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John Coltrane in 1960

Photo by Gai Terrell/Redferns

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John Coltrane's 'Giant Steps' At 60 giant-steps-60-why-john-coltranes-classic-hard-bop-album-more-jazz-school-worksheet

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

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

Gladys Knight & Patti LaBelle's Verzuz Faceoff Was A Moment Of Pure Soul Sisterhood

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Alice Coltrane circa 1970

Alice Coltrane circa 1970

 

Photo: Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

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Alice Coltrane's 'Ptah, The El Daoud' At 50 alice-coltrane-ptah-el-daoud-50-year-anniversary

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

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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

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

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."

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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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Big Boi in 2010

Big Boi in 2010

 

Photo: Don Arnold/Getty Images

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Big Boi's 'Sir Lucious Left Foot' At 10 big-boi-sir-lucious-left-foot-son-chico-dusty-10-year-anniversary

'Sir Lucious Left Foot: The Son Of Chico Dusty' At 10: The Story Behind The Missing Tracks From Big Boi's Solo Debut Album

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Partly thanks to label disputes and delays, the former Outkast MC left four singles off his classic debut album; deep cuts of the digital era, they collectively showcase Big Boi's evolution as a solo artist
Jack Riedy
GRAMMYs
Dec 30, 2020 - 9:47 am

Big Boi's solo debut was mired in label drama. Despite being half of one of the most commercially and critically successful rap groups of all time, the Outkast MC dealt with numerous label disputes and delays of 2010's Sir Lucious Left Foot: The Son oO Chico Dusty. "[Jive Records] said, 'This is a piece of art, and we don't know what to do with it,'" the six-time-GRAMMY-winning, 18-time-nominated rapper born Antwan André Patton told The New York Times in 2010. "[T]here were a lot of Jedi mind tricks going on… [t]hey almost tried to kill my career with that waiting."

At the time, many fans believed a full Outkast album—their first since 2006's Idlewild—was imminent. "OK, Big Boi's got Sir Lucious out. They're messing with us, André's going to come next, and then all will be well!" Atlanta journalist Gavin Godfrey tells GRAMMY.com about his mentality at the time, breathlessly imitating an over-hyped hip-hop head. Big Boi himself contributed to the hype, telling Vibe in 2007 that a new Outkast project was due after he and bandmate André 3000 had dropped their solo albums. At press time, a follow-up to Idlewild still hasn't transpired. "It's me, standing alone," Big Boi told the Times of Sir Lucious. "Outkast is a part of who I am. But this album is just me."

Big Boi released Sir Lucious Left Foot, which contains just under an hour of irresistible funk-rap, just over a decade ago, on July 5, 2010. This month, the record club Vinyl Me, Please reissued the album on exclusive purple and silver galaxy vinyl. Due partly to disagreements between Big Boi and Jive Records—where Outkast had moved in 2004 from its RCA-owned sister label, Arista Records—several of its singles didn't make the original release; they don't appear on the VMP reissue either. These four songs—"Royal Flush," "Sumthin's Gotta Give," "Lookin' 4 Ya," and "Ringtone"—are deep cuts of the digital era that showcase Big Boi's evolution as a solo artist.

"Royal Flush," which features Raekwon and Big Boi's Outkast partner André "3000" Benjamin, was Big Boi's first solo single. The spare hip-hop track consists of three verses split up by a sampled hook from the Isley Brothers' Go For Your Guns jam "Voyage to Atlantis." Big Boi boasts about his studio filled with potions of emotion; Raekwon describes soaring past police on the way home to his castle. But on a verse triple the length of the others, André warns against turning to crime. "Unfortunate that if you come up fortunate, the streets consider you lame," he raps. "I thought the name of the game was to have a better life / I guess it ain't; what a shame."

