In 1961, he left Atlantic for a newly established label,
Impulse! Coltrane's first effort for this imprint, guided by house
producer Bob Thiele, was Africa/Brass, which stripped the formal
harmonic underpinnings he'd been flaunting thus far, down to a
fundamental throb and drones. Against, over and through a
relatively open field, Coltrane blew variations of simple themes
with increasing density, volatility and volubility, sometimes
breaking into harsh cries, atonal runs or extreme registers of his
horn.
Trane's new music was a breakthrough into territory still being
explored by improvisers today. However, critical and public
reception to his turn was divided. An influential editor at the
jazz magazine Down Beat called Coltrane's direction 'horrifying',
'anti-jazz', 'gobbledegook'. Thiele retaliated for his artist by
conceiving three albums that would solidify Coltrane's mainstream
bona fides: one made up of well-known ballads, a second with the
highly esteemed Duke Ellington and the third with a vocalist.
While Coltrane's sound had evolved as a plunge into the unknown,
Johnny Hartman, some 15 years into his career, had held fast to a
style that was receding in popularity. A native of Chicago, Hartman
first gained notice after returning from military service during
World War II to sing in the big bands of Earl Hines and Dizzy
Gillespie. His role model was Billy Eckstine, one of the first
black male entertainers to be openly regarded as a heartthrob by
white women in America. Early on, Hartman, tall and handsome, was
hailed as a 'Bronze Sinatra', a crooner of slow- to mid-tempo swing
whose articulation of language and placement of pitch were proper
and precise.
The 1950s, however, witnessed a
sea change in popular music trends as the rougher vernaculars of
rhythm and blues, Doo-wop, rockabilly and rock 'n' roll won over
young audiences throughout America, and soon, the world. Sinatra,
Eckstine, Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole and several others sustained
careers based on the adult polish of their styles, but Ray Charles,
Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, Bo
Diddley, Chuck Berry, Jackie Wilson and Sam Cooke subverted their
dominance. As the big-band era ended, Hartman adapted by working
with small combos in supper clubs and cabarets, while recording
sporadically.
In 1959, he went to Europe 'to stay employed', as he put it
years later. Intending to visit for two weeks, he stayed 11 months.
He worked in England, Belgium and Germany, and appeared (according
to Dr Gregg Akkerman's recently released biography, The Last
Balladeer: The Johnny Hartman Story)at least three times as a guest
on British television. Eventually, he ran afoul of the musicians'
union's staunchly protectionist rules; otherwise he might have
opened a singing studio and perhaps hosted a TV programme of his
own. Back in the States, he found that bookings were scarce for an
urbane black man such as himself, who preferred refinement to
rawness. A three- week tour of Japan, singing with drummer Art
Blakey's Jazz Messengers, was a high point of this period for
Hartman. He was there when the call came from Bob Thiele, inviting
him to collaborate with Coltrane.
'Johnny Hartman - a man that I had just stuck up in my mind
somewhere - I just felt something about him,' Coltrane later said
of his one-time-only partner. 'I liked his sound, I thought there
was something there I had to hear.' In another interview, Coltrane
offered another reason for his enthusiasm: 'He's a fine singer, and
I wanted him to make a comeback.' The two had never worked
together. They'd both been in Dizzy Gillespie's orchestra, but at
different times.
Although Coltrane was so sure he wanted Hartman that he rejected
Thiele's suggestions of other singers including Sarah Vaughan,
Hartman had his doubts. 'I didn't know if John could play that kind
of stuff I did,' he told writer Frank Kofsky a decade after the
fact. 'So I was a little reluctant at first. Then John was working
at Birdland, and he asked me to come down there, and after hearing
him play ballads the way he did, man, I said, 'Hey, beautiful.' So
that's how we got together.'
Jazz instrumentalists - perhaps tenor saxophonists, especially -
are adept at portraying elegance, experience and sensitivity: ideal
qualities in a lover. The best of them (for instance, Coleman
Hawkins, Ben Webster, Lester Young, Stan Getz and Dexter Gordon)
acquire the ability to manipulate almost human-voice-like aspects
from their horns, and control the dynamics of their breathing to
evoke feeling over the course of decades of close listening. It's
about delicate yet deliberate physical activity, and spontaneous,
interactive self-expression. If such musicians have a strong-enough
repertoire and perform thus, at the peak of their game, their music
may live forever.
In contrast, most song stylists are irrevocably identified with
their specific historical eras. When a certain mood is struck, one
does not want one's romantic partner distracted by the voice of
another man, or by her wondering if the album had been borrowed
from your grandfather. Timelessness is what we're after when we
want to take our own sweet time. A traditional pose, one that
projects unquestioned credibility, is required. This is what was so
right about the Coltrane/Hartman pairing. In 1963, Coltrane was 37,
fairly young, yet even a cursory encounter with his music makes it
clear he was a person containing profound depths. Hartman was 40,
and not susceptible to passing fads. They may have held contrasting
positions on an aesthetic continuum, but their gravitas was a
match.
And so when, after a brief piano introduction provided by McCoy
Tyner, Hartman intones, 'They say that... falling in love... is
wonderful', with an air of faint disbelief overridden by ineffable
yearning that the possibility be true; as Elvin Jones swishes wire
whisks over his snare's drumhead, while Coltrane enters with a
forthright statement of the same sentiment: we hear communion
comparable to brothers bearing a single message.
