
John Coltrane‘s ’60s records were my entry into any appreciation I have to this day for jazz. I love most of the dozen or so albums I own from this period, but Coltrane is responsible for one of the great toxic waste bins in the jazz section of any store or online retailer. I’ve got nothing against dashikis or psychedelic fonts, in fact, I love them. But put them together on an Impulse! release and I’m not buying. I’ve been burnt one too many time – twice, in fact – by Coltrane albums packaged in this manner, and I won’t be burnt again.

After buying a few “pyschedelic” Coltrane albums I steered clear of possibly Pharoah Sanders’ best works, but I probably saved myself the money and effort of trying to get into countless other “psychedelic jazz” wankfests. If for no other reason, I’m confident my bias against attempts by Impulse! to tap into the psychedelic rock era were justified by the line I swore I would never cross:
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