The first time I missed saxophonist Sonny Rollins, or, should I say, bungled a golden opportunity to catch the jazz god descend for one of his occasional concert appearances, was the summer of 1985, in New York City. He gave an unaccompanied outdoor performance in the sculpture garden at the Museum of Modern Art. After dropping out of grad school at New York University, I split for Florida, inadvertently buying a ticket for a flight that left town just 24 hours before Rollins's magnificent... More >>>