John Coltrane in 1960

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'Giant Steps' At 60: Why John Coltrane's Classic Hard Bop Album Is More Than A Jazz-School Worksheet

You don't need to know a major third from an augmented ninth to love Trane's masterpiece and jam it loud

GRAMMYs

Sep 17, 2020 - 9:14 am

The title track to John Coltrane’s 1960 album Giant Steps is the bed of coals all jazz musicians must traverse barefoot. This key-toggling, high-BPM whirligig has whittled numberless rookies into kindling. Even poor Tommy Flanagan, the (extremely capable) pianist on the recording, is a deer in the headlights during his solo. This must be a drag to listen to, right? A homework assignment in music’s clothing? Coltrane’s way ahead of you. In fact, he agonized over that notion in the very packaging of Giant Steps.

"It may be that sometimes I’ve been trying to force all those extra progressions into a structure where they don’t fit, but this is all something I have to keep working on," the one-time GRAMMY winner and eight-time nominee frets to annotator Nat Hentoff on Giant Steps’ rear sleeve. "I'm worried that sometimes what I’m doing sounds just like academic exercises... I’m trying more and more to make it sound prettier."

Relax, Trane: Giant Steps is supremely accessible—which has a lot to do with his expanding mastery of melody. Which is even more on display by way of Giant Steps: 60th Anniversary Deluxe Edition, a two-disc boxed set available Sept. 18 via Rhino. The Deluxe Edition contains a fresh remaster of the album and eight already-released alternate takes; a Super Deluxe Edition, which contains all 28 of the surviving outtakes, will be available on digital platforms the same day.

"It’s the accessibility that stands out for me… despite how challenging some of the material is," his son Ravi Coltrane, a saxophonist in his own right, says in the boxed set’s press release. "It’s still all very listenable and very joyful." That joy takes many forms, from the familial ("Cousin Mary," "Syeeda’s Song Flute") to the cheeky ("Countdown," "Mr. P.C.") to romantic joy ("Naima").

Coltrane recorded Giant Steps in 1959 with Flanagan, bassist Paul Chambers and drummer Art Taylor at the now-defunct Atlantic Studios in midtown Manhattan. (Pianist Wynton Kelly and drummer Jimmy Cobb played on “Naima”; pianist Cedar Walton and drummer Lex Humphries appear on a few alternate takes.) The music they made doesn’t just provide fodder for woodshedders; by running the gamut of emotion, it lays the foundation for Trane’s next masterpiece, 1965’s A Love Supreme.

Three of Giant Steps’ cuts were named after Coltrane’s family members—his cousin Mary Lyerly Alexander, then-wife Juanita Naima Coltrane (née Grubbs) and 10-year-old stepdaughter Syeeda Coltrane. Alexander grew up with Coltrane and, after his 1967 passing, hosted backyard concerts at the home they shared; her community later crowned her "the mother of jazz in Philadelphia" before her death in 2019.

"She’s a very earthy, folksy, swinging person," Coltrane says of Alexander on the album sleeve. "The figure is riff-like and although the changes are not conventional blues progressions, I tried to retain the flavor of the blues." Indeed, "Cousin Mary" evokes strolling down the street on a summer day—and Coltrane’s subtly unorthodox chord sequence keeps this swinging tune from sounding pat.

The real-life Syeeda, who was born Antonia Andrews, was Naima’s child from a previous marriage; her namesake tune has the feeling of a schoolyard game until Trane leaves the station for his solo. "When I ran across it on the piano, it reminded me of her because it sounded like a happy child’s song,” Coltrane recalls on the album sleeve.

Those lighter moments aside, Giant Steps often genuinely rocks; this artist didn’t influence Jimi Hendrix for nothing. And "Countdown," a look-what-I-can-do showcase, is essentially the moment where he lights his sax on fire. While it’s arguably the most disposable track on the album, "Countdown" is charming for its brazenness. As for "Mr. P.C.," a barrelling homage to bassist Chambers, there’s only one thing to say: If the hair on the back of your neck isn’t erect by the end, your capacity for wonder might be stripped out.

Plus, the title track may have been an attempt to best another tenor master. “I think ‘Giant Steps’ was a byproduct of what Trane attempted to do in the Miles Davis tune called ‘Tune Up’,” jazz-blues multi-instrumentalist Roger Boykin said in a 2019 episode of the Songs of Note podcast.

"I’d assume that he did that because of a rivalry he had with Sonny Rollins. Sonny Rollins had recorded ‘Tune Up’ and he played it so well, man… I think because of that competition between these two giants of the tenor saxophone, Coltrane attempted to do something even more brilliant.” (Boykin also cites the turnaround in pianist Tadd Dameron’s “Lady Bird” and the major-third motion in Rodgers and Hart’s “Have You Met Miss Jones?” as probable influences.)

But Coltrane doesn’t spend all of Giant Steps in fighting mode; far from it. The lovers’ sigh “Naima” is one of the most captivatingly minimal compositions he ever wrote. In the years after the couple’s 1963 split (they divorced in 1965), Coltrane began to tinker with “Naima” — whether adding pensive curlicues on Blue World (recorded in 1964, released in 2019) or flipping it upside-down onstage with his partner-in-crime Eric Dolphy on clarinet. But this version of "Naima" stands tallest; few love ballads sizzle like it.

Giant Steps was acclaimed upon its release. Down Beat proclaimed "You can tag this LP as one of the important ones." The Jazz Review insisted even non-jazz listeners would love it: "Everyone, even those who have had reservations about Coltrane, should hear this set."

And after successfully blending artistic intrepidity and hummable appeal on Giant Steps, Coltrane committed himself—at least momentarily—to chasing tunes first and foremost. "Now that I’m trying to write melody first, the melody will be that more important," he later told interviewer Alan Grant. "Eventually I may derive some melodies which maybe have some quality, some lasting value of some sort."

As was his wont, Coltrane was being overly modest to the press; if he’d hung up his horn after Giant Steps, these seven jewel-like tunes would still have established him as a melodic master. If you can deconstruct and examine Giant Steps on a harmonic level, by all means, dive in—it’s a thing of practically Einsteinian mathematical beauty.

But is that knowledge requisite to enjoying it? Absolutely not. Really, the only work you have to do is on your volume control. Your life will be a lot more giant for it.

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Alice Coltrane circa 1970

Photo: Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

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'Ptah, The El Daoud' At 50: How Alice Coltrane Straddled Heaven And Earth

The pianist-harpist's home-recorded album, featuring Joe Henderson, Pharoah Sanders, Ron Carter and Ben Riley, is otherworldly yet drenched in the blues

Morgan Enos

GRAMMYs

Dec 30, 2020 - 8:39 pm

Every morning, the alto saxophonist Lakecia Benjamin rises before the sun, settles behind her 88-key electric piano and offers wordless thanks to the Creator. "My goal is to get to it before sunrise," she tells GRAMMY.com from her New York apartment. "That's when the universe is most receptive, right before the day is about to break and everyone gets in their prayers. I'm there before everyone."

Right then, Benjamin plays a composition that means more to her than any denominational hymn: "Turiya And Ramakrishna," the worshipful blues from pianist, harpist, and composer Alice Coltrane, off her 1970 album Ptah, The El Daoud.

