THE VENERATED SAXOPHONIST SHARES HIS THOUGHTS ON LIFE, MUSIC, AND THE POWER OF HUMILITY
By Richard Stanmeyer and Anastasia Stanmeyer
Holiday 24
EARLIER THIS YEAR, Berkshire Magazine featured The Lenox School of Jazz and the Music Inn, two former cultural landmarks tied to the legacy of jazz. We continue that exploration by traveling to nearby Woodstock, New York, home to Sonny Rollins—a towering master of American music who turned 94 in September. Shortly after the release of his latest album, Freedom Weaver: The 1959 European Tour Recordings (on Resonance Records), as well as The Notebooks of Sonny Rollins (edited and introduced by critic and jazz scholar Sam V.H. Reese), we talked with Rollins from this living legend’s home. (Don’t tell him that he’s a legend or anything too flattering, though. He shrugs off any mention of his impact on jazz.) During a rare interview, Rollins talks in gusts into the phone, alternating between detailed recollections and silence as he searches for the right words. He continues to recover from a fall he had last November and has remained for the most part homebound since 2020.
In the quietness of his home, with music faintly playing in the background, Rollins exudes humility, wisdom, and a touch of playful humor. He reflects on his storied career, his constant pursuit of artistic growth—and recalls a segment on the first season of The Simpsons. (He’s referring to the character Bleeding Gums Murphy, who plays the saxophone on a bridge in the middle of the night, a reference to Rollins practicing on Manhattan’s Williamsburg Bridge during an extended sabbatical from the public eye.)
As a matter of background, Walter Theodore “Sonny” Rollins received his first alto saxophone at seven or eight years old. At the age of 16, he switched to tenor sax, trying to emulate Coleman Hawkins. He began to follow Charlie Parker and soon came under the wing of Thelonious Monk, who became his musical mentor and guru. Rollins was playing professionally in the Harlem clubs near his home by the time he finished high school. He collaborated with jazz luminaries such as Monk, Parker, Miles Davis, and John Coltrane. Rollins has released over 60 albums as a leader and is a sideman on countless other classic albums. He is widely recognized as one of the most important and influential jazz musicians of the post-bebop era, winning multiple Grammy® Awards, including a 2004 award for lifetime achievement. In 2011, President Barack Obama presented Rollins with a National Medal of Arts.
Despite his many achievements, Rollins says he was always striving to play even better—until the playing stopped completely ten years ago as a result of pulmonary fibrosis. His focus on improving as a musician is a testament to the drive and the modesty that define his life and artistry. He would like to begin practicing again at home, he says. He very well might. It would be a balm for him, someone close to him says. The conversation with Rollins begins with a reference to the Modern Jazz Quartet at Music Inn in 1958. The performance resulted in the group’s second live album recorded there and released on the Atlantic label. Rollins was the guest artist and appeared on two numbers. A few years earlier, he played with Dizzy Gillespie and Max Roach, in what became known as the 1956 Historic Concert at Music Inn.
At the height of his fame, Rollins withdrew from recording and public performance, feeling the acclaim was undeserved and his playing did not meet his own high standards. He found solace and freedom practicing for hours almost daily on the pedestrian walkway of the Williamsburg Bridge—from the summer of 1959 through the end of 1961. That feeling of freedom has stayed with him to this day. He shares with us memories of that time, as well as other parts of his past and his thoughts for today.
Your performance with the Modern Jazz Quartet at the Music Inn in 1958 was stunning. It was at the peak of the scene surrounding The Lenox School of Jazz, and people still talk about it in the Berkshires and in jazz circles even today. What do you remember about that time? I was friendly with all these guys. I knew all the people in the Modern Jazz Quartet prior to my engagement up there, and it was great playing with them. It was wonderful. I didn’t know it would be so well-received. I'm glad because I had a good time playing with those guys …. It was a great, great thing that happened in the history of our music. I was really happy about it. I'm sorry [the Music Inn] had to end, but it did.
Why do you think the Modern Jazz Quartet made a stop in the Berkshires?
Well, I think they came there because people in the jazz field are always looking to be honored and accepted. Our history hasn’t always been what the facts have been about our music. So many people came there. I thought the whole idea of a school up there was wonderful.
You returned to the Berkshires years later to perform at Tanglewood in 2001. What was it like to come back? We had a great show that night at Ozawa Hall. Again, there was something special about playing in the Berkshires—both at the Jazz School and playing at Ozawa Hall.
