Sonny Rollins is, inarguably, on any short list of greatest living American musicians. So vast, intelligent, and witty is his improvisational skill, and so satisfying the sheer, sensuous life force of his saxophone playing. And though the 87-year-old has very likely blown his last note in public — a diagnosis of pulmonary fibrosis has made that a near-certainty — he’s left behind a 66-year-long trail of joyous, searching recordings and live performances. If you’ve got a heart, Sonny Rollins’s music can touch it. That’s what I think; he disagrees. “I dedicated my life to my music,” says Rollins without regret, speaking on the phone from his home in upstate New York, “and I never got it to where I wanted it be.”
Rollins has been feeling autumnal these days, partly because he recently donated his massive personal archives to New York’s Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, and partly because he had to put down his horn. (The memory of his beloved wife, Lucille, who passed away in 2004, also hangs heavy.) “When you’re on the wrong side of 87,” says Rollins, “there’s all sorts of things happening to you, and they all make you look back at the life you’ve lived.” He gives a short, rasping laugh. “But I’ve been lucky, haven’t I?”
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