There was something striking about the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra’s presentation of Coltrane 100: Legacy — and surprisingly, it had little to do with the saxophone, the instrument most synonymous with John Coltrane’s name.
That’s not to say Joe Lovano didn’t deliver. He absolutely did — matching every sprint, every sharp turn, every harmonic hurdle embedded in the breakneck manner of “Giant Steps.” And each member of the quartet — Bob DeBoo on bass, Lawrence Fields on piano, and Emanuel Harrold on drums — executed composer‑curator Carlos Simon’s vision with precision under the baton of Edwin Outwater.
But what the sold‑out audience at Powell Symphony Hall witnessed was something deeper: the genius orbiting Coltrane’s horn, the constellation of Black brilliance that shaped him and the century of sound he helped define.
Charlie Parker’s bebop vocabulary became the soil Coltrane rooted himself in. What Parker sketched in quicksilver lines, Coltrane rebuilt into something almost architectural — a harmonic maze grounded in Bird’s logic but expanded into its own universe.
And then there was Miles Davis — the icon from East St. Louis whose bandstand became Coltrane’s crucible. Miles pushed Coltrane toward spaciousness, toward the long, searching lines that would become his signature. Coltrane pushed Miles toward harmonic daring, toward the modal language that reshaped jazz. Out of their creative partnership came “Kind of Blue,” the best‑selling jazz record of all time and a blueprint for modern improvisation. That shared history hovered over the evening like an unseen soloist, a reminder that Coltrane’s evolution was inseparable from the men who challenged and sharpened him, and one with a local connection.
Through sweeping orchestral introductions that pulled from every section of the ensemble, the program affirmed that Coltrane, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, and Thelonious Monk belong in the canon of great composers — not just jazz composers, not just virtuosos, but architects of American sound. Their music carried what they, as Black men in segregated America, were denied the freedom to express in their daily lives: their full humanity.
The rage. The tenderness. The romance. The righteous anger. The entire spectrum of emotion that lived beneath their skin.
Their creative response to racism and identity — forged in clubs, studios, and relentless self‑study — transcended genre long before critics had the language to describe it. And in Powell Hall, their validity as artists and men manifested in real time before an audience whose lived experiences often stood worlds apart from the composers on the program. Yet they listened on one accord, connected through the emotional truth of the music: the unconditional love of “Naima,” the aching beauty of “In a Sentimental Mood,” the urban affirmation of “Central Park West,” the righteous fury of “Alabama.”
When Davis’ “So What” opened with a sweeping orchestral swell, it felt like a homecoming layered with history. The motif of the evening gave every section its moment before dropping into those unmistakable bass notes, the same ones Coltrane once danced around with restless brilliance. “Blue in Green” shimmered with the quiet melancholy that made it a classic, and the bass‑and‑piano intimacy of “In a Sentimental Mood” expanded into something cinematic through Simon’s orchestration.
The contrast between the orchestral thunder of “Giant Steps” and Lovano’s tender, almost whispered approach to “My One and Only Love” revealed the breadth of Coltrane’s emotional palette. Lovano crooned through the melody with the interpretive grace of Nancy Wilson or Abbey Lincoln, then seasoned it with Ella‑like riffs that danced just above the strings.
Every member of the quartet made the performance sing. Harrold kept the pace on “Giant Steps” with manic precision, carving out just enough space for Lovano to let the notes ricochet at dizzying speeds. Fields channeled Monk’s obsessive focus on “Crepuscule with Nellie,” then shifted to the softest touch for the tenderness required in “My One and Only Love.”
And the strings — they wrapped around the horn in ways that defy language, turning familiar standards into something newly illuminated.
The concert delivered Coltrane’s greatest hits, though “My Favorite Things,” listed on the program, was ultimately not performed. Even without it, the evening stood as a testament to the enduring power of Black genius — and to the lineage of brilliance that shaped Coltrane, from Parker’s fire to Miles’ cool, all converging into a legacy still unfolding.
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