The PLRC and other like-minded groups have outlined more than 200 associated symptoms, including fatigue, muscle weakness, joint pain, sore throat, insomnia, difficulty concentrating, memory issues and post-­exertional malaise…

At least pretend it’s physical.

The U.S. has done something similar, and arguably better, on the women’s side. It was essentially the key driver of the launch of women’s soccer.

U.S. universities’ varsity teams played a major role in bringing women’s soccer from a total sideshow to a significant sports activity, first nationally and then globally.

Spain may currently hold the World Cup in both the men’s and women’s game, but the U.S. tops the all-time list on the women’s side, with four Women’s World Cups.

And it is the National Women’s Soccer League (NWSL) that has turned that record into the world’s most valuable platform for the women’s professional game.

Just consider that Denver’s 2026 home opener drew over 63,000 fans, a number few European women’s clubs could dream of.

Whatever else the info of American money may do to football, it has done more than any other market to make the women’s professional game a going financial concern.

The game is only understood because American sabremetrics have been applied to it.

There’s a certain kind of Christian for whom faith begins with an exam (and doesn’t grow much beyond that). Their salvation depends on getting theological answers correct: Is the Son co-eternal with the Father? Does God’s knowledge of the future jeopardize human’s free will? Are the original copies of Scripture free from error?

But there are Christians who are not that concerned about these questions and nevertheless have decided to follow Jesus. Christians like, you know, the first generations of Jesus’s followers. To them, following Jesus meant trusting the God he trusted, meant continuing his ministry to the sick and the poor, meant never giving their complete allegiance to an earthly ruler, meant hoping for God’s future. I think this is the kind of Christian Dolly was. It’s the kind of person Jesus was—the kind of person he calls his followers to become.

I’m a theologian. I’m paid to overthink nebulous, inside-baseball theological ideas, ones that most of Jesus’s followers haven’t heard about and probably wouldn’t ever care to discuss. I think theology is important. Theology is a gift to the church and the world the church is called to serve. But when I start to get bigheaded about my job, as if I’m part of an exclusive group that has been nominated by God to protect Christianity, I’m forced to remind myself that Jesus decided to build God’s kingdom with fishermen and sex workers, that he preferred to tell simple stories without opening a textbook, and that his God will not be bound by my ideas even when power-wielding, self-authorizing groups of educated people call them “orthodox” and “canonical.”

He eventually made His own theology rather easy to comprehend, “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.”

The popularity of home taping exploded in 1979, with the introduction of the Sony Walkman. At last, you could listen to what you wanted when you were on the move.

The music industry wasn’t pleased with this development, blaming it for a pronounced drop in the sales of vinyl records. The British Phonographic Institute, a trade association in London, mounted a campaign with a reproachful slogan: “Home taping is killing music. And it’s illegal.” In the United States, music executives pressed lawmakers to place a fee on blank cassettes and home recording equipment. George David Weiss, the president of the Songwriters Guild, likened home taping to theft.

None of it stopped youthful Gen X-ers from turning themselves into amateur curators of sound. While this new pastime gave them the chance to to hear their favorite songs in the order of their choosing, it served other purposes, too. “I am what I play,” David Bowie sang on the 1979 song “D.J.,” and the living-room D.J.s of the early 1980s used the medium of the mix tape to claim their identities, introduce themselves to others, flex their musical knowledge, telegraph messages and even flirt.

Forty years after I started making and exchanging mix tapes, I can still remember which friend introduced me to which artist. Mix tapes had a way of casting an indelible imprint on our musical taste, fashion sense — even our worldview.

During the 1980s and 1990s chiropractic researchers launched clinical trials, comparative-effectiveness studies, and collaborations with universities and medical centers.

Then, the larger, better-designed studies made the clinical picture go soft. Patients improved—sometimes substantially—but the improvement proved stubbornly hard to pin on manipulation. Natural history, spontaneous recovery, reassurance, exercise, attention, expectancy, and plain contextual healing kept blurring the causal thresholds.2 Manipulation generally performed about as well as any other conservative care including placebo, and when superior, it closely tracked the false positive rate expected under null hypothesis significance testing.3, 4 In fact, to this day you will see chiropractic research conclusions proudly assert that manipulation is no less effective than other treatments for low back pain, including controls—a damnation by faint self-praise.

