This story originally appeared in our print quarterly, The Pitchfork Review. Buy back issues of the magazine here.

Meeting some people can feel like entering a fairytale, and interviewing the 85-year-old Sonny Rollins recently had that quality, beginning with the woods. Rollins has lived in upstate New York, for over 15 years now—the move was precipitated by 9/11—and trees heavy with early spring leaves line the front of his house, which is secluded.

Outside, one is aware of sound—bird calls, rainwater dripping off the roof—because that has been Rollins’ job for over 60 years now: to make others aware of what he hears, and what the world gives, sonically. Settling in his spacious sitting room, Rollins told me in his melodious, sonorous voice, why he hadn’t been able to tour behind his two most recent albums: just over two years ago, he was diagnosed with respiratory issues, a diagnosis which caused him to feel, he said, “really depressed.”

Sonny Rollins: I’ve come to terms with it. If I can play again, I’d like to play again. I feel I haven’t quite gotten where I wanted to get to in my music. I’ve had a successful career. I’ve done what I’ve always wanted to do, which is music. I’m 85 years old now, so there is nothing to be angry about. If I can play again, if I can get the medications, these new drugs, then fine, I’ll be able to play again. If not, that’s the way it is. I have accepted it.