Benjamin last performed "Turiya And Ramakrishna" for a paying audience back in March. That was at Dizzy's Club at Jazz At Lincoln Center during the release show for her tribute album, Pursuance: The Coltranes, on the cusp of the national COVID-19 lockdown.

"'Turiya And Ramakrishna' puts me in a place of worship," Benjamin says of her setlist, which invariably features the tune. "I usually take that moment to get deeper into how the audience and I are feeling. I try to bring them into a place of worship to realize this song is not the same as the rest. It's not a church song, but for her style of music, it is. Whether they take it as a church song or not, I'm going to the next step."

These days, critics are reappraising Coltrane as an artistic equal to her husband, John. But of all her albums, from her early days as a Detroit bebopper to her recordings as the spiritual director of an ashram, Journey In Satchidananda (1971)—Ptah's follow-up—gets the most ink. (It was her only album to make Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums Of All Time list, at No. 446.)

But Ptah, The El Daoud, which turns 50 this year, deserves a seat at the table, too.

Ptah, which Coltrane titled in tribute to the Egyptian creator god of Memphis and patron of craftspeople and architects ("El Daoud" means "the beloved" in Arabic), contains abundant hypnotic power and emotional import. These qualities relate to the inner journey Coltrane underwent at the time, the fact she recorded Ptah at home, her quintet's performances, and the album's matrix of ancient Vedic and Egyptian references.

By all accounts, Coltrane conceived Ptah, The El Daoud, and its predecessors, A Monastic Trio (1968) and Huntington Ashram Monastery (1969), during a period of grief and spiritual evolution. In the years after her husband, John, died of liver cancer in 1967, she experienced physical, mental and metaphysical phenomena, as documented in her 1977 spiritual memoir, "Monument Eternal."

"Sometimes, my heartbeat shifted to the right side of my body. All of the hair on my head would stand on end as if it were electrically charged," Coltrane wrote, citing the "extensive mental and physical austerities" she underwent during this time.

As evidenced by the track titles from this period, like "Lord Help Me To Be" and "IHS" (or, "I Have Suffered"), she interfaced with her traumas and pushed past them into a transcendent space. "My meaning here was to express and bring out a feeling of purification," Coltrane stated in Leonard Feather's liner notes to Ptah, The El Daoud. "Sometimes on Earth, we don't have to wait for death to go through a sort of purging, a purification."

"A lot of those tracks [on A Monastic Trio], like 'I Want to See You' and 'Gospel Trane,' I think of them as mourning because she'd suffered that loss," harpist Brandee Younger tells GRAMMY.com. "And by the time we get to Huntington Ashram Monastery, you know, that title speaks volumes. So then we have Ptah, The El Daoud: 'This is my next phase, and it's more than what you got before.'"

"You know what I think is cool about this album, but also [about] just her in general?" pianist Cat Toren asks GRAMMY.com. "She had four young kids, and she had lost the love of her life. I think that's huge. It speaks to her power as a woman, to go forth no matter the adversity of what else is going on in her life. I would be interested to know her support network and how she was able to produce this incredible work under such challenging conditions."

Vijay Iyer, a pianist, composer and Harvard professor, is careful to note that Coltrane's spiritual quest was more far-reaching than her husband's loss. "She was in public life from 1960 until [her death in] 2007, and for four of those years, she was married to John Coltrane," he says. "Yes, she was grieving, but there was something else she went through in those years that was the beginning of a much larger transformation. Not to reduce her role in the family or her relationship to [John] or anything like that, but she was on her own journey, too."

"When [John] passed, it's not just his passing; it's the combination of his passing, plus mothering, plus careering, plus the world is in unrest," Younger says. "I feel it would be impossible not to be affected by that combination of factors. In the big picture, she went through a serious transition, and there's no question about that because it's written in the book."

"I mean, think about it," she adds. "That happened in that house, where she recorded that record. How could one not affect the other?"

John and Alice Coltrane's home in Dix Hills on Long Island, New York | Photo: Steve Pfost/Newsday RM via Getty Images

As with A Monastic Trio and Huntington Ashram Monastery, Alice Coltrane recorded Ptah, The El Daoud in the basement of her ranch-style house at 247 Candlewood Path in Dix Hills on Long Island, New York, which she and John shared from 1964 until his death; she remained there until 1973. Tenor saxophonists and flutists Joe Henderson and Pharoah Sanders, bassist Ron Carter and drummer Ben Riley accompanied her on the recording.

Read: Hank Mobley's 'Soul Station' At 60: How The Tenor Saxophonist's Mellow Masterpiece Inspires Jazz Musicians In 2020

"When I hear that record, the first thing I hear is the room," saxophonist-clarinetist Jeff Lederer tells GRAMMY.com, describing the rich, boomy atmosphere of Ptah, The El Daoud as "comforting." "It's not a [Rudy] Van Gelder sound or anything, but you can feel [like], 'Wow! She was making this record in her house.' It's not the kind of sound you'd expect."

In that regard, Steve Holtje, a keyboardist, writer and the manager and producer of the long-running, Bernard Stollman-founded label, ESP-Disk', views Ptah as something of a landmark.

"It's not the first time anybody ever did this—it's not even the first time she did it—but I have a certain fondness of placing this album in the lineage of DIY recording," he says. "It happens that Ed Michel at [jazz label] Impulse! got the producer credit on this, but I'm not sure how much a producer he was in terms of influencing the music."

"Was she a Billie Eilish in the making?" Ashley Kahn, the author of "A Love Supreme: The Story Of John Coltrane's Signature Album" and "The House That Trane Built: The Story Of Impulse Records," asks GRAMMY.com. "The self-produced, self-sufficient musician idea has been around for many, many years and expressed in many different ways."

"It's a Black female artist taking control of her music," Holtje states. "That's really important."

"It may be that that sensibility was in the air at that time," Iyer adds. "A sense of self-determination to make this work for you on your terms, rather than a transaction with a corporation, which doesn't necessarily have your best interests at heart. Particularly for Black artists in the 1960s and '70s, that was a movement."

"It's homey. It has that Sunday-afternoon-after-church vibe," bassist Melvin Gibbs tells GRAMMY.com of the feeling "Turiya And Ramakrishna" exudes. "Even the Van Gelder records were recorded in a living room, so it's not that far out of context in the sound of jazz, but it feels like your relatives were playing for you. That's evocative for me."

"The room is the invisible instrument. The other member of the band is the room in which you record the live date," vocalist and multi-instrumentalist Georgia Anne Muldrow tells GRAMMY.com.

But when it comes to record-making, a lush-sounding room doesn't mean much without stellar musicians within its walls.

"Ptah, The El Daoud has darkness and richness of tone that speaks to me, and some of that comes from the incredible sound of every musician [on the album]," keyboardist Jamie Saft tells GRAMMY.com. "The musicians on this record, their tone is as rich and developed and important as it gets. Joe Henderson and Pharoah [Sanders] have some of the greatest saxophone tones of all time. Alice Coltrane's piano tone and Ron Carter's bass tone are so important to jazz music."

Aside from "Lord Help Me To Be" on A Monastic Trio, where Sanders tears a hole in the firmament, Ptah, The El Daoud is Coltrane's first album with horns.

