June 7, 2026

The 10 most important games in World Cup history: ranked

 

 

A thousand matches. Many of them life-changing, several history-changing. All of them part of the story.

After 96 years and 23 editions, Tunisia vs Japan in Monterrey, Mexico on June 20 (5am on June 21 UK time) will take the total number of games played at World Cups to 1,000.

Naturally, some of these past matches are more famous than others, while each of them will have meant different things to different people.

So, to mark the upcoming milestone, The Athletic has come up with a list of the 10 most important World Cup games. Not the 10 best, but rather the ones that have, for a variety of reasons, had the biggest impact on the sport and loom largest in its history.

For this article, a longlist of games was drawn up and then a panel of our journalists ranked them in order of most importance.

Now of course, many notorious, well-known and iconic matches have failed to make the cut. Italy’s triumph over Czechoslovakia in the 1934 final which strengthened the regime of fascist dictator Benito Mussolini, for example. England’s sole World Cup win in 1966, when they defeated West Germany in the deciding game. And Italy’s fourth victory in 2006 when, despite the Calciopoli scandal ripping apart their domestic game, they beat France in the final in Berlin. That’s just how it goes when it comes to an exercise such as this.

So, here are the top 10… and the reasons why.


10. ‘The day that football died’

1982 second group stage: Italy 3-2 Brazil

Three teams stand out as the best not to have won the World Cup: Hungary in 1954, Netherlands in 1974 and Brazil in 1982. So while they were all very different sides, it is not a coincidence that each of their demises is chronicled in this article.

The Brazil team from that 1982 edition in Spain can’t — unlike the Hungarians 28 years previously and the Dutch eight years beforehand — claim to have definitively been the best side at the tournament or even the best in their nation’s history, but they did play the most glorious and entertaining football in the competition; with their intoxicating, attack-minded style cementing them as the neutrals’ favourites of not just that World Cup, but possibly any World Cup.

Yet while Brazil stunned creatively — particularly when Zico, Socrates, Falcao and Eder were involved — they were not, as The Athletic’s Michael Cox noted in his article last year on Italy’s triumph at the tournament , anywhere near as effective defensively. Indeed, they only kept one clean sheet in five matches.

After qualifying for the second round with three wins, they beat Argentina in their first game of the resulting three-team group and then, in the deciding match, took on an Italy side still trying to find its feet after the Totonero match-fixing scandal of 1980 — which had resulted in several players, including centre-forward Paolo Rossi, being suspended from the sport.

The Italians were as low as seventh-favourites for the tournament with most bookmakers before it got underway and had lumbered through the first group stage with three draws (scoring just twice). They then beat Argentina before the game against Brazil.

What followed, as Brian Glanville wrote in his book The Story of the World Cup, was: “The game which ‘should’ have been the World Cup final. The game in which Brazil’s glorious midfield, put finally to the test, could not make up for the deficiencies behind and in front of it.”

The ‘in front of it’ is a reference to striker Serginho, whose substitution following a laboured performance in the first group stage prompted former Brazil manager Joao Saldanha to remark, harshly: “Now the ball is round again.” He was substituted again against the Italians, with his game in total contrast to that of Rossi’s, who delivered one of the greatest individual displays in the World Cup’s history.

Due largely to his ban — which lasted from the spring of 1980 to the spring of 1982 — Rossi had not scored an international goal in more than three years and at times in the tournament had looked pedestrian, but then, in the space of 69 minutes, the 25-year-old scored a sublimely-executed hat-trick consisting of a header following a perfectly-timed run, a well-placed shot from the edge of the box and a lightning-quick turn and finish that bamboozled Brazil’s goalkeeper Waldir Peres.

Rossi on the ball for Italy in 1982 against BrazilAlessandro Sabattini/Getty Images

The goals came in the fifth, 25th and 74th minutes with Brazil, through Socrates and Falcao, equalising twice but having no answer to Rossi’s third — as Italy’s 40-year-old goalkeeper Dino Zoff made a superb save late on to deny the South Americans the draw they needed.

The game had see-sawed magnificently and the more functional Italians went on to match Brazil’s then-record three World Cup wins by beating Poland in the semi-finals and West Germany in the final, with Rossi scoring three more times to pick up the Golden Boot.

