Sonny Rollins

Recorded just nine days after Tour de Force, this is Rollins's first session as a leader for Blue Note, and the difference in atmosphere is immediate. Where Prestige captured Rollins live in the room, Blue Note rehearsed and pushed for compositional weight. The result is more polished and less raw, which is sometimes a virtue and sometimes a cost. Donald Byrd is on trumpet, twenty-four years old and already one of the most reliable horn players in New York. Wynton Kelly takes over the piano chair from Kenny Drew, and his lighter, springier touch reshapes the rhythm section's whole approach.

"Decision" is the standout, a hard-charging Rollins original where Byrd and Rollins trade with the kind of relaxed competition that makes hard bop go. "Bluesnote" is exactly what its title suggests, a clean blues line with that particular Blue Note swagger, and "Sonnysphere" is a Rollins theme that probably should be played more often than it is. Gene Ramey is a steadying presence on bass, less inventive than Paul Chambers but harmonically rock-solid, and Max Roach (carrying over from Prestige) keeps the music moving without ever crowding it.

This is sometimes overlooked because Volume 2 has the bigger names attached. That's a mistake. Vol. 1 is the cleaner, leaner record, and Rollins plays with a confidence that comes from knowing he's already arrived. The Blue Note debut earns its place in the run.

The cover photograph alone, Rollins in a stetson and gun belt squinting into the Mojave sun, would have made this record famous. The music inside happens to be one of the most important sessions in jazz. This was Rollins's first date as a trio leader without piano or guitar, and the combination of his ferocious harmonic ear with Ray Brown and Shelly Manne (neither of whom had ever played with him before) produced something nobody had quite heard before. The pianoless format wasn't unprecedented, but no tenor player had ever filled the harmonic space this completely on their own.

The repertoire is itself a statement. "I'm an Old Cowhand" and "Wagon Wheels" are cowboy songs, the kind of material self-serious jazz musicians wouldn't touch in 1957, and Rollins finds genuine harmonic depth in them. Ray Brown's bass is a marvel, holding down roots while leaving Rollins room to roam, and Shelly Manne's drums are the secret weapon, light enough to sit perfectly behind the saxophone but rhythmically alert in a way that drives without ever pushing. "Come, Gone" is a rhythm changes blowing vehicle that catches Rollins at his most fearless, and the title track is one of his great original blues.

Way Out West changed what was possible for the tenor in a small group setting. Without a chordal instrument, every harmonic movement has to live in Rollins's lines, and he meets that demand by playing more clearly, more architecturally, than anyone had on the instrument before. This is one of the half-dozen essential jazz records of the 1950s, and not just because the cover is funny.

This is the loaded session. Six musicians, every one a leader in their own right, including two pianists splitting duties (Horace Silver on most tracks, Thelonious Monk only on his own compositions "Misterioso" and "Reflections"). Released just weeks after Way Out West, it's the polar opposite in approach: where Way Out West was three musicians filling all the space, Vol. 2 is six musicians dancing around each other, sometimes crowded, always interesting, and twice rising to something extraordinary.

The Monk tracks are why this record has its reputation. "Misterioso" pairs Rollins and Monk as the two most idiosyncratic improvisers in jazz, and you can hear them listening hard to each other, neither willing to soften his angles. Monk's accompaniment is famously sparse and oddly placed, and Rollins (who had toured with Monk earlier in the decade) navigates it like he's been doing this his whole life. "Reflections" is the more lyrical of the two, with Rollins delivering one of his most beautiful balladic statements over Monk's harmony. J.J. Johnson is luxury casting on trombone, blending warmth and bop facility, and Art Blakey kicks the whole thing forward whenever Rollins needs a push.

The non-Monk tracks are very good. Silver's piano is a different rhythmic engine entirely, more locked-in and groove-oriented, and "Why Don't I" and "Wail March" are fine vehicles. But the heart of the record is the four-and-a-half minutes of "Misterioso." Few sessions in the 1950s deliver the wattage of the personnel here, and even fewer earn it.

By June 1957, Rollins was recording for three labels at once: Prestige had let him go, Blue Note had him under their tent, Contemporary had Way Out West, and now Riverside got a turn. The Sound of Sonny is the result, an unusual record because it's mostly standards, mostly short, and mostly relaxed. It catches Rollins between the famous statements of his great year and lets him sound like a working musician in a room rather than a man making history.

Sonny Clark is a perfect pianist for this date, with his bluesy touch and unfussy comping giving Rollins exactly the platform he needs. Roy Haynes is more conversational than Max Roach, lighter and more elastic, and the bass chair splits between Percy Heath (June 11 and 12) and Paul Chambers (June 19), each bringing something a little different. "Toot, Toot, Tootsie!" is delightful, a Jolson chestnut taken at brisk tempo with a smiling solo from Rollins. "Just in Time" is one of the best tracks on the record, with Rollins exploring the changes patiently and Clark delivering a chorus of his own that reminds you why his playing is so beloved.

This isn't the record to play first if you want to convince someone Rollins is a giant. Way Out West does that. But once you've made the case, The Sound of Sonny is the one to put on when you want to hear how a giant sounds when he's just enjoying himself. There's an unhurried quality here that some of the more famous 1957 dates lack, and that turns out to be one of Rollins's underrated qualities.

Newk's Time was recorded September 22, 1957 but sat in the can until 1959, when Blue Note finally released it as the first album in their new BLP 4000 series. The two-year gap is curious because there's nothing tentative about the playing. Rollins, Wynton Kelly, Doug Watkins, and Philly Joe Jones cut a tight, hard-swinging session that sounds like four musicians who had been on the same bandstand all summer (Watkins and Jones had been the rhythm section of the Miles Davis Quintet earlier that year). The title is a nod to Rollins's nickname "Newk," after Brooklyn Dodgers pitcher Don Newcombe, whom he was said to resemble.

The five quartet tracks are uniformly excellent. Miles Davis's "Tune Up" opens at a tempo that should be a statement and instead sounds like four guys having a good time. "Asiatic Raes" (Kenny Dorham's tune) is the unsung gem, with Wynton Kelly's piano sparkling underneath Rollins's solo. "Wonderful! Wonderful!" turns a syrupy Johnny Mathis hit into something with real shape. And "Blues for Philly Joe" is exactly what it says, a vehicle for the drummer that catches him in his most musical mood.

The big moment is "The Surrey with the Fringe on Top," a tenor-drums duet between Rollins and Philly Joe Jones with no piano or bass at all. It's audacious, technically demanding, and one of the great recorded examples of how much harmonic information can live in a single saxophone line. Newk's Time gets less attention than Saxophone Colossus or Way Out West, but it's the record that closes the 1957 chapter for Rollins, and it goes out at full strength.