To paraphrase Nicolas Cage in Matchstick Men, for most people, jazz is like a foreign film without subtitles.
Aside from the even more useless “classical” designation, no single word puts more music lovers ill-at-ease than “jazz”. This is a three-fold shame: first, it discourages folks who might otherwise investigate it from doing so. Second, it reinforces the whole “jazz is strictly the realm of insular, intolerant hipster” bullshit (thanks again, La La Land). Finally, it inspires ramblings like these, bemoaning the tragic irony of this most alive music being dismissed as “rigor mortis with a beat”. We’d much rather be talking about Sonny Rollins.
If you’re familiar with the magic that emanated from Rollins’ tenor saxophone before his retirement in 2012, then let this serve as a gentle reminder: if the name is new to you, and you have the slightest willingness to dip a toe in the jazz ocean, this is a golden opportunity. Marge Simpson once remarked, “Music is none of my business,” which is comedic because it illustrates the extent of her alienation from a culture she finds intimidating. In the context of a discussion about jazz, it puts words to something that’s more than a little true, more than a little sad.
A Night at the Village Vanguard will always be “the other Sonny Rollins album of 1957. His Saxophone Colossus – rightly – has a reputation as grand as its name. If you know Rollins, you know that album.
What makes Colossus so memorable isn’t just the singular voice of the musician at its heart, or the not-to-be-overlooked brilliance of the support from his rhythm section. It’s the fact that, for forty minutes, it feels like a complete and unified statement – and that statement is, “Perfection is possible.” The album feels spontaneous, but it’s not sloppy. Not a note falls flat, but it’s not studied or fussy. It’s brilliant, but not showy.
Try telling Sonny Rollins that. Whenever I want to chastise myself for being a perfectionist, I think about Rollins. I think about him setting his exploding career on indefinite hold in 1959 to woodshed – that is, to practice for a sustained period, taking as much time as is necessary to achieve a “breakthrough”.
What could possibly constitute a breakthrough for a musician who’s already created so much vital music? We can only guess. But we do know that it took him three years to get there. Three years of a thriving musical career just…put on hold. Is it fanciful to suspect that his agent suffered from ulcers?
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before the woodshedding years and his reemergence from the wilderness, Rollins produced an astounding quantity of vital music. We won’t indulge in a lot of armchair musi-psychology, but in the wake of Saxophone Colossus (and several other equally notable sessions, like those that produced Way Out West and a pair of releases under the Blue Note label) it seems clear that Sonny, guru-as-journeyman, was thirsting for a challenge.
The double album A Night at the Village Vanguard would be the fruit of this quest.
The absence of a piano and the gimmick of a live recording aren’t the only things that set it apart from Colossus. Where the earlier album comes in at a tight forty, the CD release of Vanguard contains over two hours of music. Where the cover of Colossus frames Rollins from a low angle, a shadowy, intimidating figure, Vanguard shows his face in tight close-up, rocking indoor shades and a soul patch more effectively than anyone before or since. He appears to be speaking to someone, and there may be the hint of a smile. I have no idea if this picture was taken on the night of the performance, but I like to think so; this is the face of a musical gunslinger who has come correct.
People ‘round these parts know what I’m talking about when I use the term “ownage.” Well, the word doesn’t quite apply here; Rollins had difficulty owning because no one dared underestimate him. When you dominate so consistently, so thoroughly, it’s difficult to bring about the kind of unexpected reversal of power that ownage needs. But that didn’t stop Sonny from trying. To wit: leading a pianoless trio in a live venue, the results of which would be meticulously documented by recording legend Rudy Van Gelder. This is a context that would intimidate even the steeliest of tenor superheroes. (And apparently constitutes the first time a live performance was captured at the Village Vanguard.)
A bit about that word, “pianoless”: this was before Ornette Coleman brought his freaky-deaky plastic horn on the scene and sent his own piano players packing. It’s understandable that most hornmen of the era appreciated the personal breathing space and melodic support provided by a piano – simply, it anchored the proceedings. Without its reassuring presence, the empty space left behind could (and did) send lesser hornmen down empty elevator shafts of their own creation, having lost sight of where melody line and improvisation need to meet.
And this is the first, best indicator that A Night at the Village Vanguard is a stone classic: Rollins is never, ever lost. Over two hours on this pianoless tightrope in a live venue and there’s not a stumble to be found. As the ninth edition of the Cook/Morton guide puts it, this group “leads Rollins into areas of freedom which bop never allowed, and while his free-spiritedness is checked by his ruthless self-examination, its rigour makes his music uniquely powerful in jazz.” Another writer (whose name escapes me) once pointed out that the tenorman’s fleet, peerless way of getting from note to note sounds like the result of having physically slowed down an LP of Charlie Parker’s alto: the pitch may be lower, but the same incredible level of invention remains.
