There is a moment near the end of "To John" where Pharoah Sanders simply stops playing — and the silence that follows feels earned in a way that most musicians spend entire careers chasing.
Spiritual Exaltation arrived in 1974 on Impulse!, a label that by then had already canonized Coltrane and was still figuring out what spiritual jazz looked like without its patron saint. Sanders had been answering that question in his own oblique way since Karma in 1969, but this album — recorded quietly, without the fanfare of a major session — feels like a man who has finally stopped trying to explain himself.
The Room Itself
The sessions were cut at Van Gelder Studio in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, that impossible room where Rudy Van Gelder had already captured half the great moments in jazz history. Van Gelder's ear for acoustic space is all over this record. The piano sits slightly back in the mix. The cymbals shimmer without ever glaring. There's a warmth to the low end that you don't get from a room with lesser ceiling height.
It matters who's in that room. Sanders brought in Lonnie Liston Smith on piano and electric piano — this is the same Lonnie Liston Smith who would release Astral Traveling the following year, and his harmonic choices here are just as luminous. William Allen holds down the bass with the unhurried patience the music requires. The percussion duties fell to Norman Connors, whose touch was light enough to let the spiritual weight land on the horns rather than the kit.
Sanders in the Upper Register
People talk about the Coltrane comparison whenever Sanders' name comes up, and it's not wrong exactly — it's just insufficient. Coltrane was seeking. Sanders, by 1974, had already arrived somewhere and was sending dispatches back. His tenor tone on the title track has a rawness to it that isn't technique breaking down; it's technique giving way to something older.
The album's centerpiece is "To John," the tribute to Coltrane that Sanders had first attempted on Karma and would keep returning to across his career. This version is more restrained than some. He doesn't reach for the upper partials the way he does on the earlier recordings. Instead, there's a sustained, almost hymnal quality — like watching someone light a candle rather than set a fire.
The electric piano colors everything without dominating. Lonnie Liston Smith understood, the way the best accompanists do, that his job was to hold space open, not to fill it.
What It Sounds Like at Midnight
This is not background music. It's also not demanding music in the way that free jazz can be demanding — it doesn't ask you to decode anything. It asks you to be present.
Put it on after the house goes quiet. The recording has enough dynamic range that you'll want the volume higher than you think. Let Van Gelder's room breathe. There's a bass note somewhere in the middle of the title track that you feel before you consciously hear it, and that's the whole argument for a properly set-up system right there.
Impulse! kept records like this one in print long enough for serious listeners to find them, then let them slip. The CD reissues came and went. The digital transfers have been variable in quality — some of them have a harshness in the upper midrange that does Sanders no favors. Get the cleanest version you can find.
The album closes the same way it opens: with space. Sanders knew that silence wasn't the absence of music. It was the part the audience played.