ The Iranians ’ goal was to remove the marines and Western influence , ” Geraghty recalled last week .
“ And they did.
” The United States proved in 1983 that it had a tactical advantage , but Iran proved that it had a more wide-ranging strategy—as it has demonstrated repeatedly through the years .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ showdown with the Islamic Republic , even as its strategic advance across the region deepened .
The risks and the potential complications were deemed too great .
President Trump has said that he , too , has no desire for war , yet he started the new year with a drone strike that killed General Qassem Suleimani , the mastermind of Iran ’ s expeditionary Quds Force , while he was on a trip to Baghdad .
Trump tweeted that Suleimani “ has killed or badly wounded thousands of Americans over an extended @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to kill many more.
” Amid debate in Washington about the intelligence used to justify the strike , Trump said that Suleimani had planned to bomb four U.S. embassies , but the Administration presented little evidence to support the claim .
Trump ’ s decision has already had sweeping consequences—for the regional military balance , the campaign against ISIS and Al Qaeda , Iran ’ s nuclear program , and the unnerving political dysfunction in the Middle East .
The Iraqi parliament , infuriated that Washington had violated the country ’ s sovereignty @ @ @ @ @ @ @ troops .
Seventeen years after the U.S. invasion , the presence of American troops is suddenly precarious ; so is the fractured government of Iraq , after months of protests demanding its ouster .
The U.S.-led campaign against ISIS—which still has fourteen thousand fighters in Iraq and Syria—was suspended .
The Pentagon disavowed a leaked letter that outlined the “ repositioning ” of U.S. troops .
But , on Friday , Baghdad asked Washington for a road map for withdrawal .
The Trump Administration ’ s top two goals in Iran have also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Presidents have sought to prevent Tehran from developing a nuclear weapon .
By 2013 , the regime was within weeks of being able to build a bomb—the so-called breakout time .
In 2015 , the Obama Administration , along with five other major powers , brokered the Iran nuclear deal , which limits aspects of Tehran ’ s program for up to a quarter of a century , and permanently insures international inspections .
The breakout time was stretched to more than a year .
But , on January 5th , two days @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said that it would no longer limit the number of centrifuges for enriching uranium .
The nuclear deal , which Trump abandoned in May , 2018 , on the ground that he wanted something broader , is now unravelling .
Iran ’ s breakout time has begun to tick down again .
For two years , the Trump Administration has also exerted “ maximum pressure , ” through sanctions and isolation , to force new concessions from Tehran .
It boasted of its success in November , when protests against Iran ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the country ; the regime killed hundreds of people , and injured and jailed thousands more .
But the assassination of Suleimani reignited nationalism in Iran ; millions of people turned out to mourn the General ’ s death and to rally around the theocracy .
Last Tuesday , Tehran retaliated by firing more than a dozen missiles at two military bases used by U.S. forces in Iraq .
No one was killed in the attack , and Washington and Tehran both signalled that they wanted to avoid escalation , but the prospects @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In an unintended consequence , Iran also appears to have shot down a Ukrainian passenger plane taking off from Tehran , killing the hundred and seventy-six people on board . )
Iran ’ s goals remain what they were in 1983 .
“ Military action like this is not sufficient , ” Ayatollah Ali Khamenei , the supreme leader , said of the missile strikes .
“ What is important is ending the corrupting presence of America in the region.
” And Tehran is much more capable today .
It has evolved into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ gray zone ” activities—covert and unacknowledged military operations , proxy attacks and cyberwar—Michael Eisenstadt , of the Washington Institute for Near East Policy , said last week .
“ The United States has struggled to respond effectively to this asymmetric way of war.
” Iran also has time and geography on its side .
“ We are historic interlopers .
We come and we go , ” Robert Malley , the president of the International Crisis Group , said .
“ The notion that we could sustain our forces in a multifront @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Middle East—given the politics in this country , and the fact that most Americans don ’ t think this is of vital interest—is illusory.
” On Thursday , the House of Representatives voted 224 to 194 , largely along party lines , to limit the President ’ s powers to make war on Iran .
A similar resolution is expected in the Senate .
Neither would be binding , but both reflect anxiety in Washington about the consequences of further hostilities .
The Islamic Republic marks its forty-first anniversary next month .
Historically @ @ @ @ @ @ @ greater pain , but Tehran has shown a greater capacity to absorb it .
The United States has figured out how to react to a militia or to kill a commander , but it still hasn ’ t figured out how , creatively or proactively , to deal with the nation of Iran .
♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
On September 19, 1983, during Lebanon’s long civil war, the Reagan Administration ordered Marine peacekeepers in Beirut to open fire on Muslim militias in the mountains overlooking the city. The marines had been deployed for more than a year, after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon, to help hold together one of the world’s most fractured states. Colonel Tim Geraghty, their commander, warned that an attack would cost the United States its neutrality and its mission; nevertheless, U.S. ships fired more than three hundred rounds of seventy-pound shells. Geraghty later wrote, “As the sun set at the end of a tumultuous day, I remarked to members of my staff that my gut instinct tells me the Corps is going to pay in blood for this decision.”
