“Along with sonny Rollins, John Coltrane has become the most influential and controversial tenor saxophonist inn modern jazz. He is becoming, in fact, more controversial and possibly more influential than Rollins. While it’s true that to musicians especially, Coltrane’s fiercely adventurous harmonic imagination is the most absorbing aspect of his developing style, the more basic point is that for many non-musician listeners, Coltrane at his best has an unusually striking emotional impact. There is such intensity in his playing that the string of adjectives employed by French Critic Gerard Bremond in a Jazz-Hot article on Coltrane seemed hardly at all exaggerated. Bremond called his playing ‘exuberant, furious, impassioned, thundering.’

“There is also, however, an extraordinary amount of sentimentality in Coltrane’s work. Part of the fury in much of his playing is the fury of the search, the obsession Coltrane has to play all he can hear or would like to hear — often all at once — and yet at the same time make his music, as he puts it, ‘more presentable.’ He said recently, ‘I’m worried that sometimes what I’m doing sounds like just academic exercises and I’m trying more and more to make it sound prettier.’ It seems to me he already succeeds often in accomplishing both his aims, as sections of this album demonstrate.”

I looked down at the bottom to see which Jazz journalist had written this piece back in 1959 and, to no surprise at all, it was the great Nat Hentoff. When I woke up this morning, there was news in The New York Times that Nat Hentoff had died at age 91.

Hentoff was an important inspiration for me back when I first decided to become a journalist. I thought he was consistently the best of the jazz critics, but what was particularly special about Hentoff was his ability to go beyond jazz and comment with great passion, wisdom and insight on our world. I especially remember his regular columns on the First Amendment in the Village Voice back in the 1970s and 1980s. I still go back and look at his articles in Downbeat on race or on my favorite artists, and I find each one of his liner notes to be a lesson in jazz history, written without the benefit of historical perspective. We could sure use more voices like that today.

Because of the light early action, I was able to walk around the show and check out the other booths. There was some good jazz, not a whole lot. Joe at Euclid Records brought some nice mid-priced stuff, so if you get there today, you want to check him out (after you’ve checked me out, of course). One guy had a copy of the Magnificent Thad Jones Volume 2, Blue Note 1527, but the record was marked at $1,500, which didn’t even give me a starting point for a conversation. I still have a few Blue Note originals, including Lou Donaldson Swing and Soul and one of the later Bud Powells. I marked them down and I’m willing to negotiate, so I’m surprised they didn’t sell. Perhaps today. The venue itself is quite nice, great for a record show with ample sunlight coming in from three sides. See you in Brooklyn?

When I first saw the article, my immediate reaction was: “Why would Sonny lend his name to something so stupid.” Turns out he didn’t. The New Yorker figured it would be funnier to attach the quotes to the world’s greatest living jazz musician without his consent and just let it sit out there for the public to absorb.

Well, the public has absorbed and the short answer is pretty simple: NOT FUNNY!

The longer answer is a broad scathing reaction to the piece, including an interview with Sonny himself reacting to the article. In Sonny’s response, which is definitely worth the price of admission, we learn that Sonny is a fan, supporter and even subscriber of Mad Magazine. Do a Google search if you have time — you will see massive public reaction and broad displeasure/anger/agita. The New Yorker has tried to backtrack by putting the following caveat on this article: “Editor’s note: This article, which is part of our Shouts & Murmurs humor blog, is a work of satire.” Too little, too late.

I’m not one to take things too seriously in general, but I do have to agree that the piece simply wasn’t funny and was made worse by attaching the unfunny and silly comments to a musician of great import in our history. I found it quite disrespectful, in fact. What about you? You have to question: Would they have done the same thing to someone like Leonard Bernstein or Bob Dylan or Stephen Sondheim, to name just a few white musical giants of our time?

One of our readers and regular commenters, Japhy, send a note with the following question:

“Sidemen — who picked em?

“Something I’ve long wondered is — if an artist without a regular working band came in to can an album, how were the sidemen chose? At Blue Note, for example, did Alfred and Frank assemble the players, or would a guy with some pull like Dexter Gordon say, “Hey this is who I want to play with?” Could a name artist veto a sideman? Maybe the leader would come in with a couple of guys and then Lion would fill in the holes? It’s pretty clear that a lot of artists tended to record together, but overall it’s just something I’ve always wondered about.”

Readers?

Another reader sent me this article:

Jazz fans seek ways to seek eternity with the greats.

It’s about jazz fans wanting to be buried near favorite artists, such as Miles Davis and Duke Ellington. Doesn’t do much for me, but perhaps others . . . ?

My son sent me this article 18 Signs You Are Addicted to Collecting Vinyl. You’ll enjoy. Everyone here pretty much knows that he’s an addict, so it’s not a question of which of these applies to you, it’s a question of which ones apply the most to you. I counted about half for me, including all the ones about home decor.

For those of you in Manhattan next Monday (not me, unfortunately), there will be a memorial service for Horace Silver at 7 p.m. downtown on the Lower East Side at the St. Augustine of Hippo Episcopal Church. I’m assuming that, because it is being publicized, it will be open to the public. Maybe I’ll change my plans and try to get there.

Here’s one to break your heart. It certainly broke mine. I was having dinner with a friend last night and he said he recently knew of a family wherein someone passed away who had a collection of about 20,000 records. The family didn’t make much of an effort to sell the records or find a home for them. The tried a couple of libraries, but didn’t even call any record stores. My friend forgot to tell them about me. The records ended up in a dumpster. Seriously.

He doesn’t often get the due of a Bud Powell, but go back to some of those early Jazz Messenger albums or, really any of his work, and listen. He had the rare ability to take what was extremely complicated and make it sound simple. He also was a fantastic accompanist. My dad was a contemporary of Silver, and it’s been more than 15 years since he passed away, but in a way the passing of Silver yesterday is like saying goodbye again. So, goodbye to Horace and thank you for the music and the joy and the ongoing and never-ending connection to my own father. It was certainly no coincidence when I wrote about my dad and me I titled the article Song For My Father.