Rollins The Bridge Rar
Between 1953 and 1959, the jazz saxophonist Sonny Rollins released twenty-one full-length albums. This kind of prolificacy seems absurd now, during an era in which new musical material is meted out on a preordained, market-friendly schedule—a few weeks of recording, a year or two of touring, a cashed paycheck, repeat. But music rushed out of Rollins, like an overfed river. Miles Davis described Rollins’s output circa 1954 as “something else. Brilliant.” In his book “,” the critic and poet Amiri Baraka—then writing as LeRoi Jones—called his music “staggering.” Baraka suggested that Rollins, along with John Coltrane and the pianist Cecil Taylor, was doing the necessary work “to propose jazz again as the freest of Western music.” Then, in 1959, Rollins stopped. He was twenty-eight years old. According to “,” a short BBC documentary from 1968, Rollins—who had been addicted to heroin in the late nineteen-forties and early fifties but sweated it out at the Lexington Narcotics Farm, a combination federal prison and rehabilitation facility, in Lexington, Kentucky—was exhausted by what he understood as a culture of nonstop degradation.
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Rollins The Bridge Rarebit
Unsavory promoters, seedy clubs, “the whiskey.” I imagine he’d simply grown desperate for something less decadent and wayward—a self-imposed hiatus from a life style that he knew could devastate him. These moments of reckoning—in which something that once felt exciting begins to seem noxious, mephitic, dangerous—are important to heed. (I think of Bob Dylan,: “I’m going back to New York City,” he sang. “I do believe I’ve had enough.”) For jazz musicians, “woodshedding” refers to the taking of a kind of lunatic sabbatical—a retreat to some isolated idyll, wherein the artist disconnects from his community and plays relentlessly and with a pathological focus. Mirc power script. The goal is not so much output as self-betterment. Though woodshedding is a particularly popular move in jazz—in 1937, Charlie Parker, after a fumbled gig in Kansas City in which the drummer Jo Jones may or may not have Frisbee’d a cymbal at him, decamped to the Ozarks with a pile of Count Basie 78s and memorized all of Lester Young’s saxophone solos—the practice can be employed by anyone looking to drop out and obsessively hone a craft.