Sonny Rollins, Giant of the Jazz Saxophone, Is Dead at 95
“Sonny Rollins, a dominant jazz saxophonist known for his forceful and imaginative approach, passed away at 95. He developed a unique sound, flirted with various styles, and was known for his commitment to freshness and improvisational cunning. Rollins’s career was marked by periods of hiatus, during which he focused on perfecting his craft, and he remained a prominent figure in jazz until his passing.
Even by the standards of a music that prizes individuality, he stood out, as both a musician and a personality.
Sonny Rollins, whose forceful and imaginative approach to the tenor saxophone made him one of the dominant jazz musicians of the post-World War II era, died at his home in Woodstock, N.Y., on Monday. He was 95.
His death was announced in a statement from his publicist, Terri Hinte.
Even by the standards of a music that prizes individuality, Mr. Rollins stood out, as both a musician and a personality.
In the late 1940s, when most young jazz saxophonists favored a light tone with minimal vibrato, he developed a fat, full-bodied sound that was a throwback to the older style of Coleman Hawkins, the first great tenor saxophonist in jazz. In the late 1950s, when his career as a bandleader was just getting off the ground, Mr. Rollins abruptly began a hiatus that lasted more than two years — mostly, he explained later, because he was not satisfied with the quality of his playing.
Mr. Rollins came of age when a new kind of jazz known as bebop was in ascendance, and from the start his playing was suffused with bebop’s harmonic sophistication and rhythmic daring. To classify him as a bebopper, however, would be an oversimplification.
Over the years he flirted with the avant-garde, jazz-rock fusion and other styles. But with his ferocious energy, his penchant for playing the unexpected note at the unexpected moment, and his unusual sound — sometimes harsh and mocking, sometimes lush and romantic — he was ultimately unclassifiable.
“The music I play is too big to be put into any one style,” he told an interviewer in 2002. “Every time I pick up the horn, I want to hear something fresh.”
That commitment to freshness was the key to Mr. Rollins’s approach, and to his appeal. The jazz critic Francis Davis wrote in 2000 that Mr. Rollins “is the greatest living jazz improviser, and if we redefine virtuosity to include improvisational cunning as well as instrumental finesse (as we probably should when discussing this music), he may be the greatest virtuoso ever produced by jazz.”
Mr. Rollins was rarely satisfied with his own playing; he often came away from a performance or a recording session proclaiming that he was sure he could have done better. He unquestionably did have his off nights, perhaps more than any other jazz musician of his stature, but some fans saw this as a positive sign: The occasional bad night, they argued, was a small price to pay for his willingness to take chances and his refusal to constantly play the same things the same way.
“The real playing happens on a subconscious level, and at that point the clichés don’t happen,” Mr. Rollins told The New York Times in 1989. “When I’m really playing, my mind is completely blank.”
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An Early Start
Sonny Rollins was born in Harlem on Sept. 7, 1930, the youngest of three children of Valborg (Solomon) and Walter Theodore Rollins, immigrants from the Virgin Islands. His full name was for many years given by most sources as Theodore Walter Rollins, but he later said that he was actually named after his father, a naval steward, and had reversed his first and middle names shortly after becoming a professional musician because problems with the law had made it hard for him to get working papers under his real name.
He began studying music at an early age, and although he also studied art and showed some interest in becoming a painter, he was playing saxophone professionally before he was out of his teens. He made his first recordings in 1949, with the singer Babs Gonzales, and he was soon in demand on the New York jazz scene, working with major figures like Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk and Bud Powell.
Mr. Rollins’s career was briefly derailed in the early 1950s when, like many other jazz musicians of his generation, he became addicted to heroin. But by 1955 he had overcome his addiction and achieved national prominence as a member of the popular quintet led by the drummer Max Roach and the trumpeter Clifford Brown.
Through his work with that group, and on a series of albums he recorded as a leader between 1956 and 1958, Mr. Rollins established himself as one of the most inventive jazz musicians of his generation.