"I think what makes this album so great is that you get to hear her comp with great horn players," pianist Matthew Shipp tells GRAMMY.com. "The beautiful plant and flower that her chordal language and her touch had [relates to] the interplay of those two horn players."

Joe Henderson circa 1970 | Photo: Tom Copi/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

The musicians featured on Ptah hail from both the avant-garde and straight-ahead jazz scenes.

"This rapprochement between those two styles was very deliberate on [Coltrane's] part," Holtje says. "Ben Riley is best-known from Thelonious Monk's quartet. And before that, Riley had been playing with the Johnny Griffin/'Lockjaw' Davis quintet, which was very much a popular style."

Holtje goes on to note that while Carter played with Miles Davis and Henderson had come off a string of exploratory-yet-tonal albums on Blue Note, Sanders was "Albert Ayler-influenced—a real firebreather in Alice's husband's band."

"Aside from Pharoah, Alice's band on this record looks, to me, like a deliberate move away from associations with John," he observes. "And to do that, she put together a set of musicians who were not especially associated with each other."

Read: 'Bitches Brew' At 50: Why Miles Davis' Masterpiece Remains Impactful

As for the rest of the rhythm section?

"Ron Carter's walking on air. You can't get away from the fact that this is a blues-based, cosmic cat," Shipp enthuses.

"Ron is maybe one of the two or three most important bass players in the history of jazz from a harmonic standpoint," drummer Gerry Gibbs adds. "Alice's music only has a few chords; usually, it doesn't have a lot of chord progression. So that gives Ron a lot of space to use a lot of his harmonic brilliance.

"Ben [Riley] was a very soft drummer," he continues. "He never really played much with a crash cymbal; he usually played with a ride and a flat cymbal. He was never a basher."

"He's the kind of drummer I'd like to be," Muldrow adds. "The kind that supports what's going on and makes statements through the ways he supports the music. There are things he does with the brushes on that record that I'll never forget."

"There's this real attention to groove and the meaning, the importance of that," Iyer says of Riley's performance. "Even when the [music] seems to kind of wash along, there's precise attention and care for how the pulse is expressed. You hear her dealing with that in a way you don't as much as when she plays with Rashied Ali. It gives this album a certain backbone that's important."

Despite its harmonic and rhythmic dust devils, Ptah has an undeniable core and pulse.

"'Ptah, The El Daoud,' to me, sounds like a battle cry of sorts," Younger says. "The interplay between Sanders and Henderson, and the way Coltrane favors the low end of the piano for nearly the entirety of the head and horn solos, gives it this riveting edge."

"After it's all done," she continues, "'Turiya And Ramakrishna' is the perfect release. Spiritually, and she references this in so many of her composition titles and writings, she sought to express a state of nirvana. This track achieves just that. That blues, the way it just keeps going, this cyclical driving-home, and then how the bass moves underneath it to give all types of new qualities to this one scale—it's just beautiful how she did that."

"There's stasis in here, but it keeps moving. It's like a spiral," guitarist Brandon Ross says of Coltrane's pianism on "Turiya And Ramakrishna." "It's moving laterally, but not in a broad sense. It's elevating each time to the cycles in another dimensional field of its orbit."

"She's going back to the roots," Kahn says about "Blue Nile," for which Coltrane switched from piano to harp, with Sanders and Henderson picking up alto flutes. "But never mind bebop; it's a blues. It has that comfortable feel, yet the sound, textures and mysterioso, in-the-air feel is like waking up in the morning and looking out the window, the same window you're familiar with, and you see the lunar surface or the rings of Saturn. It's both comfortable and otherworldly at the same time."

"Whereas the harp can be more glissando-focused, the way she plays piano, she gives you everything. But the use of the blues is always present," vibraphonist Joel Ross tells GRAMMY.com.

"The only track where Pharoah asserts himself in the whole avant-garde sense is 'Mantra,'" Holtje adds. "That is the longest track, so that is the track where they have the most time to explore, if I can use that word. So that's kind of a natural thing to be happening there, but Pharoah also had a good grounding before he went out. I'm sure he respected Joe Henderson, and I'm sure Joe Henderson respected him."

While Muldrow characterizes Ptah as "a nice little cutaway, a rest stop," Iyer and Kahn see it more as an on-ramp.

"There are many effective doorways to Alice Coltrane's world," Kahn says. "It's an unbelievably kaleidoscopic mixture of music that'll leave stretch marks on your ears and brain as far as what is possible. It combines so many different musical traditions on this planet in a way that feels very organic and satisfying on a bunch of different levels: culturally, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. Ptah, The El Daoud is as effective as any other doorway that I would recommend for any listener trying to get into Alice Coltrane and grasp what she's about. But it shouldn't be the last stop, either. It should be a welcome mat, and it's a very effective one."

Ptah, The El Daoud is a tribute to God through ancient Vedic and Egyptian lenses, and the parallels between the two cosmologies run deep.

"You're talking about ancient evidence of contemplating the universe. That's the point of relation," Muldrow says. "Ptah, that's coming from Africa, up from Ethiopia into the Nubian civilization, all the way into what we call Egypt today."

"Bringing the Black experience to the Sanskrit thing, I feel like there's a circle that gets completed," she continues. "What dovetails everything is the history, the landscape and the people. That's what brings it all together, and she was completely aware of it. She's quite a scholar."

The album's heavily stylized, Jim Evans-painted cover features a wealth of emblematic information.

"If you look at this album cover, it's got many different images in it," cultural scholar and essayist Menzi Maseko tells GRAMMY.com over Zoom from Zimbabwe. "What you see in the hieroglyphs are the names of God and of becoming. It says, 'The father of beginnings, the creator of the egg, the sun and the moon.' It's got the cobra at the bottom, which symbolizes cunning, superior intellectual capability and danger."

"The fact she even mentioned the word Ptah, to me, is like a whole history lesson," bassist Lonnie Plaxico tells GRAMMY.com, connecting Ptah to the ancient Egyptian vizier named after the deity. "I would tell people to go look at 'The Teachings Of Ptahhotep,' and you'll understand why she [evoked him]. I encourage people to go check out who Ptahhotep was. I think that was her intent. It's like a seed. I think she was putting the seed out there, like, 'You should know about this person.'"

Regarding the importance of Egyptian and Vedic systems to Coltrane, "I wouldn't put one over the other; it all becomes this percolating stew," Iyer notes. "There are all these different influences, from Islam to ancient, pre-Hindu Indian spiritual practices to Kemetic systems of knowledge. All of that intersected and had that transformative impact on Alice Coltrane to the point that she then took on the name Turiyasangitananda."

To Maseko, to make an album bearing Ptah's name is a sacred action.

"It is all in devotional service to the Supreme Being," Maseko says, with a hint of awe. "She's immortalizing the name of Ptah, but every musician is involved in the creation of that work. Pharoah Sanders carried on the tradition. Joe Henderson carries on the tradition. Last year, you probably didn't know you would be doing this, but you're doing it because it's the will of Ptah. We didn't plan it. It's something inside your DNA, inside you and inside me, that has brought us to this moment. It's a miracle, bra'. It's an unfolding of the divine will."

In early November, Benjamin, clad in white and gold, emerged from the lockdown for a livestreamed gig at Jazzfest Berlin, her first since the album release show at Dizzy's. Midway through the set, she, Plaxico, pianist Zaccai Curtis and drummer Darrell Green changed gears and took the socially distanced crowd to church.