On October 23rd, a suicide bomber drove a truck loaded with twelve thousand pounds of explosives into the peacekeepers’ barracks. Two hundred and forty-one Americans died. The largest loss for the corps in a single incident since Iwo Jima was carried out by a Lebanese group that became Hezbollah—but it was orchestrated by Iran. Washington ordered U.S. warplanes to destroy an Iranian military post in Lebanon, but called off the strike. The marines moved to underground containers; a few months later, they sailed home, their mission abandoned. “The Iranians’ goal was to remove the marines and Western influence,” Geraghty recalled last week. “And they did.”
The United States proved in 1983 that it had a tactical advantage, but Iran proved that it had a more wide-ranging strategy—as it has demonstrated repeatedly through the years. The next four U.S. Presidents avoided a military showdown with the Islamic Republic, even as its strategic advance across the region deepened. The risks and the potential complications were deemed too great. President Trump has said that he, too, has no desire for war, yet he started the new year with a drone strike that killed General Qassem Suleimani, the mastermind of Iran’s expeditionary Quds Force, while he was on a trip to Baghdad. Trump tweeted that Suleimani “has killed or badly wounded thousands of Americans over an extended period of time, and was plotting to kill many more.” Amid debate in Washington about the intelligence used to justify the strike, Trump said that Suleimani had planned to bomb four U.S. embassies, but the Administration presented little evidence to support the claim.
Trump’s decision has already had sweeping consequences—for the regional military balance, the campaign against ISIS and Al Qaeda, Iran’s nuclear program, and the unnerving political dysfunction in the Middle East. The Iraqi parliament, infuriated that Washington had violated the country’s sovereignty, voted to expel five thousand U.S. troops. Seventeen years after the U.S. invasion, the presence of American troops is suddenly precarious; so is the fractured government of Iraq, after months of protests demanding its ouster. The U.S.-led campaign against ISIS—which still has fourteen thousand fighters in Iraq and Syria—was suspended. The Pentagon disavowed a leaked letter that outlined the “repositioning” of U.S. troops. But, on Friday, Baghdad asked Washington for a road map for withdrawal.
The Trump Administration’s top two goals in Iran have also been undermined. For decades, successive Presidents have sought to prevent Tehran from developing a nuclear weapon. By 2013, the regime was within weeks of being able to build a bomb—the so-called breakout time. In 2015, the Obama Administration, along with five other major powers, brokered the Iran nuclear deal, which limits aspects of Tehran’s program for up to a quarter of a century, and permanently insures international inspections. The breakout time was stretched to more than a year. But, on January 5th, two days after the killing of Suleimani, Iran said that it would no longer limit the number of centrifuges for enriching uranium. The nuclear deal, which Trump abandoned in May, 2018, on the ground that he wanted something broader, is now unravelling. Iran’s breakout time has begun to tick down again.
For two years, the Trump Administration has also exerted “maximum pressure,” through sanctions and isolation, to force new concessions from Tehran. It boasted of its success in November, when protests against Iran’s deteriorating economy and bad governance erupted across the country; the regime killed hundreds of people, and injured and jailed thousands more. But the assassination of Suleimani reignited nationalism in Iran; millions of people turned out to mourn the General’s death and to rally around the theocracy. Last Tuesday, Tehran retaliated by firing more than a dozen missiles at two military bases used by U.S. forces in Iraq. No one was killed in the attack, and Washington and Tehran both signalled that they wanted to avoid escalation, but the prospects for diplomacy grew more distant. (In an unintended consequence, Iran also appears to have shot down a Ukrainian passenger plane taking off from Tehran, killing the hundred and seventy-six people on board.)
Iran’s goals remain what they were in 1983. “Military action like this is not sufficient,” Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the supreme leader, said of the missile strikes. “What is important is ending the corrupting presence of America in the region.” And Tehran is much more capable today. It has evolved into the world’s leading practitioner of “gray zone” activities—covert and unacknowledged military operations, proxy attacks and cyberwar—Michael Eisenstadt, of the Washington Institute for Near East Policy, said last week. “The United States has struggled to respond effectively to this asymmetric way of war.”
Iran also has time and geography on its side. “We are historic interlopers. We come and we go,” Robert Malley, the president of the International Crisis Group, said. “The notion that we could sustain our forces in a multifront, multiyear, unpredictable struggle in the Middle East—given the politics in this country, and the fact that most Americans don’t think this is of vital interest—is illusory.” On Thursday, the House of Representatives voted 224 to 194, largely along party lines, to limit the President’s powers to make war on Iran. A similar resolution is expected in the Senate. Neither would be binding, but both reflect anxiety in Washington about the consequences of further hostilities.
The Islamic Republic marks its forty-first anniversary next month. Historically, Washington has been able to inflict greater pain, but Tehran has shown a greater capacity to absorb it. The United States has figured out how to react to a militia or to kill a commander, but it still hasn’t figured out how, creatively or proactively, to deal with the nation of Iran. ♦