In 1956 alone, he recorded two albums that came to be regarded as classics: “Tenor Madness,” which included his only recorded meeting with his fellow saxophonist John Coltrane, and “Saxophone Colossus” (the title referred both to his physical stature and to his rapidly growing artistic one). Two tracks on “Saxophone Colossus” drew particular praise from critics: “Blue 7,” an ingenious blues improvisation, which was the subject of a much-quoted essay by the composer and historian Gunther Schuller, “Sonny Rollins and the Challenge of Thematic Improvisation”; and “St. Thomas,” an adaptation of a traditional West Indian song that was the first and most famous of the many jazz-calypso fusions Mr. Rollins would record over the years.
A year later, frustrated by what he saw as the harmonic limits imposed by having a pianist play chords behind his improvisations, he began performing and recording accompanied only by a bassist and drummer, an unusual (though not unprecedented) approach at the time. (Pianists “got in the way,” he said at the time. “They play too much.”) He recorded several memorable albums without piano, one of which, “The Freedom Suite” (1958), was noteworthy not just for its spare instrumentation but also for its 19-minute title track, a composition in four movements written by Mr. Rollins as a musical commentary on racial inequality — a bold move in the early days of the civil rights movement.
By 1959, Mr. Rollins was receiving consistently glowing reviews and was widely regarded as one of jazz’s new stars. Nonetheless, that year he suddenly stopped performing and recording and virtually disappeared from the public eye.
Over the next two years, convinced that his playing was not up to his own standards, Mr. Rollins devoted much of his time to practicing, often late at night on the Williamsburg Bridge, not far from his apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where the acoustics appealed to him and there were no neighbors to complain. His absence from the scene, and reports of his bridge sessions, added to his growing mystique, and to his growing reputation as a perfectionist.
“A lot of people couldn’t comprehend why I would stop playing,” he told DownBeat magazine in 2001. “But I learned something. It was necessary for me to do to have the kind of confidence I need to play music like this.”
Mr. Rollins’s return to action in 1961, complete with a contract from RCA Victor Records that was unusually lucrative for a jazz musician, was treated as major news by the jazz press. (In an attempt to cash in on the publicity he had generated during his long absence, the company called his comeback album “The Bridge,” which was also the title of one of the tracks.)
Consistently Surprising
Over the next several years, his profile remained high: He performed in nightclubs, in concert and at festivals all over the world, and he wrote and recorded music for the hit 1966 British film “Alfie.” And his music remained consistently surprising.
He surrounded himself with an ever-shifting cast of talented musicians, ranging from young experimentalists (he alienated many old fans and won some new ones by enthusiastically, if briefly, working with avant-gardists like the trumpeter Don Cherry) to the venerable Coleman Hawkins, the saxophonist he called his idol, with whom he recorded an album in 1963.
The 1960s were a busy and productive time for Mr. Rollins. But before the decade was over, he had vanished again.
He did no recording and almost no performing between 1966 and 1972, spending much of his time in Japan and India on what he later said was a spiritual quest. He returned to the studio in 1972 to record “Sonny Rollins’ Next Album” for the small Milestone label, for which he would continue to record for more than 30 years, and he was soon back at the forefront of the jazz world.
Critics were often unkind to Mr. Rollins in the years following his comeback, especially when, like many of his fellow jazz musicians in the 1970s and ’80s, he embraced electric instruments and rock rhythms. He even collaborated with the Rolling Stones, overdubbing saxophone parts to three tracks on their album “Tattoo You” (1981), although he turned down an offer to tour with them. In performance, he began emphasizing the more obviously crowd-pleasing elements of his music, notably his penchant for calypsos.
“I’m often criticized about the ’70s and ’80s because I used a backbeat and guitars and all, but I don’t understand a lot of it,” he said in 2001. “I was trying to find different ways to make my music relevant. I’ve never thought of myself as being on some pinnacle where I can’t play a calypso or a backbeat.”
