Last night, I sat in the 11th row at the Paramount and watched a booming hour-plus show by jazz legend Sonny Rollins.

Rollins was born in 1930 and rose to fame in the 1950s and early 60s (Saxophone Colossus, Tenor Madness, Our Man in Jazz) when Jazz—John Coltrane, Thelonius Monk, Ornette Coleman—took over.

Backed by piano, electric bass, drums, and a percussionist, Rollins was at ease humming that mad sax like he was back at the Village Vanguard.

As jazz critic/poet/angry-black-man LeRoi Jones wrote in a 1961 review:
There seems no doubt in my mind now that John Coltrane is the most impressive voice on the tenor saxophone of our times. And I say this with only a hesitant look over my shoulder in the direction of the Jazz Gallery where it is rumored that the old man of the mountain, Sonny Rollins, will soon reappear. (And if we get Sonny, Trane, and Ornette Coleman working at the same time, I want people to stop telling me how hip Paris is!)

Old man? Reappear? Indeed, daddy-o.
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