Mid-sixties, Coltrane would die soon. So: Pharoah on the other sax, Rashied on drums, wife Alice on keys. Trane gets lost in one of his interminable solos, so lost he forgets the room and the people who’ve come to listen, forgets himself, drops his horn, finger-crook dangle by his thigh, and starts with this cacophony of howls and yelps, grunts and hisses. Audience stunned. Nobody knows what’s going down. Later, evening over, they ask him the sixties version of WTF? Darkly, confused, he says, “I don’t know, man. I just ran out of horn.”