newyorker--2020-01-12--Sunday Reading: On the Precipice

Sunday Reading: On the Precipice

In 1962 , as President Kennedy was in the midst of the Cuban missile crisis , one of the biggest tests of his Presidency , a seasoned military commander urged the young President to launch a preëmptive strike and start bombing nuclear-missile sites in Cuba .
In “ The General and World War III , ” the Pulitzer Prize-winning historian Richard Rhodes describes how General Curtis LeMay fervently attempted to goad Kennedy into attacking Cuba in order to justify launching a full-scale offensive against the Soviet Union .
When the President pressed LeMay on what he thought the Soviet response @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there would be little to no reaction .
In the end , Kennedy concluded that the recommendations of LeMay and other military commanders were too reckless and ill-advised , and he upheld a naval blockade of Cuba , thus averting a potential nuclear crisis .
This week , after escalating tensions and violence between the United States and Iran , we ’ re bringing you a selection of pieces about the current crisis and other perilous foreign-policy standoffs .
In “ Almost Everything in ‘ Dr .
Strangelove ’ Was True , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s black comedy and explores the dangers inherent in America ’ s nuclear-command structure .
( General LeMay served as a model for the character of General Buck Turgidson in Kubrick ’ s film . )
Louis Menand examines the history of global nuclear crises and considers the hazards of military bellicosity .
In “ Is Trump Yet Another U.S. President Provoking a War ?
, ” Robin Wright reports on the growing sense of foreboding in Washington over the confrontation with Iran .
In “ The Shadow Commander , ” Dexter Filkins @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , whose killing by the United States helped spark the latest conflict .
Finally , in “ The Dangers of Trump ’ s Approach to Iran , ” Isaac Chotiner speaks with the former State Department ambassador Wendy R. Sherman about the risks of escalating tensions in the Middle East .
We hope that you find these pieces as illuminating and instructive as we do .
Curtis LeMay believed that the only sure nuclear defense was to launch a preëmptive first strike .
During the Cuban missile crisis , he almost did it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Strangelove ’ Was True ” In retrospect , the film seems all the more brilliant , bleak , and terrifyingly on the mark about the dangers of nuclear weaponry .
“ Is Trump Yet Another U.S. President Provoking a War ?
” Today , the question in Washington—and surely in Tehran—is whether Donald Trump will drag the United States into an armed conflict with Iran .
Wendy R. Sherman , the lead American negotiator on the Obama nuclear agreement , discusses the difference between hard-liners and hard-hard-liners in the U.S. and Iran @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Qassem Suleimani is the Iranian operative who has been reshaping the Middle East .
Now he ’ s directing Assad ’ s war in Syria .

