Sound Soars Through the Void... On an Earth Without Sonny Rollins

Sonny Rollins has passed away. One of the clichés for such a time: "A giant star falls."

A giant star, there is likely no doubt about that. You have finally gone from a "Giant of Modern Jazz" to a "giant star." Because you have entered the realm of the dead. Yes, you have become a "giant star" and a "demon."

A giant star falls. However, where does a giant star fall.
Where, oh where are you supposed to fall? In this world of confusion, in these alleys of hardship, where, where is the ground where you should fall with such ease.
When people die, they either hide in the earth and become demons, or ascend to the heavens and become stars. Which will you become? Both. You will hide in the earth and shake it, and shine in the heavens to guide our thoughts. The demon of the earth and the star of the heavens exchange sounds as fierce as anger. And, there is no earth left for you to rest uponThe earth where you had to struggle and agonize over music for over 95 years is, today and likely tomorrow as well, a world of sorrow where we have yet to find a solution through music

" Someday Sonny Rollins will die." When I realized that, I felt a shudder from the bottom of my gut, and I felt as if the world had cracked open and fallen silent in a vast loneliness, and I spent hours pacing around my room. At the time, Rollins was in his mid-50s. Although I had already lost several relatives, including my father, it seems I still did not truly know how or when people die. In any case, too many modern jazz giants had already left this world. Bird, Bud, Monk, Trane, Mingus, Dolphy. Even Ayler was already gone. Miles had long since entered silence. How long could Rollins live? How long could he play the saxophone? How long could he continue to hold that tough mouthpiece and make that hard reed vibrate?
Even after Rollins dies, I must go on living in a world without Rollins. How will I be able to endure it? Is it even possible for me to continue living in this world without Rollins? "Isn't Rollins still alive? Even Rollins is still alive. What value is there in a person like me dying? I must live. Even if I am completely powerless to save this world, I must still live and strive. I must live together with Rollins. Rollins is alive and still playing, isn't he? How can I live and not respond?"
Thinking that, I have been supported by Rollins and have lived with Rollins. I thought with Rollins, endured with Rollins, and fought with Rollins.

It is none of Rollins' business, but for me, Rollins was a peer like no other in the world. I always chased his albums, desperately tilting my ears—no, my brain—to see what problems Rollins was tackling and how they intersected with my own struggles. That Rollins has passed away. Just for today, I will indulge myself in the memories of my own Rollins, who finally belonged to no one else.

I am the only one in this world who understands Rollins. There were various circumstances that led me to think that way. Perhaps the biggest factor in the formation of such arrogance was the various discourses in jazz journalism. Regarding the music Rollins was tackling, which other musicians were ignoring and critics seemed completely unaware of, was there not a fundamental, critical issue clearly present. How much of that thought of mine was an illusion or a misunderstanding? However, I wanted to somehow let Rollins know that there was one person on this earth who was listening to his philosophy. Furthermore, I was seriously thinking that I wanted to translate the significance of the ethical exploration Rollins was practicing in his music into words, offer it for people's consideration, and thereby provide Rollins with comfort and encouragement.
My lazy habit of procrastination has caused many thinkers to pass away before me. Person after person whom I wanted to encourage by saying, "Your understander is here, I will carry on your work," left this world without waiting for my work. I was prepared that I would not be able to deliver my gift to Rollins while he was still alive, and that is exactly what happened.

When a person passes away, acquaintances pity the bereaved family. However, for the bereaved, the person who has died is the most pitiable. We are alive, yet that person cannot be. How can such a thing be?
I mourn Rollins. I am almost wounded. Rather, it hurts. However, I cannot suppress the self-indulgent fantasy of a fan, wondering if the days of the Saxophone Colossus after he could no longer produce that magnificent sound from his sax were not, in fact, days of frustration and irritation. Was losing the body that could no longer play the sax not actually a relief for him, even such selfish delusions arise.
You did well, Sonny, now, from here on, you can play the sax to your heart's content in heaven, in the depths of the earth, and here on our earth. Come on, Rollins, play now. Forever, with sorrow and anger, play our foolishness. Please, keep playing.

