It inevitably happens every January: no matter how exhaustively thorough I am in compiling my Year End lists the month before, a record from the previous year always turns up unexpectedly that I overlooked or completely missed altogether. In this case, I’m referring to the extraordinary Everything Wrong Is Imaginary (2006) by one-man musical outfit Lilys, led by one Kurt Heasley. I had been familiar with the band, but I don’t have the slightest recollection of hearing or reading anything about this album when it was released last summer. Little could I imagine how much goodness could be contained within its grooves (or rather ones and zeros, to be specific), and how this record would become a daily addiction for over two weeks now.

Truthfully, I can understand why Everything Wrong Is Imaginary slipped under my radar; I’ve never been too impressed with the music of Lilys. Critics often seem to toss around the phrase “musical chameleon” in reference to Heasley, which some may view as a compliment, but I’ve always translated as “pleasantly unoriginal.” Philadelphia-bred Heasley formed Lilys at the dawn of the ’90s as a noisy dreampop band and recorded a couple of shoegaze-by-numbers LPs during the first half of the decade. He then took an abrupt turn into psychedelic ’60s guitar pop (complete with the requisite Rickenbacker and shaggy mod haircut), and released a few albums that attempted to out-Kink The Kinks with predictably contrived results. 2003’s Precollection found Heasley discarding much of his Small Faces fixations and moving closer toward an individual sound, which, after fifteen years now, he has undoubtedly achieved. Everything Wrong Is Imaginary is well worth the wait.

In the past, Heasley would focus on replicating, instead of interpretating, his musical obessions, whether it was the Pale Saints or The Who. Yet Everything Wrong gathers up a seemingly infinite amount of influential sources – minimalist Krautrock, hazy shoegaze drones, mechanized New Wave, late-’80s SST guitar noise, and of course, jangly ’60s pop – and somehow congeals them all into everything I could ever want in a pop record. The tunes are undeniably hummable and catchy, but there are so many bizarre and discordant elements, all of them so wonderfully out of place, that it’s difficult to truly get a grasp on the individual songs themselves. A bouncy groove will be knocked off balance by a whirring blast of feedback, an unexpected note from a cheap-sounding Casio will immediately shift the color of a chord, or Heasley will suddenly adopt a peculiar faux-British accent mid-song without explanation. Initially, it’s a bit much to take in, but repeated listens yield countless rewards, and there simply isn’t a dull spot to be found.

A sizeable chunk of the record’s success can be attributed to producer Michael Musmanno, whose aural imagination must be on the level of a younger Dave Fridmann (before he began lacing his tracks with truckloads of sterile, flatlined compression). Heasley basically sent Musmanno some home-recorded tapes of the songs, which were little more than multi-tracked skeletons with guitar, vocals, and some drum programming. Musmanno fleshed out each of the tunes with studio musicians and, more importantly, injected a distinct personality into each of them. The result is that none of the tracks share similar sonic templates and possess their own unique palettes, so to speak. What sounds like a disjointed, incoherent mess in theory actually fits together in its own jagged, unusual way; plenty of variety is rarely ever a hindrance.

“A Diana’s Diana” is a great example of the pair’s warped genius, a delicious pop confection fueled by a springy drum track and a fluid bassline that freakishly changes shape from a programmed, streamlined pulse to trebly plucks and snaps in arbitrary fashion. At times Heasley’s urgently whispered vocals give little indication of where the harmony is going, and with the bank of shimmering keyboards ricocheting around the mix, the whole production occasionally borders on chaos. It’s like tuning into a pop song from an alternate universe, only with nearby alien frequencies threatening to swallow the transmission at any moment.