Let me ask you a little bit about Freedom Weaver, the 1959 European tour recordings. What excites you most about releasing this live recording now for a new generation of listeners? I can’t get excited about my own work. I've always been a guy trying to improve myself. That was 1959 that this album came out. It's okay, but I'm not a big fan of Sonny Rollins.
What? You’re not a big fan? No.
Why? Well, because I’m always trying to get better. I'm never satisfied with what I’ve done. It’s very seldom. I haven't even heard this album, but I know it was 1959. I’m not interested in listening to 1959 Sonny Rollins. That might sound a little radical to you, but I don't mean it to be. It’s just that I’ve never been the person who is satisfied with work I've done in the past.
What Sonny Rollins do you like?
(Laughs) Oh, boy…that's a hard question.
Which album; what time period? There are a few things that I’ve done. Let me see…God, I don’t even like to think about the things I’ve done. My stuff is always about getting better. I'm not listening to myself and saying, “Hey, I was pretty good.” I just don't think like that. So, if people like me, thank you. Myself, I'm going to try to do a better product next time.
From your vast library of recordings and releases, is there anything you kind of like? (Laughs again.) I think the one you just mentioned, The Modern Jazz Quartet at Music Inn. I never heard it, but I remember it, and I remember that it seemed to be a satisfactory performance by yours truly. So, I’ll take that.
In 1956, you recorded Sonny Rollins Plus 4 with Clifford Brown and Max Roach. What was your relationship with Clifford and Max, especially Clifford Brown? You may be one of the few people still around who worked closely with him. How did that influence your career? Well, it influenced my career tremendously because Clifford was a great, great, great, great musician. A young genius. And the thing about Clifford was that he was very self-effacing. He was a very cool guy. He taught me a lot. I thought you had to be—in essence, what a jazz musician was supposed to be—a big man with ladies, etcetera. And then Clifford, when I met him, he was exactly the opposite.
What was he like? He wasn’t worried about hitting on a new girl each night. That's what musicians did in those days, including myself. He was really insistent on playing, on learning his music. He was a family man.
You said he taught you a lot. What did he teach you? Well, that's what he taught me. He taught me that you didn't have to be Cesar Romero, a big romantic idol, to play good music. If you played music like he did, you didn't have to live that life. He was so kind and gentle in many ways. He taught me a lot. We were very close friends. After he passed away, his wife told me at a festival they had in his name, he thought a lot of me. I thought a lot of him.
What was that dynamic of you and Clifford and Max playing together? Bring me to that time and that feeling. Well, Max Roach was an elder, and I had heard Max Roach as I was growing up playing with some of my heroes, Charles Parker and so on. Max loved to take care of guys younger than him in the band, like Clifford Brown and myself. Max felt like sort of a father, the way he took care of everybody.
You were going through a prolific time, with Sonny Rollins Plus 4, Tenor Madness, and Saxophone Colossus. In a three-album stretch, you released some of your pivotal works. What was it like going through that period? I was working hard to get to being half of what I turned out to be. Remember, I also was a human being, so I did a lot of crazy things as a kid. That was rough, and it was only my bank of talent that brought me through. I'm grateful for that, but that’s about all. I don't have a special Sonny Rollins hat that I wear.
Going back to the 1959 European tour recordings, what moments stand out to you during that tour? Was it a pivotal time for you performing in Europe with musicians like Henry Grimes, Pete La Roca, Kenny Clarke, and Joe Harris? I knew all of those people. They were all great musicians, and I was happy to have musicians of that caliber playing with me. But, once again, if I think about those days, I was a leader, so I had to be better than anybody else. It was a chore to do it, and I was still trying to learn myself. I must have been doing something right, but I'm never a big fan of what I was trying to do. Gratefully, my career went on from 1959.
You were prolific. The release of The Notebooks of Sonny Rollins offers a glimpse into your artistic process. What inspired you to write on topics such as technique and harmony, as well as reflections on nightclub culture and cultural tensions? How did it feel to revisit those entries and to create this book? I was serious, and I did a lot of studying. I did a lot of notating. I did a lot of contemplating what it is to be a jazz musician in America back in the time when I started. My first recording was in the 1940s. I was serious. I made notes, besides trying to study my instrument. I also made notes about how to live in this society and what it felt like.