Watch: OutKast's 'Speakerboxxx/The Love Below': For The Record

A spiritual sequel of sorts to "Skew It on the Bar-B," a 1998 Outkast track which also featured the Wu-Tang Clan rapper, the track shows off the MCs' skill as rappers and writers. Furthermore, it shows that Big Boi's meant his solo work to be an extension of his work with Outkast, not a break from it. "It had the same feeling as I did when I was in high school, and "Rosa Parks" came out," Godfrey, who recently revisited the duo's 2000 album Stankonia for NPR, remarks. "It was so cool and different in a way that only could have been created by Outkast."

On "Lookin' 4 Ya," Big Boi teams up with André and frequent collaborator Sleepy Brown for a song about delicious anticipation for sex. André wants to test every piece of furniture for stability. Big says he and his partner have been digging each other for so long they're like archaeologists. Instead of trading verses over silky-smooth funk courtesy of the Dungeon Family collective, the trio raps over a pounding beat produced by a then-upcoming Boi-1da. "Lookin' 4 Ya" is another impactful reunion with André, combining harsh textures with an R&B hook for a quasi-industrial vibe.

Watch: OutKast's "The Way You Move" ReImagined By Big Boi

Big envisioned "Royal Flush" and "Lookin' 4 Ya" on the Sir Lucious tracklist from the beginning. He even told East Village Radio that "Lookin' 4 Ya" was to follow "Hustle Blood," and "Royal Flush" was to end the album because he wanted his friend André to have the last word. So why did neither song make it on the album?

"I don't think Jive looked at Big Boi as a top-caliber artist without his partner," David Lighty, the former senior director of A&R at Jive, told the Times. "They wanted an Outkast album so bad that when it didn't happen, they were more disappointed than anything." Frustrated with delays, Big Boi left Jive Records for Def Jam. In return, Jive blocked any collaborations between the two from release on another label on the grounds of them being Outkast tracks—a group still signed to Jive's roster. 

André's only contribution to Sir Lucious Left Foot is producing the beat for "Ain't No DJ." "[T]hey can't stop us, man. [I've] been knowing Dre half my life," Big Boi told GQ in 2010. "And for these people that we don't even know, that haven't even had a hand in our career at all, that's f**king blasphemy."

"Royal Flush" leaked to the Internet, was officially released as a single in spring 2008 and was eventually nominated for Best Rap Performance By a Duo or Group at the 51st GRAMMY Awards. "Lookin 4 Ya" never received an official release but leaked a month before Sir Lucious Left Foot's release, with additional verses. In the same GQ interview, Big Boi implied he leaked them himself. "You know, I'm no stranger to that Internet, baby," he said. The thirst of the fans will be quenched."

"Sumthin's Gotta Give," also from 2008, was a departure from his usual approach. On this topical song, the ATLien raps about economic struggle and laments there are "no more messages in music." Mary J. Blige joins him for the chorus, lamenting lost jobs and hoping "Maybe in November, I'll be cheering for Obama." Big had rapped politically before — on "War," from 2003's Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, he name-checked Osama bin Laden, the slain journalist Daniel Pearl, and the Black Panther activist Fred Hampton. But he had never been so overt.

Read: OutKast Examine Their Southern Experience On 'Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik'

Big Boi working with a superstar vocalist like Blige was an exciting prospect. "After Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, these dudes have gone diamond, they've won Album of the Year at the GRAMMYs, so they were officially certified superstars," Godfrey says. "People see him on a track with Mary J. Blige and think it's some kind of label pairing, but I feel like Big Boi isn't one of those dudes to pair up with people just to say he did. He's such a musical dude that he's like 'There is something in this song that I can create that can't be enhanced unless I have Mary J. Blige on it.'"

The slap-bass-heavy beat of "Sumthin's Gotta Give" sounds like it's trying to split the difference between New York swing and Atlanta funk, and Big Boi possibly prioritized the track's motivational message over its music. "That was basically to get people out to the polls to vote." Big Boi told HipHopDX in 2010, explaining why "Somthin's Gotta Give" wouldn't make the Sir Lucious tracklist.