The problem was not only scientific but psychological, cultural, and institutional, which is why supporters and critics could read the same trials as Rorschach blots and come away convinced of opposite conclusions. When one body of evidence underwrites both conclusions, the fault is rarely bias; more often the evidence was never built to answer the question asked of it.5 The remedy is unglamorous: decide in advance which single measure could settle the question, weigh several rival hypotheses at once,6 and recognize when further information can no longer move the decision.7 In short: name in advance the result that would change your mind. Chiropractic, though, thrived in the ambiguity. When outcomes were positive, manipulation worked; when they were negative, prejudice or incompetence was clearly afoot.

So the center of gravity in chiropractic research quietly retreated from the awkward clinical effectiveness question, towards safer, fundable territory: biomechanics, sensorimotor physiology, adverse-event surveillance, health-services research, and broad biopsychosocial models.

Does spinal manipulation itself produce large, reliable, clinically transformative effects beyond natural history and contextual healing?

I eventually tried to answer that question—at scale, assembling a meta-analysis of spinal manipulation for low back pain: a hundred and twenty randomized trials, some nineteen thousand patients, modeled against the natural history of recovery. The results did not rescue the story I had spent my youth defending. Once natural history and contextual healing were given their due, the slight effect we detected turned out to be natural history carrying manipulation for acute pain and a faint placebo carrying it for chronic pain.8, 9 Years later, a contemporary from those reform days, chiropractor, influencer, and fellow researcher Greg Plaugher, remarked to me that “evidence-based chiropractic” was an old and abandoned paradigm.10

The Snaefellsnes Peninsula sticks out from Iceland’s western coast in the shape of a carrot that was peeled during a bumpy bus ride. When I arrived in mid-August, there were 16 hours of sunlight each day. A handsome glacier loomed in the distance, keeping watch over lava fields and clutches of lichen. Arctic terns made lazy circles in the sky. It looked like a cross between Yosemite and Mars.

The festival had attracted around 4,200 people who seemed to share an openness to New Age thinking and a degree of financial flexibility. Tickets cost $888 for entry-level participants and $1,444 for V.I.P.s whom festival organizers referred to as “celestial voyagers.” Lodging was extra. I slept in a spacious beige canvas yurt that cost $1,000 for the week.

There were start-up founders and astrologers and eye surgeons and bartenders and literal astronauts. There were Silicon Valley-types in performance synthetics and Icelanders wearing shorts. During a set called “high vibrational fun time abundance of comedy,” the comedian Brent Pella joked that most people in the audience had crystals but no health insurance. In response, a man stood up and waved his hunk of quartz back and forth as if it were a lighter at a Coldplay concert.

Elon Musk called it a fundamental catalyst for SpaceX. Nobel laureate Paul Krugman credited it with shaping his career. Newt Gingrich made it required reading for his congressional staff, and even Japanese cult leader Shoko Asahara was reportedly inspired by it. […]

When Asimov began writing Foundation 85 years ago, he was capturing the cutting-edge intellectual currents of his era: mathematical determinism, the quantification of social sciences and the rise of central planning in governance.

Economists such as John Maynard Keynes argued that macro-level human behaviour could be managed through top-down intervention, while Jan Tinbergen and Ragnar Frisch were building the first econometric models. Seldon’s psychohistory was essentially macroeconomics and public administration pushed to their absolute logical extreme – individual chaos smoothed out by the predictable behaviour of billions.

Both sides of this coin are incredibly destructive: there are the intellectuals who believe that their social engineering would, uniquely, work and those who think their failed lives must have been engineered from without.

The traditional process of drug discovery is lengthy and complex. Scientists must identify disease-causing biological targets, design molecules capable of interacting with those targets, test thousands of candidates, and then determine whether any are safe and effective enough to progress into clinical development. It is an expensive undertaking that is frequently described as taking around a decade and billions of dollars to bring a successful medicine to market.

Artificial intelligence (AI) is increasingly being positioned as a solution to this challenge. Across academia and industry, researchers are combining AI algorithms with powerful computational infrastructure to identify promising drug candidates more rapidly.

[W]hen two of Connelly’s most trusted collaborators, the retired Los Angeles Police Department detectives Rick Jackson (partly the basis for Bosch) and Mitzi Roberts (the inspiration for Ballard), came to him early last year with the claim that an amateur sleuth in West Virginia had solved the most notorious murder in L.A. history, there was only one thing Connelly could do: work the case as if he were still a young reporter ravenous for the big scoop.