“A Diana’s Diana” – Lilys 4:06 (Everything Wrong Is Imaginary, Manifesto 2006)

Disguised as they are, there are still plenty of radio-friendly hooks to be found on Everything Wrong, and if one had to choose a single, “The Night Sun Over San Juan” would be a fine candidate. The cartoonish keyboard effects scattered throughout the album are curbed here for layers of guitar, with a thickly-fuzzed one at 2:19 nearly steering the track into a noisy oblivion. Despite Musmanno’s inclusion of the dreaded “studio musicians,” what’s most enjoyable about the playing here is the sense that these guys have been around each other for years. There’s a charming sloppiness to the execution and a detectable familiarity between the musicians, so much that the notion of an overdubbed, lifeless, and “professional” recording becomes moot; this track could have been recorded on a basement eight-track with some minor post-production polish, and that’s about it.

“The Night Sun Over San Juan” – Lilys 3:45 (Everything Wrong Is Imaginary, Manifesto 2006)

Really, I could have picked any two songs from this record to showcase its weird accessibility, from the shifting mass of oceanic guitars on “Knocked on the Fortune Teller’s Door” to the sunny New Wave leanings of the instrumental title track. Although it’s not technically a “new release,” it’s the first great record I’ve heard so far this year and has my highest recommendation (eMusic also has it available for download, for those so inclined). Those debating on dropping a car payment on Lilys’ out-of-print back catalogue would do well to just pick up Everything Wrong Is Imaginary instead.

Was there any other item in 1979 that would bring a woman more carnal, orgiastic excitment than a ticket to one of Teddy Pendergrass‘ “Ladies Only” concerts? A dozen roses, a diamond ring, new car, whatever – nothing could compare to seeing TP live on stage in a bright white track suit, singing his heart out for thousands of shrieking female fans. Along with “Close the Door,” the single “Come Go with Me,” from 1979’s Teddy, is perhaps his most immediately recognizable ballad, a seductive Gamble & Huff-penned plea for a late-night bedroom escapade. It was immensely successful, further continuing Teddy’s hot streak at the time of alternating lush slow-jams with post-disco dance hits.

The extended LP version of the track, however, addends the original with a lengthy, somewhat awkward dialogue between Teddy and the object of his desire, a lone woman sitting at the bar. She plays hard to get at first, stumbling her way through excuse after excuse, but Teddy is impressively persistent, countering each defense with a smooth rebuke of his own. Ultimately, he eventually wins her over, of course. Yet if one dissects the conversation, it’s clearly evident that either his game is a little lacking, or the girl of his attention had a little something slipped in her drink when she wasn’t looking.

At the beginning of the last chorus at 3:22, the following can be heard:

TP: Come on and go with me.
Girl: Hm, hm. Hm, hm. No. No, no.
TP: Come on over to my place.
Girl: Not tonight, no.
TP: You see, it’s not far from here.
Girl: No. I’m leaving.
TP: It’ll just take a minute, if you think about it.
Girl: Oh, man.

Initially, Teddy steps to her confidently and subtly determined. Evidently unaware of Teddy’s status as Universal Sex God, she is dismissive right off the bat. In fact, she barely acknowledges him, claiming that she was just leaving. He mentions something about only taking a minute, which I’m going to interpret as the distance from the club to his crib and not his bedroom stamina, to give him the benefit of the doubt. She rolls her eyes coolly and sighs an “oh, man,” as if to say, “Not another world-class R&B superstar wanting to get me into bed.” Teddy’s standing on shaky ground here, yet he persists.

TP: Would you just think about it? Think about it, yeah.
Girl: I’m thinking about it, but I’m gonna have to say no.
TP: Come on and go with me. Come on over to my place.
Girl: No. Oh, no.
TP: You’ve been sitting in here for quite a long time.
Girl: Yeah, I’m slightly bored. I hate being bored.

Teddy backs off a little, urging her to take her time and just “think about it,” but she remains unswayed. He repeats his seductive mantra yet again. But now, instead of simply getting up and leaving as she originally intended, the girl seems to actually be entertaining the notion. Teddy recognizes this, and placates her by reminding her how long she’s been sitting here. Her response is a distant, rather dimwitted, “I’m slightly bored. I hate being bored.” Is she serious or just teasing him?