Big Boi's upbeat 2009 single "Ringtone," a come-on to a girl who's got her ringtone in Big's phone even though they barely know each other. From its talkbox vocals to its synth bleeps. one could hear "Ringtone" as a brief history of Black soul music, leading up to the hollowed-out, autotuned sound of Lil Wayne's 2008 hit "Lollipop." Godfrey points to Big Boi's now-adult children as enabling him to stay current. "He knows what the kids like, so to speak," he says. "He's always tapped in; he's not one of these old hip-hop heads."

"Ringtone" was officially released as a bonus track to Sir Lucious Left Foot's deluxe edition under the alternate title "Theme Song," possibly to avoid the negative connotations of the 2000s ringtone-rap trend. While the track wasn't a hit, it sounds like it could have been—in a universe just slightly funkier than our own. Of the four left off the album, only "Royal Flush" and "Ringtone"/"Theme Song" survive in the streaming era. The other two are only available through dead links on rap blogs and unofficial YouTube uploads of dubious quality.

Big Boi has now been a solo artist almost as long as he's been part of Outkast. Since Sir Lucious Left Foot, he's continued making hip-hop steeped in the funk and soul traditions—even bringing his unique approach to the Super Bowl LIII Halftime Show. After the haze of delays and disputes has cleared, Sir Lucious and its leftovers remain highlights in an impressive catalog. "I am content with the knowledge that there probably will never be another Outkast album," Godfrey says. "But if there are more Big Boi albums, I'm fine with that."

Deep 10: OutKast's Speakerboxxx/The Love Below

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Paul Winter

Paul Winter

Photo: Bill Ellzey

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Paul Winter Talks New Album, 'Light Of The Sun' paul-winter-interview-light-sun

Paul Winter On How His New Album, 'Light Of The Sun,' Starts A New Path In His 60-year Recording Career

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Over the decades, the 81-year-old, GRAMMY-winning soprano saxophonist swerved around rock 'n' roll, embraced whale songs and so much more. 'Light Of The Sun' encapsulates his contemplative, meditative vibe
Pamela Chelin
GRAMMYs
Dec 30, 2020 - 8:45 am

When the soprano saxophonist, composer, and bandleader Paul Winter gazes at the night sky, he's not just looking for the Man on the Moon. Not only did Apollo 15 astronauts name two craters after his songs ("Icarus" and "Ghost Beads"), but they left a cassette copy of Road, a 1970 live album by Winter's longtime band The Paul Winter Consort, on the moon. "When I look up at the moon at night, and I remember that story, sometimes I don't quite get it," Winter tells GRAMMY.com over the phone from his farm in Connecticut. "'I think, 'No, that's not possible.' But they said they left the cassette up there, so I've told friends, 'When you go to the moon, take a cassette player and see if you can find my cassette.'"

Winter, who's won six GRAMMYs as an artist, may have turned 81 this year, but he shows no signs of slowing down. In fact, the 81-year-old's latest release, Light Of The Sun, released last month (Nov. 13) via Living Music, starts a new path in his 60-year recording career. It's the first time Winter is the featured soloist after decades of assuming the role of bandleader and involving numerous collaborators in his recordings. "It's something I'd dreamed about doing for a long, long time," he says. "When I turned 80, I thought, 'This is as good a time as any to do it.' It was great fun to focus on my playing. It's been a great labor of love, and I consider this my testament as a sax player, but I don't mean to imply it's my last one. I'd like it to be my first one."

Light Of The Sun embraces Winter's lifelong fascination with the sun. (Some of his previous album titles include Sun Singer, Journey With the Sun, Morning Sun, and Everybody Under the Sun.). "The idea was to try to see if the feeling of the sun, the sunlight, could be transmuted into music the way sunlight transmutes chlorophyll giving life to all the plants," he says. "I've long been fascinated with the sun and the ways that we experience it. It's the source of our life. All life on Earth comes from the sun, and it's just a tremendous factor in our lives that we don't think about too much."  

To Winter, the sun also symbolizes hope, kindness, love, serenity, and optimism. As Winter's soprano sax takes front and center, winding prominently through the record, the 15 compositions are as celebratory as they are soothing. At times, the music sounds uplifting, like a morning prayer. At others, the soothing music sounds like the perfect companion to a relaxing glass of wine at the end of the day. A welcome antidote to a dark and stressful year, Light Of The Sun offers a delightful musical reprieve from 2020's turmoil.