The criticism he received — which continued beyond the 1980s — was often marked by an unusual mixture of admiration and regret. Reviewing a concert in 1993, Peter Watrous of The Times praised Mr. Rollins as “one of the greatest improvisers walking this earth,” but also called him “a man bent on misspending the capital of genius” who “plays music that rarely challenges his own historical achievements, and that in its simplicity seems to pander to his audience.” Mr. Rollins, he wrote, “seems unable, or unwilling, to present himself in a context that would give dignity to his great ability, or even just acknowledge it.”
Regardless of the reviews, Mr. Rollins in those years achieved the greatest success of his career. Although the audience for jazz ebbed and flowed, he was consistently one of the music’s most popular concert attractions. He gave much of the credit for his success to his wife, Lucille (Pearson) Rollins, who was also his manager and his co-producer on many albums.
Ms. Rollins died in 2004. An earlier marriage, to the actress and model Dawn Finney, ended in divorce. No immediate family members survive.
Mr. Rollins for many years had homes both in Lower Manhattan and in upstate Germantown, N.Y. He abandoned his Manhattan apartment in the wake of the 2001 terrorist attacks. He moved from Germantown to Woodstock, N.Y., in 2013.
Experiments and Honors
Although he worked primarily with small groups, Mr. Rollins sometimes experimented with other configurations. In 1985 he gave a solo concert at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, improvising for two hours without accompaniment. That same year he performed his “Concerto for Tenor Saxophone and Orchestra” in Tokyo with the Yomiuri Nippon Symphony Orchestra. (“I was trying to synthesize two elements by remaining true to the symphonic form and also to the way I play,” he explained.)
Mr. Rollins continued to tour and record well into the 21st century. He also did his best to weather the changes in the music business.
In 2005 he started his own record company, Doxy, named after one of his best-known compositions, which released a well-received series of live albums. In 2006, Mr. Rollins — who told The Times in an interview that year, “I hate technology myself” — began offering free audio and video clips on a newly created website, sonnyrollins.com.
In Mr. Rollins’s later years, the honors piled up. A two-time Grammy Award winner, he received a lifetime achievement Grammy in 2004. In 2010 he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and became the first jazz musician to receive the prestigious Edward MacDowell Medal for achievement in the arts. In 2011 he received both a National Medal of Arts and a Kennedy Center Honor. (The encomiums had begun much earlier: He was named a Jazz Master by the National Endowment for the Arts in 1983.)
Despite the honors, he continued to explore — to search for, as he put it in an interview with The Times in 1984, “the ultimate sound.”
“That’s why I keep practicing,” he said. “I’ll know when I find the ultimate sound, because I’ll be completely fulfilled just by the sound of it and by what I’m able to do with it instrumentally.”
Mr. Rollins’s archives, including hundreds of recordings from rehearsals and practice sessions, were acquired in 2017 by the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in Harlem. That same year, a bill was introduced in the New York City Council to rename the Williamsburg Bridge in his honor. (The bill did not pass, but the campaign to have the bridge renamed has continued.)
In 2022, he was the subject of an acclaimed biography, “Saxophone Colossus,” by Aidan Levy.
With the death of his fellow saxophonist Benny Golson in 2024, Mr. Rollins became the last survivor of the 58 musicians captured by the photographer Art Kane in his famous Esquire magazine group portrait “Harlem 1958.”
“I was a fan,” Mr. Rollins told The Times in recalling the photo shoot in 2024. “I was in the picture, but it wasn’t so much as a musician — although I happened to be there as a musician — but I had been following jazz all my short life up to that time, so I knew a great deal about the guys.” He added that he was particularly proud to have been photographed alongside “my particular idols, Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young.”
In his later years Mr. Rollins experienced respiratory problems. He never formally announced his retirement, but in 2012, after being diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, he gave his last public performance. Two years later, he also stopped playing at home.
“The reason my retirement happened quietly was because my health problems were gradual,” he told The New York Times Magazine in 2020. “It took me a while to realize, hey, that’s gone now.”
“When I had to stop playing,” he said, “it was quite traumatic. But I realized that instead of lamenting and crying, I should be grateful for the fact that I was able to do music all of my life.”
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