Coltrane was almost 30 before he did anything of jazz significance. Born in Hamlet, North Carolina, he learned alto and clarinet in school, then studied in Philadelphia and played in a navy band. He played alto for Joe Webb and tenor with Cleanhead Vinson, and both horns with Jimmy Heath, Earl Bostic and Dizzy Gillespie (he is hidden in the ensemble on some of Gillespie's 1949 records). In the 50s he was still holding down uneventful roles with Gillespie, and in a Johnny Hodges septet, and had finally joined a Jimmy Smith group in 1955 when the offer came in to enlist with Miles Davis, replacing Sonny Rollins. Coltrane's playing on the Davis quintet sessions is, with this previous history, astonishing: the massive sound, spilling notes which touch on as many points of the bop chord progression as possible, bursts out of the otherwise urbane setting of the quintet with what might have been ridiculous force, had it not been for Coltrane's control and the gun-metal polish of his timbre. This was at medium or fast tempo; on ballads, he can sound almost indolent, unprepared to elaborate much on the melody, letting the tone of his playing tell the story. It was a startling yet glowing contrast to Davis's own playing, which the leader must have recognized. But many of Coltrane's solos in this period still lacked the centre of a rounded approach, and often at quicker tempos, impetus alone drove the playing. Cannonball Adderley recalled Davis asking Coltrane why his solos went on so long: 'It takes that long to get it all in,' was the mild response.

Drugs (a heroin addiction) and alcohol were, however, plaguing his behaviour; twice in this period Davis fired and reinstated him, and he often fell asleep on the stand when not playing. Meek as a lamb, he hardly responded when Davis slapped and punched him for a typical transgression. But he reputedly got himself off heroin at least in 1957, and his career started to go up several gears. He played with Thelonious Monk for a spell and recorded prolifically as a leader for Prestige, as well as honouring a handshake agreement to make a single album for Blue Note (the fine Blue Train, 1957). By 1959, when he made both Kind Of Blue with Davis and Giant Steps as the start of a brief association with Atlantic, Coltrane had expanded his playing range: the investigation of chords had taken on the form of what Ira Gitler called 'sheets of sound', sixteenth-note trajectories which enabled him, as he played a solo, to slam through as many possibilities in each chord before the next arrived. This was countered by the escape from those strictures which the Kind Of Blue music hinted at, by improvising around motifs and scales as an alternative.

The formation of his signature quartet in 1960 – with McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones – set in place the kind of ongoing workshop which Coltrane felt he needed. In his years with Davis he had hardly even seemed like leadership material, but he was so focused on the act of playing that it inspired his men, who seemed to join in with the feel of something remarkable in the making. Over the next five years, the quartet toured regularly (to Europe and beyond) and startled audiences everywhere: a young Jan Garbarek recalls hearing this group, attired in grimy tuxedos and off-white shirts, playing the hell out of an Oslo bandstand. Coltrane had added soprano saxophone to his armoury (for which Steve Lacy must take the major credit), and played My Favorite Things as his great setpiece on that horn. Otherwise there were endless explorations of the same handful of pieces, including Giant Steps, Mr P.C., Impressions, Naima and the occasional standard such as I Want To Talk About You. His accompanists follow in his wake as best they can, although the most significant dialogue is the one with Jones, whose cross-rhythms and mass of sound from both drums and cymbals make him step out from the drummer's usual accompanying role. Tyner, instead, was often left as the time-keeper with chordal vamps.

After seven albums with Atlantic, Coltrane moved to Impulse! in 1961, where Bob Thiele produced the remainder of his records. There were some attempts at marketing him to a wider and more easily accessed audience, via albums of ballads and vocals by Johnny Hartman, but there were also churning masterpieces such as Live At The Village Vanguard (1961), with its marathon performance of Chasin' The Trane, Africa/Brass (1961) and eventually the four-part epic A Love Supreme (1964), a thanksgiving for Coltrane's supposed release from drug dependence, based around a simple four-note motif from which an album-length suite is created. This is Kind Of Blue's only rival as the most famous modern jazz record: a lofty distillation of Coltrane's vision, which has become a spiritual touchstone in the music, even though simply as a performance it is arguably no more or less remarkable than many of his other records of the period.

Coltrane experimented with having Eric Dolphy in the group for a time, and eventually, with the ferment of New York's latest wave as represented by Albert Ayler and Archie Shepp going on around him, he instigated a wholehearted change. Tyner and Jones departed at the end of 1965, and Alice Coltrane (his second wife), Rashied Ali and a second saxophonist, Pharoah Sanders, all joined the group. By this time he was among the highest-paid musicians in jazz, with substantial record royalties accruing and the band as in demand as any in the music, but compared to his old boss Davis there was nothing of the star about Coltrane. He spent his time offstage looking after his family and maintaining his saxophones, not driving fast cars, and his interviews were full of expressions about humility and the need for spiritual growth. In contrast, the music became louder and wilder. Coltrane had already recorded Ascension (1965), an extended and often tormented large-scale piece for 11 players, but the new band took even that approach to extremes. Concerts lasted for hours, and solos seemed as though they would never end; Sanders became the screaming alter ego to Trane's plain good man, even though it seemed as though Coltrane wanted to end up that way himself, his concern for tonality gradually obliterated. The duo album with Ali, Interstellar Space (1967), is a calmer intercourse, the playing bronzed and athletic even as it boils, and though very late live recordings such as The Olatunji Concert are often a bloody mess, Coltrane still returned to playing Naima as a point of repose.

Where might he have gone next? For Coltrane, it seemed as if the journeying was everything: there is no conclusion in his work, and perhaps there never would have been. One popular idea is that he would have gone on to explore other musics from other places, and perhaps leave jazz behind altogether. 'You have to remember, Coltrane was a very greedy man,' said Miles Davis, and for all the aura of spirituality which has been settled on him – and he was, no doubt of it, a generous and thoughtful figure, respectful and concerned to support the work of others – there is something insatiable about his many musical explorations and passions. He might be surprised to find himself still, decades afterwards, the great influence on saxophonists everywhere – in his sound, technical aplomb and sheer dedication to a difficult craft. But he would never be around to see it: increasingly troubled by the legacy of his old addictions, he died in July 1967 from liver failure.

Biography from Richard Cook's Jazz Encyclopedia (2005).

If you'd like more information, check out The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz (2002) or The Biographical Encyclopedia of Jazz (2007), both of which are still in print.