You went through some trying periods. Anything that I had to go through—and I went through a lot—was my own fault. I made a lot of mistakes, but, fortunately, I was able to get a hold of myself, get myself together, and come back on the scene.
In your notes, you once mentioned the blending of Johann Sebastian Bach and Miles Davis. Do you think of different musical styles when you were composing and improvising? Oh, yes. Those are musicians I like a lot. I like Bach. I like Miles Davis a lot. I like Beethoven. I like the younger guys that began coming up, like Debussy. It doesn’t matter what name you’re going to give it—I like music that has some attraction. It has nothing to do with who they were, what year they were born in, what color they were, and all that stuff. I try to escape that type of classification …. I listened to all of those. I was a big fan of all of those musicians, classical musicians up through the years. And I'll say what Duke Ellington said: “There's only two kinds of music: good or bad.” Duke Ellington nailed it with that one. That’s all there is. There is good music that has many positive things about it, or it’s bad music, which has nothing positive about it. I sort of look at life that way, regardless of what society says or does. You know, Johann Sebastian Bach used to write songs for wine. We weren't taught that in school. He was a guy who used to compose to get a big cask of whiskey or wine or whatever they were drinking. Nobody talks about that when they talk about Bach.
That’s a motivation, right? Well, I think so. (Laughs.) And the jazz musicians—all great musicians—it has nothing to do with anything but what comes out of their instruments.
What's your opinion on institutions like the New England Conservatory and Juilliard and how institutions versus the music industry treats jazz? A lot of the jazz musicians went through Julliard and these schools. I have nothing negative to say about them. I got [an honorary degree] from Juilliard. When I was there to get it at the graduation day ceremony, the fellow said, “Sonny, we always remember that you played a big part in The Simpsons.” I used to practice on the Williamsburg Bridge, and the main character honors somebody practicing on the Williamsburg Bridge. They didn’t pay me for it, but it was okay. When I was at Julliard, the person who was introducing all the people said, “Sonny Rollins, we all know from The Simpsons,” and everybody laughed. I laughed, too.
What stands out most about playing on the Williamsburg Bridge in Manhattan? What do you still keep inside you from those few years? Playing on the bridge was like FREEDOM. The feeling of being free stayed with me.
Your work has often carried social and political messages. Is there a role of music in social activism? I have in my career been involved with some political matters. That’s not what I'm playing about. I’ve had a life of being a sort of maverick, maybe. No matter. That’s not what I was playing for. I was playing for the notes on the saxophone, between 1 and 2. That's what my problem was then. And it still is. Because one never learns all of music.
Your music now is a central part of the history of jazz, songs like “Pent-Up House,” “Tenor Madness,” and “Valse Hot.” What are your thoughts on being a part of jazz’s catalog of standards and your voice as a central part of its history? That's very kind of you, but there are many jazz songs before I was born that might replace my endeavors. You know what I mean? So, I’m not going to go crazy over what I've done.
What music are you listening to now? I keep abreast of some of the young jazz musicians that have been brought to my attention. It’s all good.
Can you tell me how it feels not to play anymore, and what you miss most about it? Not playing has been not good. I would not have chosen it. But I thought it was inevitable, and I had no choice but to accept it. I’m always playing in my mind, but lately I’ve been feeling that it might be possible for me to come back to playing.
What advice can you give young musicians from your years of experience?
Look, young musicians have to want to play music, because it's not the greatest profession in the world. You don't get paid. You don’t get recognition. There's a lot of things you don't get. [If they’re] entertaining with music, fine, they will get what they deserve. Other than that, they shouldn't take music up to be famous or all of that stuff. You take it up because you love it and you do it regardless of whether people love you or not. Without money, you can play and nobody cares, you don’t care about it. But if you need money to live, then, hey, it’s a love affair.
It's been a real pleasure to talk with you, Sonny. Is there anything else that you'd like our readers to know about you? Well, I'm a self-effacing kind of guy, and I try to be a humble person. I think of that as very important in my life. I want to be humble. I want to be good to my fellow human beings and all of that. The spiritual aspect of life is very important to me, and that's what I want to be remembered for, as well as my music. “Hey, Sonny was really a nice guy.” That’s all that I can hope for.
Berkshire Magazine staff writer Benjamin Lerner contributed to this piece.