That investigation resulted in “Killer in the Code,” a podcast whose second season returns on Wednesday with the first two episodes of six. The 10-episode first season, which debuted last December, roiled the true crime community by arguing that a World War II veteran named Marvin Margolis was responsible for two of the most famous unsolved crimes in California history: the 1947 Los Angeles murder of Elizabeth Short, immortalized as the Black Dahlia, and the five killings committed by the Zodiac throughout the San Francisco Bay Area in the late 1960s.

“I have no doubts,” Connelly said in the run-up to the second season, which focuses on advancing the case against Margolis as if he were still alive. The evidence pointing to Margolis as the killer, Connelly added, was “completely convincing.”

Margolis has been floated before as a suspect in the Short killing, but never with such confidence. And he has never been previously connected with the Zodiac killings. The podcast has infuriated many in the true crime community. Connelly is viewed by some as a carpetbagger and completely out of his depth, duped by bad cryptography and shoddy evidence, the kind of thing Bosch or Ballard would see right through.

“Mike was a fine reporter, but those reporting days are in the rearview mirror,” said Larry Harnisch, a leading Black Dahlia expert who has led the opposition to “Killer in the Code.” Back when Connelly was a reporter for The Times, Harnisch was a copy editor at the paper. He hasn’t taken kindly to what he sees as the novelist’s intrusion on his domain. “I’m not going to sit silently and let them do it, because it’s a scam,” Harnisch said.

Despite the criticism, Connelly retains a conviction that he has the right guy, dismissing Harnisch and other detractors as a “small incestuous group” peddling “disproved” theories.

“I knew that, going into this, I would put my reputation on the line,” Connelly said.

“They’re invested in a different theory,” he added, “so to accept our theory, they have to accept that they’re wrong, or they’ve wasted a lot of time.”

The gray goatee, the bulky frame, the raspy voice. Michael Connelly, now 70, may be one of America’s most successful writers, but the vibe he gives off is of a cop on the cusp of retirement yet with something still left to prove.

Connelly admits that when he first got involved in the podcast, he did not think it would become something of a second job. (His latest novel, “Ironwood,” was published in May; a new Bosch novel, “The Hollow,” is coming in October.) He would narrate the story of Margolis, and the Black Dahlia-Zodiac link, then go back to writing books. Instead, the story has swallowed him whole.

It all began when he learned that a self-taught investigator in West Virginia claimed to have finally solved one of the Zodiac’s cryptograms. “As homicide investigators like to say, it goes where it goes,” Connelly said.

He can’t just drop it, like a bad first draft. This Friday, he and the rest of the podcast team will present their findings at the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center, which houses the forensics divisions of the L.A.P.D. and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.

What keeps him going is an enduring fascination with Short, the patron saint of every lost soul to wander down Sunset Boulevard. “She was missing something,” Connelly said. “That’s the secret of L.A. Everybody here came from somewhere else because they’ve been missing something. Myself included.”

Educated about serial killers by novels, as we all are, both the gap between murders and the wildly differing manners of killing seem awfully odd.

Spend a week or two in Tupelo, Mississippi, and you begin to wonder if the air down here perhaps contains an element that causes dreams to ignite and burn hotter and stranger than elsewhere in the world. What are the dreams that catch fire in this town? They are dreams of rock ‘n’ roll; of valor, metamorphosis, and ruination; sex and betrayal; of the government and shadowy forces; of the grand dream, American. The ether here is surely spiked with something. How else do we explain the dream of the poor hillbilly born in a shotgun shack in east Tupelo, who invented rock ‘n’ roll and changed the world and died on the toilet at the age of 42? How else to understand a man like Kevin Curtis, one of northeastern Mississippi’s preeminent Elvis impersonators, whose life was nearly ruined by the sight of a severed head on a refrigerator shelf? How else to make sense of the story you are about to hear, the tale of Mr. Curtis and Everett Dutschke, two men who might have shared a lovely friendship but instead had a weird feud that ended in the attempted poisoning of the president of the United States?

Theirs is a story of human dismemberment and righteous causes, of martial arts and murder intrigues, sexual perversity, political conviction, and resentments dearly held. What lies behind Mr. Curtis and Mr. Dutschke’s spectacular collision? A lot of odd and complicated things. But in the simplest sense, perhaps it’s that these gentlemen simply had too many dreams in common, and in their particular America, there are only so many dreams to go around.