To best capture his sound, Winter utilized wide open spaces to allow for the most robust musical resonance and reverberation, recording in three unique locations: the Miho Museum in Japan; the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York and the Grand Canyon. He first discovered the powerful acoustics inside the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in 1968 during Duke Ellington's funeral service, where Ella Fitzgerald sang, and musicians from Ellington's orchestra played in honor of the jazz composer and bandleader. Since 1980, Winter's been the artist-in-residence at the historic cathedral, where he's held winter solstice celebrations for forty years. 

Growing up in Altoona, Pennsylvania, Winter switched from clarinet to saxophone after falling in love with big band music when he was seven years old. "It was in the 1940s and the big band era," he says. "I loved that music more than anything, and to have a whole genre of music very much in the air and alive in our culture to inspire me then was exciting." Luckily for Winter, his grandfather owned a music store, making it easy to get a saxophone.

By the time he was 12, Winter had a group in the vein of German drinking bands. He played churches, the local YMCA, and the rotary club. His mom was his roadie. "It was great fun, and people loved seeing these kids play this happy, wacky music and telling jokes that were very corny, of course, but all the funnier because we were only twelve," Winter says. He received his first payday when, one night, he made 50 cents after a performance. "When you were twelve in 1951, that was big money," he says. 

A couple of years later, his band morphed into a 9-piece dance band, playing Great American Songbook standards. "That music is so timeless," he says. "That shaped my aesthetic a lot." While enrolled as a Northwestern University student, Winter formed the Paul Winter Sextet, incorporating bebop music. In 1961, they won an intercollegiate competition judged by jazz virtuoso Dizzy Gillespie and record producer and talent scout John Hammond, who had discovered Aretha Franklin and signed Bob Dylan. Hammond promptly signed Winter to Columbia Records. "It was astounding; I'd never dreamed of anything like that," Winter says.

Unfortunately, Winter says that because jazz was an underground phenomenon, there was nowhere to play publicly. Sitting around his apartment with nothing to do, he decided to write to the U.S. Department of State, asking to be sent on a goodwill tour of Latin America. 

"We were perfectly integrated with three Blacks and three whites at a time early in the Kennedy years when civil rights were the burning issue, and I was extremely interested in cultural exchange," he says. Winter didn't expect a response to his letter, but a few months later, his request was granted. For six months, the Paul Winter Sextet toured Latin America, played concerts in 23 countries, and received steady pay. He recalls the joy he derived when he performed for 5,000 barefoot villagers in Bolivia: "They had no experience with what we were doing, but they loved it because it was rhythmic, and in the warm countries, people like to move."

When they returned from their tour, the band decided to move to New York to try their luck. But though their tour of Latin America was a success, there was still no work to be had and nowhere to play live. Winter considered going to the University of Virginia law school, whose acceptance he had deferred for a year. By then, the Paul Winter Sextet had put out two records, 1961's The Paul Winter Sextet—which only came out in Latin America—and 1962's Jazz Meets the Bossa Nova, which became a minor hit, selling 30,000 copies.

Fortuitously, the band got to play an unusual and unlikely venue. As part of Jackie Kennedy's Concerts for Young People By Young People initiative, the Paul Winter Sextet was the first-ever jazz group invited to perform at the White House in 1962. When they arrived, the First Lady told Winter that she'd been listening to Jazz Meets the Bossa Nova nonstop for three weeks. As President John F. Kennedy worked down the hall nearby, Mrs. Kennedy watched the performance, along with a room filled with children and reporters. The following day, according to Winter, the news headlines read, "Jackie Loves Jazz." With his moment in the spotlight, Winter got work touring clubs around the country. But he didn't like it. "In nightclubs, you were almost a liquor salesman, there to entertain people so they would drink more, and the acoustics were bad."