"That last song we played was an Alice Coltrane song entitled 'Turiya And Ramakrishna,'" she said on the mic. "Most people tell me it sounds like a love song. It's a constant seeking out the Creator, your purpose, and why you are here and getting closer to the source of the one that gave you life. It is a love song, but it's a love song to the universe."

While that "love song to the universe" may be under-discussed among casual jazz fans, its inspiration ripples forth via these musicians' hearts, minds and hands. To the question of why a jazz layperson should hear Ptah, The El Daoud, Muldrow takes what feels like half a minute for silent contemplation.

"Because it will make you feel better," she finally allows. "You're going to hear something special in this record. You're going to feel love in this record. If I were to give this to a layperson, I'd say, 'Man, you're going to feel better after you listen to this.'"

"If you're not versed in Alice Coltrane, why do you need to hear it?" Younger asks. "Because 'Turiya And Ramakrishna' will save your life. If it doesn't save your life, it'll change your life."

Brandon Ross sounds captivated, serene, even a little solemn while reflecting on the same track. "What else can I say about this, man?" he asks as it burbles in the background. "It's self-explanatory. They need to play this when I die, as a lift."

'Giant Steps' At 60: Why John Coltrane's Classic Hard Bop Album Is More Than A Jazz-School Worksheet

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James Brandon Lewis

Photo: Diane Allford

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James Brandon Lewis On Evoking George Washington Carver Through Sound, The Wisdom Of Nature & His New Album 'Jesup Wagon'

The emotionally and intellectually gripping saxophonist James Brandon Lewis did his homework while conceptualizing 'Jesup Wagon,' an album that manifests George Washington Carver's essence into today's world

Morgan Enos

GRAMMYs

May 17, 2021 - 5:57 pm

Jazz history is full of musicians immortalizing people through sound. John Coltrane did it with "Cousin Mary" and "Syeeda's Song Flute." Miles Davis did it with "Back Seat Betty." Charles Mingus's "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" is a eulogy for the tenor giant Lester Young. The problem is that if we couldn't flip over the LP and read about it, we might never know—and tenor saxophonist James Brandon Lewis is well aware of the gulf between music and PR copy.

While paying homage to agricultural scientist and inventor George Washington Carver on his new album, Jesup Wagon, Lewis conjured his essence and wrenched it from his horn. Even if you might need to read the bio to get who he's driving at, there are more profound forces at play. Even as he interpolated spoken word to illuminating effect, Lewis told a story in a way language never could.

"I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying my best to evoke a deeper thing," he tells GRAMMY.com.

Getting on Carver's wavelength meant digging deeper than the aspects most people learn in public school, like his 300-plus uses for the peanut. Lewis more than did his due diligence, poring over Carver's correspondence letters and bulletins for farmers as well as a litany of biographies of the man. Want to read about Carver yourself? There's plenty of literature out there. But Jesup Wagon, which came out May 7 on the up-and-coming TAO Forms label, can help you feel his presence.

Far from dry history lessons, Lewis' wrenching compositions like "Lowlands of Sorrow," "Fallen Flowers" and "Experiment Station" may act as first steps to lifelong education on and communion with the historical figure. Most importantly, Lewis has a monstrous sound on the horn. Plus, he has simpatico accompanists in the Red Lily Quintet, which consists of cornetist Kirk Knuffke, bassist and gimbri player William Parker, cellist Chris Hoffman, and drummer and mbira player Chad Taylor.

GRAMMY.com caught up with Lewis over Zoom from Switzerland—where he's already plotting his next album—about his journey through a Black genius's universe and his place in the pantheon of the saxophone.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.

You clearly had such a vision for Jesup Wagon, and I can't think of a way you fell short of executing it. How did this idea germinate, and would you consider this album your breakthrough?

Definitely. All the parts kind of fell into place. I definitely didn't have any intention, initially, during this COVID period, to do anything to mark the time period. Just because of personal stuff. Losing family members and different things. Not feeling like creating work was necessarily the right thing to do just because people were losing their lives; people were losing work.

But then, eventually, I was like, "I can't sink my own ship. I've got to be strong for other people." So I just started creating music. This came about very organically. The label reached out—for Whit Dickey to have the courage to start TAO Forms during COVID is like, "OK, cool." [They asked me,] "James, do you have anything?" "Sure, I do."

I'm always creating and thinking about the next thing and the Carver project [and my interest in him] was something that had been on my mind for quite some time. So I thought, "Why not?" Maybe people will gain a little bit more insight into him other than, like, "He's the peanut guy." These kinds of watered-down notions of him. Which happens over time to people. I don't think it's done in a malicious kind of way.

And then, the cast. It's everyone that I've worked with over the years. I've only worked with Chris Hoffman once, but that was good enough. It's interesting because when you create, you don't know what the response is going to be. I thought, "This sounds like some pretty good music," and I put my best foot forward with every project, but you don't know which project is going to resonate with people the most.

I'm sure you've done innumerable interviews about George Washington Carver at this point. I'm interested in the tension between the music and the press kit—how you can evoke someone through sheer sound without necessitating that the listener read the one-sheet.

For me, it was a natural process. The older I get, the more I reflect on my past. Just growing up and being interested in many different things. Reading Emerson, being interested in science and jazz. I was just this kind of kid. Now, as an adult, the most authentic or original ideas I can pull from have to be from thinking about my own personal experiences.

In two years, I'll be 40. I think I have a little bit of life that I can talk about. So I think in choosing to do any project, I'm fully immersing myself in being in history. Checking out the bulletins he made for farmers. Checking out several different biographies as well as correspondence letters. Seeing clips of him on YouTube. Fully immersing myself gets me in tune with a little of his vibe.

The more I dig in, the more I feel like it may translate. How it resonates in my soul, I can map that and remember that feeling and then pick up my horn and proceed to play, remembering the feeling of a passage he said or his exchanges with Booker T. Washington at Tuskegee [Institute].

All of these different things and also the idea of him going against the grain in science when that's not necessarily the field [where] you're supposed to go against the grain. You're supposed to be all factual. He's presenting spirituality and telling people he's talking to the plants and they're letting him know what's going on.

It's always a challenge when you're playing music. To have a concept and then [wonder], "OK, well, it's instrumental music. Does it translate?" I think when you immerse yourself in a topic … It's no different than if I was writing a piece and I wanted to evoke, maybe, what love feels like. That's just knowing the characteristics of how to paint emotion with particular sounds.

That's up to the listener, but I feel like I'm in tune with his spirit, with his vibe. As you say, away from any PR or whatever. Any of the PR or any of the things that are out there is stuff that I've disseminated about him in the most truthful way. It's just like my dealings with Robin D. G. Kelly [who wrote a 2009 biography of [Thelonious Monk.] He's such an amazing writer. I've had a relationship with him since, like, 2016, when my No Filter project came out with my trio.

He was familiar with the process of me choosing titles and knowing that the titles were not just random. They kind of guide you. He was able to depict the titles in a really beautiful way that is truthful. They're based on me reading his correspondence letters and checking out his documents. A lot of real research.