That day, I listened to Rollins' tremendous performance from the front row of a certain venue. When the last song ended, we rushed to the stage. I offered a framed photograph of the Miroku Bosatsu statue at Koryu-ji Temple. Rollins, who had bent down, looked at it, let out an "Aha!" and accepted it with a full smile. When my wife subsequently handed him a bouquet, Rollins gently kissed the bouquet he had received. I cannot forget that incredibly lovely smile at that moment.
The next day, a local performance was scheduled at a different location, and we had tickets for it. We moved to the local city on the first flight the next morning and waited for the Rollins party to arrive at the airport. After all the passengers from that flight had disembarked, the Rollins party slowly appeared in the corridor. There were almost no general passengers left in the local airport building, and it seemed that the remaining passengers did not know who Rollins was, so no one seemed interested. The only ones waiting at the gate to welcome Rollins were us and a guide from a newspaper company.
"Welcome, Mr. Rollins!" I shouted. "Thank you," he replied quietly. In the small waiting room, there was a time when the Rollins party was just relaxing. I approached Rollins and spoke to him once more, as he was now completely quiet, unlike the bold and intense performance on stage.
"Nice to meet you! Last night we enjoyed your performance in Shinjuku"
"Oh!" Rollins looked convinced. I didn't mention the photo of the Miroku Bosatsu statue, but just pointed to my wife and said, "She brought you flower." I was so excited that I couldn't even add "some" or make it plural, "flowers," before "flower." (Later, when I told a friend who would become a university English lecturer about this scene, he sympathized, saying, "That can't be helped.") Of course, Rollins was not the type to laugh at such things.
"Oh, thank you," he said with a convinced expression. When I asked for an autograph and took out the colored paper I had prepared, he said "Okay," easily took the permanent marker we offered, and wrote "Thank you for 'Hana' Sonny Rollins" in very careful handwriting.
It was just around the time Miles Davis had broken his long silence and returned to the scene with the album "The Man with the Horn." I thought Al Foster's drumming on that album sounded so different from when he played at Rollins' live shows that I actually felt like asking Al, "Which do you enjoy more, playing in Miles' band or playing with Rollins?" However, I hesitated to bother them with annoying questions while they were relaxing, and I felt I could sort of guess the answer, and above all, I didn't have the courage to ask.
I just said to Rollins, "We're looking forward to your performance," and Rollins, understanding my intent, powerfully added "tonight," and when I shouted in ecstasy, "yes, tonight," he said, "OK. Thank you," and shook my hand firmly with his large hand.
During this Japan tour, an important bond was formed between Rollins and me. That is, I made it a point to shout at two specific moments during one of Rollins' songs to make the performance bounce. I was the only person in the world who shouted at these two spots, so Rollins must have known that there were cases where such an audience member would appear when he came to Japan. And on the night of the day we met at the airport, Rollins, hearing the shouts at the same two spots, must have realized that the owner of this voice was the man who had handed him the photo of the Miroku Bosatsu statue the previous night and the man who had welcomed him at the airport. Of course, he couldn't possibly know who I was, but he had become able to recognize my presence in the venue.