Zico summed up how most Brazilians and many neutrals felt by proclaiming that it “was the day that football died” and Jonathan Wilson, in his book about the history of the World Cup called The Power and the Glory, wrote: “The consequences for Brazilian football were profound. The sense was that the return to the old ways had failed. Brazil’s football may have been beautiful, but they came up short. ‘From that moment on the emphasis changed to focus even more on results,’ Socrates said. ‘Brazilian football would never be the same.'”

And in a strange way, Brazil’s early elimination from that tournament 44 years ago has only added to their enduring appeal — with the team more fondly remembered than the country’s victorious sides in 1994 and 2002. Maybe Zico and Socrates were right.


9. Legendary Hungary team denied their crowning glory

1954 final: West Germany 3-2 Hungary

The Hungarian team of the early 1950s was one of the greatest in the history of football, with their dominance best encapsulated by their two myth-shattering thrashings of England in consecutive years.

Their ultimate fate, though, is to be remembered for the one match they lost rather than their futuristic setup and the sensational feats of, among others, Ferenc Puskas, Sandor Kocsis, Nandor Hidegkuti and Jozsef Bozsik.

That they were beaten in the 1954 World Cup final by a relatively ordinary West Germany side, who they had thrashed two weeks earlier in the group stage, remains one of the sport’s biggest anomalies.

Hungary were rampant and won 8-3 in that group game, though it should be noted that many of West Germany’s players had been rested. (The 1962 edition, where Brazil and Czechoslovakia played in the groups and final, is the only other World Cup where the finalists have met twice).

Overall, Hungary scored 25 goals in their four matches en route to the final, with Kocsis’ 11 for the tournament only bettered by France’s Just Fontaine’s 13 in 1958.

However, West Germany — who had been banned from the 1950 World Cup — grew as the competition progressed and they thrashed a good Austria team 6-1 in the semi-finals to set up the showdown in Bern with a Hungary team unbeaten in more than four years.

Perhaps more importantly than the West Germans’ improvement, though, was the fact Puskas — who at that point was the best footballer of all time and someone who remains in the top 10 — was suffering from an ankle injury that had kept him out of the quarter-final and semi-final; with much of the build-up to the final centred around whether he would play.

Puskas shoots against West Germany in the 1954 finalDB/Picture Alliance via Getty Images

As Glanville wrote in his book: “In the event, however, Puskas did play; and it would prove a manifest mistake, a testimony to the captain’s own powers of persuasion rather than the good sense of (Gusztav) Sebes (manager and deputy minister of sport).”

The match, despite the torrential rain, was thrilling and ranks alongside 2022 as the greatest of World Cup finals. Hungary went 2-0 up in the first eight minutes thanks to Puskas and Zoltan Czibor. The West Germans fought back immediately and it was 2-2 just 10 minutes later, thanks to Max Morlock and Helmut Rahn.

At that point, Hungary realised, for once, that things might be different and this would not be another case of simply steamrolling their opponents. Glanville remarked: “It was becoming plain that for all the fury of their beginning, Hungary were not running smoothly. Puskas, clearly hampered by his ankle, was unwontedly heavy and slow.”

Rahn then made it 3-2 to West Germany with just six minutes left to put the Hungarians in full panic mode. They did almost force extra time, but Puskas’ late strike was adjudged to have been from an offside position (a decision that remains debated).

So one of the best teams the World Cup has ever seen left without the trophy and a West German side representing a nation still bearing the scars of the Second World War triumphed.

As Wilson noted in his book last year: “No World Cup win has ever been greeted by the winners with such ambivalence. Not even a decade had passed since the end of the Second World War. Quite apart from the complicated feelings of the east, for West Germany, only constituted in 1949, anything overtly nationalistic was to be avoided at all costs.”

An intriguing and potentially sinister sub-plot to the match is the reports that syringes were found in the West German dressing room, with an investigation by researchers at Humboldt University and the University of Munster in 2013 concluding that it was likely the players were injected with methamphetamine.

Whatever the truth, Hungary’s football team has never been the same since, whereas the Germans have won the tournament three more times.



8. The first World Cup final and a sign of things to come

1930 final: Uruguay 4-2 Argentina

The invention of the World Cup ranks as one of the most consequential moments in all of sport and the fact the inaugural tournament in 1930 was marred by withdrawals, arduous travel and poor pitches is now just a distant chapter in its storied history.

