Best Of: ‘Wonder Man’ actor Yahya Abdul-Mateen II / John Coltrane centennial

From WHYY in Philadelphia, this is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Tanya Mosley. Today, actor Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. He's nominated for an Emmy for his performance in the Marvel series Wonder Man. But two weeks after his nomination, Disney announced the series would not return for a second season. But getting laid off is how he found acting in the first place. I keep on getting laid off and losing jobs. What up with that? But you know, every time I do, it turns into something better, you know what I mean? So I wonder what this one's going to turn into. Also, we'll hear from saxophonist Ravi Coltrane, son of jazz musician John Coltrane. He was two when his father died. And growing up, he was just known as Ravi. But as soon as I picked up the saxophone, suddenly I was John Coltrane's son. Plus, Ken Tucker reviews a new album by the trio the Womack Sisters, granddaughters of Sam Cooke and nieces of Bobby Womack. That's coming up on Fresh Air Weekend. This is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Tanya Mosley. And my guest today is Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. He's nominated for an Emmy for the Marvel series Wonder Man. He plays Simon Williams, a struggling actor with a secret. He has real superpowers. And if anyone finds out, he doesn't just lose his career, he loses his freedom. Abdul-Mateen grew up in both New Orleans and Oakland, studied architecture, at UC Berkeley, and worked as a city planner until a layoff sent him to the Yale School of Drama. He booked his first major role in 2015, nearing 30. And since then, he's performed on Broadway and Top Dog, Underdog, been cast as Black Manta in Aquaman, Bobby Seale in The Trial of the Chicago 7, the lead in Candyman, and won an Emmy for playing Dr. Manhattan in HBO's Watchmen. Wonder Man made him the lead in his very own Marvel series. And then, two weeks after, after his Emmy nomination, Disney canceled the show a few months after a second season had already been announced. And Yah-Yah Abdul-Mateen II, welcome to Fresh Air. What's up? What's up? What's up? Thank you. I'm happy to be here. Why are you laughing? You know, I don't really reflect back so far, that far. You know, when first you say my name, and then you go through and you tell the story. And then, when you end it off, you say, And now he's sitting in front of me, and he just lost his job. And I just thought that that was so, it's so funny the way that I'm being talked about right now. But, you know, I mean, there's so much to talk about. The thing about it is, when Marvel approached you, you said, Yeah. I only have one Marvel dollar to spend. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah. You asked yourself whether Wonder Man was the actual role that you were going to play. Or whether you were going to spend that dollar. I'm really curious. I thought that was a really interesting way to talk about entering the Marvel Universe. And being a part of something that's so big. How are you reflecting on it, now that you have spent that dollar? And you've gone through this journey on this show that is highly respected. Yeah. So far, dollar well spent. For sure. Look at the experience that I had. You know, and I got to put it out. Now, when I said that, I was talking about fun and longevity. You know, I was talking specifically against a one-off. A role that is going to stand the test of time and not be a one-off. And, at the same time, something that was worth my time and something that I enjoyed. That's what a dollar well spent would be. Now, when I flash to present day, and I do reflect back, boy, of course it was a dollar well spent. You know, I got to make a fantastic show. And I got to play a fantastic character. Who many people related to. Wonder Man is not a typical Marvel story. There's almost no action. It's a comedy. Yeah. And it's a comedy about auditioning, shot like an indie film. Yeah. And the hero's battles are with casting directors and in his own head. Your character, Simon Williams, he's a working actor in Los Angeles. Years in, without a break. When a reclusive director announces a remake of this cheesy 80s superhero. Have you ever wanted a role as bad as Simon wanted Wonder Man? Oh, let me think. There has to be a yes. Yeah. There has to be a yes in there somewhere. I wanted to play Booth, the character that I played in the play called Top Dog, Underdog. I've been wanting to do that for 20 years before I got a chance to do it. On Broadway, yeah. Yeah, but I never did pursue it. I don't know if I've wanted anything. I can't think of anything that I've pursued in the same way that Simon pursued Wonder Man. Because he was doing some crazy things for a job. But actors, man, actors, we do all type of things. I was telling stories. I was lying on my resume. I'm not telling stories. I was lying on my resume, you know, back in 2012, talking about all the different skills and accents I could do and things like that. When you first graduated from acting school? No, no, no. I