In 1962, as President Kennedy was in the midst of the Cuban missile crisis, one of the biggest tests of his Presidency, a seasoned military commander urged the young President to launch a preëmptive strike and start bombing nuclear-missile sites in Cuba. In “The General and World War III,” the Pulitzer Prize-winning historian Richard Rhodes describes how General Curtis LeMay fervently attempted to goad Kennedy into attacking Cuba in order to justify launching a full-scale offensive against the Soviet Union. When the President pressed LeMay on what he thought the Soviet response would be, the general insisted that there would be little to no reaction. In the end, Kennedy concluded that the recommendations of LeMay and other military commanders were too reckless and ill-advised, and he upheld a naval blockade of Cuba, thus averting a potential nuclear crisis.
This week, after escalating tensions and violence between the United States and Iran, we’re bringing you a selection of pieces about the current crisis and other perilous foreign-policy standoffs. In “Almost Everything in ‘Dr. Strangelove’ Was True,” Eric Schlosser writes about Stanley Kubrick’s black comedy and explores the dangers inherent in America’s nuclear-command structure. (General LeMay served as a model for the character of General Buck Turgidson in Kubrick’s film.) Louis Menand examines the history of global nuclear crises and considers the hazards of military bellicosity. In “Is Trump Yet Another U.S. President Provoking a War?,” Robin Wright reports on the growing sense of foreboding in Washington over the confrontation with Iran. In “The Shadow Commander,” Dexter Filkins profiles the Iranian military commander Qassem Suleimani, whose killing by the United States helped spark the latest conflict. Finally, in “The Dangers of Trump’s Approach to Iran,” Isaac Chotiner speaks with the former State Department ambassador Wendy R. Sherman about the risks of escalating tensions in the Middle East. We hope that you find these pieces as illuminating and instructive as we do.
—David Remnick
Photograph by A. Y. Owen / The LIFE Images Collection / Getty Images
Curtis LeMay believed that the only sure nuclear defense was to launch a preëmptive first strike. During the Cuban missile crisis, he almost did it.
In retrospect, the film seems all the more brilliant, bleak, and terrifyingly on the mark about the dangers of nuclear weaponry.
Photograph by Brendan Smialowski / AFP / Getty
Today, the question in Washington—and surely in Tehran—is whether Donald Trump will drag the United States into an armed conflict with Iran.
Eric Schlosser’s “Command and Control.”
Wendy R. Sherman, the lead American negotiator on the Obama nuclear agreement, discusses the difference between hard-liners and hard-hard-liners in the U.S. and Iran, and the risks of escalating tensions.
Qassem Suleimani is the Iranian operative who has been reshaping the Middle East. Now he’s directing Assad’s war in Syria.


