Sonny Rollins is one of the last ja

Sonny Rollins is one of the last jazz originals. He still tours, records, and practices three hours a day, convinced he's still got something to learn – and something to prove.
When I visited Sonny Rollins at his home in Germantown, New York, a semi-hardscrabble hamlet 100 miles up the Hudson River, the 82-year-old jazzman they call the Saxophone Colossus was doing his laundry. "Oh, man, come on in, man," Sonny said in his reedy, slightly high-pitched voice as he stuck his head out the back door of the modest house, blood-orange skullcap on his kingly, lantern-jawed head. Jumble of shirts fresh from the dryer in his arms, he led me through the cluttered kitchen to a sitting room. "Be with you in a minute," he said with a sigh.
For Sonny, certainly one of the greatest tenor-saxophone players in the history of the instrument invented by Adolphe Sax in 1841, and a key figure in jazz for more than half a century, it is a drag any time "the celestial Big Picture" is infringed upon by "the Little Picture," which the musician defines as "that day-to-day crap you have to put up with on this misbegotten planet."
Doing the laundry, while necessary, was definitely in the latter category. But the entire past few weeks had been a hassle, Sonny said. He was booked to leave on a European tour with gigs in Austria, Germany, Switzerland, Luxembourg, and "some other burgs." There would be arrangements, flights, hotels to stay in. Not that all that hadn't happened before, hundreds of times. The new thing was "the move," Rollins' then in-progress relocation across the Hudson River to a larger house near Woodstock. After living in Germantown for four decades, the last nine years by himself since the death of his wife and manager, Lucille Rollins, the shift was proving more problematic than the jazzman had expected. There was always one more box to pack, one more real estate agent to talk to. Plus, telemarketers kept ringing on the phone, the very sound of which caused Sonny to summon his innermost Buddha Nature, lest he fly off the handle. The whole thing was giving him "psychological claustrophobia," Sonny said.
Once upon a very storied time, growing up on Harlem's Sugar Hill during the 1930s and '40s, a relatively well-off son of a West Indian-born Navy chief petty officer, Sonny felt like he had all the time in the world. Already a self-taught neighborhood prodigy at 17, well-versed in the ample brawniness of his great idol Coleman Hawkins and the ethereal stylings of Lester Young, he'd go over to Minton's Playhouse or the Club Baron on Lenox Avenue, where people like Fats Waller or Thelonious Monk might be playing. Then he'd take the train downtown to 52nd Street, the famous jazz thoroughfare, and sit at the bar at Birdland, where he'd often be invited to share the bandstand with bebop immortals like Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and Miles Davis.
"That was my life back then – I thought it would always go on like that, never change," Sonny said. Now, on "the wrong side of 81," he could feel the metronome inside his head ticking away, each instant too precious to be squandered on the puny minutiae of the day-to-day.
For instance, only that week he'd spent nearly the entire morning down in the Big Apple, making an episode of The Simpsons. Sonny played a holographic image of himself that hovers, godlike, outside the bedroom window of perhaps his best-known mainstream musical disciple, Lisa Simpson. Sonny had three lines, which he dutifully repeated over and over again, coached by a voice on a speakerphone originating 3,000 miles away in Los Angeles. Later, Sonny said that taking all morning to produce a hologram visible only to a TV cartoon character was "kind of strange," especially for someone who'd managed to cut albums like Tenor Madness and Saxophone Colossus in a few short hours on a two-track machine located in Rudy Van Gelder's Hackensack, New Jersey, studio.
"Technology, man," Sonny said with a shrug. "All this little stuff interrupts my chain of thought. Consequently, I haven't been able to properly practice my horn the way I have to," he said, emerging from the laundry room in a loose-fitting khaki shirt, a pair of baggy gray sweatpants, and thick white socks stuffed into open-toe leather slippers. "If I don't get to practice, work on my embouchure and scales, then I can't play correctly, and if I can't play correctly, I can't work out my ideas, and if I can't work out my ideas, then I go crazy."
Sonny reached over and tapped the hard-shell case of the instrument resting on the table at his right. In there was the gold Selmer Mark VI with the Otto Link mouthpiece that he's played almost exclusively since the mid-1970s. "My second wife," he said, regarding the ax. "I don't sleep with it in bed. But I don't let it out of my sight."
