Sonny Rollins in the Late 1970s

A DownBeat magazine interview from 1979 paints an interesting phase of the tenor legend's career, with jazz fusion having taken much of the attention and earnings, disco having made some cultural impact, and his new band being talked about at length. He doesn't like interviews, and for sure seems happiest playing and practicing in his woodshed. 

SONNY ROLLINS

The Way He Feels

BY BRET PRIMACK

Spring, 1973. Village Vanguard. Max Gordon’s place is packed with Sonny Rollins’ fans. Newk (so nicknamed because of his resemblance to the great Brooklyn Dodger pitcher, Don Newcombe) is back on the scene after four years of deep thinking, relaxation and woodshedding. I join the line, and overhear: ‘‘Where’d he go this time?”

“India, I think. Japan, too.”

“He’s really into a spiritual trip.”

“Yeah, Yoga and Zen, I remember the last time he split.”

The line is moving, but not fast enough for me. Rather than catch Sonny at the Vanguard, I go home and listen to the old Blue Note date, A Night At The Village Vanguard, the trio sessions produced in 1957. Side two, cut one, Sonnymoon For Two, with Wilbur Ware and Elvin Jones. Get it, Sonny, Yeah. Play that horn, Newk. I get vocal when I’m enthusiastic.

Windy night in October, 1978. The Beacon Theatre, to hear the Milestone Jazzstars: McCoy Tyner, Ron Carter, Al Foster and Sonny Rollins. Couldn’t they find any names? I am skeptical about the prospect of these men playing together but all my fears are laid aside; the giants work well together. The cats are smokin’ from the git-go, especially Sonny. Dig his solo tenor number! Nobody plays solo saxophone like Sonny Rollins, nobody. The other cats are just playing chapters—Sonny plays the whole musical encyclopedia in his extended concertos of saxophone delight. Sonny’s attire amuses me: suit, T-shirt and black sneakers.

On my way out, I overhear: “Sonny was playing tonight.”

“No doubt about that.”

I realize I am in the presence of experts.

“Now dig, tonight we heard Sonny playing with heavy players. McCoy and Ron? And Al Foster. Serious players. But check out his regular group.”

I figure I’d get my two cents in.

“Hey man, have you heard Don’t Stop The Carnival? I think, now this is only my opinion,
brother man, but old Newk demonstrates on this side, recorded just last year, that he can outplay anybody on the scene today, whatever kind of bag they’re in.”

“Yeah? Then why’s he got to have all that electric shit?”

“Well, obviously, you don’t hear music played on electric instruments. I do. But dig this—Newk’s saxophone isn’t altered in any way electronically on this side. He’s still the same old Newk, just blowing in a different context and that’s beautiful, man. How many beboppers are out front like that today?”

A few days after the concert, the postman delivers a gem—Mad Bebop by J.J. Johnson. Side two, cut one is Audubon, featuring the composer, Sonny Rollins. Rollins’ playing is forceful, as always. This was recorded May 13, 1949 when Rollins was 19, 1949, I think to myself, that’s the year I was born. Hey man, I think wouldn’t it be far out if...

Ten minutes later I am on the telephone, trying to arrange an interview with Sonny Rollins. As I track the bearded giant, I remember a fellow journalist telling me that Rollins doesn’t like to be interviewed, But the interview is arranged with no problem, Ex- cited at the prospect of interviewing Mr. Saxophone Colossus himself, I consult with pianist Walter Bishop, Jr. Bish has known Sonny since the ’40s, when they frequented such establishments as Minton’s Playhouse and the Savoy Ballroom.

“I remember working with Sonny in Miles’ group in the early ’50s,” said Walter. “Miles had this Dodge—the Blue Demon we called it, a convertible with no back seat. One time we were driving to a gig in Boston, There were four of us in the front and Sonny was sitting in the back, on his saxophone case. After the ride, he came out looking like a question mark, It’s a good thing he knows all those yoga positions.”

Bishop also tells me I’m going to dig Sonny, but to forget about any kind of in-depth inter- view. The morning after election day, Amtrak, en route to Sonny Rollins’ upstate New York home. I’m overloaded with questions for Theodore Walter Rollins.

Mrs, Rollins, Lucille, picks me up at the station, While driving, she tells me that Sonny is tired from working: one-nighters on the Jazzstars tour, and that he prefers working more sporadically, with time out for a lot of practicing and meditation.

