The Father, The Son and the Holy Ghost

John Coltrane's Meditations

When John Coltrane's “The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost” erupted from speakers in 1965, it divided the jazz world like a lightning bolt. At nearly 13 minutes, this opening track from Meditations abandoned every convention listeners expected—harmonic structure dissolved into ecstatic chaos, tenor saxophones screamed in altissimo registers, and drums exploded in multidirectional thunder. Critics dismissed it as "anti-music" and "the end of jazz," while others recognized something unprecedented: the sound of a man reaching for the divine through pure vibration.

To understand the controversy, one must first understand what Coltrane had destroyed—and why.

The title itself was a declaration. Coltrane wasn't merely referencing Christianity; he was invoking the Trinity as sound itself, transforming his saxophone into a vessel for direct communion with the sacred. This wasn't music about God—it was an offering to God, where breath became prayer and screams became hymns.

Traditional jazz harmony wasn't abandoned as rebellion but transcended as necessity. Coltrane had studied Indian ragas, Arabic maqams, and African polyrhythms, absorbing modal concepts that European tonality couldn't contain. The result was what writer Ira Gitler called "sheets of sound"—dense, overlapping phrases that created new harmonic possibilities through sheer intensity rather than chord changes.

This spiritual transformation of technique bridged Coltrane's individual practice with a collective ritual that would define the recording's most radical element.

The ensemble on Meditations functioned as a spiritual organism, each musician contributing to a single, pulsing consciousness seeking transcendence. Pharoah Sanders matched Coltrane's intensity with techniques that redefined the saxophone's possibilities—multiphonics that produced multiple tones simultaneously, overblown altissimo shrieks, and guttural undertones created by manipulating the instrument's acoustics in ways conservatory training never taught.

McCoy Tyner anchored this chaos with what he called "quartal harmony"—chords built on fourths rather than thirds, creating open, modal structures that gave the saxophonists harmonic ground while allowing complete melodic freedom. Meanwhile, Elvin Jones's polyrhythmic drumming fractured linear time into layered cycles, with cross-rhythms that suggested multiple tempos occurring simultaneously.

Rashied Ali, sharing drum duties with Jones, introduced what would become known as "free pulse"—abandoning fixed tempo entirely in favor of responsive, conversational rhythms that followed the saxophones' emotional contours rather than constraining them.

The recording's explosive spirituality arrived at a moment when America itself was convulsing. As civil rights marchers faced police dogs in Selma and Malcolm X was assassinated in Harlem, Coltrane's music embodied the era's spiritual urgency. But for many listeners, the explicit religious invocation felt like sacrilege. How dare this untamed, overwhelming sound claim the name of the Holy Trinity?

DownBeat critic Ira Gitler, who had championed Coltrane's earlier work, wrote that the music "was so far out that it appeared to be meaningless." Jazz Magazine's critic called it "a saxophone splitting open like a rotten fruit." Even sympathetic listeners struggled with the intensity—pianist Bill Evans reportedly left a Coltrane performance, saying he "couldn't take it anymore."

But Coltrane had long since abandoned substances for spiritual discipline. This wasn't intoxication—it was awakening, and the resistance revealed how radical his transformation truly was.

For newcomers to Coltrane's late period, “The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost” requires a different kind of attention. Rather than following melody or harmony in traditional ways, listen for emotional arcs—the way Sanders and Coltrane's saxophones create dialogue through shrieks and whispers, how the drums build and release tension like breathing, how Tyner's piano creates pools of harmonic stability that allow the horns to dive deeper into chaos.

The music rewards what poet Amiri Baraka called "visceral listening"—feeling the sound's physical impact rather than analyzing its structure. Like meditation or prayer, it requires surrender to be fully experienced.

“The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost” became the template for spiritual free jazz, influencing everyone from Albert Ayler to contemporary artists like Kamasi Washington and Shabaka Hutchings. Its approach to collective improvisation—where individual expression serves transcendent purpose—shaped not just jazz but experimental music across genres.

The recording also established the saxophone as an instrument of ecstatic communion, expanding its technical possibilities while proving that virtuosity could serve spiritual rather than merely aesthetic goals. Sanders, who continued developing these techniques throughout his career, credited the Meditations sessions with teaching him that "music is a healing force of the universe."

More broadly, the piece demonstrated that avant-garde technique could embody rather than abandon tradition—that pushing boundaries could be an act of devotion rather than destruction.

Coltrane died less than two years after recording Meditations, but “The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost” endures as one of his most profound statements. It remains challenging, uncompromising, and occasionally overwhelming—yet for those ready to listen with spirit as much as ears, it opens doors that more conventional music cannot.

This is why Coltrane matters beyond jazz history. He showed that music could be pilgrimage, that technique could be devotion, and that the highest artistic achievement might be the complete surrender of self to something greater. In a world still seeking meaning through sound, his sacred flame continues to burn.

Listen to John Coltrane “The Father, The Son and the Holy Ghost” from Meditations:

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Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.