Rahsaan Roland Kirk — The Inflated Tear (1968)
Kirk’s most accessible masterpiece — soulful, lyrical, mischievous, and surprisingly gentle — a perfect doorway into the world of 60s jazz improvisation.
By Rafi Mercer
There’s a moment early in The Inflated Tear where Rahsaan Roland Kirk seems to breathe not just into a horn, but into the room itself. It’s a soft exhale, a small weight of air, and yet it changes everything. Suddenly you realise you’re not listening to a virtuoso trying to impress you — you’re listening to a man telling you exactly who he is, through tone alone.
Kirk could be volcanic. He could be eccentric. He could play three horns at once and make you question the physics of sound. But here, on his most beloved album, he leads with something quieter: humanity. The title track carries an emotional grain so tender it feels almost fragile, inspired by a childhood accident that left him blind. It’s not self-pity. It’s revelation — a way of saying, this is how the world sounds to me, and you’re invited in.
What makes The Inflated Tear such an accessible classic is the balance it holds. The melodies are warm and unmistakably lyrical, almost blues-like at times. Even when the music grows unpredictable — Kirk ducking between manzello, stritch, flute, and siren whistle — the emotional through-line never breaks. The record has the feel of a storyteller changing voices, but never the story.
There’s humour here too, the kind that comes from an artist fully at home with his craft. “A Laugh for Rory” tumbles forward with a grin built into its phrasing. “Lovellevelliloqui” moves with a sway that hints at gospel, street corners, and smoky bars where musicians swap secrets in the small hours. And through it all, his band — Ron Burton, Steve Novosel, and Jimmy Hopps — give him the kind of rhythmic foundation that allows risk to turn into poetry.
In the late sixties, jazz was stretching itself into new shapes: the electric charge of Miles; the spiritual ascent of Coltrane’s final years; the full liberation of Don Cherry and Ornette Coleman. Kirk existed alongside all of this, yet slightly askew — a world unto himself. The Inflated Tear shows what that world looked like at its most open and welcoming. It is playful without being chaotic, emotional without being sentimental, and inventive without losing the listener in technical fireworks.
Play it on a quiet morning, or late at night when the house has stilled. It’s the kind of record that feels like a conversation — one that stays with you long after the last note fades.
Quick Questions
Is this the best starting point for Rahsaan Roland Kirk?
Yes — it’s his most accessible, emotionally direct album.
Is it more melodic or experimental?
Melodic, with flashes of his signature multi-instrumental inventiveness.
Why does it matter today?
It reveals the tender, lyrical heart of an artist often misunderstood as purely eccentric — a reminder that innovation and intimacy can coexist beautifully.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters.
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