The music is one aspect, but to firmly immerse yourself in something is another thing. I could easily come up with a song and call it "The Peanut"; I don't know if that would be that interesting. I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying my best to evoke a deeper thing. The musicians help that, too. It's not a bad crew to work with!

James Brandon Lewis. Photo: Diane Allford

It's a co-creation. You've got the best minds on it! And I think I understand now. You don't need to be able to materialize a person, somehow. You're not writing a book. You're just manifesting Carver's essence in an emotional or spiritual way.

Right. Does it relate to someone on an emotional level? Even when I'm listening to it—which I rarely do after I record it—I go, "Yeah." If I hear "Experiment Station," just visualizing George Washington Carver with students, the newness, the childlike behavior of discovery [mimics exuberant melody] then it's like "Wow, this is about to take me somewhere." It's also just about the contour of the line and how you shape things. Descending, the overall arc of things.

Hey, if it can also reach people emotionally—I'm at a place now where I'm like, "Let me play it for my family." If it resonates with them, then, cool. I think I'm OK. I'm on the right track. If Grandma's movin' and groovin', then that's a good sign.

How did Kelley come into your life? What a great asset.

I had released [No Filter] on a small label called BNS Sessions. He just reached out to me and said he enjoyed the album, and we sparked up a friendship. I also got involved with reading other books he was involved in, [like 2009's] Black, Brown & Beige, which was a surrealist anthology that he edited. That book specifically was influential on the UnRuly Manifesto project I did in 2019.

It's just been a healthy exchange. He's been to some of my gigs. We just sparked a real vibe. I'm thankful. He wrote some ace liner notes.

What tools were in your toolbox while making Jesup Wagon? Which artists were swimming through your mind?

I think I naturally draw from the canon of great saxophone players, just because I listen to them. But for this sound and vibe—I initially wanted to have a kora player on this project. That didn't quite work out, but then, I said, "OK, William Parker plays the gimbri. Chad Taylor plays the mbira. If I get a cello, then we have this earthy [quality]."

Me and Kirk [Knuffke], we definitely have similar interests in terms of all the great Ornette Coleman vibes and tunes. Just the way he plays and I play and we interact with each other, that's definitely a headspace in the ether. Strings, horns, no harmonic instrument, drums.

I definitely feel like I'm in the lineage of a lot of different players, but I don't know if I was thinking of that, necessarily, other than trying to convey the music in a way that felt connected to the tradition. The Coltranes, the Aylers. The Ornette Colemans. The Dewey Redmans. That vibe. Julius Hemphill. All these folks who have these different ensembles. The cello and bass.

My introduction to cello happened in 2009. I was at Banff [International Workshop in Jazz & Creative Music] and I met [cellist] Hank Roberts, who plays with Bill Frisell. And then, later on, I met [composer and cellist] Tomeka Reid when I got to New York. It was a natural progression of sounds.

And then, William Parker! He's also a huge influence [on my] sound. He's had a lot of different ensembles with a lot of different kinds of instruments and things. And Chad Taylor, who's worked with Pharoah Sanders and [tenor saxophonist] Fred Anderson. I think there is a sound universe. I definitely feel like I lean toward a lot of different influences.

James Brandon Lewis. Photo: Diane Allford

All in all, you may not be able to build a person out of sound, but you can push a hole in the universe and something might come out the other side. Who knows how Jesup Wagon will cause a ripple effect in global awareness of Carver and his contributions?

You know, it's interesting, because I've had different people from Alabama, from the South, who listened to the record, and they're like, "Wow. You really evoked this. We knew Carver when we were kids, growing up in this specific area. This is amazing." That's always a really cool thing. It's nice.

It also manifests itself, because I was just a kid who was curious about this individual, as I am with many other people. We'll see what happens, but I'm glad people dig the music. I don't think this is just a one-time [thing]. I don't know if I'm creating Carver, Part Two, but I will continue to study him. It's manifesting in my own life. He, as an individual, definitely got me thinking about nature. Maybe [making me] a little more concerned with nature as opposed to "This is over here and I'm separate from it and I'm so sophisticated." Caring about it, thinking about it. Contributing to it in a way that's healthy.

Maybe a seed is growing inside me to get some plants of my own and appreciate them. Especially during this time period, it seems like nature is the most calm and sophisticated and knows how to conduct itself.

Inescapable Progression: 10 Jazz Labels You Need To Know In 2021

Grammys Newsletter

John Coltrane and Joe Brazil

Photos: CBS via Getty Images | Courtesy of the Joe Brazil Collection

News

John Coltrane's Unearthed 'A Love Supreme: Live In Seattle' Is A Revelation. Without This Little-Known Figure, It Wouldn't Exist.

The jazz world is heralding 'A Love Supreme: Live in Seattle,' a document of John Coltrane performing his masterpiece in 1965. But the story is bigger than Trane: It involves Joe Brazil — and the dogged archivist trying to bring his story into the light.

Morgan Enos

GRAMMYs

Oct 29, 2021 - 5:26 am

Steve Griggs was dumbstruck at what he was hearing. For the past several years, he'd been on a crusade to learn more about Joe Brazil, the mysterious name on the back of John Coltrane's Om, credited as playing flute. The journey led him to Joe's widow Virginia's home — where Joe had died in 2008. There, she invited Griggs to sift through a massive collection of reel-to-reel tapes Brazil had made throughout the years.

"I kind of felt overwhelmed — almost paralyzed," Griggs tells GRAMMY.com. "Like, how do I approach this volume?" He decided to start with Joe's recordings of his close friend, Coltrane. One, marked "Saturday, Oct. 2 — A Love," caught his eye, due to its temporal proximity to the legend's famous Live in Seattle album. "There was no documented performance of A Love Supreme," Griggs notes of that period. "I was like, 'Oh, maybe he taped the record or something. I was skeptical: 'A Love?' What?"

But when Griggs put on the tape, it gradually dawned on him: He was hearing "Psalm," the solemn closer from A Love Supreme. He flipped the tape over, and there it was: The famous fanfare from opener "Acknowledgement." This finding took his breath away: Until then, there had only been one known live recording of Coltrane's monumental suite, his statement of spiritual intent. Here was a major document, and no Trane scholar knew it existed on the planet.

Virginia struck a deal for Resonance Records co-president Zev Feldman to acquire the tapes — partly so they'd "stay out of the hands of nefarious bootleggers," as Feldman tells GRAMMY.com. Due to Resonance's longstanding relationship with Verve Label Group and Impulse!, they were able to get it in the hands of the proper rightsholders at Universal Music Group.

Now, this recording that Griggs says "might have gone in a trash can" can be cherished by jazz fans the world over. A Love Supreme: Live in Seattle, which was released Oct. 22 via Impulse!/UMe, features a polished version of that very tape in full — bigger, rawer and wilder. It shows that the jazz legend sought to test its edges, reconsider its components, scramble its equilibrium. A Love Supreme wasn't just a classic record: It was alive.

And if not for Brazil — a saxophonist, community hub and consummate documentarian who many jazz scholars aren't aware of — we wouldn't be able to enjoy this music today.

Joe Brazil. Photo courtesy of the Joe Brazil Collection.

"To me, there are two heroes of this recording, once you get beyond the musicians themselves," Mark Stryker, a jazz historian and columnist who authored 2019's Jazz From Detroit, tells GRAMMY.com. "Joe Brazil, for having the foresight to record that afternoon, and Steve Griggs, who brought it to the world, those are the heroes to me: Two saxophonists living decades apart in Seattle."