Soon after, Winter broke up the jazz ensemble and lived in Brazil for a year. Playing with Brazilian musicians planted the seeds for his next musical pursuit. In 1967, Winter formed the Paul Winter Consort, combining jazz, world and classical music, and nature sounds. A few years later, he signed with Albert Grossman, who managed Dylan, Peter, Paul, and Mary, the Band, and other luminaries. But the Paul Winter Consort didn't fit into an apparent musical genre, making it hard to break through to an audience despite having released three records. "Record stores didn't know whether to put it in classical, jazz, or folk, so they put it nowhere," Winter says. 

To attract a large audience to the band, manager Bennett Glotzer introduced Winter to the Beatles' famed producer George Martin. Martin played oboe and had a deep grounding in classical and instrumental music. "George agreed to have lunch with me, and we hit it off so well," Winter says. With Martin at the producing helm, the Paul Winter Consort spent three weeks recording in the coastal town of Marblehead, Massachusetts, in 1971. They released the resulting Icarus to critical acclaim in 1972. 

That's when Winter became renowned as a pioneer of new-age music, which makes him laugh. "It's a joke," he says. He explains that the new age classification was given to him by the record industry when electric music dominated the music scene. Many perceived acoustic music to aid meditative purposes and alternative therapeutics. The simple tag of "new age" positioned the Paul Winter Consort's genre-evading records in record store aisles and awards categories.

While the Paul Winter Consort never fit neatly into one musical category, there is a specific music genre of which Winter's never really been a fan; rock music. So it was ironic when Winter found himself on bills in the seventies with rockers like Procol Harum, Spirit, and Bruce Springsteen. The latter opened for Winter at a gig in 1973. The Boss's friendliness and his extreme confidence struck Winter, but he watched just a small portion of Springsteen's set. "When he started talking about New Jersey, David Darling and I said, 'OK, let's go out for dinner,'" he deadpans.

Nature's music was more Winter's speed, and he had first fallen in love with it when he heard humpback whales in 1968. The yearning quality in whales' songs enamored him, which led to his fascination with other wild animals' sounds. For instance, wolves' howls express what Winter calls "the universal blues." Since the 1970s, Winter has been incorporating what he calls "the symphony of the earth" into his music. He's currently working on a new recording project, recording Indigenous peoples' music in fifteen countries situated along the African-Eurasian flyway, to raise support and awareness for migratory birds, including storks and cranes, who need protection.

As humble as he is hard-working, Winter doesn't display any of his six GRAMMYs on his mantle, preferring to keep some of them in boxes in his barn. He gave several of them away. "I don't think it's healthy to keep awards around. It gives you an illusion that you've accomplished something," he says. "For me, it's always what I'm doing next." He's even reluctant to take credit for his success, continually attributing it to good fortune. "I think if one realizes any dreams in their lifetime, they're lucky, and I've had a huge abundance of luck," he says.

Though he hasn't had the same level of success as some of his contemporaries, Winter says he wouldn't want it because it often comes at a cost. "I think something happens when you have huge success," he says. "Once you become used to the fame and the adulation and the entourage, it seems like often people lose their muse, that the thing that originally propelled them toward resting whatever they did that reached a wide audience and their output ends. They can still perform, but their music is no longer full of magic. There's a certain amount of humility and creative aspiration that is needed." 

"Of course, I can't be critical of people who had great success," he adds. "They earned it. It's remarkable how the adventures that it afforded them, but it's very hard to find people who reach that level who still have their original values intact."

He points to acclaimed folk singer Pete Seeger as a rarity who never lost his integrity. Winter first heard Seeger's music when Hammond took him to a Carnegie Hall concert in 1963. "It was like a revelation hearing a voice that seemed very real to me," he says. "It didn't sound like a pop music voice where you feel somebody's trying to sell you something. And he spoke about [authentic] things in the world. I had never been allured to listen to folk music. That was the big turning point for me." Three years later, the pair met at the Newport Folk Festival, where they bonded and became close friends. (Winter later produced Seeger's album Pete, which won a GRAMMY for Best Traditional Folk Album in 1996.)