hadn't gone to school yet. This was when I was just getting little jobs in the Bay Area, little acting jobs. And I was over-exaggerating. I had maybe played the bongos two times and said, yeah, I could do that. So I put it on my resume. I may have done an accent in class one time. So I said, you know, that wasn't too hard. I put that on my resume, you know. But that's what you got to do. You got to, you know, stack the cards in your favor. What gave you the gall to do it, you know? I didn't know no better. And it was. It was just too much empty space on my resume. So I needed to figure out. I needed to find things that I could do so I could write them down. I think what gave me the gall, the empty space, that's what gave me the gall. Season one ends with us expecting to now see what Simon is going to be like now that he has all the things that he has been fighting and working toward. He is Wonder Man. And they point to a pattern. There's a pattern of Marvel involving black-led projects. There's Wonder Man canceled despite your nomination for Emmy, Blade, Dead After Seven Years, Iron Heart, Armor Wars. It's just a whole bunch. And the argument is that Marvel doesn't protect its black-led projects. You kind of have rejected that. How do you see it? It's not that I've rejected that. I make the observation based off my experience. Look at the history of those projects. And when you put them all together, there's no way around it. It does not look good. It does not look like good business. And it looks like it's certainly not favorable to its black creatives. That's what it looks like. So I'd be ignorant if I didn't. I'd be willfully blind if I. I chose not to make that observation. I'm always interested in the truth. And I'm always interested in what is true for me. And what is true for me is that in the case of Wonder Man, I actually don't know what happened. What did they tell you? I've heard things about viewership. What I would say is that if that is the case, then when it comes to black-led projects, especially black-led niche projects, I think they need a little bit more time to cook. Because I think black audiences usually find out and gravitate to the niche projects a little bit slower. They're a little bit behind because they're not always. That's not what's always marketed to us. And I think that it was one of those projects that needed a bit more time to cook if it was going to depend on the black audience to also give some buoyancy to the numbers of that show. But nevertheless, I will circle back and always come back to the point that I'm so thankful and blessed to have been able to be a part of something that was special, that is special. I'm getting so much love out there. And the reason why I think I'm getting so much love is because people are. Yes, they do feel for me. But what's actually going on is that they love that show. You know, people really enjoy that show. And I know what it's like to have one of my favorite shows be canceled for it to finally. You got to find a way to fill that slot, to fill that void. So I think it's a sign that our show gave a lot of people a lot of joy and relief and some distraction in this world. And I do hope that I get another chance to step back into that Wonder Man character. You grew up between New Orleans and the Bay. And somehow you went to 13 different schools. I think so. I think it tracks. Yeah, that's like changing schools every few years. Why did your family move so much? Always looking for a better life. Always looking for a better school. You know, there was six of us. So a lot of that sometimes was about trying to find whatever was convenient for my parents and, like, the best fit for our education and things like that. Was there ever a moment when you got tired of it? No, I didn't even notice it. You didn't? No. No. there was so much love in my home, you know? So whatever. now could be perceived as some type of instability or anything like that. I was, we were shielded from that, you know, and my parents did a fantastic, fantastic job. And like I say, when we went to different schools, we were looking for a better education. How do you think that experience shaped who you are being the new person all the time? Yeah. I mean, I think that it's made me more observant. I enter into new environments, sort of quiet, you know, looking around and sort of calculating and doing the, doing the math on my surroundings. And then after a little bit, after a little while, you know, I take up a little bit more space. Now, when I went to high school, I went to one high school, right? And so high school was my first time entering into a space with the same students, um, um, basically entering to a, entering into a school, just sort of on the same level as everybody else. So high school was really where I sort of socially, uh, blossomed, like in the ninth grade, I sort of gained my confidence. And, uh, but what I did have by the ninth grade was my individuality. You know, I was myself. What does that mean? What did that look like? Well, I wasn't a follower. You know, um, we had, I had my high school reunion, um, in the Bay, in the Bay. Yeah. In Oakland, uh, was it, I think it was either last year or the year before. Um, and I was at lunch with, with my best friend from high school and then with another one of my friends also from high school. And he said, yeah, yeah, man, you, he said, you was different. I said, what? He said, yeah, man, you know, your dad would drop you off on a motorcycle and, You know, you were just different. And when I think back, I was like, you know, I think, wow, you know, I guess I was. But I was always myself. You even called yourself the weird one. When did I do that? Yeah, there was an interview where you said, I was a little weird. I was nerdy, but I also played sports. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I mean, I don't know why I used that word, but I was different. But I liked myself. You know what I mean? Whatever it was about me that made me different, I didn't know it. I didn't know that I was different. That's the thing. And I liked myself. Everybody's different. You know, I was confident enough to, like, I didn't have the cool shoes. That didn't even feel like it fit my personality. You know, I remember one time I wore, I got some Jordans. It was the first time I had, like, the cool shoes, and I wore them to school. And a friend of mine, oh, man, he didn't let me rest. Oh, yeah, yeah, you know, pointing at me because I got the new cool shoes on. And I was a little bit embarrassed, but, you know, but I was always confident in who I was. That's funny to be embarrassed, right, by wearing the latest. Yeah, yeah, yeah, by wearing it because I wasn't that kid. So it's sort of, you know, it was as if I was trying on cool for the first time. People called your family the Black Brady Bunch. Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. You were the youngest of the six. I'm the youngest, yeah. We had a mom, dad, the dogs, the station wagon. And what I like to say is we didn't have the, you know, the white picket fence. We had the chain link fence. But, you know, it was ours. You talked about having a stutter. Yeah, I stuttered. Growing up, yeah. Even to this day, I stutter most of the time. How intense is it? It can be intense if I let myself get comfortable. You know, right now, my brain. My brain is on. So I'm conscious to take my time and things like that. But if I wasn't worried about taking my time, then you would be able to tell, oh, he stutters. Oh, really? Oh, yeah. Yeah. So are there particular words? Our words sometimes tend to get me. It just depends. But, say, I have this thing, right? I have two streams of consciousness going on basically all the time. And I can feel a stutter on its way. Okay. And when I know when I'm about to stutter, then I switch over to the second stream of conscious and I go around the stutter and then I keep on going. When I'm at home and I don't feel like doing that, I just stay on my single stream of consciousness and I just stutter. I just let the stutter go and I just get through it. Has it always been that way for you? I think so. Mm-hmm. Yeah. Architecture was your major at UC Berkeley. And you've talked about how you took drama classes to help you overcome your stutter. Yeah. So that you could do your presentations. Yeah, that didn't work. It didn't work? No, it didn't work at all. But I found, you know, acting. And I didn't stutter when I acted. I never stuttered with a script, ever. What do you think it is about the drama and the drama class that really allowed you to be in that space? I rehearsed the words. So it's just really all muscle memory. I know you don't know any different, but it sounds like it's a lot of work. Is it exhausting? Having the two. I mean, we all have double consciousness to a certain extent. Oh, okay. Is that exhausting? Yeah. It's a little bit of work. But, you know, it helps me to articulate myself better. Yeah. And things like that. One needs to care. You know, who knows? I do what works for me right now. It helps me to communicate better. You know? I don't want to be on TV and on my interviews just stuttering all over the place and making a mess. You know? But it's also kind of amazing because I've heard other actors who have also, I think James Earl Jones has talked about he had a stutter. Yeah, but stuttering is frustrating. For example, if I were to stutter right now, sometimes you just wouldn't be able to hear anything. I just wouldn't be able to say the word. You may have radio silence for about eight seconds and I'm not even making sounds. Other times I sound like the car engine trying to start. And that's when I'm being stubborn and just trying to push it through. You know? And I don't feel like taking my time. I don't feel like going to my alternate words. You know? It's just what I know. Our guest today is actor Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. We'll be right back after a short break. I'm Tanya Mosley and this is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Tanya Mosley. Let's get back to my interview with actor Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. He's nominated for