TP: You see, I’ve been watching you.
Girl: I’ve been doing the same thing.
TP: I’ve had my eyes on you.
Girl: I’ve been checking you out all night long.
TP: You look so nice, and you look so sweet.
Girl: (laughs) Oh, thank you. That was sweet.
TP: You look like you ought to be with me.
Girl: Yeah, but what are you going to do with me? That’s the problem.

Problem?!? Girl, it’s Teddy Pendergrass! What do you think is going to happen? Teddy steps up his game here with a straightforward, “I’ve been watching you,” and she returns his advances. He tells her that she looks “nice” and “sweet,” which, while not the most original or well-crafted of pick-up lines, at least generates a giggle from the woman.

TP: It seems that you feel the same way that I do.
Girl: I think it would be very interesting.
TP: It seems that you need some company, too.
Girl: Hmm. Oh, well.
TP: Yeah?
Girl: You said that your car is right out front? Right out front?
TP: Yeah.

The girl begins to wonder what would happen if she went back to his place, concluding that it would be “very interesting.” It seems that she finally gives in here, after an affirmative “oh, well” and an inquiry into the location of his car. Yet rather than grab his keys in one hand and her arm in the other and head for the door, Teddy apparently wants to prolong the cat-and-mouse game he’s playing with her. Teddy, you’ve got her – what are you doing?

Girl: And you’re gonna bring me home after a few drinks?
TP: Would it be all right with you if we left here and we went somewhere else, baby? Somewhere where it’s nice and quiet. Nice and quiet.
Girl: That’s nice. Yeah, that sounds a little bit better than this place.
TP: Where we could sit down by a cozy lit fire?
Girl: (laughs)
TP: We could sip a little wine, work things out.

Although the girl has already given her consent, Teddy inexplicably continues to entice her with a quiet atmosphere, a working fireplace, and – what else? – alcohol. Nevertheless, it works, as she laughs again and admits that “nice and quiet” is marginally superior to her current surroundings. What Teddy means by “work things out” is yet to be determined – possibly an oblique reference to a sensual massage?

Girl: Well, I cannot stay long. It would be about an hour, no more than that.
TP: Baby, you won’t be under any kind of pressure.
Girl: Please, I cannot stand pressure.
TP: I wouldn’t do that, baby, no. You see, I wouldn’t do that, baby.
Girl: Okay. Well, would you get my coat?
TP: You see, I just wanna sit down and get to know you a little better.
Girl: Okay. Just for a little while.
TP: I swear, you look so good to me.
Girl: Are you gonna pay for my drinks?

Suddenly, the girl snaps out of her mildly-drunk reverie and lays down the law, imposing a time limit by telling him that he has roughly an hour with her. Teddy, sensing that perhaps he pushed her too far, calms her by insisting that he won’t put any pressure on her. Right. She asks him to grab her coat for her – score! – but Teddy seems unaware of what’s actually happening, as he retreads the same tired one-liners he was using at the beginning of the conversation. Even though he’s unable to play it cool, she is unfazed, and after all, a compliment is still a compliment nonetheless. But before anyone can leave, she politely reminds him of one item that needs to be settled: the bar tab, which Teddy has inherited accordingly.

Come on, Teddy, we all know how this conversation would have really gone down:

TP: Come on and go with me. Come on over to my place.
Girl: (thump!) (sound of her body hitting the floor as she faints)

“Come Go with Me” – Teddy Pendergrass 5:51 (Teddy, The Right Stuff 1979)

“’90s alterna-metal” is not typically something that I would admit listening to on even a semi-regular basis, but there are a few bands from my youth that I’ll continue to make exceptions for, albeit somewhat discreetly. Case in point: post-NYC-hardcore quartet Into Another, a group who refused to be pigeonholed during the course of their career (thus the dreaded aforementioned tag) and managed to exist just below the radar despite two fantastic albums and widespread critical accolades during the ’90s. I probably dust off their records once every two or three years, and each time I’m always surprised at how well their music has aged, in particular their last release Seemless (1995).