newyorker--2020-01-11--The Misfit Awesomeness of Neil Peart and Rush

Neil Peart , the lyricist and virtuosic drummer of the Canadian progressive-rock band Rush , died on Tuesday , in Santa Monica , California .
He was sixty-seven , and had been fighting brain cancer for several years .
Rush formed in Toronto , in 1968 ( Peart joined in 1974 ) , and released nineteen studio albums , ten of which have sold more than a million copies in the U.S .
According to Billboard , Rush presently ranks third , behind the Beatles and the Rolling Stones , for the most consecutive gold or platinum albums by a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and his earnest love of science fiction informed Rush ’ s singular aesthetic .
Along with the singer Geddy Lee and the guitarist Alex Lifeson , he helped pioneer an audacious strain of brainy , intricate hard rock that perhaps borrowed more voraciously from Ayn Rand than the blues .
Though the band ’ s influence was vast , something about its music seemed to speak deeply and directly to marginalized young men .
Both Lee and Lifeson were the children of immigrants who had left Europe following the Second World War @ @ @ @ @ @ @ survivors ; Lifeson ’ s fled Yugoslavia after the war ) , and a person gets the sense that the members of Rush had internalized a certain degree of cultural exclusion .
Rather than retreating , they embraced ideas that eschewed convention .
Rush was struggling commercially when , in 1976 , it made “ 2112 , ” an intense , ambitious , and unrelenting record about a dystopian future .
The band had spent the previous year playing small , grimy venues .
( In the 2010 documentary “ Rush : Beyond @ @ @ @ @ @ @ jokingly referred to this stretch of shows as the “ Down the Tubes ” tour . )
No one seemed particularly energized about the next album .
Rush ’ s manager , Ray Danniels , had to cajole Mercury Records into not dropping the band entirely .
“ 2112 ” was a Hail Mary , but rather than dutifully capitulating to the marketplace—making something more aligned , spiritually and compositionally , with , say , Steely Dan ’ s “ The Royal Scam ” or the Rolling Stones ’ s “ Black and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beloved commercial rock records of 1976—Rush instead assumed a kind of fuck-it abandon .
The band had not assembled an audience via extensive radio play or critical adulation or corporate positioning but by people tapping each other on the shoulder and saying , “ Dude , check this out.
” For “ 2112 , ” the band leaned further into its idiosyncrasies rather than trying to curb them .
The album opens with its title track , which is twenty minutes long and takes up the entire first side of the LP .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ something to do with an interplanetary federation and an odious , vaguely fascist organization known as Priests of the Temples of Syrinx , who command “ great computers ” —to be honest , I ’ m not overly confident on the narrative particulars .
What the song does convey , unambiguously , is a kind of maniacal amplitude .
Peart wanted to tell vast , complex stories that both embraced and rejected formal structures .
The rest of the record is a little bit goofier , but no less unique .
“ A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also wrote lyrics for , is a doting homage to weed , and various cities and countries around the world where it is cultivated : Colombia , Jamaica , Morocco , Acapulco , Thailand , Afghanistan , Kathmandu , Lebanon .
“ We only stop for the best !
” Since Peart ’ s death , photos of his drum kit—an expansive , fascinating structure of drums , cymbals , and assorted percussive tools—have been circulating around social media .
Trying to make sense of its maze of components is nearly impossible for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , yet the kit nonetheless communicates , in a glorious and unambiguous way , Peart ’ s vigor .
It must have felt so excellent , ensconcing himself in that golden tower , an ever-expanding assemblage of surfaces to whack !
Until his death , Peart was considered by many to be the greatest living rock drummer ; watching him play , it ’ s hard not to start thinking he possessed several phantom limbs .
The sound was merciless .
Misfit culture has been codified and romanticized over the years ( we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ jacket , coolly smoking an unfiltered cigarette while leaning against a hot rod , or of David Bowie , vamping in full “ Aladdin Sane ” makeup ) , but the members of Rush were weird in a way that didn ’ t reliably translate in mainstream culture .
As such , they offered their followers a very precise and rarified solace .
Rush could be something of a private pleasure .
I think of a television commercial for the Volkswagen Golf , from 1999 , in which the actor Tony Hale sits @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to “ Mr .
Roboto , ” by Styx—another beloved prog-rock band of the nineteen-seventies , with similarly immodest ambitions—at top volume , dancing like a deranged cyborg .
Some music just feels destined for secret communion .
This , for me , was always one of the most lovable and admirable things about Peart and Rush .
For decades , the band was hugely uncool .
It ’ s fun to look up the early reviews—peeved critics huffing and puffing about bombast and pretension .
How dare this band try so hard @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Guide , Alan Niester gave “ 2112 ” two stars ( out of a possible five ) and described Lee ’ s voice as “ a cross between Donald Duck and Robert Plant.
” ( To be fair , this remains the most interesting and lawless era of Rolling Stone ; the magazine didn ’ t especially care for “ Blood on the Tracks ” or “ Exile on Main Street , ” either . )
If you can ’ t have a good time blasting “ Tom Sawyer , ” then some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I say , raise a joint to Neil Peart tonight , and go get it back .