an Emmy for his lead role in Wonder Man, a Marvel comedy about a struggling actor who's hiding the secret that he has real superpowers. Abdul-Mateen II grew up between New Orleans and Oakland, the youngest of six, studied architecture at UC Berkeley, and worked as a city planner in San Francisco until a layoff sent him to the Yale School of Drama. Since then, he starred in several television productions, which include starring as Black Manta in Aquaman, and Bobby Seale in The Trial of the Chicago 7. He won an Emmy for playing Dr. Manhattan in HBO's Watchmen, and earned a Tony nomination for his Broadway debut in Top Dog Underdog. This year, he also starred in and served as executive producer of Netflix's Man on Fire, stepping into the role of John Creasy, a part Denzel Washington made iconic. Is it true that your dream, since you were a child, was to be a singer? Was it true that you wanted to be a city planner? Was being an architect. To be an architect? Yeah, I wanted to be an architect. That's why I went to college to study it, yeah. Was it in the back of your mind during that time period, acting as well? No, acting, I didn't even know that that was possible. I never even thought about that. Somebody, I'll keep the story short, but a teammate of mine, you know, dared me, dared me to take an acting class. What type of teammate? I was on the track team at Berkeley. Uh-huh. Yeah, and one day we were at practice, you know, making fun of the coaches, and things like that, on the team building exercise, and I got up in front of everybody and did an impersonation. Everybody was laughing. The next day, they were still talking about it. And my teammate, he dared me to take a theater class. I was looking for an easy class to take, and I auditioned and took the class. I didn't take it seriously in the sense that I did all the work, but I used to be late to class and, you know, things like that. I wasn't the best representation of what a top student should be. But I always knew my lines. I rehearsed for real. I don't know how present I was. But when it was my turn to work, I always put in the work, and I always took the work seriously. I didn't take the attendance the most seriously. And after that semester, the teacher, she told me. Actually, I just ran into her in the building one day, and she said, hey, she said, you're really good, and, you know, I hope you take some more classes. And I wasn't necessarily intending to, you know. But I was like, oh, I didn't know that. Maybe I will. So the next class that I took, I found something that I thought would be a good opportunity to work on my stutter. And then that just put me, brought me deeper into this world. You're deep in this world, but you still, you graduate with an architecture degree, and you work for the city of San Francisco as in the city planning department. Yeah, the mayor's office of housing. Yeah. Yeah. What was your job? I was a program coordinator for a project called the SF Hope Initiative. I believe it's been almost 15 years. And you still remember that. Yeah, yeah, yeah. The Youth SF Leadership Academy. Youth SF Leadership Academy, I think that's what it was called. Yeah. But I was a program coordinator. My job was to pair young people with architects and with city planners in six of the housing projects in San Francisco that were undergoing a redevelopment process. And so I was teaching or facilitating a program that taught architecture and city planning curriculum to the young people so that they could work with the planners to give educated feedback on what they wanted in their neighborhoods. Were you enjoying the job? Absolutely. You got laid off, though. Yeah, it was like 11 months. 11 months later, you get laid off. What up with that? What up with that? But, you know, every time I do, it turns into something better. So I wonder what this one. Well, I mean, you got a whole slew of projects. So you get laid off and you give yourself three years to become an actor. Yeah. Or you'd go back to study. Yeah, I would go back. I was going to go get my master's in planning and probably work in politics. You decided to go to grad school for it. You ended up at Yale School of Drama. That is a prestigious acting school. It's one of the best in the world. It's for serious actors. When you went there, did you have a specific? Did you have a specific dream of the type of actor that you wanted to be? Not necessarily. I just wanted training. I knew that actors from that school were working on Broadway. That was really because by then all the acting I had done was in theater. So I was like, well, OK, well, what's the how far can you go in theater? Well, you can go to Broadway. So, you know, I was hoping to get enough training to go and do Broadway and then you see what happened happens next. Yeah. Yeah, yeah. Abdul-Mateen. This has been such a pleasure. It has been. Thank you very much. Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. He's nominated for an Emmy for the Marvel series Wonder Man and his new film, By Any Means, is in theaters now. The Womack sisters are a trio with illustrious family ties. Their uncle was R&B great Bobby Womack and their grandfather was Sam Cooke. The sisters have just released an album of tight harmonies. By contrast, Margaret Glaspie, who also has a new album, sings starkly about living a solitary life. Rock critic Ken Tucker discusses these contrasting sounds in his review. Let's start with the Womack sisters. My sisters and me. Oh, my sisters and me. People come and go. Baby, this I know. It will always be my sisters and me. My sisters and me. Much of the Womack sisters' self-titled new album is filled with music that harks back to the days of classic soul and R&B. It's in their blood. Their parents are Linda and Cecil Womack, who made beautiful rhythm and blues under the name Womack. Their uncle, Bobby Womack, possessed the gravelly voice that powered hits like Looking for a Love and Across 110th Street. And their grandfather was the gospel and soul great Sam Cooke. Now, these three sisters, BG, Kucha, and Zimani, are looking to shape the kind of music they grew up hearing for a contemporary audience that doesn't know or care about their illustrious roots. Baby, I'm going to love you. Baby, I got you. And arrows and vines. You and your friends smiling ear to ear, spilling bottles of wine. Driving across town to get you who knows where. Take another sip, but don't forget to tip. You're just another fan. How many miles? How many miles do I have to burn? How many corners do I have to turn? How many corners do I have to burn? How many miles? How many miles? How many miles do I have to burn just to keep my place? Chauffeur, chauffeur, chauffeur, chauffeur. That's a song called Chauffeur, whose title works as a job description and a metaphor. Apparently, the Womack sisters took a number of jobs over the years to finance their recording, including doing some Uber driving. The lyric is about taking control of one's career, no longer being a passenger, getting behind the wheel. While this new release is being positioned as the sisters' debut, I've been aware of various songs and EPs they've released over the past decade, and what strikes me about this album is that it's got their best songwriting, and for the first time, they transcend nostalgia. Yes, the music is rooted in 1960s soul, but their crisp, tight harmonies possess an urgency and immediacy that speaks to the world we're living in right now. Fall into your arms is what my heart says I ain't much for dreamin' of Don't do that boy, no harm is what my mama says Cause I ain't one for scheming, no Look into my eyes, boy, don't you realize You went away too long to wait for your honey And almost enough to forget you In contrast to the Womack sisters' impeccable harmonies, I give you Margaret Glaspie's voice, ringingly alone, as her piece is interrupted by a former lover who suddenly appears at the end of her driveway. I'm in Michigan And it's colder than I like I wouldn't last two minutes on the interstate Riding my motorbike And I'm a city girl But it's a different world Out here in the middle I'm on solid ground With the friends I've found Nobody makes me feel at all You said you didn't want me Then why did you come All this way You said you didn't need me Who's standing in whose driveway Who's standing in whose driveway Who's standing in whose driveway That was a little bit That song, called Michigan, leads off Margaret Glaspy's new album called I Am Both. On it, Glaspy acts as a chronicler of doubt, hesitation, misgiving, of the emotions that can grind a relationship to a halt. She keeps circling back to the word nothing. Doing nothing is something I do too well, she sings on one song. In another, she describes a couple stuck in a rut. James and Marie, they don't want to say the wrong thing, so they say nothing. The music is mostly Glaspy and her acoustic guitar with an occasional puff on a harmonica. Discrete keyboards and drums slip in here and there. Working with producer Joe Henry, Glaspy sounds as though she's walking through the rooms of an empty house, taking in memories good and bad, assigning blame, and taking responsibility. Can't you read my mind? I thought telepathy was a requirement for love. So I roll my eyes thinking that you're well acquainted with body language. I did not know I had to speak up That's why I'm folding your laundry And I'm making a meal of it I'm slamming doors you leave open And I'm hoping you're feeling it I thought we were on the same page Apparently not I'm in a silent rage I'm in a silent rage I'm sorry for being So petty That line, I'm slamming doors you leave open, and I'm hoping you're feeling it. Oh, boy. That really kills me. Both Glaspy and the Womack sisters are women who've been put to the test by men who resist understanding their pain and their power. They know that relationships are a lot more complicated than victim and victimizer and use their work to untangle these snarled dynamics to better understand and explain themselves to us. Ken Tucker reviewed new music by the Womack sisters and Margaret Glaspy. Coming up. We'll hear from saxophonist Ravi Coltrane, son of jazz great John Coltrane. One minute I am a