Humilty & Greatness

Rollins surely is a striking figure, his music and only his music matters. That's what took him out to Williamsburg Bridge. He was on a sabbatical from the business at the time, having already established himself as the definitive hard-bop tenor player of the 1950s.

His gruff sound, relaxed phrasing, rhythmic freedom and singular approach to improvisation were all in place, there to influence succeeding generations of saxophonists.

But then as now, Rollins wasn't satisfied. He took almost three years off to regroup, returning to action in 1962 with an LP entitled, appropriately enough, The Bridge. He associated briefly with the avant-garde, but in due course settled on a more conventional, though still personal, path through the maze of trends and counter trends that have coloured modern jazz since the 1960s.

The same sort of end-around understatement tempers his response to any assertions about Rollins's own importance -- that he has, for example, become one of the true elder statesmen of jazz.

"I've survived," he admits slowly, sounding unconvinced by the notion. "I've been out here for a while. I never take anything for granted. I'm still practising everyday, still trying to get to certain things musically.

"So I don't assume that I'm a great statesman. If somebody feels that way about me, I'm humbled, but I certainly don't assume that I, myself, am someone to be revered. Every time I play, that's my test. Of course now that I'm older, people may give me a little more of the benefit of the doubt."

Rollins, of course, isn't the sort of artist who's looking for the benefit of the doubt. A lot of musicians a few months shy of 75 would be resting on their laurels. Not Sonny.

"No," he agrees, "no, no . . . no." That's clear enough, but his next remark is still surprising. "I don't feel I've amassed enough laurels to rest on."
Mark Miller, The Globe and Mail