The Sound of Sonny

by Anthony Medici in Concert Reviews

On Friday, April 18, 2008, I had the supreme pleasure of hearing Sonny Rollins in concert at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC.  I’m almost ashamed to say that this was the first time I’ve seen Sonny in concert.   It has been the case that when Sonny performed, I was not able to attend; when I was able to attend, Sonny wasn’t performing.  The closest I had come to Sonny in concert was through his famed Blue Note recording, “Live at the Village Vanguard.”   I was intent on correcting that deficiency.   Almost as soon as tickets were made available, I was on the phone with the nice folks at the KC Box Office (they really are nice).  It’s a good thing they are nice folks.  It wasn’t their fault after all that, while I was traveling for my job,  my wife shredded  the newly-arrived ticket when she deemed the envelope contained only junk mail. 

Yes, there was weeping, lamentations and the gnashing of teeth, not to mention oaths uttered in earnest, but those nice folks at the KC Box Office came to the rescue and issued me a replacement ticket– stamped “REPLACEMENT”  in no uncertain terms– and sternly warned me that the original ticket had been cancelled, I suppose to deter any thoughts of scalping the ticket somehow for the sold-out show.   (Tip:  Keep the confirmation number you receive when you order tickets for just such accidents).

The day of the concert arrived.  I went to work that day.  Not the best idea.  My boss did his best to make it a bad idea.  He did everything but shred my REPLACEMENT ticket.  I got through the day, not quite in one piece.  I staggered away from the office and went on my way to “See Sonny.”  As I usually do when I go to the KC, I stopped at Chen’s Restaurant in the Watergate complex (for those-non-DC folks, the Watergate is approximately across the street from the KC, and also across the street from the Saudi Embassy, which always has struck me as an odd mise-en-scene).  As is my wont, I first stopped into Chen’s to order the fantabulous crispy beef, and, while the order was being prepared,  went next door to the liquor store (Chen’s doesn’t sell beer or wine) to buy my usual 32oz bottle of cold Bud to accompany that delicious dish.  The dismal tenor of my day continued when I discovered that the nice elderly couple who owned the liquor store had retired and sold it to a couple of spiky haired guys who seemed, on principle, to oppose the sale of both cold beer and big beer, for which they had obvious disdain.  Grrr! Back to Chen’s clutching 2 semi-cold, or semi-warm, Buds  (And yes, I’m perfectly happy with the King of Beers).  Does it matter that when I got back to Chen’s I managed to spill a large glass of cold water on myself  in rather dramatic fashion?  No, I guess not.  

I know, you’re saying:  But isn’t this supposed to be a concert review?  Yes, friends, you’re right.   The audience gave Sonny a standing ovation when he entered from the wings.  The Saxaphone Colossus, now 77, looked smaller than I expected, walking stiffly and slightly bent over (rather like Groucho, I found myself thinking).  For his opening number, Sonny, belying his seeming frailty, came out full-force, with an explosive version of “Sonny, Please,” from his recent CD of the same name.  Ferocious, dynamic, inventive, complex, singing, joyous, growling– Sonny overwhelmed the audience with that “barbaric yawp,” celebrated by Whitman as the essence of Bardic power.  My goodness, I had never heard anything like it!  The job, the boss, the bad beer, the watery dinner– all gone in the space of a few bars.   

I’ve heard great tenor players, but this was genius.  The concert had many fine moments, and one or two that came close to matching this opening number, particularly his solo in “Someday I Will Find You.”  But his two Calypso numbers left me rather unmoved.    So did his backing band, which, consisted of guitar, electric bass, drums, conga, and trombone.  It doesn’t matter who they were.  They didn’t distinguish themselves.  Indeed, the conga player was sufficiently obtuse to actually slap at the chime rack (an “instrument” which I utterly detest) during one of Sonny’s solos.  Talk about trying to guild the lily– or paint a moustache on the Mona Lisa.  

I found myself thinking:  get these guys off the stage.   Just let Sonny play a few numbers solo.  Take off the little microphone clipped to the bell of Sonny’s tenor, and let’s just hear Sonny pure.  Let’s hear Sonny as if he was standing on the walkway of the Williamsburg Bride late at night, as he once famously used to do,  just unwinding those tremendous solos, just letting loose that “barbaric yawp” over the waters of the East River, over the island of New York, over its sleeping denizens and its restless night creatures alike.  It doesn’t matter if it’s not as loud.  Turn off the amps.  Let’s sit at the foot of the stage.  This is poetry.  This is a bard speaking through his horn.  Restlessly constructing and deconstructing melodic fragments, discovering phrases in the very moment he discards them, turning yet one more hackneyed standard into an exploration of musical language itself.   Sonny is the last of a royal line of mythically great tenor players.  Coltrane is long gone.  It’s almost a miracle that we can still hear Sonny.  And when Sonny puts aside all frippery, when he quiets the band, when he puts the full force of his musical thinking into his horn, one discovers the language of jazz itself.  It’s the Sound of Sonny.  Go hear him while you can.