Neil Peart’s drumming gave the impression that he might possess several phantom limbs. Photograph by Fin Costello / Redferns / Getty
Neil Peart, the lyricist and virtuosic drummer of the Canadian progressive-rock band Rush, died on Tuesday, in Santa Monica, California. He was sixty-seven, and had been fighting brain cancer for several years. Rush formed in Toronto, in 1968 (Peart joined in 1974), and released nineteen studio albums, ten of which have sold more than a million copies in the U.S. According to Billboard, Rush presently ranks third, behind the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, for the most consecutive gold or platinum albums by a rock band.
Peart was wildly literate, and his earnest love of science fiction informed Rush’s singular aesthetic. Along with the singer Geddy Lee and the guitarist Alex Lifeson, he helped pioneer an audacious strain of brainy, intricate hard rock that perhaps borrowed more voraciously from Ayn Rand than the blues. Though the band’s influence was vast, something about its music seemed to speak deeply and directly to marginalized young men. Both Lee and Lifeson were the children of immigrants who had left Europe following the Second World War (Lee’s parents were Holocaust survivors; Lifeson’s fled Yugoslavia after the war), and a person gets the sense that the members of Rush had internalized a certain degree of cultural exclusion. Rather than retreating, they embraced ideas that eschewed convention.
Rush was struggling commercially when, in 1976, it made “2112,” an intense, ambitious, and unrelenting record about a dystopian future. The band had spent the previous year playing small, grimy venues. (In the 2010 documentary “Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage,” the band jokingly referred to this stretch of shows as the “Down the Tubes” tour.) No one seemed particularly energized about the next album. Rush’s manager, Ray Danniels, had to cajole Mercury Records into not dropping the band entirely.
“2112” was a Hail Mary, but rather than dutifully capitulating to the marketplace—making something more aligned, spiritually and compositionally, with, say, Steely Dan’s “The Royal Scam” or the Rolling Stones’s “Black and Blue,” two of the most beloved commercial rock records of 1976—Rush instead assumed a kind of fuck-it abandon. The band had not assembled an audience via extensive radio play or critical adulation or corporate positioning but by people tapping each other on the shoulder and saying, “Dude, check this out.” For “2112,” the band leaned further into its idiosyncrasies rather than trying to curb them.
The album opens with its title track, which is twenty minutes long and takes up the entire first side of the LP. Peart wrote the lyrics, which have something to do with an interplanetary federation and an odious, vaguely fascist organization known as Priests of the Temples of Syrinx, who command “great computers”—to be honest, I’m not overly confident on the narrative particulars. What the song does convey, unambiguously, is a kind of maniacal amplitude. Peart wanted to tell vast, complex stories that both embraced and rejected formal structures. The rest of the record is a little bit goofier, but no less unique. “A Passage to Bangkok,” which Peart also wrote lyrics for, is a doting homage to weed, and various cities and countries around the world where it is cultivated: Colombia, Jamaica, Morocco, Acapulco, Thailand, Afghanistan, Kathmandu, Lebanon. “We only stop for the best!”
Since Peart’s death, photos of his drum kit—an expansive, fascinating structure of drums, cymbals, and assorted percussive tools—have been circulating around social media. Trying to make sense of its maze of components is nearly impossible for anyone not intimately acquainted with drum gear, yet the kit nonetheless communicates, in a glorious and unambiguous way, Peart’s vigor. It must have felt so excellent, ensconcing himself in that golden tower, an ever-expanding assemblage of surfaces to whack! Until his death, Peart was considered by many to be the greatest living rock drummer; watching him play, it’s hard not to start thinking he possessed several phantom limbs. The sound was merciless.
Misfit culture has been codified and romanticized over the years (we think of James Dean in a leather jacket, coolly smoking an unfiltered cigarette while leaning against a hot rod, or of David Bowie, vamping in full “Aladdin Sane” makeup), but the members of Rush were weird in a way that didn’t reliably translate in mainstream culture. As such, they offered their followers a very precise and rarified solace. Rush could be something of a private pleasure. I think of a television commercial for the Volkswagen Golf, from 1999, in which the actor Tony Hale sits alone in a parked car, listening to “Mr. Roboto,” by Styx—another beloved prog-rock band of the nineteen-seventies, with similarly immodest ambitions—at top volume, dancing like a deranged cyborg. Some music just feels destined for secret communion.
This, for me, was always one of the most lovable and admirable things about Peart and Rush. For decades, the band was hugely uncool. It’s fun to look up the early reviews—peeved critics huffing and puffing about bombast and pretension. How dare this band try so hard! In the 1979 Rolling Stone Record Guide, Alan Niester gave “2112” two stars (out of a possible five) and described Lee’s voice as “a cross between Donald Duck and Robert Plant.” (To be fair, this remains the most interesting and lawless era of Rolling Stone; the magazine didn’t especially care for “Blood on the Tracks” or “Exile on Main Street,” either.) If you can’t have a good time blasting “Tom Sawyer,” then some awesome part of you has withered. I say, raise a joint to Neil Peart tonight, and go get it back.