Though Winter has endured his fair share of ups and downs in the music industry, he says he wouldn't have it any other way. To him, it's been more critical to stay true to his musical vision. He says that music, for which his appreciation grows more profound with each passing year, has been a "magic carpet," allowing him to travel to places he'd otherwise not have gone and to meet people, including his wife, he'd otherwise not have met. The couple has two daughters.

"I can't say our path has been easy," Winter says. "But it's been profoundly gratifying because I've always been able to keep somehow making the music I love, and I didn't have to try to fabricate something that would be more commercial. I've come to appreciate the challenges. You don't grow without challenge, so there's been no shortage of that for me."

New Age Pioneer Laraaji On The Healing Potential Of 'Sun Piano'

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John Lennon in 1970

John Lennon in 1970

 

Photo: Chris Walter/WireImage

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'John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band' At 50 john-lennon-plastic-ono-band-50-year-anniversary

Now That I Showed You What I Been Through: 50 Years Of 'John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band'

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After The Beatles' split and before 'Imagine,' Lennon recorded a jarring audio confessional that remains indelible in 2020
Ana Leorne
GRAMMYs
Dec 29, 2020 - 4:25 pm

John Lennon asked The Beatles for a "divorce," and he got his wish. After the group's breakup in 1970, quarreling and competition were the norm between himself, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr. In Lennon's case, this tension added to a slightly tainted reputation derived from the public's disappointment upon The Beatles' end, his unpopular marriage to Yoko Ono and an artistic dispersion. The latter resulted from an ongoing quest to find his spot in a world he'd grown frustrated with yet to which he desperately wanted to belong. As evidenced by his songs and remarks, Lennon's efforts to find himself often left him feeling empty, and he regularly lacked unconditional trust or engagement.

Standing in the way of this self-discovery process was an inability to resolve past traumas, which was one of the main reasons why Lennon decided to undergo Arthur Janov's primal scream program. He had the apparent goal of finally dealing with childhood wounds related to his mother's death and feelings of rejection linked to his father's absence. But the treatment also addressed the recent pain of losing his other family—the one Lennon had shared a life with for the past decade. In short, how could he go forward when he didn't know which way he was facing?

Lennon channeled all this into his debut solo album, John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band, which turns 50 this month. (December 2020 also marks the 40th anniversary of his murder.) Released as a companion to Ono's concurrent solo debut, Yoko Ono/Plastic Ono Band, Lennon's album was therapy in its purest form: raw and self-referential. This intimacy was also apparent in the recording process: Apart from Lennon and Ono, the latter of whom is credited on the album sleeve for contributing "wind," the only other musicians were Starr and bassist Klaus Voormann, along with former Beatles roadie Mal Evans (for "tea and sympathy"), pianist Billy Preston and Phil Spector, who played piano on "Love" and "God," respectively.

When a cycle doesn't end fast enough, there's often a tendency to accelerate it, and Lennon was a man on a mission. The previous year, Lennon had been creatively disengaged from the Let It Be sessions and generally disapproving of the approach McCartney and producer George Martin wanted for Abbey Road, as he attempted to destroy the entity he helped create. This self-sabotaging process, which coincided with his dangerous affair with heroin, often translated into a deafening silence that Beatles scholar Stephanie Piotrowski describes in her Ph.D. dissertation as "part of Lennon's agenda to break The Beatles' myth."

But silence wasn't his sole strategy. It progressively became apparent throughout his solo career—culminating with his GRAMMY-winning final album with Ono, Double Fantasy (1980)—that Ono was his new partner-in-crime in McCartney's stead. For anyone unable to take a hint, in September 1969, he privately told the other three Beatles he was leaving the group. Their financial manager, Allen Klein, asked them to keep this development a secret for as long as possible, fearing the news would undermine sales of the forthcoming album, Let It Be (1970), which was taking forever to mix and master. 

