Sonny Rollins: Three Encounters With a Giant

Reflections on the passing of a titan.

In the few days since the passing of the saxophone colossus, Sonny Rollins, nearly everything that can be said in praise of his music, his humanity, and his extraordinary life has already been said. Newspapers, television broadcasts, social media, YouTube tributes, and countless personal reflections have poured forth from every corner of the world. And rightly so.

Sonny Rollins was not only a giant in jazz; he was a giant as a human being. He cared deeply about people, about humanity itself, and about the future of our world. His music reflected not only genius, but also wisdom, compassion, and an enduring sense of hope.

I never had the honor of performing with Sonny Rollins, and I’ve always regarded that as something of a mixed blessing. On one hand, sharing a bandstand with him would surely have been among the greatest thrills imaginable—perhaps even the pinnacle of a jazz musician’s experience. On the other hand, I suspect I would have been so intimidated, so aware of standing beside one of the most towering figures in the history of improvised music, that simply surviving the experience might have been its own challenge.

Even so, I was fortunate enough to encounter Sonny Rollins on three memorable occasions: twice as a listener in the audience and once from the bandstand while performing with James Moody.

Each experience left a lasting impression.

One Cadenza Worth the Price of Admission

The first encounter took place sometime in the mid-to-late 1970s when I was living in Chicago. I drove north to Evanston to hear Sonny perform at a venue I believe was called The Amazing Grace.

At that time, I was familiar with many of the musicians who worked with Sonny. To be completely candid, on that particular evening the band struck me as somewhat ordinary—with one notable exception: the great bassist Bob Cranshaw, Sonny’s longtime musical partner, who somehow seemed to hold everything together.

In fairness, however, perhaps no musician could ever sound themselves fully standing next to Sonny Rollins. He was simply too large a presence. Physically imposing, musically overwhelming, and possessed of a personality that filled the room before he ever played a note.

But what I remember most vividly happened during a ballad.

I believe the tune was Easy Living, a song Sonny frequently performed. The melody was beautiful. The improvisation was masterful. Yet it was what came afterward that changed me.

Toward the end of the tune, Sonny launched into a cadenza.

For those unfamiliar with the term, a cadenza is traditionally an extended solo passage designed to showcase a performer’s artistry and imagination. Originating centuries ago in classical music and opera, it serves as a moment when the soloist stands alone.

Sonny’s cadenza lasted at least five minutes—perhaps longer.

What unfolded during those minutes was unlike anything I had ever heard.

There were musical references, unexpected quotations, dazzling technique, emotional depth, humor, intellect, and raw humanity. Ideas poured out of him in an endless stream. It felt as though he was speaking directly to everyone in the room through the saxophone, communicating things that words could never adequately express.

When the concert ended, I remember thinking that if I could hear Sonny Rollins perform just one cadenza, it would justify attending the entire concert regardless of who else was on the bandstand.

I have never forgotten that performance.

Nor have I forgotten the feeling of watching one man stand alone on a stage and somehow express an entire universe.

The Construction Workers

Years later, Sonny performed at a college near my home. Delighted by the convenience, I purchased a ticket early and looked forward to the concert for weeks.

When I arrived, I found myself seated beside two men who appeared to be construction workers. They looked exactly like the stereotype: rolled-up white T-shirts, tattooed arms, weathered hands, and faces marked by long days of physical labor. Their conversations before the concert revolved around work, beer, women, and everyday life.

Nothing about them suggested jazz aficionados.

In fact, I found myself wondering whether they had simply wandered in because they happened to be working nearby.

Then Sonny Rollins began to play.

The concert was outstanding from the start, but the moment I remember most came at the end. Sonny closed with a minor blues that I believe was one of his own compositions. Unfortunately, I can’t recall the title.

What I do remember is the solo.

The momentum kept building and building. Every chorus seemed more intense than the last. Each time I thought he had reached the summit, he somehow climbed higher.

The solo must have lasted fifteen minutes.

I sat on the edge of my seat throughout, captivated by the sheer inventiveness and energy pouring from the stage. By the time he finished, I almost felt disappointed. I wanted him to continue.

Then something remarkable happened.

As the audience erupted into applause, the two construction workers beside me jumped to their feet.

They threw their arms into the air and began shouting at the top of their lungs:

“Sonny! Sonny! Sonny! Sonny!”

They waved wildly and cheered with an enthusiasm that surpassed anyone else in the hall.

I was stunned.

Those two men may or may not have known anything about jazz. They may never have heard of Sonny Rollins before that evening. But what they unquestionably recognized was greatness.

Sonny’s music had broken through every barrier of background, education, occupation, and musical knowledge. It had reached them directly.

To this day, I think about those two men whenever someone asks whether jazz can connect with a broad audience.

I know it can.

I saw it happen.

Sonny Salutes Moody

My third encounter came years later while I was performing with the James Moody Quartet at the Blue Note in New York City.

I don’t remember whether it was Moody’s 75th or 80th birthday celebration—we celebrated both at the Blue Note—but I vividly remember looking out into the audience and spotting an unexpected guest.

Sonny Rollins.

I was shocked.

My understanding was that Sonny rarely attended jazz clubs unless he was the one performing. He seemed to value his privacy and was not known as someone who spent his evenings making the rounds of New York’s jazz scene.

Yet there he was.

At one point during the evening, Sonny came up to the stage and addressed the audience.

What followed was one of the most moving tributes I have ever heard.

He spoke lovingly about James Moody’s musicianship, character, generosity, and humanity. He described Moody as someone he admired deeply and acknowledged a personal debt to him. He referred to Moody as a role model and an example of excellence.

Think about that for a moment.

Here was Sonny Rollins—arguably the greatest jazz improviser of his generation—publicly expressing gratitude and admiration for another musician.

The humility was astonishing.

And it revealed something important about Sonny’s character. Despite all the accolades and deserved recognition, he never stopped appreciating the people who inspired him.

That moment spoke volumes.

The Lasting Gift

These three memories remain vivid in my mind. Whenever I revisit them, they leave me smiling and grateful for the opportunity to experience Sonny Rollins in person.

Recently, I heard a story that perfectly captures his humility. Sonny reportedly mentioned that he enjoyed watching late-night television and was a fan of Jon Stewart. Then, with characteristic humor, he joked that if Stephen Colbert had played the saxophone, Sonny Rollins himself would have had to quit.

Imagine that.

Even after everything he accomplished, he could still laugh at himself.

As I said at the beginning, virtually everything that can be said about Sonny Rollins has already been said. Yet I wanted to share these personal memories because they remind me that greatness is not measured solely by recordings, awards, or historical importance.

Greatness is measured by impact.

By the ability to move people.

By the ability to inspire.

By the ability to elevate the human spirit.

For me, it is difficult to think of Sonny Rollins as truly gone. His physical presence may no longer be with us, but his music remains vibrantly alive. It belongs not merely to jazz history but to humanity itself.

His recordings continue to teach, challenge, uplift, and inspire. They will do so long after all of us are gone.

What Sonny Rollins gave to the world was more than music.

He gave us joy.

He gave us optimism.

He gave us a model of artistic integrity and lifelong growth.

And for that, we owe him an immeasurable debt of gratitude.

Thank you, Sonny Rollins, for lifting our spirits, expanding our horizons, and sharing your remarkable gift with the world.

The music remains.

And so does the love.

TC