Into Another was formed back in 1990 by vocalist Richie Brikenhead and drummer Drew Thomas, both well-known within the New York hardcore scene; Birkenhead actually played guitar for Youth of Today at one time. The pair then discovered a phenomenal guitar player in the form of a long-haired Lower East Side recluse Peter Moses (who had actually never played in a band before), and with the addition of ex-Whiplash bassist Tony Bono, the lineup was solidified. Revelation offered to record thier self-titled debut, which was released in ‘91 to a stupefied audience who were unaccustomed to hearing so much Iron Maiden in their hardcore. The band’s second album Ignaurus (1994) is generally regarded as their masterwork, a record much more closely aligned to 70’s prog-rock than the noisy post-hardcore of their contemporaries (Quicksand, Orange 9mm). Into Another recorded what would be their swan song Seemless the next year with Seattle producer Rick Parashar, whose résumé included Pearl Jam and Blind Melon as satisfied customers. Despite a slot on the ‘96 Warped Tour, the record still failed to make the necessary waves, and the group disbanded shortly after.

Listening back now, it’s easy to hear why this band had such a tough time latching onto the mainstream. Image-wise, the foursome appeared to be a rag-tag amalgam of a couple of burned-out hippies with bellbottoms paired with some militantly-vegan, tattooed hardcore kids. The public simply didn’t know what to make of them. Yet musically, Seemless is undoubtedly one of the most unique rock records of the last decade. Birkenhead sings with a rich, soulful flamboyance that shares little in common with the tough-guy emoting that characterized much of the public’s idea of “rock” music then; his nearest comparison would be Shudder to Think’s Craig Wedren, but with a touch more machismo. He belts out notes with all the extravagant passion of a cock-rock frontman, then shifts into delicate passages of childlike beauty at a moment’s notice. Moses shreds riff after riff of Scorpions-like proportions, virtually itching for the chance to rip a fretboard-igniting solo yet never once hogging the spotlight. Thomas’ drum work is as tight as it gets, particularly his bass drum hits, and Bono locks in accordingly with some surprisingly lyrical basslines smothered in gutteral distortion (sadly, he passed away in 2002 from a heart attack at 38).

“Locksmiths & Lawyers” would have worked well as a single, yet it stood firmly in the middle ground on the record between “buzz” hit “Mutate Me” and fan favorite “T.A.I.L.” It’s a shredding slice of post-punk that also happens to be catchy as hell, with Moses aggressively mashing a series of power chords underneath Birkenhead’s long, graceful lines about who the hell knows what. It isn’t until after the bridge, however, that the real sparks begin to fly – and why bands don’t utilize this technique more, I have no idea, because it kicks such an unbelievable amount of ass: at 2:06 the massive wall of guitars drops out to showcase a blistering solo from Moses; meanwhile, Bono pounds away relentlessly at his bass while Thomas begins to ruthlessly smash his crash ride into pieces. The effect is astonishing, a ballsy, youthful display of rock-and-roll swagger that I have yet to hear matched.

“Locksmiths & Lawyers” – Into Another 2:50 (Seemless, Hollywood 1995)

For “Getting Nowhere,” the group exploits the now-common quiet verse/loud chorus school of songwriting that was rampant then (blame Nirvana for that), yet features some tasteful drumming from Thomas and one of the finest basslines that the underrated Tony Bono blessed us with. Apologies for the music-geek digression, but his contribution warrants more merit than a simple “it kicks ass.” To liven up the chromatic Fmaj to Gbmin harmony in the chorus, he begins to dive into the lower ranges of his bass with a delightfully melodic line that overlaps the beats and gives the effect of rushing into each successive bar. As the harmony shifts up, his line is moving down, and vice-versa. Understandably, such musical trivialities may seem insignificant to many, but as a bass player, I eat this stuff up feverishly.

Meanwhile, Moses lays down some thick, chunky slabs of guitar during the chorus; it’s amazing how the arrangement here makes two chords sound like eight.