Hartman's tone, rising from a chamber near his heart to the tip
of his tongue, bespeaks a longing to be joined in the test of a
tender hypothesis. He sings as a man who is unsure such a thing as
'love' exists, but is more than willing to give it a try. The
lightness with which he floats key words, and the way in which he
lingers over such a neutral conjunction as 'and', beckon but do not
demand response. Coltrane's chorus on sax rephrases, decorates and
slightly expands upon the tune by Irving Berlin, but completely
complements what Hartman has sung and returns the song to him for
an even more hopeful iteration.
The second track on Coltrane/Hartman, 'Dedicated to You',
written by Sammy Cahn, Saul Chaplin and Hy Zaret, is a pure offer
of devotion, put forth with the same wistful, ready-to- be-rejected
attitude as 'They Say It's Wonderful'. Hartman and Coltrane again
express themselves with a limpid air of quietude. 'A lifetime would
be just one heavenly day,' Hartman purrs to the subject of his
passion. If that encomium doesn't earn him affection, his cause is
lost.
But it isn't! 'My One and Only Love', which sees Coltrane first
outlining the tune, is a simply beautiful testimony of
consummation. There is no jumping for joy in either the
saxophonist's or Hartman's declaration of ardour fulfilled. The
manner of their gratitude is awed appreciation, not giddy
overreaching. First recorded by Frank Sinatra in 1953, and many
times since (including by Paul McCartney), the Coltrane/ Hartman
version of 'My One and Only Love' is definitive: the core of the
album, in fact.
Which renders the next
song, 'Lush Life', all the more tragic. Both the lyrics and the
tune were written by Billy Strayhorn, whose sexual orientation may
have increased his personal reticence during a repressed age, but
did not hamper his long, creative alliance with Duke Ellington. A
soliloquy full of vivid imagery and touching regret, the song had
been recorded by Coltrane only two years earlier, and was added to
the list of tunes considered for the album at the last minute.
Coltrane and Hartman had heard Nat Cole's rendition on the car
radio during the ride they shared on their way to record at Rudy
Van Gelder's New Jersey studio, and had immediately agreed to try
it. Hartman relates the sad story as if it's his own, concluding on
a marvellously fragile note, which he holds steady as the musicians
resolve in support.
'You Are Too Beautiful' follows up on the notion of Hartman, our
protagonist, being left behind, although one might suspect that,
since he's been so suavely in control up to this point, he's
actually giving himself a way to disengage. Pianist Tyner shines on
this track, with a fleetness in his solo that suggests escape more
than self-sublimation. 'Autumn Serenade', the final track of
Coltrane/Hartman, also depicts how a gentleman may think of love
when it's over. With an exotic rhythm and Coltrane's most
inquisitive effort, the track purports to recall a former
splendour, but doesn't Hartman sound relieved, and free?
A popular legend, spread by producer Thiele and Coltrane's
hagiographer Kofsky, among others, has it that the tracks on
Coltrane/Hartman were, bar one, all captured on one take. Akkerman,
in his Hartman bio, cites evidence to the contrary, which does not
diminish the efficiency with which Coltrane, Hartman and the rest
of the team created their tour de force. After checking the master
takes, Coltrane returned to his microphone to add a phrase here and
there. It makes no difference to the end result. Not one gesture on
Coltrane/Hartman is out of place.
In 2005, commissioned by the Chicago Jazz Festival, singer Kurt
Elling and saxophonist Joshua Redman attempted the daunting task of
covering the Coltrane/Hartman material. The singer and his pianist
Laurence Hobgood added strings to the original quartet
arrangements, and included six more songs to flesh out the set.
They performed the results subsequently on several occasions,
including the Monterey Jazz Festival, and recorded it live at a
concert for Jazz at Lincoln Center's American Songbook Series. It
was released in 2009 as Dedicated to You: Kurt Elling Sings the
Music of Coltrane and Hartman.
Asked
how he approached such etched-in-stone material, Elling told The
Rake, 'In an intuitive way, largely ignoring the weight of history
or of perceived expectations.' He identified 'a golden voice and
emotional transparency' as Hartman's unique contribution to the
monumental album, adding, 'I believe that all the artists involved
raised the level of their games simply by their mutual commitment
to quality and to making the best of every musical encounter.
Thanks to Trane, 'compassion' was the name of the game. Therefore,
a certain clear-eyed tenderness shone through.'
John Coltrane died in 1967, having continued to probe the far
reaches of music he could create with his saxophone. Johnny Hartman
lived until 1983. After making four more albums produced by Bob
Thiele, he spent the '70s and early '80s performing mostly in
lounges and supper clubs, recording for small independent labels.
In 1981, he was nominated for a Grammy for 'Best Male Jazz
Vocalist' for an album titled Once in Every Life. In 1995, director
Clint Eastwood used seven tracks from that record, which had fallen
out of print, on the soundtrack of his film Bridges of Madison
County.
Tenderness, compassion and emotional transparency are, indeed,
impressions one takes away from an encounter with John Coltrane and
Johnny Hartman, as well as admiration for its subdued lyricism and
psychological acuity. Then there's the sheer pleasure one takes
from close engagement with an object of multifaceted, inexhaustible
beauty. Such engagement may occur once in a lifetime, or sometimes,
if you're lucky, more often. If the 'object' is another human with
whom one wants to strike a spark, or perhaps kindle a fire with and
enjoy some warmth, it's very good to have Coltrane/Hartman at
hand.
