In 1965, reeling from the impact of Motown and the Brit invasion led by the Beatles, and about to be hit by the triple whammy that was acid rock and the rebel culture that went with it, jazz was on the back foot. Its relevance as entertainment, art form and spiritual sustenance was under threat, at least for people under thirty years of age. And then along came Harold Rhodes and the Fender Rhodes. The electric piano was not a recent invention—Wurlitzer had introduced one in 1954—but the Fender Rhodes had something, several somethings, several zeitgeisty somethings, that turned it into the sonic equivalent of a Star Wars lightsaber in the hands of mid-1960s jazz musicians. A trippy, bell-like resonance, particularly evident in the upper register, grit and grind in the bass register, and pronounced percussive visceralism. The Fender Rhodes could be tuned, tweaked and distorted as much or as little as a player desired. It looked cool, it sounded amazing—and you could turn it up. With one onboard, a jazz group could now compete with just about anything rock might throw at it. Salvation was within reach.

The Fender Rhodes was not alone in riding to the rescue of jazz. The spiritual jazz movement introduced by