When I read the New York Times obituary, I knew I had to write. I have been struggling with what to say, how to think about the impact that McCoy Tyner has had on me. But it all came clear to me when I read his words—he of few words—that closed the obituary, as told to Nat Hentoff: “I play what I live.” And that is it. What a beautiful life. By playing that life, he allowed us space to live in his sound. We lived together. And now he lives in the ancestral realm.

There were three pianists who shaped my worlds. Three whose music lived with me: Thelonious Monk, Ahmad Jamal, and McCoy Tyner. On March 6, 2020, Tyner joined Monk as an ancestor. Now I am left with Jamal, the only of the triumvirate I am able to see physically, to witness on earth what it is like to play heaven. Together, their music is a reminder that the worlds we face, will and must pass away. They reached for the eternal. Seeing Tyner play was an albeit brief reminder of that. This is the first thing I thought about, perhaps selfishly, when I learned of the news: that I would never see him here on earth again. While Tyner’s recorded music was always there and will always be there, there was a “something Incalculable”[1] about being in his presence. I first encountered his music about twelve years ago and unlike many others, I was too young to see him perform at the peak of his craft. Or so I thought. 

I had been passionately scouring YouTube for many years trying to catch a glimpse of the special aura that arrested so many of my elders. When you watch them talk about the classic John Coltrane quartet there is always a moment. They always have this moment. It begins with a joyful recalling of having been able to see them, before moving on to the context of the period including a retelling of what was happening culturally and politically, and then they always, always describe the venue and who was on the bandstand. Elvin. (Sometimes Ali). Garrison. And then Tyner. Coltrane’s band. Coltrane’s companions. Then there are often tears. This part is not discernible from the YouTube clips. You had to be there.

This music is an expression of spirituality. What made Coltrane connect with Tyner and the others was they shared an appreciation for capturing and embodying that spirit. They knew we needed it to remain alive. Coltrane called it “a love supreme.” Tyner called it passion. He called it the wind. He called it enlightenment. He called it peace. And he played those things for us. He played his life, he played our blues. Walk spirit, talk spirit.

Nothing could prepare me for being there. On December 8, 2017, I learned that there were free tickets available to see McCoy Tyner play trio at the Library of Congress. I knew he had not been well for some time. When Chasing Trane came out earlier that year, I lamented that he had not been given more screen time. But it just was not possible. And yet he still played. Because he still needed to play life.

The free tickets, however, had been sold out. Of course they had.

I went anyway, with the Friday night traffic in DC threatening to ruin what I did not know would be my last chance. There was a rush line, people like me, who refused to let the words “sold out” stop them from experiencing this moment. If you had tickets and were serious, you would be there ten minutes before the scheduled beginning, so ran the Library’s policy. Those who let life get in the way, would have their spaces relinquished to us. Us, who could not let life get in the way, because life, really, was there on the bandstand. One minute before Tyner’s call time, I was ushered to an empty seat.

Joe Lovano played first, along with the bassist Gerald Cannon and drummer Francisco Mela. Tyner, then gingerly walked out. The first tune was inevitably, almost predictably, “Fly With the Wind,” recorded in 1976, on the album of the same name. When it was his turn to solo, Tyner, who was two days before his 79th birthday, frail and ill, suddenly transformed. It was as if the illness, the difficulty he had while speaking or walking, was a consequence of everything he put into those solos. He gave so much of his life to that sound. His physical essence was tired. But the sound was still there, nothing dropped out. Everything was there for us. He could only muster two more tunes. And yet it was enough. The Library had acquired some of his sheet music and as I saw the lead sheets as we left, I was reminded of how this sound that Africans created once rendered on a piece of paper is a kind of art. There is no order, but there is rhythm. You know you are in a particular place. You learn the structures, you learn boundaries. But you know that they are boundless. Tyner’s works looked like that.

            And now he flies with the wind. Wind creates movement and maneuvers materials in and out of space. That is a McCoy Tyner solo. It is also a spiritual tradition, life cycles in and out of this “space” but that is not all life is. We learn and experience reality from this space, so that we might move to others, that we might fortify others. At the end of the solo, we reconnect to that essential reality. He taught us to be open to movement, to be attentive to space, to be open to transformative possibility. And he taught us that in order to love, we had to be attentive to that which makes us alive. And he did it with “a little pianissimo.” When we think about what freedom is, let us not forget those moments we have here and now to truly experience beauty. Let us imagine a place where we might experience it freely. Let us search for peace.

[1] From W.E.B. Du Bois’s “Sociology Hesitant.”