Read: History Of: Walk To London's Famed Abbey Road Studios With The Beatles

Lennon's apparent hurry to break free makes it odd that Plastic Ono Band only came out in December 1970, rendering him the last Beatle to release a proper debut album. (This, of course, if we don't count three previous experimental albums with Ono: Two Virgins, in 1968, and Life With The Lions and Wedding Album, both in 1969. And don't forget the hastily put-together Live Peace In Toronto 1969, which partly consisted of early rock covers and featured Ono, guitarist Eric Clapton, bassist Voormann and drummer Alan White.)

Spector was supposed to be producing, but he was missing in action when the sessions began, leading Lennon to publish a full-page ad in Billboard saying, "Phil! John is ready this weekend." His relative absence ended up being a blessing in disguise: Spector's trademark "Wall of Sound" style probably wouldn't have suited the album's ethos. Lennon and Ono's minimalist approach matched the content better, allowing the emotional outpouring to sound adequately barer. 

Revolving around themes of healing, surrender and replacement, Plastic Ono Band is a prime example of Lennon's songwriting particularities. These include his remarkable ability to craft instant hooks, focus on the lyrical element and rely on subjectivity in storytelling, which contrasted with McCartney's general preference for third-person points of view. 

Always with a way with words, Lennon refrained from complicating his message, choosing direct statements ("Hold On," "Look At Me") over the elusive metaphors and cryptic references he often returned to during The Beatles' later years. This aspect made the album vaguely echo his mid-'60s confessional period that produced "Help!" and "In My Life," transpiring as a matured reflection of what it felt like to feel lost in the eye of the hurricane.

For all its sincerity and the psychological commitment that it symbolized to Lennon,

the album encountered a mixed reception at best; it was also quickly eclipsed by the release of Imagine nine months later, in 1971. Similar to what had happened with McCartney's self-titled debut, some critics accused John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band of being a product of self-preoccupation and void egotism. This harsh perception mostly came from the absurdly high expectations following The Beatles' breakup. 

"This is the album of a man of black bile," Geoffrey Cannon declared in a 1970 review for The Guardian. "Lennon's album makes a deep impression, if more on him than us … This is declamation, not music. It's not about freedom and love, but madness and pain."

Read: The Beatles Take Aim With 1966's 'Revolver': For The Record 

Even though Imagine eventually became Lennon's indisputable legacy—the title track was inducted into the GRAMMY Hall Of Fame in 1999, seven years after Lennon's posthumous Lifetime Achievement Award—Plastic Ono Band was still properly cherished. Fans embraced its relatability. It's easier to identify with one's idol opening up about their problems of love and loss than hearing them discuss overly abstract concepts, the renunciatory "God" and tender "Love" being exceptions.

But it also helped that the album didn't become as heavy an institution as Imagine did. Less over(ab)used by pop culture and more grounded in both content and form, Plastic Ono Band felt more human and accessible, despite coming from the myth-ridden colossus called John Lennon.

In September 1980, three months before his death, Lennon gave an extensive interview to David Sheff for Playboy magazine. Sheff asked what Ono had done for him. "She showed me the possibility of the alternative," Lennon replied. "'You don't have to do this.' 'I don't? Really? But-but-but-but-but...'" Although he was referring to his temporary retirement from music to dedicate himself to being a house husband fully, one could see Plastic Ono Band as the dénouement of a similar epiphany 10 years prior. It kick-started a new life Lennon knew would be radically different from everything he had previously experienced.

In addition to representing a threshold moment for Lennon, the album underwent a mutation with regard to its critical reception. Over the decades, Plastic Ono Band received praise that was anything but a given at its release. In 2020, the album ranked at No. 85 in Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums Of All Time list. "Lennon's [...] pure, raw core of confession [...] is years ahead of punk," the list's album entry reads. 

However, perhaps Lennon acerbically summed it up best in his Rolling Stone interview with four words that remain jarring to read: "The Beatles was nothing."

It's Not Always Going To Be This Grey: George Harrison's 'All Things Must Pass' At 50

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Some of the content on this site expresses viewpoints and opinions that are not those of the Recording Academy. Responsibility for the accuracy of information provided in stories not written by or specifically prepared for the Academy lies with the story's original source or writer. Content on this site does not reflect an endorsement or recommendation of any artist or music by the Recording Academy.