But Brazil was not merely capturing a famous musician, like a taper at a Grateful Dead show. As a recordist, musician and man about town, he was part of the "marrow" — Stryker's word — of the Detroit and Seattle jazz scenes. He also enjoyed a warm friendship with Coltrane, an intimidating figure to some. And after the saxophonist's death, Brazil was a passionate and unconventional music educator.

"If we didn't have this album — even if this didn't exist — Joe Brazil's life mattered," Stryker says. "It mattered in jazz in the way that so many lives in jazz mattered. And it's worth taking a minute to think about that."

As with the story of any life — especially one as magnificent and underreported as Brazil's — it's helpful to start at the beginning.

Roots In Detroit

Griggs has spent a decade researching Brazil in the role of an "unpaid storyteller," and his findings are available to all. His Joe Brazil Project, which has been quietly accumulating on Blogspot since 2012, is a trove of historical goodies, from a Brazil family tree to a script for a Brazil-centric play to a photo of a cigarette burn on Brazil's piano — courtesy of Coltrane.

The blog also contains a timeline of Brazil's early life, and it goes something like this: Joe Brazil was born in Detroit in 1927, and went on to study saxophone at the Detroit Institute of Music and Conservatory of Music. Straight out of high school, he joined the army and played in a band called the G.I. Jazzmen of Geiger Field — named after where he was stationed, outside of Spokane.

Like many musicians in the incredibly fertile '50s jazz scene in Detroit, Brazil worked in the automotive industry — specifically at Chrysler, as a toolmaker and inspector. Being part of that burgeoning middle class allowed him to buy a house for his mother, with the help of his brother. After she died in 1951, he outfitted the basement with a bar, chess boards and a baby grand piano.

This hang-space attracted Detroit's best and brightest, like saxophonist Sonny Red, trumpeter Donald Byrd, pianist Barry Harris, bassist Doug Watkins, and drummer Roy Brooks. Even national touring artists like Coltrane and Miles Davis — who played together in Davis' First Great Quintet — passed through to jam and shoot the breeze.

"I had been to his house before and I played at some of those sessions," saxophonist Charles McPherson tells GRAMMY.com. "I know he was a guy that documented things — a lot of Detroit players, and people who would come through Detroit working with other people." (Plus, as Coltrane scholar Yasuhiro Fujioka explains to GRAMMY.com, Detroit was a suboptimal place to score drugs, which made it a destination for musicians hoping to get clean.)

Brazil's involvement in Detroit's music scene didn't end there: He dragged a somewhat cumbersome German tape recorder to clubs like the Blue Bird Inn, the West End and the Rouge Lounge.

"He was moving around and kind of greeting people. He was an MC of sorts," journalist, author and activist Herb Boyd tells GRAMMY.com of one such night at the Blue Bird. "At the same time, he was a host with the most, in terms of also documenting the occasion."

As Boyd points out, Detroit offered few club opportunities for young players, so they often congregated in homes. "It was very unique in that sense, because we had single dwellings and you had control of your basements and upstairs and attics and what have you," he says. "People could come by and you have an opportunity to sharpen and perfect your study of the music."

Joe Brazil's house in Detroit. Photo courtesy of the Joe Brazil Collection.

In 1958, Coltrane stopped by Brazil's place to jam with him and Joe Henderson; their rendition of "Sweet Georgia Brown" from this day is floating around on YouTube. Coltrane went on to become a frequent visitor whenever he and Davis were in town. As Griggs speculates, Brazil's ability to meet people on their level endeared him to Coltrane.

"People were intimidated by [Coltrane's] prowess," Griggs says. "Even back in Detroit, Roy Brooks and other musicians were like [Breathless voice] 'Coltrane! Coltrane! Coltrane!' They were making a big deal out of him. And it's appropriate to make a big deal out of him, but he's also a human being who's really curious and wants to know what everyone else is doing."

And in 1961, while most Detroit musicians headed eastward for New York, Brazil went the opposite direction — westward, to Seattle, to take a new job at Boeing. Despite this, his relationship with Coltrane didn't end there.

A Rendezvous In Seattle

Two years after the move, Brazil enrolled at the University of Washington to study math and computer programming. He also soaked in the local jazz scene, performing with greats like saxophonist Charles Lloyd and bassist Rufus Reid.

"He was a character, for sure," the twice-GRAMMY-nominated Reid tells GRAMMY.com from his home in Teaneck, New Jersey. "He had that kind of energy; he could manifest all kinds of things and it was fun playing. I was learning tons about music I didn't know about."

Rufus Reid and Joe Brazil. Photo courtesy of the Joe Brazil Collection.

By 1965, Coltrane had released A Love Supreme, a record which made him a bona fide jazz star. "He's headlining wherever he wants to, whenever he wants to, clubs, festivals," GRAMMY-winning Coltrane scholar and author Ashley Kahn tells GRAMMY.com. "And he's making bank for it."

"But at the same time, he's taking that moment of what we would look upon as success and not slowing down," he adds. "In fact, he's increasing the tempo of his drive and saying, 'I'm going to keep experimenting."

That year, Coltrane's quartet — pianist McCoy Tyner, bassist Jimmy Garrison and drummer Elvin Jones, outfitted with tenor saxophonist Pharoah Sanders and second bassist Donald Garrett — rolled into Seattle to perform a weeklong residency at the 275-capacity Penthouse club.

Coltrane paid engineer Jan Curtis out of pocket to record the results, and the volcanic performance on Sept. 30 became 1971's Live in Seattle. Wanting to keep the vibe going, the group decamped with Brazil the next day to Camelot Sound Studios in the Seattle suburb of Lynnwood to record Om, one of Coltrane's furthest-out works. On the album, Brazil plays one of Trane's wooden African flutes, making Om the only known recorded collaboration between the two.

"The music sounded crazy. People were chanting, drums bashing, horns squealing," Griggs wrote of discovering Omon his blog. "I couldn't pick out any recognizable melody or form. It sounded like freedom — spirits unleashed. Emotive motifs turned up to 11!"

For the performance the following day, Oct. 2, alto saxophonist Carlos Ward sat in. After an opening performance by Brazil and his ensemble, he patched his recorder through the club's two-channel recording system. Right then, he captured this teeming, multitudinous version of Coltrane's suite.

"The fact that he was there to record it came as the fruition of this long life led in music up until that point," Stryker says. "He was really embedded within the core of the musician's life and the social and cultural fabrics of the cities in which he lived."

After Trane

In 1967, Coltrane died of liver cancer at only 40, bringing his insatiable progression to a screeching halt. And, as Griggs speculates on his blog, the death hit Brazil hard, drawing the blueprint for the rest of his life — especially given that Martin Luther King, Jr. would be assassinated the following year.

"This existential reckoning may have urged him to pass information on to the next generation," Griggs writes, noting that Brazil went on to teach music locally at Seattle Community College, Washington Middle School and Garfield High School.

His teaching career took an abrupt turn from there: In 1968, a black student union and the Black Panthers occupied the University of Washington's president's office, demanding the formation of a Black studies program. Fully aware of Brazil as a community member and Coltrane associate, the union demanded the school hire him as a faculty member at their school of music.