When Sonny's mother gave him his first horn back in the late 1930s, it was an alto, owing to the fact that as a young man, he loved listening to the fabulous jump blues master Louis Jordan, who often played at the Elk's Rendezvous on Lenox Avenue, not far from the Rollins' home. "He played an alto, so I wanted to play an alto, too," Sonny said. However, it was only after switching to the growlier tenor in his middle teens that he became "obsessed." From that moment on, Sonny said, "music was the only thing that mattered to me. All I wanted to do was play my horn, and get better." Sonny was known to spend up to 16 hours a day practicing. His most iconic study period occurred between 1959 and 1961, when, at age 29 and widely regarded as the leading tenor man in the world, he abruptly quit playing in public.
One of the great stories in the annals of jazz, or any other modern creative endeavor, Sonny's two-year "sabbatical," time spent practicing alone on the desolate, decrepit walkway of the Williamsburg Bridge in New York, remains the jazzman's emblematic moment. It was a radical move. After all, Sonny had already fronted groups that included Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and Max Roach. Saxophone Colossus, recorded in 1956 and including all-time classic performances of "St. Thomas," "Strode Road," and "Blue 7," established him as a star.
Yet Sonny wasn't happy. "It wasn't like I was playing bad," he told me. "I just knew I could get better, that I had to get better."
The original plan had been to woodshed in his Grand Street apartment on the Lower East Side, but the lady next door had just had a baby, and he thought if he played too loud he'd give the child "bad ears." That's what led him to the bridge – 135 feet above the roiling East River, he could really let loose under the sky and the stars with the whole city laid out before him. Musicians all over town thought he was nuts. Why did he need all this practice? He was the best; wasn't that good enough? But those people didn't hear what Sonny heard. He was nothing but a glorified beginner, Sonny believed, a work in progress. There were places he needed to go. When he got there, that's when he'd come back.
Tell Sonny that the image of the brilliant jazzman seeker – the lone figure amid the chaotic howl of the city, blowing his horn in quest of a bit of sanity – has always been a source of personal inspiration and he will be touched by the comment. Mention that he's your favorite player, along with Sidney Bechet and Johnny Hodges, and he'll shake his head slowly. "To be put with those guys, wow. That's a real compliment." Go on to say that you always hummed "St. Thomas" for your children when they were tiny, and a few years later your daughters made you a birthday card with a handmade tinfoil saxophone in the middle of roughly drawn treble clefs along with the words Sonny Rollins, and the Colossus will begin to tear up.
Then again, a lot of accolades have been coming Sonny's way over the past few years, "top-shelf praise," as he calls it. The Kennedy Center gave him its honors in 2011. President Obama personally handed him the National Medal of Arts. Much of this adulation came from the fact that, nearly seven decades in, Sonny continues to play at a very high level. Anyone listening to "Sonnymoon for Two," recorded with fellow legend Ornette Coleman at Sonny's 80th birthday celebration in 2010, could tell that. The performance, captured on the album Road Shows Vol. 2, played a big part in why Sonny, for the second time in a row, was named the "Musician of the Year" by the not so easily impressed Jazz Journalists Association.
Yet, for many, the enduring boon of being alive at the same time as Sonny Rollins goes beyond what comes out of his horn on any given night. That's because the bop era – that fleeting period of post-World War II optimism and angst channeled through the fabric of African-American existentialism served up by a bunch of mostly New York-based players who could really cook – clearly ranks as the high-water mark of 20th-century modernism, easily the equal of any art thing that happened in Europe during the 1920s. It was a gloriously urban, silkily noirish time when being "hip" (a whole other thing then) was to be in possession of a secret code of cool, articulated by shamanic jazzmen capable of sculpting a wholly new, real gone Rosetta stone every time they blew a horn or hit a drum.
Now, of course, the 52nd Street clubs – the Onyx, Club Downbeat, the 3 Deuces, and Birdland – are way gone, along with the titans who once strode those gummy sidewalks, Bird, Diz, Monk, Mingus, and the rest. No one knows this better than Sonny himself, who never fails to credit the "people whose shoulders I am standing on," the legion of players now largely forgotten due to prejudice, poor promotion, or, as Wynton Marsalis once aptly put it, "sheer bad taste." This doesn't mean, however, that Sonny is content to revel in what he calls "this victory-lap, lifetime-achievement crap."
