Who’s left from those days?
That’s a good question. There’s not a lot of guys from those days. You have Wayne Shorter; he’s a little younger, but he played with Miles, he’s around…Jimmy Heath, Yusef Lateef.
A lot of them came along a little later, in the late 1950s, ’60s: Cecil Taylor, Ornette Coleman – just past that time.
Archie Shepp is living in Paris now. I spoke to Yusef Lateef, and he told me Archie is living over there, but he’s not playing a lot. But at least he’s still with us. With this world, you don’t know whether it’s so great to be with us or not with us. But anyway, Jimmy Heath, he’s around. But not many people.
So your question for me, “How’s it feel being one of the last people?”
Well, let’s just say there are a lot of players standing on your shoulders now.
Right. That’s why my shoulders are getting pushed down now: losing my musculature… But seriously, it’s a tremendous honor to have achieved something in music where other guys can get something from me. That’s fantastic. I couldn’t ask for anything more than that. When these young guys say, “Wow, Sonny Rollins, man,” well, I don’t know what to say. It’s fantastic. I know that I have contributed something when these young guys can get something from me. As I said, it came from above. I didn’t invent my playing; I cultivated it. I had my gift.
Then you started working into bigger shows, concerts, became a touring artist more.
Those were big jazz records: Saxophone Colossus, Tenor Madness, Way out West. That established me as one of the big boys, and then I had to carry the load that was thrust upon me.
Was there a good living to be made as a leader, saxophone player?
Well, ten dollars in 1940 and ten dollars today… I also got caught up in the whole drug scene, like so many of us did. There was a camaraderie with jazz players, and we felt the world was against modern jazz players, that it was looked down upon us, and that it was hard to gain acceptance.
The idea of making money was something which, for me, frankly, I didn’t think about. It wasn’t about money; it was about trying to play this music. Maybe subliminally I might have thought about being more successful. It’s hard to say… I certainly wasn’t on the stature of Miles Davis in the ’40s, but in the ’50s I was beginning to get maybe the same money that Miles was getting. I got out of the drug scene in ’55: my awakening.
But there wasn’t a lot of money. Modern jazz or bebop was not like rhythm and blues or pop music, and of course not like rock music; those guys made tons of money. And I wasn’t making as much as some in the jazz field. It was appreciably less than some of the other popular arts. It’s hard to answer that definitively. There wasn’t a lot of money.
By the ’60s and ’70s things were better financially. I was beginning to make a little more money playing bigger venues. Jazz had sort of gotten to the public then. But back in the ’50s it was still a little dodgy.
And it’s true today. Musicians have a hard time living today. It’s a shame, because people just don’t appreciate music. With the technology, anybody can make records. The record companies are kaput, there’s downloads, people steal music. It’s rough for musicians today. I don’t know how these guys do it.
But mainly, the money thing was never something that I aspired to when I formed my whole musical attitude. It wasn’t about money.
It was about seeing Lester Young at four in the morning.
There you go, man. I didn’t need money. Money didn’t exist. It’s still like that, really. Still, I’m more popular now, but not making the kind of money any pop act does. Jazz doesn’t make that kind of money. People like Stan Getz were very popular, and he probably made a pretty good income; but he really wasn’t like the Beatles. Jazz will always be like a stepchild; I don’t care how popular jazz becomes.
But I didn’t care. Young guys today starting out, they care about it. Now I can get my Social Security checks. I’m able to survive. But money is so contaminating. In music, that was low on the list.
I used to go to Monk’s house; he had a little apartment. We’d be in this little small room, man, about five guys practicing these Monk tunes he’d be writing. I’d say, “Hey, man, we can’t play this, how can we play this, in this little tiny room? Monk’s mother was alive then, and he was married, small apartment. So nobody thought about money…oh yeah, money, if that could happen; but it was about playing.
Sometimes Monk would play these tunes, write out this stuff, and we’d say, “Hey, Monk, what is this, man? We can’t play this. But by the end of the rehearsal, everybody would be playing it. It’s funny I remember that; it happened so often. Four, five guys, trumpet player, bass, little small room it was…well, who cared? We were trying to make music.
But you were the guys moving it forward.
I guess so. I was proud to be in that group. I was the youngest guy on the scene. I was working with those big boys, so I was drinking it all in. Monk was a great guy, like my guru. I used to hang out with Monk; we’d go around to after-hours joints…He lived in what they called San Juan Hill: 63rd Street on the West Side of Manhattan.
I’m a lucky person. I’ve had a lot of great experiences. When you said, “Well, guys are standing on your shoulders” – well, I’ve made it. I have nothing else to strive for. Although I’m always striving…and hopefully I’ll be able to play again, because I have more stuff to say. And people say, “Well, Sonny is always changing,” and I’m changing, but I can’t express it right now.
So maybe, if Providence decrees, I’ll get another chance to play, because I have more music to say. My story is unfinished in what I want to do. We’ll have to see what happens. It’s about music and the tremendous opportunity in life that I’ve had, playing with these great people. It’s been a hard life, it hasn’t been easy; a lot of it I brought on myself. But I couldn’t trade it.