newyorker--2020-01-12--Retitling “Little Women” to Entice Men to Go See It

“ I don ’ t think that [ men ] came to the screenings in droves , let me put @ @ @ @ @ Pascal , a producer of “ Little Women , ” in Vanity Fair “ Pretty @ @ @ @ @ but with Gals ” “ So Many Actresses Margot Robbie Must Be in It ” @ @ @ @ @ House , Could Be an ‘ Annabelle ’ Movie ?
” “ You Liked ‘ @ @ @ @ @ Four Women ” “ Christian Bale Was in an Earlier One So How Bad Could @ @ @ @ @ Shorter Than a Whole Season of ‘ Fleabag ’ ” *Except instead of casting Seth @ @ @ @ @ they cast a sexy Frenchman with a chin the size of Greenland .

“I don’t think that [men] came to the screenings in droves, let me put it that way.” —Amy Pascal, a producer of “Little Women,” in Vanity Fair
“The ‘Little Women’ problem with men is very real.” —Janet Maslin, on Twitter
“Into the Marchverse”
“Game of Settees”
“The Meg Identity”
“The Jo Supremacy”
“Star Wars, Episode X: The Rise of Amy”
“Killing Beth”
“The Marmee Ultimatum”
“Pretty Much ‘Good Boys’ but with Gals”
“So Many Actresses Margot Robbie Must Be in It”
“Set in an Old House, Could Be an ‘Annabelle’ Movie?”
“You Liked ‘Hustlers’ and That Starred Four Women”
“Christian Bale Was in an Earlier One So How Bad Could It Be?”
“Four Girls, One Teacup”
“Another Movie Where a Schlubby Guy* Lands an Amazing Wife”
“Shorter Than a Whole Season of ‘Fleabag’ ”
“Seriously, Some Civil War Shit!”
“Little Women: Ragnarok”
“John Wick 5”
*Except instead of casting Seth Rogen as Friedrich Bhaer, they cast a sexy Frenchman with a chin the size of Greenland.


newyorker--2020-01-13--“Copernicus,” by Paul Tran

“Copernicus,” by Paul Tran

Who doesn ’ t know how doubt lifts the hem of its nightgown to reveal another inch of thigh before @ @ @ @ @ I once didn ’ t .
I once thought I was my own geometry , @ @ @ @ @ like a ballerina , alone at the center of the universe , at the command @ @ @ @ @ music box with his dirty mouth .
He said Let there be light— And I @ @ @ @ @ .
Now I know what appears as the motion of Heaven is just the motion @ @ @ @ @ .
Not whatever I want .