We arrive. I walk up a flight of stairs and shake hands with Sonny Rollins. God, he’s big—I’m 6'2” and I still look up to Sonny, I sit down and take off my coat. Sonny sits down, in his own living room with the win- dows closed, still wearing his goosedown overcoat and hat. During the hour that fol- lows, Rollins sits, coat and hat intact, with feet up and his hands around his knees, On the wall, a photograph of a smiling Jimmy Carter and an equally toothy Sonny Rollins, I begin,

“Hey Sonny, we’ve got a mutual friend.”

“Who’s that?”

“Walter Bishop.”

“Junior or senior?”

“Junior.”

“Yeah. You know there’s got to be a senior before there’s a junior.”

Now we're rolling. I ask, “Sonny, some people have said that your recent albums haven’t been as memorable as your earlier work. How does that strike you?”

A long pause. A very long pause. Sonny is thinking. “Well, let me tell it to you this way: I’ve never wanted to be a musician identified with just one thing. It’s just natural that I try different things on different records. That’s been true through most of my career and I hope it will always be true. I think it’s more in character for me to try different things all the time,

“For me, it’s not about the form anyway,” he continues, “It’s about the energy. It’s not so much what form they’re playing, it’s whether or not the energy is there.”

As Sonny speaks I think of his recent recordings, which, for the most part, feature him playing amid electric instruments and contemporary rhythms. Depending on my mood, I may or may not enjoy listening to Sonny in this context. If I want to hear Sonny burn on some changes, I’m going to put on I Know That You Know, from The Dizzy Gillespie/Sonny Rollins/Sonny Stitt Sessions on Verve. I’m not much for boogieing, but if I do feel like snappy rhythms played by electric rhythm sections, I enjoy The Way I Feel and Easy Living. Billy Cobham and Tony Williams aren’t exactly disco drummers, but they sure can lay down an infectious beat. I dig Sonny’s playing on these records, too.

“Sonny, does Orrin Keepnews, your producer, decide how your records will be?”

“Orrin has been with me for some time now. Everybody has ideas, but I’m the final arbiter on anything that happens on my dates. There are a lot of ideas that come in from different sources but I’m the final word.”

I ask Sonny about disco. “When I came up, you played for dancers and it was a mark of your ability if you could play for people to dance,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with dance music. I remember nights at the Audubon Ballroom [where, in the early ’50s, Rollins gigged with Coltrane and Miles] advertised as dances where listeners were grouped around the bandstand and right behind them people would be dancing. I think a lot of things can exist, one with another.

“People really interested in music could use disco in a way to further the interest of music. I think you can use disco to make people more aware of music. Have something musically interesting happening. There are things a good musician can do, harmonically and whatnot, so that it doesn’t sound too repetitious. People who listen just to dance might say, ‘Oh yeah, listen to that.’ They can be educated into liking things that will give talented musicians a job. The main thing is that there isn’t anything wrong with dance music. It’s always been there.”

Fantasy: on Gary Bartz’s latest release, Love Affair he does a disco version of Giant Steps. A disco version of Giant Steps? Damn, it sounds good. The super-chic crowd at Studio 54 boogies to Giant Steps. Disco Coltrane.

Back at the interview, noting that aside from the tour with the Jazzstars and some other gigs with guests Donald Byrd and Tony Williams, most of his recent working groups have comprised younger musicians, I tell Son- ny that some people would prefer hearing him with a group of his peers. Sonny studies the suggestion.

“Listen, there are a lot of young musicians who have a lot of energy and fire,” he re- sponds. “Besides, musicians have to develop somewhere. I can’t play in what they would call now an all-star context all the time. You can’t do that. It’s not possible for a myriad of reasons, We did this thing at Saratoga with George Benson and Dizzy and Dexter and Herbie Hancock and Tony Williams—it’s always good to hear and play with these guys. I enjoy it, but you can’t always play with this type of group. How can you?

“In my present group, all the musicians are younger than I am but they’re all seasoned musicians who can really play. Sammy Figueroa is one of the best conga players around, as far as I’ve heard. He’s got a real elemental quality about his playing that I try to get out. I think everybody agrees that Al Foster is one of the best drummers around to- day; he’s very versatile. My bassist, Jerry Harris, is fairly young, but he’s full of energy and fire. Mark Soskin is the latest addition. He has the pianistic quality to put the right coloring around what we’re doing and he’s got the right spirit. He can play.