But what about that word “liberty”? My callow and rambunctious adolescent brain understood it to mean personal freedom, the kind of autonomy that latter-day libertarians assert as an unalienable individual right.

I’ve come to believe that my youthful understanding was not entirely wrong, but it was seriously incomplete, arguably even mistaken in its fundamentals. Properly understood, Henry’s concept of liberty indeed embraced at least a qualified sense of individual prerogatives, of the sort that Thomas Jefferson enshrined in the Declaration of Independence. But for him the essential, foundational concept of liberty was a collective attribute, the sacred right of organic communities—or, more precisely, majorities in such communities—to govern themselves without outside interference, and sometimes even to subordinate individual welfare to the will of the larger community.

What would we say if the Trojan Horse took place today? Does it violate international humanitarian law, which is also known as the Law of Armed Conflict? The law permits “ruses of war” if they don’t otherwise violate international law and if they don’t constitute “perfidy.” The law defines a ruse of war as anything aimed at misleading the enemy if it doesn’t trick him into thinking that he is protected under the law of war. The latter is perfidy. For example, attacking the enemy after either pretending to surrender or faking a wound is considered perfidy. But feigned retreat, such as the Greeks engaged in at Troy, is not perfidious, and is permitted by international humanitarian law.

The Trojan Horse was an ambush by means of camouflage, and both ambushes and camouflage are permitted ruses. Still, the horse was a religious symbol and an unofficial emblem of Troy, a country known for horse breeding and horse trading. The law of armed conflict prohibits the use of a religious symbol in an ambush, but only if it invokes legal protection. Pretending to be a chaplain or hiding soldiers in a religious shrine would violate the law, but offering a false gift to a nation’s god probably would not. International law would probably judge the horse to be a legitimate ruse of war.

It might not give Sinon’s behavior a pass. On the one hand, lies and deception are no violation of the law of war. On the other hand, Sinon claimed to be hors de combat (not to be confused with horse de combat) and a refugee when, in fact, he remained an enemy soldier. The Roman poet Virgil condemned Sinon’s behavior as perjury. Lawyers will disagree, but Sinon might well be judged today to have violated the law of armed conflict.

I spend perhaps an unhealthy amount of time staring at the Maps app on my phone, zooming into remote roads, tiny islands, or the middle of vast plains peppered with isolated buildings. One place I always come back to – via satellite image, that is – is the Shetland Islands, or more specifically, Out Stack, a small skerry in the North Atlantic Ocean marking the northerly point of the British Isles. There’s just something so satisfying about an endpoint, an extreme boundary, that keeps piquing my curiosity during my late-night virtual explorations.

So when I found myself this summer standing on the cliffs of Shetland’s Hermaness National Nature Reserve, looking directly out at the uninhabited rocky islet that poses as the final full stop of Britain, I finally understood why Romantic poets found our country’s nature so powerfully awe-inspiring. Other walkers we chatted to along the cliffs also shared these feelings; we were all harbouring a triumphant secret that day about what it’s like to be the most northerly people in the country.

One night at Smalls, the venerable jazz club on West 10th Street in Greenwich Village, I asked Spike Wilner, the venue’s proprietor, “Whatever happened to that beautiful cat that used to haunt this place?” (Though I can’t verify it as fact, it’s possible that across America, many jazz clubs have an official house cat that slinks around the club. A cat amongst cats, as they say in the jazz world.)

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Minnow. Do you know the story about Minnow?”

I did not know the story about Minnow, though I remember that regal feline creature with a spectacular mane that used to sit atop the piano, but only when certain musicians played. “Tell me about Minnow,” I said, encouraging the club owner.

The band was between sets, patrons coming and going. It was spring 2019. I sipped some tequila. Smalls is a basement joint known for its lively mix of students, hipsters, and true jazzheads from back in the day. “Well,” answered Spike, “to tell you about Minnow, I first need to tell you about Harry Whitaker. Do you remember Harry?”