dream to you And you can't cope with how much I mean to you And the next you are through with me And you want nothing to do with me This is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Tanya Mosley. Terry has our next interview. Here she is. The jazz saxophonist and composer John Coltrane was born 100 years ago. The centennial is September 23rd, and the celebration includes concerts, album reissues, and a new book of Coltrane photos edited by my guest Ravi Coltrane, the son of John and Alice Coltrane. Ravi is a highly regarded tenor saxophone player and composer who was recorded as a leader and in other bands. The book is titled Coltrane, The Definitive Visual Celebration of the Legendary. And it includes an introduction by Ravi and several essays, including ones by Patti Smith, Carlos Santana, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and Phil Lesh. The Coltrane family is organizing some of the centennial events and overseeing the estates of Ravi's parents, John and Alice Coltrane. John Coltrane is one of the most influential musicians in the history of jazz. He was famous for his early recordings in Miles Davis' band, his transcendent ballads from the Great American Songbook, his modal music, his spiritual music, for popularizing the soprano saxophone in jazz with his recording of My Favorite Things, and for avant-garde free jazz like no one had heard before. To quote what the late jazz critic Francis Davis wrote in the New York Times, full disclosure, Francis was my husband, Coltrane has come to stand for a disciplined mindset, a desire for spiritual ecstasy, a vision of music as ritual and of performance as a whole, and a holy rite, that's R-I-T-E. Depending on what a listener wants from it, Coltrane's music is a cry for black liberation, the soundtrack of a spiritual quest, a backdrop for tripping, or the next evolutionary step for jazz after bebop. Unquote. Alice Coltrane, Ravi's mother, was a pianist and harpist who played on John's final albums, recorded many albums under her own name, turned to Vedanta spirituality, and found that, and found that an ashram in L.A. Ravi Coltrane, welcome to Fresh Air, congratulations on the book. I want to start with something from your father's ballads album, because I just think that album is gorgeous, and so beautiful that it sounds a little spiritual to me, because it sounds kind of transcendent. Yes, absolutely. So where do you see this album fitting into your father's body of work before we hear a song from it? Well, first of all, thank you, Terry, for the invitation. It's an honor and pleasure to be speaking with you today. It's a pleasure to have you. And, yes, I think that album, it really displays his tone, his sound. And I think that, in fact, all of the songs are very beautiful. His interpretation of them, sonically, I mean, I think that's really where the record really gets its power from. His tone alone, you won't hear a saxophone, a tenor saxophone sound, quite this beautiful on any recording. It's something to marvel at. It has this uplift to it. I don't mean that it's uplifting, but his tone always sounds like it's kind of rising. Yes, it carries us. It carries the listener, really. So let's hear You Don't Know What Love Is from John Coltrane's ballads album. You Don't Know What Love Is ¶¶ ¶¶ ¶¶ I have to say, the more I listen to that, the more I hear patterns and get a sense of cohesion. But when I first. When I first put that on, I thought, what is this? And I didn't know what to make of it. Were the musicians expressing anger? Was it called ascension as in Christ ascending or as the souls of the dead ascending? Was it expressing existential pain? Were the musicians high? Was it a bad trip or a good trip? And I was afraid to listen to it high myself. I thought, who knows what's. Where you go. Yeah, where they end up. Yeah. What did you hear the first time you heard this? Do you remember? Well, yes, I think what you experienced, I think, is probably what most people experienced when they first hear that music. You know, what is this and what's going on? You know. Maybe the second feeling is like, yeah, it's actually entering my body in some way. I'm reacting to this. Either positively or negatively, there's something that's stirring there. And it's like diving into cold water. For as shocking as it might be initially, you get used to it at some point. And as a gateway record, I mean, not a lot of people choose ascension to start, you know, learning about John Coltrane's music. That was quite adventurous of you. No, I just did it because I saw his name. I knew he was important. But, you know. You know, one of the things with your father is that, like, for example, like, he took really long solos. And he could pull it off. But he set this kind of new opening for other people to take really long solos who didn't really have much to say musically. And I've sat through. That's true. I've sat through many jazz concerts where the editor in me kept thinking, like, you could have cut this down from, like, ten minutes to two and it would have been fine. Yes, yes. Not everyone can go on