Take a listen to the two performances of “A Night in Tunisia” (one from the afternoon set and one from the evening set), each featuring a different rhythm section. The first, with Donald Bailey on bass and Pete La Roca (my favourite nom de jazz for a drummer) on drums, is no half-assed effort – frenetic and apocalyptic, with La Roca’s intimidating fills nipping at Rollins’ heels. The second, with Wilbur Ware on bass and Elvin Jones on drums, is more laid back and confident – but also crisper, still completely in-the-pocket, and, best of all, you can hear Rollins stretching himself. Apart from his own perfectionism and this need to always keep searching, Rollins is probably best known for his sound – huge, dry, often seeming to lean on the low end, while making occasional grabs at high notes. This all comes through with terrific clarity in Van Gelder’s recording. On “I Can’t Get Started,” Sonny sounds like he’s dressing a piece of toast – by turns spreading warm butter or applying dramatic dabs of tart jam.
Perhaps what most directly separates Rollins from his tenor colleague and friend John Coltrane is that the latter was often perfectly willing to abandon adherence to a rhythmic framework for the sake of melodic innovation. So much of Rollins’ own innovation is rooted in rhythm – playing with it, stretching it, clipping it, but never neglecting it, calling to mind some of Lester Young’s pioneering work with Count Basie. That’s probably why standards like “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, “Old Devil Moon” and “Get Happy” are arguably the most “Rollins” Rollins performances of the set: the notes can be big fluffy marshmallows or slippery oysters, often one right after the other, surprising in the way that they subvert rhythmic expectation, but always satisfying regardless. On “Get Happy”, for instance, he begins stating the melody in staccato hits of quick notes, riding Elvin Jones’ peerless cymbal work, before making some room for Ware’s galloping bass. Then he reenters with a flurry of lines, punctuated by certain notes that are unexpectedly drawn out in sustained moments of emphasis.
The second half of the recording kicks off with a marathon performance of Cole Porter’s “What is This Thing Called Love?”, which is largely a showcase for Jones. He doesn’t waste the opportunity, first swapping lines with Rollins before launching into a drum solo that might just make you forget how much you dislike drum solos. When trading fours, Rollins and Jones are real collaborators; not content to rest on tired phrases, they illustrate the best kind of “call and response” musicianship, which requires not only utter mastery of your instrument, but also lightning quick timing and innovation-on-demand. (Incidentally, this performance is no fluke on Jones’ part, as his work with Coltrane illustrates.) Wilbur Ware is similarly impressive on his feature, “Softly as in a Morning Sunrise”, a number that was played to death in the glory days of hard bop, but still shows more than a little life here.
Sonny serves up an antidote to what might be considered an over–reliance on standards with his two originals: “Sonnymoon for Two” and “Striver’s Row”. The first is some big ole swaggering blues and might be the closest we get to hearing Rollins let his hair down at the Village Vanguard. By this, I mean that the first few minutes aren’t quite as deliriously inventive as we’ve come to expect, with Sonny reveling in the expansiveness of his own tone (no small joy in itself); about halfway through, he seems to get bored with this, and leaps back into trading fours with his compatriots – I’m particularly fond of the indignantly repeated squeal that occurs at the seven-minute mark. “Striver’s Row” is just awesome, with Sonny’s initial bluster calling to mind “Lullaby of Birdland”, before moving into what sounds to me like a never-ending melodic line being crafted on the spot. (Bob Blumenthal’s liner notes suggest that the chord changes are taken from “Confirmation” and, musical layman that I am, I’ll defer to him on that point.)
A Night at the Village Vanguard is an embarrassment of riches, as evidenced by the fact that I don’t have the time or the musical vocabulary to mention several of its other noteworthy numbers (I will remember you, April!) But more than a brilliant live recording, it also feels like a kind of musical mission statement for Sonny Rollins. Already a preeminent tenor saxophone man in 1957’s America – having unleashed the note-perfect Saxophone Colossus on the world, and, just as remarkable, having completely avoided being overshadowed in the Tenor Madness duel with John Coltrane – resting on his laurels or falling back on tired phrases wasn’t in the cards. Instead he would actively pursue a greater mastery of the hard bop form and employ more challenging contexts for musical innovation, this album being one particularly amazing example.