“Getting Nowhere” – Into Another 3:48 (Seemless, Hollywood 1995)

Out of print for years now, Seemless is a familiar find in the used bargain bins and is most certainly worth picking up, along with pretty much any other release from Into Another’s back catalogue, for that matter.

Jumping over to the territory of ’70s Soul, I wrote a piece at EarFuzz yesterday about the peculiarities of Sylvia Robinson’s Pillow Talk (1973).

Back during what I now refer to as The Great Record Swindle of ‘96, I was a naive freshman (who really had no business being at college then, anyway) who actually thought my hallmates would return the CDs I was generous enough to let them borrow. When confronted about the missing discs, the guilty parties adopted a more laid-back, it-wasn’t-my-fault, Method Man stance (“The shit just came up missing, son,” and “I’ll buy you four more fucking CDs, man”), while I played the role of a nerdy, white Raekwon (“So, um, how come you don’t have my, er, stuff when I let you hold it?”). It’s taken me years to re-acquire most of the stolen goods, but many fell into deletion and have become mainstays on a wish list that stretches back over ten years now. One of the more painful losses was Lord Finesse’s The Awakening (1996), a record that should have never left my sight. Attempts at a replacement from Amazon and eBay have proven futile as the album achieved “collectible” status while my wallet grew lighter.

Thank the powers that be for record distributors like Quincy, Massachusetts’ Traffic Entertainment Group. Besides ensuring that the public hears new releases from Prince Po, Inspectah Deck, and MF Grimm, they’ve also been responsible for spreading crucial reissues like Kool G Rap and DJ Polo’s Road to the Riches (1989) and BDP’s The Best of the B-Boy Sessions (2006). So when I heard that the label was resurrecting The Awakening (originally released on Tommy Boy’s Penalty imprint, which explains its state of limbo), I was nearly ecstatic.

Bronx-based Lord Finesse hardly needs an introduction, but I’ll offer a brief meet-and-greet for those in the dark. Finesse, accompanied by then-partner DJ Mike Smooth, dropped two near-classics at the turn of the ’90s, Funky Technician (1990) and Return of the Funky Man (1992). As the decade wore on, he slid into the role as the unofficial foreman of the Diggin’ in the Crates crew (D.I.T.C.), a collective supergroup of producers that included Diamond D, Buckwild, and Showbiz & A.G., among others. Finesse released The Awakening in ‘96 to critical acclaim but little public acknowledgment as the Bad Boy/Puff Daddy Jiggy era set in. Since then, he has focused on mixtape projects and production work, helming the boards for everyone from Biggie (”Suicidal Thoughts”) to Dr. Dre (”The Message”). I still believe that he has yet to receive his due as a key figure in the development of ’90s hip hop.

Lyrically, since his battling with the legendary Percee-P back in ‘89, Finesse has always truly been one-of-a-kind. Rather than mask his lines with oblique references and intricate wordplay, he took braggadocio to a level that few have mastered before or since. Finesse transformed metaphors and punchlines into an art form, and just one of his sixteen-bar verses is stuffed with more creative trash-talking than most emcees could manage in a lifetime. (Theoretically, he could have utilized the old technique of dropping the beat out to emphasize the punchline every two bars without tiring out the listener.) What Finesse lacked in the areas of storytelling and subject variety he made up for in a delivery that was simple, direct, and undoubtedly sincere; when he rapped about hustling, whether it was mixtapes or controlled substances, you believed him. His mouth was absolutely filthy, which complemented the gritty rawness of his productions perfectly. Few embody the ethos and spirit of hip hop quite like Finesse, which is why he’s deservedly revered as a legend.