At UW, Brazil used his unpolished, personable teaching style to bring jazz pioneers, like Dizzy Gillespie and Herbie Hancock, eye-to-eye with students. "He felt that the important point about the music was one-on-one relationships," Griggs says. "That's how the music spreads."

Cannonball Adderley and Joe Brazil. Photo courtesy of the Joe Brazil Collection.

While Brazil had a special way of communing with students, his unvarnished approach — chronically late, flouting academic decorum — flew in the face of academic mores and stoked derision from other faculty members.

"He was very street, in a certain way, and that didn't fly in an institution that was modeling itself after a European conservatory," Griggs says. "Perhaps they were jealous that he was connecting so well with students. The students were so happy to be in his class, but he wasn't credentialed like the rest of the faculty. He was Black. He didn't have degrees."

Despite breaking down barriers in academia, Brazil was ultimately not granted tenure, and was eventually replaced by Milton Stewart, another Black professor from the University of Michigan — who, Griggs says, weathered even more abuse than Brazil did.

Before and after leaving the University of Washington in 1976, Brazil became even more involved with his Seattle community, teaching students and inmates — often at little or no cost — and founding a nonprofit music school called the Black Academy of Music. The King of Sweden, Carl Gustaf, presented him with a service award in 1976.

"My life has taken a number of directions, but all seemingly with a purpose," Brazil wrote at one point. "Along the way I have come in contact with some remarkable people. Most have had some positive impact on my life. I have also come in contact with many racists and bigots.

"I feel the information that I share about my life," he added, "may help to bring about some awareness that will bring us earthlings a step closer together."

Zooming Out From Brazil

Sadly, Brazil is no longer around to tell his story: In 2008, he died at 80 after a history of heart problems. And while his story is fascinating enough to warrant a biography — Griggs has been trying to write one for a while — Brazil's relative marginalization speaks to the unwritten history of this Black, American idiom.

"My understanding is that Joe was a good musician, but he wasn't a great musician and he didn't record," Stryker says. "In jazz history, we tend not to remember people that haven't recorded." But, he stresses, even those who weren't in jazz's Mount Rushmore — and even those far from it — indisputably impacted the musicians, communities and cities they were part of.

"If we didn't have this album — even if this didn't exist — Joe Brazil's life mattered."
—Mark Stryker

"If you step back and you look at Joe's life in the broader sense of the history of jazz, you see someone who had an extraordinarily fulfilling and influential role in the communities where he lived," Stryker adds. "He was at the center of action in some ways in Detroit, and in Seattle he began to play an even larger role."

Now, with A Love Supreme: Live in Seattle out in the world, neophytes, fans and scholars alike can take a moment to appreciate the little-known figure who captured this music for the world.

"It's natural that everybody's going to gravitate to Trane and the story and the recording and all that," Stryker says, surveying the mostly Brazil-less ocean of reviews and features about the long-lost recording.

"But I would've thought that someone before this," he adds, "might have thought to take a step back and talk a little bit about Joe."

Joe Brazil. Photo courtesy of the Joe Brazil Collection.

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Aaliyah

Photo: Steve Granitz/WireImage

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For The Record: How Aaliyah Redefined Her Sound And Herself On 'One In A Million'

Released in 1996, Aaliyah's career-defining 'One in a Million' marked a fresh beginning for the GRAMMY-nominated singer and launched her into a new era that saw her expand as an artistic leader, creative visionary and fashion icon

Treye Green

GRAMMYs

Aug 27, 2021 - 2:13 pm

Illuminated by the pale white light of a New York City subway platform, Aaliyah stares into the frame on the cover of her album, One in a Million. Her eyes hidden behind a pair of silver-frame sunglasses. Her slim figure cloaked in a black jumpsuit. Her pout brushed in a shade of brick-red lipstick. Her countenance unfalteringly confident as she faced her new era.

In the two years between the release of her multiplatinum debut album Age Ain't Nothing But a Number in 1994 and her follow-up, One in a Million, on August 27, 1996, Aaliyah had established herself as a budding musical talent. But in the fallout of her marriage scandal with R. Kelly and subsequent professional split from the signer, who wrote and produced the majority of Age Ain't Nothing but a Number, Aaliyah and her team faced the taxing task of finding a new team of producers equipped to push her sound forward.

Aaliyah recorded One in a Million while finishing her studies at Detroit High School for the Fine and Performing Arts, from which she graduated in 1997. She had also ended her contract with Jive Records, and then signed a joint deal with Atlantic Records and her uncle Barry Hankerson's Blackground Records. She was 16 when she began recording the album, having turned 17 when it dropped, a pivotal time in her personal life journey. She perfectly captured the transition in her iconic One in a Million era.

How 'One in a Million' Redefined Aaliyah's Sound

"I faced the adversity, I could've broken down, I could've gone and hid in the closet and said, 'I'm not going to do this anymore.' But I love singing, and I wasn't going to let that mess stop me," Aaliyah said in a 1996 interview with writer Michael Gonzalez, per a retrospective on her career for Wax Poetics. "I got a lot of support from my fans and that inspired me to put that behind me, be a stronger person, and put my all into making One in a Million."

THE SOUND

Many artists Aaliyah's age may have been the product of the creative strategizing of their label—with managers, A&R teams, and other members of their crew choosing their producers, lyrics and overall sound with little to no input from the artists.

But Aaliyah challenged this expectation and misconception by taking creative control of One in a Million, making the sound on the project all her own. She led each member of her production and writing team to craft a One in a Million era with a variety of production styles.

"She definitely had an executive producer's ear. She had a great sense of what was right for herself, and you have to give her a lot of credit for steering those sessions to a place that obviously created meaningful hit records," Craig Kallman, CEO of Atlantic Records, told Vibe.com.

"She obviously made One in a Million, an album that was very, very much ahead of the curve and didn't sound like anything that had come before it," he added.

To aid in uncovering Aaliyah's new, "ahead of the curve" sound, Craig King and Vincent Herbert became the earliest producers to lay the musical groundwork of One in a Million, which Aaliyah first started recording in 1995.

"We caught [Aaliyah] at her probably second-most vulnerable stage in her career. We caught her at her sophomore jinx and when people were like, 'This will never work without R. Kelly because he put this signature sound on you,'" King told GRAMMY.com about working on One in a Million. "She was really trying to redefine all of that narrative, and we weren't interested in replicating what he was doing. We wanted to bring our own sound into the game, too."

Recording out of the famed Vanguard Studios in Aaliyah's hometown of Detroit, Michigan, King and Herbert produced a total of eight tracks for the project over three months, though only four made the final cut for the album. The album's production team also included contributors Jermaine Dupri, Darryl Simmons, Missy Elliott, Timbaland, and others, as well as writers Diane Warren, Monica Bell, Japhe Tejeda, and more.

With a team of production and songwriting heavy hitters in Aaliyah's corner, One in a Million began to take shape. The album would become a whole embodiment of Aaliyah's sound, building the R&B-rooted stylings that made her debut album a success into genre-blending productions while also giving listeners a fuller look into sonic complexity of the singer as an artist.