that journey and take the audience and the listener along with them and continue to explore and expand, you know. But the great, great improvisers, the great solos, the great visionaries in music could. And John Coltrane clearly was one of those types of creators and improvisers. Yes. There's a very famous recording from a club called The Half Note that was on Spring in Broome here in Manhattan from 1965. John plays a 27-minute saxophone solo. And throughout, he never repeats himself. He's building from one idea to the next and one motive to the next and expanding these motives and ideas in the most organic way. But the ear is following, the band is following, and things continue to build and grow for 28 minutes. I mean, that's really something a lot of. Most musicians don't have 28 seconds worth of new ideas in them and within a solo, you know. What are your thoughts with your own playing about how long a solo should be, either in performance or on record? Yeah, about 28 seconds. I think that's fair. So, Alvin Jones, who is in New York City, he's been in New York City for a long time. He's been in New York City for a long time. Who was in your father's quartet and was a really brilliant drummer, he called you when you were still, I think, still in your teens? No, I was still studying. I was still in school. So, I was in my early 20s. And he suggested that you join him on the road and perform with his band. What was your response to that? I said no. Because? Well, I was not ready. I was still learning. I told him I wasn't ready and that I was still studying. He said, well, I want to help you get ready. So, I agreed, yes. I couldn't say no twice to Elvin Jones, his offer to bring me on the road and let me play in his band. It was life-changing for me. So, you didn't feel ready, but when you were playing with him, did you feel like you were holding your own or were you thinking like, I really am not ready? No. I was not ready. I was not ready. I shouldn't have agreed to do this. Well, that's the thing. You know, it was an experience of a lifetime. I mean, the first tours that I did in Europe, I mean, the first tour I did with Elvin Jones was 1991, spring of 91. It was two months, two months of one-nighters. And that same year, we came back in the summer and did another month. I mean, to watch him play every night, to listen to him as a band leader, to see how he conducted himself on the stage and off the stage, it was, these were the most powerful lessons that I learned in my young life as a musician. You know, whether I was ready to be on the stage or not with him. So, when you became a jazz musician and you're playing with Elvin Jones, who's a legend unto himself and who played with your father and your father's quartet, and your father obviously was a legend, did you feel the pressure? Did you feel the pressure of being John Coltrane's son? I mean, picking up the saxophone, there's going to be a certain amount of pressure for anyone if your last name is Coltrane. Yeah, I mean, the pressure can be internal or external. Because I did grow up very much Ravi, you know, that was who I was growing up. So, as I kind of was moving through that early stage of my life, as a musician, you know, I was very aware that people were aware. Was it hard to figure out who you were as a musician since you had been so steeped in your father's music? Yeah. So, like, you couldn't really escape it. And you didn't define yourself, like, in opposition to your father? Like, you weren't playing radically different music. You weren't playing, like, punk rock or something. That would have been, like, totally different. For the sake of music. For the sake of being different, no, no. I mean, the reason why we play is because we hear something that compels us, it draws us in. You know, and John Coltrane's music drew me in. I mean, I'm not the first to be captivated and compelled by the sound of his saxophone, you know, by the power of his intention and musical invention, you know. It's a powerful sound, putting on a John Coltrane record. You know, you say, what is that? And then you say, I want to do that, you know. Well, Ravi, good luck with all the centennial celebrations. I know it's a lot of planning. Good luck with your new book. And, you know, thank you for coming on Fresh Air. Thank you, Terry. It was, again, an honor and a pleasure to speak with you today. Thank you so much. Ravi Coltrane is a jazz composer and tenor saxophonist and the son of John and Alice Coltrane. He spoke with Terry Gross. Ravi edited the new collection of photos of his late father called Coltrane, the Definitive Visual Celebration of the Legend. Fresh Air Weekend is produced by Teresa Madden. Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our engineer this week is Adam Staniszewski. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Roberta Shorrock, Anne-Marie Baldonado, Lauren Krenzel, Monique Nazareth, Bea Chaloner, Susan Yakundi, Anna Bauman, and Nico Gonzalez-Whistler. Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nesper. With Terry Gross, I'm Tanya Moseley. © transcript Emily Beynon