At age 80, Sonny Rollins is indisputably the greatest living jazz tenor saxophonist, proved last night throughout a 2-hour set at New York’s sold-out Beacon Theater in which harmolodic sage Ornette Coleman sat in, backed by drummer Roy Haynes and bassist Christian McBride, on “Tenor Madness.” “Sonnymoon For Two”. Rollins was hunched and hobbled when he came onstage, but once he started blowing he stood upright and blasted his big bold sound with energy that brooked no diminishment of strength or inspiration, bending only to fire another fussilade of freshly wrought invention as if from his guts.
Guest brassman Roy Hargrove paced Rollins melodically on “I Can’t Get Started” and one of Sonny’s vamp-based songs; Jim Hall had to tune up his guitar while starting to interact with Sonny on “In A Sentimental Mood,” but found his place, and Sonny’s standing band w/ guitarist Russell Malone, elec. bassist Bob Cranshaw, drummer Kobie Watkins and conga-player Sammy Figueroa was better than solid — but it was the Old Man himself who kept raising the stakes with gruff, hearty, spirited, virtuosic roars and runs.
“Jazz,” Rollins announced, “our world music, the music, the umbrella music that covers all other music!” And that’s how he played it — all embracing, devotionally celebratory, generous to the max but topping everyone else onstage.
When Ornette came in with his own melodies in his own key, changing the pace, Sonny listened then found within himself some Ornetteisms which he fed back, opening up his rhythmic framework and making everything sound right. Coleman (also 80 years old) seemed frail and stood humbly next to Rollins, but retains his penetrating sound on alto — playing a second solo (rather than trading 4s, which appeared to be Sonny’s plan) with bluesy, splintered cries and his characteristic hiccuping phrases, he did harmonize with Rollins briefly at the rendition’s end.
When Sonny traded notes and phrases with Hargrove, the excitement was akin to what aficionados hear in the Jazz at the Philharmonic Recordings of 60 years back. When all parties except Ornette came out for an encore version of “St. Thomas,” one of Sonny’s signature calypsos, the free-for-all carnival still revolved around its ring-master. Previous Rollins concerts in New York of recent memory faded by comparison to the entirety of this one; critics who must carp may claim a couple of the vamps lasted too long, but each successive chorus offered Rollins another opportunity to shred complacency, to grasp a new angle on a seemingly simple interval and kink it into startling, angular grace.
When Sonny left the stage for the night, ushering all the others off before him, he raised a clenched fist in acknowledgement of the wild ovation he had earned from his audience and as a gesture of triumph over the expected deprecations of time, over superficial changes of taste, over any uncertainties that human creativity can prevail. Jazz is the umbrella music, Sonny holds the umbrella high, setting a glorious standard for musicians and listeners to admire and aspire to. This concert will be legendary (in part because every well-known jazz journalist from NYC and some from Boston, Philly and probably Washington, too, were in attendance). Long live jazz! Long live Sonny Rollins!