Audio: Read by the author.
Who doesn’t know how
doubt lifts the hem of its nightgown
to reveal another inch of thigh
before the face of faith?
I once didn’t. I once thought I was
my own geometry,
my own geocentric planet
spinning like a ballerina, alone
at the center of the universe, at the command of a god
opening my music box
with his dirty mouth. He said
Let there be light—
And I thought I was the light.
I was a man’s failed imagination.
Now I know what appears
as the motion of Heaven
is just the motion of Earth.
Not stars.
Not whatever I want.


newyorker--2020-01-13--“The Ladder,” by Campbell McGrath

“The Ladder,” by Campbell McGrath

The past , a dust-covered shoebox recovered from my mother ’ s attic , does not open easily .
Webs of duct tape , the ladder one must climb into the unfinished attic , hot as a coffin— going up the light bulb shatters against my skull and the shadows deepen .
But in the end it yields , and photographs spill across the kitchen table like playing cards .
She in her beautiful wedding dress , my father in the uniform of youth .
There I am , with a cap gun and cowboy hat on Christmas morning some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deeper down to the antique black-and-white images , my grandmother beside the cottage in Donegal ; my grandfather , newly arrived in America , on a New York City rooftop with two friends nobody remembers the names of .
all that was great about the twentieth century fermenting in its democratic casks .
And there , in a battered Irish tintype , is my great-grandmother , Margaret McGuire .
I ’ ve never seen her before .
I ’ ve never even thought to imagine her .
with three daughters to raise and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beyond my powers of narrative comprehension , notations I can not translate from ancient script .
Donegal derives from the Irish Dún na nGall , Dún meaning fort or tower or castle , and nGall meaning foreigner , outlander , stranger , in memory of the conquerors who occupied it .
The Castle of the Stranger .
Which is another name for the past .

Audio: Read by the author.
The past, a dust-covered shoebox recovered
from my mother’s attic, does not open easily.
Webs of duct tape, the ladder one must climb
into the unfinished attic, hot as a coffin—
going up the light bulb shatters
against my skull and the shadows deepen.
But in the end it yields, and photographs spill
across the kitchen table like playing cards.
She in her beautiful wedding dress,
my father in the uniform of youth.
There I am, with a cap gun and cowboy hat
on Christmas morning some geologic age ago.
Further in, deeper down
to the antique black-and-white images,
yellow-margined, crimped with age,
backed with carefully pencilled notes:
my grandmother beside the cottage in Donegal;
my grandfather, newly arrived in America,
on a New York City rooftop with two friends
nobody remembers the names of.
Donegal—that green archaism—
and Manhattan in the nineteen-thirties, polyglot dynamo,
all that was great about the twentieth century
fermenting in its democratic casks.
And there, in a battered Irish tintype,
is my great-grandmother, Margaret McGuire.
I’ve never seen her before.
I’ve never even thought to imagine her.
Widowed young, turned away
by her husband’s impoverished people,
with three daughters to raise
and only the needlework to keep them,
monogrammed handkerchiefs
and lace-edged linen tablecloths, a life
beyond my powers of narrative comprehension,
notations I cannot translate from ancient script.
Donegal derives from the Irish Dún na nGall,
Dún meaning fort or tower or castle,
and nGall meaning foreigner, outlander, stranger,
in memory of the conquerors who occupied it.
The Castle of the Stranger.
Which is another name for the past.