Compared to his previous records, The Awakening premiered a more casual, smoothed-out development to Finesse’s flow, yet his quick wit and remarkable gift for metaphors remained intact. There’s also an all-star list of guest appearances, all of them strong, including the likes of KRS-One, MC Lyte, O.C., and one of the finest verses Large Professor has ever committed to tape on “Actual Facts” (with Satat X and Grand Puba). “No Gimmicks” was the B-side to the “Hip to the Game” 12″ and features a still-sane KRS cameo, spitting an incendiary verse atop a track that utilizes the same Miles Davis horn lick that Black Moon employed on “Niguz Talk Shit” from Enta da Stage (1993). Finesse’s bracketing verses are overflowing with hilariously cocky punchlines, including one of my personal favorites:

So why you frontin’ with the burner, kid
When you done took more ass-whoopings than fuckin’ Tina Turner did?

“No Gimmicks” – Lord Finesse feat. KRS-One 5:46 (The Awakening, Penalty 1996)

“True and Livin’” is a chief example of Finesse’s advanced production skills, incorporating shimmering electric piano chords into a mid-tempo pocket of muted bass and gritty, crisp drums. Other than a smattering of vocal snippets, there is no chorus or hook here, just pure street talk from Finesse in a flow akin to a top-of-the-dome freestyle. This is the kind of mid-’90s New York production that I simply melt for; it’s also telling that a filler track from a Lord Finesse album over ten years old holds more replay value than 95% of hip hop singles today, but that’s a digression for another time.

“True and Livin’” – Lord Finesse 4:41 (The Awakening, Penalty 1996)

Traffic Entertainment plans on reissuing Finesse’s long out-of-print debut Funky Technician next month, and while it hasn’t aged quite as well as The Awakening, it nevertheless deserves a mention next to classics like, say, Brand Nubian’s One for All (1990), Eric B. & Rakim’s Let the Rhythm Hit ‘Em (1990), or Cube’s AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted (1990). Perhaps Finesse’s iconic position in hip hop culture is on its way to getting wider recognition.

Lastly, I’d like to comment brieftly on the Hip Hop Odyssey mix from DJ Jaguar Skills & Lord Basis Supreme that’s been circulating ’round the internets as of late. While technically impressive (800 tracks in 48 minutes is nothing to scoff at), I found it nearly impossible to enjoy the mix without being constantly distracted by the unending barrage of artist shout-outs and nauseating cries of “nuff respect” and “rest in peace!” To all DJs perpetrating this nonsense: while I’m sure your intentions are genuine and keeping in the spirit of the original old school mixtapes and neighborhood block parties, you have got to stop doing this. Mention your handle once, then please, let the music speak for itself!

The world would truly be a better place were it blessed with more souls as beautiful as that of Alice Coltrane’s. She left this earth this past Friday, succumbing to complications from respiratory failure. Mrs. Coltrane was 69.

Alice McLeod was born on August 27, 1937, in Detroit. She began studying piano at the age of seven and played in her Baptist church choir during her youth. Following a brief study of jazz piano in Paris, Alice moved to New York to join vibraphonist Terry Gibbs‘ quartet. She met future husband John in 1963 at a Birdland gig, and took over piano duties upon McCoy Tyner’s departure in 1965. The pair were married a year later and remained until John’s death in July of ‘67. Alice Coltrane continued to record for Impulse! throughout the late ’60s and ’70s, retiring from music in ‘78 to focus on overseeing her own Vedantic Center, a meditative and spiritual commune located in Agoura Hills, CA and changing her name to Swamini Turiyasangitananda. She returned to music 26 years later to record Translinear Light (2004) with her son Ravi Coltrane, and was in the midst of writing and recording a new album at the time of her passing.

Throughout her career, Alice caught a lot of criticism from jazz snobs and purists for failing to properly carry forward the musical ideas left by her late husband. Disregarding these unfair and churlish swipes at her, she moved ahead to establish a musical vision that built on the foundations left by Coltrane, combining it with Indian and Middle Eastern forms but with a hint of hard bop flavor. The result was a handful of lush and gorgeous records that gracefully synthesized her own spiritual beliefs into her playing, from her caressing harp arpeggios, raga-like organ lines, and dark, bluesy chord voicings. Her finest moments, such as those on Ptah, the El Daoud (1970) and Universal Consciousness (1971), are the equivalent of a sort of musical “cleansing,” the sound gently entering the body and blanketing it with a womb-like comfort and warmth. The heart rate slows, the senses heighten, and a blissful state of aural trancendence is achieved.

