Sonny Rollins, the saxophone colossus who reshaped jazz and stood as a defiant figure of artistic integrity, has died at 95. Sources close to the family confirm he passed peacefully at his home in upstate New York this morning. Britain, which long claimed him as an honorary son through his frequent London residencies and deep ties to the UK jazz scene, now joins the world in mourning a titan whose sound was as monumental as his spirit.
Rollins was more than a musician. He was a force of nature, a man who walked away from the spotlight at the peak of his fame to practice alone on the Williamsburg Bridge. That bridge became a metaphor for his life: a structure built to connect, weathered by time, yet unyielding. His tenor saxophone seemed to speak a language of its own, one of joy, rage, and transcendence. From 'Saxophone Colossus' to 'The Bridge', his albums were not collections of tunes but manifestos of a man in constant conversation with the world.
His death ends an era. Rollins was the last living link to the golden age of bebop, having played with Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, and Miles Davis. But he was no relic. He remained fiercely relevant, his later albums like 'This Is What I Do' showing a master still pushing boundaries. His influence on British jazz is incalculable. From the acid jazz of the 1990s to the avant-garde of today, every UK saxophonist who picks up a horn owes a debt to Rollins. He was a regular at Ronnie Scott's, where his marathon sets became the stuff of legend. Once, in 1965, he played for four hours straight, leaving the audience stunned and the club managers weeping.
But let us not sanitise his legacy. Rollins was a complicated man. He battled addiction, walked out on contracts, and refused to be a pawn for record labels. In an industry built on compromise, he was a stone wall. His 2012 autobiography, 'Freedom Suite', was a blistering indictment of corporate exploitation in music. He wrote, 'They wanted my soul on a platter. I gave them noise.' That noise became immortality.
Britain's grief is palpable. Prime Minister Keir Starmer issued a statement calling Rollins 'a beacon of creativity and resilience'. The Royal Academy of Music, where he was an honorary fellow, will hold a memorial concert. Fans have gathered outside Ronnie Scott's in Soho, leaving flowers and tenor sax reeds. One mourner, a 67-year-old retired teacher named Margaret O'Leary, told me, 'He was my soundtrack. When the world was dark, Sonny Rollins was the light.'
Yet even in death, questions linger. Rollins was a sharp critic of the music industry's financial exploitation of black artists. Uncovered documents from his 1990s legal battles with Verve Records reveal a man fighting for fair royalties. He won, but barely. How many other artists have been silenced by the same machine? His estate, now under the control of his daughter Clover, has promised to continue his advocacy. But will the suits listen?
The world has lost a giant. But his music remains a testament to the power of refusal: refusal to conform, refusal to fade, refusal to be forgotten. Sonny Rollins was a man who made a bridge from darkness to light. Now it is our turn to walk across it.
