Pharoah Sanders, the Sonic Seeker of Spiritual Jazz, Transcended Borders and Boundaries

In the pantheon of jazz, where names like Coltrane and Davis often dominate the conversation, Pharoah Sanders carved a space all his own—a sonic mystic, channeling the sacred and the guttural with equal force. He passed away in September 2022 at the age of 81, leaving behind a legacy that continues to ripple through genres and generations.

Born Farrell Sanders in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1940, the man who would come to be known as Pharoah grew up in the crucible of Jim Crow South. Like so many jazz greats before him, the church was his first conservatory. But it was his move to Oakland and later New York in the early 1960s that ignited his transformation. Sleeping on subways, often gigless and nearly destitute, Sanders slowly made his way through the city’s avant-garde enclaves. Then came John Coltrane.

It was Coltrane who first invited Sanders into his band in 1965, recognizing in the young tenor saxophonist a raw, unfiltered voice—wailing, overblown, at times otherworldly—that mirrored Coltrane’s own push toward spiritual elevation. Their collaborations on albums like Ascension and Meditations broke the mold. Together, they stretched the parameters of sound, rejecting traditional harmony and meter for something freer, more instinctual. Sanders didn’t play notes; he summoned energies.

But it was with his own 1969 release, Karma, that Sanders etched his name into jazz history. The album’s opening track, “The Creator Has a Master Plan,” a nearly 33-minute suite co-written with vocalist Leon Thomas, became an anthem for the spiritual jazz movement. Its incantatory chants, ecstatic peaks, and hypnotic groove blended Eastern mysticism, African rhythms, and Black American protest into something transcendent. This wasn’t just music—it was revelation.

Where many of his contemporaries were interested in jazz as a vehicle for innovation, Sanders seemed more concerned with jazz as a conduit for healing. He employed bells, shakers, African percussion, and vocal ululations. He wasn’t afraid to let his horn scream, squeal, or sob. In a single phrase, he could evoke anguish and exhale peace.

Critics were divided. To some, his work was chaotic, even unlistenable. But to others—especially the generation of Black artists and activists coming of age in the late 1960s—Sanders’s playing resonated like scripture. In an era defined by civil rights struggles, anti-war protests, and pan-African consciousness, his music offered an alternative cosmology: one of unity, resistance, and the divine.

Sanders’s later career saw him move through phases of relative quietude. He collaborated with Alice Coltrane, with whom he shared a deeply spiritual kinship, and continued to release records well into the 2000s. But he never chased commercial relevance. Instead, he let the music find him.

In 2021, at the age of 80, Sanders stunned the music world with Promises, a collaboration with British electronic producer Floating Points and the London Symphony Orchestra. It was a meditation in nine movements—elegiac, patient, spellbinding. On it, Sanders plays not with the ferocity of his youth but with a sage’s restraint. Each note is a breath; each breath a prayer. It was, by all accounts, a final masterpiece.

“Pharoah was always searching,” Floating Points’ Sam Shepherd told The Guardian. “He wasn’t bound by tradition or even time. He just wanted to touch something real.”

And touch it he did. Through decades of radical experimentation and spiritual seeking, Sanders opened new portals in music, transcending genre and geography. He was a vessel for something ancient and ever-renewing.

In an interview late in life, Sanders was asked what kind of music he liked. “I like beautiful music,” he replied simply. “Music that grows from the soul and goes back to the soul.”

Pharoah Sanders made music that did exactly that. And long after his final breath, that sound keeps echoing—wild, free, and full of grace.