A few years later, an incident occurred.
At a certain live venue, I, who could not wear shoes due to an intractable disease and had gone in slippers, listened to Rollins' superb unaccompanied solo, which was at the peak of his powers. That day's unaccompanied solo was truly a truly amazing performance worthy of being left in history. With just one saxophone, he ran up and down, twisted, swirled, soared, and was free with tempo; just when you thought it would continue, it would cut off, and defying the expectation that it should cut off, the barrage of sound would not stop—it was a masterpiece performance that ran through the heavens. At the time, I was leaning toward the idea that the essence of Rollins was his unaccompanied solo, and I listened to his unaccompanied solos day after day. While listening to that performance, I somehow became completely synchronized with Rollins, and for a moment I shouted loudly, and at that exact moment (as if we had matched our breathing), the saxophone sound cut off, there was a sense of the audience holding their breath, Rollins' saxophone roared again, I listened, and at the moment I thought, "Now!" I shouted loudly, and at the exact same time the saxophone sound stopped perfectly, and again the roar of the saxophone burst forth; while listening, I felt breathless and shouted loudly, and just as if we had matched our breathing, the saxophone sound stopped perfectly. This kind of moment happened three times in a row. Every time the biggest pause in that tremendous solo occurred, my shout would inevitably enter. After three times in a row, I myself felt like I was getting goosebumps. And finally, when this happened for the fourth time, Rollins took his mouthpiece away and shouted something as if groaning, and the venue erupted in thunderous applause.
It was a live performance of excitement and bliss where I was able to "co-star" with the saxophone giant Rollins. And on this day too, I shouted at the two spots in that song. Moreover, the venue was small for a Japan tour at the time, and my seat was quite close to the stage. Mr. Rollins! I'm here! It must have definitely gotten through.
From then on, at every venue I visited, I continued to send signals to Rollins that I was listening.
Before the Japan tour that followed or the one after that, which featured that amazing unaccompanied solo, the magazine Swing Journal published an interview with Rollins ahead of his visit to Japan. I was wide-eyed at that interview article, as Rollins had sometimes given unenthusiastic answers before coming to Japan in the past. Rollins said:
"I'm really looking forward to the unique interaction with the audience on the Japanese stage."
Unique interaction with the audience on the Japanese stage! This must be about me, I assumed on my own. Because, other than the back-and-forth with me, what else is different in Japanese live shows compared to other places?

At that time, Rollins' live performances already felt to me like something that had broken through the limits of music. Due to various constraints, I could only go to hear one, or at most two, of the stages when he came to Japan, but I didn't want to miss it no matter what. The years spent waiting while trembling, wondering how long he would remain active and play the sax continued. As he approached the end of the stage, he began to say, "Domo, arigato gozaimashita." And he would continue, "Mata, aimashou. Mata, aimashou!"
Ah, I was glad, he was thinking of coming to Japan again, I shed tears.
If Rollins is coming, I want to go hear him no matter what, but how long will he be able to let us hear that tremendous sound? I always worried about that, and every time a visit to Japan was decided, I was on pins and needles, wondering if he would be able to play properly this time. One year, there were reed misses for two consecutive performances. In the stages I heard, that had never happened before. Was he finally reaching his limit? Did I have to prepare myself, I was made to think. Even so, I couldn't help but wish that he would stand on the Japanese stage, even if it were just to hold the sax and play a couple of quarter notes.

Rollins appeared in my dreams and played the sax for me twice. (One of those times was a place like a supermarket parking lot. Behind Rollins, there were twenty or thirty people who looked like middle-aged men and women, and they were looking at me listening to the performance, rejoicing and envying me.)

Once, Rollins said, "When Lester (Young) was dying, I wanted to stay by his side the whole time. That a great musician like Lester had to die so miserably all alone. It was truly sad."
Many years have passed since he lost his wife, Lucille, who was said to have the habit of saying, "Sonny, please." I do not know how Rollins departed or who was there to see him off.

However, Rollins was, at any rate, liberated from a frustrating body that would no longer do as he wished. Yes, you still had tasks that needed to be resolved. I do not know about others, but at least I know. My Sonny Rollins, even in death, must still play the many phrases he wanted to play / left unplayed. Even past the age of eighty, he continued to deliver to me a gushing fountain of ad-libs that no one had ever heard before Rollins, freed from the constraints of the body, will have ideas that spring forth and soar without end, and even more than that, he will surely continue to ache for the various aspects of human life on this earth. He will think, 'I must do something about this world, about the people of this world, with my tone.'
A haiku poet who once dreamed of the ideals of medieval poetry in the midst of plain, vulgar language is said to have fallen ill on a journey, his dreams racing across withered fields. The grand phrases overflowing from the saxophone of a musician who rose up in the noisy streets and dreamed of an uncharted horizon of the spiritual world in the midst of the music applauded by the masses will soar through the void forever.
Indeed, for the seeker musician, there is no rest even in death. While emitting a brilliant light too large and intense to be called a star, he must continue to play his horn while wishing for the happiness of the world. That radiance, so full of information of agony and anguish, yet somehow clear, painful, and heartbreaking falls upon my chest again tonight. It falls and never ceases.


I am sorry, Mr. Rollins. Even though I was supported by you so much, as expected, I did not make it in time.