From a technical standpoint, Alice was one of the most singularly unique musicians in the jazz canon, possessing a distinctive and recognizable approach to each of her three primary instruments: the acoustic piano, the organ, and the harp. Alice’s touch at the piano had a rolling, chunky quality reminiscent of Bud Powell, and she explored the range of the instrument with a focused depth rarely matched by any of her contemporaries. Her style had thick imprints of the blues and gospel, yet she would often isolate and dissect these influences in her solos, which was absolutely fascinating to hear. Her organ playing showcased her lyrical side the best, as she frequently flung off lines and motifs of great complexity over simple drones, restlessly searching for a new harmonic language with which to express herself. And Alice’s clusters of harp are simply heavenly; thick, colorful strokes of sound that imbue each track with a joyous, peaceful vibrancy that each of her soloists used as a springboard to stratospheric heights of expression.

Much has been written and discussed regarding the prolific decade of Alice’s solo output (roughly ‘68 to ‘78), but her most recent disc, Translinear Light, is often overlooked in modern retrospectives and analyses. The 26-year gap in her recording schedule is no doubt the chief factor, but this record (arguably the finest jazz release of 2004) situates itself nicely alongside the rest of her Impulse! catalog. Produced by her son Ravi (who also contributes sax and percussion), Translinear Light’s two distinctive features that separate it from her early excursions are its obvious fidelity and the absence of her harp playing. What it doesn’t lack is plenty of Wurlitzer organ playing, her ethereal piano musings, and even closes with a chant from members of her Vedantic Center. It is a breathtakingly beautiful record that belongs in the collection of any fan of modern jazz.

The title track includes Ravi on soprano sax and the legendary rhythm secton of Charlie Haden on bass and Jack DeJohnette behind the kit. Alice and her son participate in an introspective duet for the first two-and-a-half minutes, a flowing and natural dialogue whose priviledge could only be shared between a mother and her son. Haden and DeJohnette enter 2:38 to support a delicate yet expansive statement from the leader. Ravi returns at 4:42 for a solo of remarkable grace and passion, soaring over Alice’s blocky chords and low rumblings. She contributes another solo before joining Ravi for a recapitulation of the theme, this time enhanced with Haden’s decorations and DeJohnette’s cymbal swells.

“Translinear Light” – Alice Coltrane 9:50 (Translinear Light, Impulse! 2004)

Alice also offers interpretations of two of her husband’s originals (”Crescent” and “Leo”) along with her own “Blue Nile,” originally released on the aforementioned Ptah, the El Daoud. This new version stands in glaring contrast to the original recorded more than 30 years ago, but is no less enthralling. Alice’s harp is substituted for keys, the dual flutes of Joe Henderson and Pharaoh Sanders are replaced by Ravi’s tenor, and James Genus and Jeff Watts fill in on bass and drums, respectively. The pendulum-like 6/8 of the original is transformed into a sneaky straight four, which Genus and Watts begin seductively. When Alice enters at 1:04, it’s like a ray of light breaking through the clouds, and Ravi, Alice, and Genus all contribute thoughtful statements, the latter in particular executing a passage of elegant tranquility.

“Blue Nile” – Alice Coltrane 8:05 (Translinear Light, Impulse! 2004)

From Alice’s brief addendum to Translinear Light’s liner notes:

To the listening audience: At this time in history, I tried to share the light upon the greatness and Infinite Oneness of the humanity, the universe, and the vast Beyond. Within the light of this Oneness, the Supreme allows us to soar into the transcendental glories of divine Consciousness endowed with joy, peace, and love.

Rest peacefully, Alice. Your presence will be sorely missed.