I did remember the late Harry Whitaker. Beginning in the late 1990s, Harry was a regular performer at Smalls. He was a piano player of prodigious talents. I never met Harry, but I saw him play a few times at the club. I was stunned by his facility on the piano and wondered why I was unaware of this artist, who was maybe the best pianist I ever heard perform live. By then, Harry was in his 60s, heavy-set, like a big African American buddha. His hair was gray, and he had a pronounced lower lip that seemed to protrude as he got into a groove on the piano. He often slumped on the piano bench when he played, as if he were under hypnosis, eyes closed, his mind and spirit in some other place, but his artistry present in ways that tended to hush an audience into awe.

Spike’s voice became somber when he mentioned Harry’s name. I gathered that Whitaker had special meaning to him. “Okay, then,” I said. “Tell me about Harry.”

What followed was the beginning of a dialogue that started that night and would continue, off and on, over the next year. What Spike told me about Harry lingered in the ether of my imagination. As well as being a club owner, Spike Wilner is also an accomplished piano player. Harry had played a crucial role in Spike’s development as a musician, and taxed his emotions, as Harry succumbed to bouts of mental illness that would eventually be his undoing. The club proprietor and the piano legend became the inheritors of a spiritual symbiosis that is at the essence of jazz. Minnow the cat also played a role.

Of all the Homeric translators and commentators over the millennia, Nolan seems most explicitly in dialogue with Jonathan Shay, a psychiatrist who discovered the therapeutic value of reading The Iliad with Vietnam veterans. Through his clinical practice, Shay came to believe that Homer’s Achilles is suffering from all the symptoms of complex PTSD as we now recognize it. But unlike the American military, Greek culture had numerous cultural means of treating this trauma that have since been either lost or actively suppressed.

From that experience came Shay’s 1994 book Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character. Shay pinpoints the beginning of Achilles’s suffering—what he would come to call his “moral injury”—to when Agamemnon betrays him (paralleling how many Vietnam vets felt betrayed by their government). “When a leader destroys the legitimacy of the army’s moral order by betraying ‘what is right,’” Shay writes, “he inflicts manifold injuries on his men. The Iliad is a story of these immediate and devastating consequences.” Numbed by wrath, Achilles turns his back on the fellow Greeks for whom he formerly cared deeply. In this compromised state, the death of Pátroklos destroys him, engendering a berserker rage in which he desecrates the corpses of his fallen enemies, unable to control himself or observe the traditional laws of war.

For Shay, “The Iliad is the tragedy of Achilles’ noble character brought to ruin—moral ruin in his own terms … Achilles’ moral unluckiness, his tragedy, was that events—simply what happened—created the desire to do things that he himself regarded as bad.” It is something he found again and again in the American veterans he was treating.

I asked my friend Mike the other day, “What’s going to happen to science fiction when readers realize that interstellar travel will be next to impossible, and no one will want to live on the Moon or Mars?” He answered back, “Nothing will happen to science fiction; it’s only stories.” But I replied, “But some people read science fiction because they believe that someday humans will colonize the solar system and eventually the galaxy.” And he replied, “Nobody really believes that. It’s just fun stories.” I thought for a few seconds, “Don’t you think Star Trek fans believe in their hearts that the final frontier is humanity’s future?” Mike said, “No, I don’t.”

I think Mike is far more realistic than most people.

In 1960, a young hematologist named Madison Cawein began hearing rumors at the University of Kentucky. People spoke about the blue hill folks of the Cumberland Plateau. There were blue Stacys, Combses, Smiths, and Fugates at that time as a result of inbreeding and the small gene pool from which many of Eastern Kentucky’s families came.

Cawein was an accomplished doctor. He helped isolate the antidote for cholera and helped create a drug for Parkinson’s Disease. He was, however, a hematologist at heart. Cawein said that “blood cells always looked beautiful to me,” so when he began hearing about the blue people, his interest was piqued.

Cawein, along with Ruth Pendergrass, a nurse from the American Heart Association clinic in Hazard, scoured the hollers for blue people. Pendergrass was fascinated with the blue people since she gave a blood test to a woman who identified herself as a blue Combs from Ball Creek. Cawein and Pendergrass went on daily missions to find blue people until they were frustrated and near giving up. After all, Cawein was forced to drive eight hours one way, from Lexington to Hazard, when he wanted to go on a search. Then a pair of siblings, Rachel and Patrick Ritchie, walked into the heart clinic in Hazard. They were blue, and Cawein had found his white (or blue) whale.

I’ve been a Cardinals fan since I was a boy, and when I think about my life, I can mark parts of it by home runs.