The Timbaland-produced lead single "If Your Girl Only Knew" bumps along, with its beat pulling from pop and funk inspirations, as Aaliyah calls out a flirtatious guy who's in a relationship. "4 Page Letter" and the album's title track slink along with multilayered productions packed with hi-hats, clicks, triple-beats, strings, and stacked harmonies, all the while reimagining the essential production elements of a love ballad. "Got's to Give It Up" and "Choosey Lover" put a modern spin on '70s throwback jams, while "A Girl Like You" samples "Summer Madness" by Kool & the Gang.

"I love all kinds of music, and I want to be known as the kind of singer that can do all of that. So, that's why I wanted the different varieties on the album to showcase that—showcase each part of my personality," Aaliyah said in an interview with the Associated Press during her press run for the project. "Definitely I love the soul, the hip-hop, the R&B. I love it all. But I do want people to see me as the type of artist that can sing any kind of music."

Along with their lyrical content and innovative productions, the album's tracks, like the paired-down, Warren-written "The One I Gave My Heart To" and the Herber- and King-produced "Never Givin' Up," also highlighted Aaliyah's vocal abilities, expanding the strength of her falsetto and upper register while allowing her the full space to showcase other elements of her vocal range and stylings.

"I remember being in the studio when she was singing ['The One I Gave My Heart To'] and hitting those notes and it was just beautiful," Warren told Vibe.com. "It just showed another side to her. The octave goes up in the end and some of that was what I'd written into the song, but she took it somewhere else. She not only rose to it, she went beyond it. She nailed that song and it was amazing what she did. It's still one of my favorite records."

Speaking on "Never Givin' Up," King said he was completely enamored with her interpretation of the track when they recorded it.

"The vocal arrangement. Every single time we layered a vocal, she was just so on point," King said. "She just superseded all my expectations. I was very, very impressed with her style there."

"This album, it shows the growth of the past two years. I'm 17 now. So, I've grown in a lot of ways. And this album, I think it shows a lot of my vocal range," Aaliyah told the AP while speaking on developing her sound for the project. "I took a lot of risks on this album. I tried different things. And that's the main change from the two albums."

Aaliyah's shift in her sound resulted in some standout commercial wins. There were a staggering six singles released from One in a Million: "If Your Girl Only Knew," "One in a Million," "Got to Give It Up," "4 Page Letter," "Hot Like Fire," and "The One I Gave My Heart To." The latter eventually peaked at No. 9 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart, making it the highest-charting single from the album. The remaining tracks saw varying degrees of success in both the U.S. and internationally — with "If Your Girl Only Knew" topping the Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs and "One in a Million" topping the R&B/Hip-Hop Airplay.

THE LOOK

While her fashion remained a key piece of her overall creative narrative as an artist throughout her career, Aaliyah's style transcended in the One in a Million era. She elevated her aesthetic with the assistance of her stylist and costume designer Derek Lee. As his first project with her, Lee styled Aaliyah's "One In A Million" music video after the two had a chance encounter in Santa Monica, California, just days before shooting the video in Los Angeles.

"[Aaliyah's] look was already established in a certain sense, but I wanted to start a progression. Prior to One In A Million, [her look] was definitely younger, her look was her age. Now, when we get to One in a Million, it's still her age, but it shows a little bit more of a maturity as well," Lee told GRAMMY.com.

Much like her album cover shoot, which featured moody shades of black, concrete gray, merlot, and the grey-green paint of the subway platform, Aaliyah's One in a Million era was often framed around a dark styling narrative that reflected her favorite colors and fabrics, including her affection for leather pieces.

"It was easy to make black stuff look cool and hard and sexy at the same time. One of her favorite colors was black. She liked it. She felt comfortable in it. It was easy to feel," Lee said. "One thing with Aaliyah is that her biggest accessory was her swag. She sold confidence, and the color black just enhanced it."

Aaliyah opted for minimal outfit combos consisting of one to three pieces that were fuseless and easy and in no way distracted from her presence on stage or on camera: See her oversized leather-coat-and-pants combo she wore during an appearance on "Live With Regis and Kathie Lee," her looks on the her "One in a Million" and "4 Page Letter" music video, and the metallic boiler suit Lee hand-painted and airbrushed for her performance on "The Tonight Show with Jay Leno."

"She was so sweet and just regular, when you're sitting there with her and kicking it with her. But soon as she gets on stage, she's this persona, which is her, honestly. She turns up that swag so much that you don't really want anything to distract from it because it shined so bright," Lee said of Aaliyah's looks, which regularly played with proportions by pairing oversized pants with mid-drift-baring T-shirts, bra tops and crop tops. "That was always on purpose. Even though she was dressed cool, it wasn't so over the top where you weren't still paying attention to what she was doing."

Much like she held creative control over the album's sound, Aaliyah exercised full agency over her One in a Million style narrative. She refused to buckle to any perceived pressure regarding the sexed-up styling arcs often employed by labels, stylists and other industry entities looking to rebrand a late-teen music artist approaching young adulthood. She instead chose to let her style reflect her authentic self, offering an example for her younger listeners that even in their own lives, they didn't have to rush to meet any standard or expectation that misaligned with what they wanted to portray.

"When she was ready for something, she was ready for something and was sure. If she wasn't mentally ready for something, then we wouldn't do it. Because she never wanted to look like she was dressed by somebody. I never want anyone I dress to look like they're dressed by anybody," Lee said. "She trusted me when she saw that I understood that. It was almost an unspoken agreement between me, her and her mom.

"I was always protective of her and never wanted her to sexualize herself in a certain way and dress in a certain way until she was ready … She never did anything before the time. She never forced it."

THE LEGACY

For 17-year-old Aaliyah, One in a Million became a career-defining project that silenced any lingering questions regarding her industry viability and influence. It also allowed her to grow as an artistic leader as she voiced her expectations for the project to her roster of contributors, working with them to ideate and execute the album's musical and visual concepts.

"[Aaliyah] never really chased after anybody else's style or chased what was going on at the moment," Lee said. "She knew her lane, wanted people around her that understood that lane, and wanted those people to accentuate her in that lane and leave the rest up to her … Her leadership was consistent. She was someone that had conviction and had a vision. I thank God for that because it made my job a lot easier knowing someone's vision, instead of having to guess what their vision was."

"I hope [listeners] appreciate the songbird that she is, the writer that she is, the singer that she is, and the vocal choices that she's made in this project," album producer King added. "I hope people really embrace and lean into her vocal abilities on this record. It really has set a precedent for a lot of singers in the game."

Released in the U.S. 25 years ago to the day, One in a Million continues its legacy in 2021. This month (Aug. 20), the album was released on streaming services after being largely absent on the digital market for over a decade, allowing music fans worldwide easier access to the album that has served as an inspiration for countless artists in the decades since its release. The rerelease comes days before the 20th anniversary of Aaliyah's death and the 25th anniversary of One in a Million.

But beyond its commercial impact and influence on pop culture, One in a Million, and its true wonder, will forever rest in what the album represented for Aaliyah personally as she stepped into her late teens and flexed her creative voice with reposeful fervor and unwavering certainty.

One in a Million marked Aaliyah's new beginning. And 25 years later, the project remains a symbol of her self-awareness and artistic sureness as she plotted the next steps in her journey from breakout star to an established music industry force who's confident in her sound, her self-image, and the creative story she wanted to tell.