"No, man. I haven't been out here all these years for them to stick me in a museum," Sonny said, bristling, as the laundry in the adjacent room hummed into spi

ผลลัพธ์ (ไทย) 3:

ซันนี่โรลลินส์เป็นหนึ่งของต้นฉบับแจ๊สล่าสุด เขายังคงทัวร์ การบันทึกและการปฏิบัติ 3 ชั่วโมงต่อวัน เชื่อว่า เขายังมีอะไรต้องเรียนรู้ ) และสิ่งที่จะพิสูจน์
เมื่อฉันเข้าเยี่ยมชม ซันนี โรลลินส์ ที่บ้านของเขาใน เจอร์แมนทาวน์ , นิวยอร์ก , กึ่ง hardscrabble หมู่บ้าน 100 ไมล์แม่น้ำฮัดสัน , 82 ปี แจสแมนพวกเขาเรียกแซ็กโซโฟนยักษ์ใหญ่ คือ ซักผ้า " . โอ้ เพื่อนเอาเลยเพื่อน " ซันนี่กล่าวว่าในเขาแหลมเล็กน้อย เสียงแหลมสูงที่เขาติดอยู่ที่หัวของเขาออกประตูหลังบ้านเจียมเนื้อเจียมตัวเลือดสีส้มหมวกไม่มีขอบบนพระราช- , โคมไฟจาวีดหัว ความสับสนของเสื้อสดจากเครื่องเป่าในอ้อมแขนของเขา เขาพาฉันผ่านเกะกะห้องครัวกับห้องนั่งเล่น " . รอแป๊บนะ " เขาพูดพร้อมกับถอนหายใจ
สำหรับซันนี่แน่นอนหนึ่งใน ที่ยิ่งใหญ่ที่สุด เทเนอร์ แซกโซโฟนเล่นในประวัติศาสตร์ของเครื่องมือที่คิดค้นโดย Adolphe Sax ในร้าน และเป็นคนสำคัญในแจ๊สมานานกว่าครึ่งศตวรรษ มันลากได้ตลอดเวลา " ภาพใหญ่ " สวรรค์ก็ละเมิดโดย " ภาพเล็ก " ซึ่งนักดนตรีที่กำหนดเป็น " วันต่อวันอึคุณต้องทนอยู่บนโลกนี้ผิดกฎหมาย "
ทำซักรีดในขณะที่จำเป็นแน่นอนในประเภทหลัง แต่ทั้งหมดที่ผ่านมา ไม่กี่สัปดาห์ ถูกรบกวน ซันนี่กล่าว เค้าจองไปทัวร์ยุโรปกับกิ๊ก ออสเตรีย เยอรมนี สวิตเซอร์แลนด์ ลักเซมเบิร์ก และ " บางอื่น ๆ burgs " จะมีการจัดเที่ยวบิน โรงแรม ที่พักใน ไม่ใช่ทุกคนที่ไม่เคยเกิดขึ้นมาก่อน เป็นร้อยๆครั้ง สิ่งที่ใหม่คือ " ย้าย" โรลลินส์ ' แล้วในความคืบหน้าการย้ายข้ามแม่น้ำฮัดสันที่มีบ้านใกล้ Woodstock . หลังจากใช้ชีวิตใน Germantown สี่ทศวรรษ เก้าปีที่ผ่านมาด้วยตัวเองตั้งแต่การตายของภรรยาและผู้จัดการ ลูซี่ โรลินส์ กะถูกพิสูจน์ปัญหามากกว่าแจ๊สแมนได้คาด มีเสมอมากกว่าหนึ่งกล่องบรรจุ อีกหนึ่งตัวแทนอสังหาริมทรัพย์ที่จะคุยด้วย บวกกับtelemarketers ดังบนโทรศัพท์ เสียงมากซึ่งทำให้ซันนี่เรียกธรรมชาติสุดพระของเขา เพราะเขาจะบินออกไปจับ เรื่องทั้งหมดให้ " โรคกลัวที่แคบ จิต " ซันนี่พูด
กาลครั้งหนึ่งมากเรื่องราว ที่เติบโตขึ้นบนเนินทรายที่ฮาร์เล็มในช่วงปี 1930 และ 40 , ลูกชายค่อนข้างมั่งคั่งของเวสต์อินเดียเกิดหัวหน้านายทหารของกองทัพเรือ ,ซันนี่รู้สึกเหมือนเขามีเวลาทั้งหมดในโลก แล้วเรียนด้วยตัวเองละแวกอัจฉริยะที่ 17 , มีประสบการณ์ใน brawniness กว้างขวางของไอดอลที่ยิ่งใหญ่ของเขา โคลแมนฮอว์กินส์และท่าทางบอบบางของเลสเตอร์ ยัง เขาต้องไปที่ศูนย์ฯ หรือสโมสรของมินตันบารอนใน Lenox Avenue , ที่ซึ่งผู้คนเหมือนไขมันเฉไฉหรือพี่น้องมงกอลฟีเย อาจจะเล่น