“Anybody who doesn’t like my band, I’m sorry. I like the band and I’m going to do more with them. With this group, I’ll be able to get closer into the musical worlds I want to get into. So people will like them, eventually. We’re just ahead of their time right now.”

“What about electric versus acoustic?”

“It’s not about the instruments, it’s about the people playing the instruments. If people can complement each other, well then, that’s it. That’s where celestial harmony comes in and that’s music.”

“Sonny, do you think the success of the Jazzstars tour was an indication that the audience for straightahead jazz is growing?”

“I don’t know what the success of the tour means for straightahead jazz, whatever that phrase means. It’s not about straightahead jazz versus another kind of jazz. I don’t neces-sarily think the success of the tour means that straightahead jazz is in, or whatever, cause I can’t relate to “in” or “out” anyway. They just seem to be media-invented terms; from a jazz musician’s point of view, they don’t mean anything. I’ve been around several of these cycles where it’s in and out.”

“Any thoughts on future Rollins?”

“No, I don’t want to do that. I’m not here to try and put myself in a certain way. I know there are things I hear in my head and the more I play, the closer I get to them. I know that, but as far as saying what that is, I’m not thinking about that. When I’m playing, I don’t like to pre-think too much. I like to leave my mind blank to a certain extent so that other things can happen. Experiences I’ve had are a great part of my music. I want to leave my mind blank so I can play my experiences.”

“Well, judging from your work, they must be some pretty unique experiences.”

As soon as I turn off the tape-recorder Sonny relaxes, and so do I. Sonny Rollins obviously doesn't like being interviewed. His thing is playing saxophone, not speaking out in print. Curious as to his reaction to certain tunes, I play a pre-recorded tape of my favorites. First up is La Rosita, with Coleman Hawkins and Ben Webster. Sonny listens intently; I can practically hear him concentrating. He asks me about the tune, having somewhat of a reputation for offbeat material himself (over the years he’s recorded Toot Toot Tootsie, There’s No Business Like Show Business, Three Coins In The Fountain, How Are Things In Glocca Morra, and I’m An Old Cowhand). I know nothing about the tune except that when Bean and Ben play it, it’s magic. Then our listening is interrupted. Lucille is serving lunch.

After lunch, Sonny takes me out in the backyard to his woodshed, a one-room shack where Sonny does his practicing. Heavy vibes in this room. I note posters from gigs world- wide, stereo components and albums.

“You still practice, Sonny?”

“You know the answer to that. Of course I still practice. Happiness is playing the saxophone.”

“What do you practice?”

“A lot of different things. Someday, I’ll put them out in a book. No, a series of cassettes would be more like it.”

Pausing for a moment in Rollins’ musical sanctuary, we discuss what’s been happening in New York lately. Rollins is right on top of the scene. He knows who’s playing where and who’s working with whom. He also speaks enthusiastically about young players coming up, notably saxists Rene McLean, David Ware (the New York-based tenor man who’s gigged with Cecil Taylor and Andrew Cyrille), and Ron Holloway. I’m unfamiliar with Holloway. Rollins tells me he lives in D.C. and jams with Sonny, Dizzy, and Freddie Hubbard when they pass through town. Holloway also gigs with—are you ready for this—Root Boy Slim and his Sex Change Band. “I’m working on a saxophone concerto and I hope to bring him to New York to be part of it,” says Newk. “I feel happy that there are always new people coming up. That doesn’t mean that there will never be another you. It means that music is universal and completely democratic. I love jazz. I think jazz is the music of the future and the past and the present.”

Suddenly we realize I have a train to catch. The station is 30 minutes away and we have only 20 minutes to reach it. I find myself in Rollins’ Mercedes, with Sonny himself at the wheel. Somehow, we made it.

Back on the train to New York in the club car. One thing is clear. Sonny is a private sort of fellow who’s really into practicing. A heavy woodshedder for more than 30 years. No wonder he sounds so goddamn good!

Rewinding the taped interview, I stop the machine and find these words: “I’m open to a lot of things and I always want to be that way. My expression isn’t complete yet. Not as far as I’m concerned. As far as context and all that stuff, how it will be done and all that, that’s just like life—unpredictable but steady.”

A beer drinker across the aisle hears it all.

“That’s heavy man, who is that anyway?”

“That’s Sonny Rollins.”

“Never heard of him. But whoever he is, the man sounds deep.”

Ref: DownBeat Jan '79. Photo by David Wharton