I was listening on KMOX radio as a boy of 11 in 1964 when Ken Boyer hit his grand slam against the Yankees in Game 4 of the World Series, turning a 3–0 deficit into a 4–3 Cardinals victory. Three years later, Bob Gibson—my boyhood hero—did something that somehow seemed perfectly normal for Bob Gibson: He pitched a complete-game victory in Game 7 of the World Series at Fenway Park, struck out ten, and hit a home run, too.

By 1982, I was an Army officer, married with children, when rookie Willie McGee hit two home runs in Game 3 of the World Series—and robbed Milwaukee’s Gorman Thomas of one. Baseball had marked the time.

Collins claims that wisdom contains four essential ingredients: truth, science, faith, and trust. There is a certain paradox here. Collins’s fourfold prescription is considerably more problematic than he suggests. But the path to wisdom is much simpler than he proposes: not a better method for vetting experts, but the cultivation of humility in the seeker.

What follows is not an indictment of Dr. Collins, whose leadership during the COVID-19 pandemic saved countless lives. His treatise serves as a helpful springboard for a continuing conversation about what truly is “the road to wisdom.” What are perhaps lacking in his analysis are two major issues: first, that the case for science skepticism is much stronger than he allows; second, that humility on the part of the observer is fundamental to all other elements.

Einstein could never forgive Heisenberg and Schroedinger for the latter.

Much has been made of this album’s cover art — by the noted photographer William Claxton — of city guy Rollins in the Mojave Desert with cowboy hat and holster, armed with his tenor horn, but the backstory to the recording session, detailed in Koenig’s original liner notes included here, is still more revealing. (For fans of Claxton, who did several books of jazz photography, a more conventional portrait of the urbane Rollins, in dark suit and dress shirt, is also included in the new box.) Since all three musicians were performing at night, and Manne and Brown — both of whom, as Koenig noted, were just voted number one in the popularity polls of Down Beat, Metronome, and Playboy — had gigs during the day, the recording session took place between 3 and 7 in the morning.

According to Koenig, the three had never played or recorded together before. Clearly, though, they had an intuitive simpatico. Manne — who also raised horses in his ranch outside L.A. — sets the tone immediately by perfectly mimicking the clippety-clop of a Standardbred’s slow gait in “I’m an Old Cowhand.” Throughout, he and Brown are like two middle-infielders so sound they can turn a double-play blind-folded and still afford to showboat now and again. (A few years ago, when I reported on the bassist Linda May Han Oh and observed her teaching at the Manhattan School of Music, she consistently brought up Brown to her young students. “In terms of fundamentals,” she would tell me later, “if you want to be a solid working bassist and Ray Brown is all you checked out, that would be great.”)

Way Out West is traditional, at least superficially. It has a standard (“There Is No Greater Love” — Rollins wows on both takes) and a piece of Ellingtonia (“Solitude”); two originals by the leader (“Come, Gone” and the title track); and, extending the cover concept, two cow-poke ditties from the old westerns Sonny so enjoyed as a child (“Wagon Wheels” and that opener “I’m an Old Cowhand”), albeit with a modernist, hard-bop spin. But then look at the trio again, and how emphatically untraditional it is: tenor saxophone, bass, drums. It’s a configuration that had hardly been used at that point. As critic Neil Tesser writes in his informative new essay for this re-issue, “Only Lucky Thompson had recorded in this format, and he did so in only one song, in early 1956.”

It was Rollins who established and popularized this combo: He would play with just a drummer and bassist often after Way Out West and again post-hiatus — as would Albert Ayler and Dewey Redman later in the 1960s, David Murray in the ’70s, Joe Henderson in the ’80s, to Mark Turner into this century, Ingrid Laubrock, and now the 26-year-old Kevin Sun, who has absorbed Turner and so much of the jazz canon, and advances the concept in his excellent debut album Trio, just out, in which he’s joined by bassist Walter Stinson and drummer Matt Honor. A sixty-year line, however undulating, from Sonny Rollins to Kevin Sun.

Without the chordal structure of the piano, Way Out West anticipated free jazz. As Rollins told Tesser last year in preparation for this re-issue, “[In the trio] I could have the rhythmic support of a drummer, and then I could have the harmonic support of a bassist. But that’s the thing about it: It wouldn’t be more intrusive on what I might be playing. It’s still very freeing to just have the bass providing harmonic content.”