The edition wasn’t all bad, though, far from it. Many of the matches were exciting and hosts Uruguay were probably the best international team at any point before the Second World War (though their peak had been in the mid-1920s). Indeed, part of the reason the World Cup was created was so FIFA could offer an alternative to the then-prestigious football tournament contested at the Olympic Games, which the Uruguayans had won in style in 1924 and 1928 to become self-proclaimed ‘world champions’.

France were perhaps unlucky to go out in the competition’s groups (not helped by the two-week boat journey across the Atlantic) but the teams that made the final, Uruguay and Argentina, were the best at the tournament.

Uruguay score against Argentina in the 1930 finalAllsport/Hulton

The two South American sides served up a great game in front of a manic crowd which, as well as locals, contained thousands of Argentinians who had been brought over on boats just for the occasion.

In the first of four World Cup finals to finish 4-2, Uruguay fought back from 2-1 down and sealed victory in the 89th minute when Hector Castro, who had lost his right forearm in a childhood accident, delivered a thumping finish.

The build-up to the game had been dominated by the question of which ball would be used, as each side had played with their preferred one en route to the showpiece.

It has long been believed that the Argentinians’ choice of ball was used in the first half and the Uruguayans’ in the second. However, as The Athletic’s Cox pointed out last year in his article on the hosts’ victory, no real evidence exists to support this and it is more likely that Argentina won the toss and got to play with theirs throughout the match.

If so, it wasn’t enough and a great Uruguay team’s denouement was a deserved triumph on home soil that kickstarted the most popular sporting competition in the world.


7. Total Football’s nearly moment

1974 final: West Germany 2-1 Netherlands

It has largely been forgotten now, but the superb Total Football-playing Dutch team from the 1974 World Cup almost didn’t qualify for the competition — only pipping neighbours Belgium on goal difference following a tense 0-0 draw between the sides.

Once at the tournament, though, they were majestic — with captain Johan Cruyff, playing in his only World Cup, typically outstanding.

In a devilishly-hard run to the final, they won their first group containing Sweden, Bulgaria and Uruguay and then also topped their second, with victories over Argentina, East Germany and Brazil.

Their opponents in the decider in Munich were host nation West Germany, whose path to the final had been smoothed as their surprise loss to East Germany in the first group stage (the only time the two Germanys played) meant they fortuitously went into the easier second-round pool with Poland, Sweden and Yugoslavia and avoided the big-hitters Netherlands had to get past.

Cruyff is denied in the 1974 finalStaff/AFP via Getty Images

The hosts were still a great team, though; they had won Euro 1972 and, as well as home advantage, in sweeper Franz Beckenbauer and centre-forward Gerd Muller, had Germany’s two greatest-ever players in their line-up.

Just like in their first World Cup triumph in 1954, West Germany went behind early in the deciding match. Cruyff’s first-minute run from the centre-circle began slowly as he scanned what lay in front of him, before an explosion of thought and speed — combined with dazzling footwork — saw him burst into the opposition penalty box to draw an inevitable foul.

Johan Neeskens converted the resulting penalty which was, for 23 minutes, the only one to be awarded in a World Cup final. Paul Breitner quickly equalised from the spot for the West Germans and then, just before half-time, Muller struck ruthlessly after controlling a cutback.

The goal not only won the World Cup for West Germany, it also meant Muller became the competition’s then-all-time top scorer with 14 goals (10 in 1970 and four in 1974); eclipsing Fontaine’s 13.

Remarkably, this and the 1978 edition were the only World Cups that Netherlands played in between 1938 and 1990; and they were runners-up in both. By the time the tournament reached Argentina four years later, though, the Dutch were not quite the slick — if defensively-flawed — outfit that played in 1974. For starters, Cruyff decided not to travel to South America as he feared for his own safety following a kidnapping attempt.

The Dutch also lost in the final in 2010, though nobody could reasonably argue they deserved to win that tournament ahead of Spain.

So, 1974 remains the high-water mark for Netherlands at the World Cup. And boy were they good that summer.



6. The emergence of the ultimate World Cup legend

1958 final: Sweden 2-5 Brazil

The first of Brazil’s record five World Cup wins is best remembered for the emergence of the 17-year-old Pele — the individual with whom the tournament is most closely associated.

That his pre-eminence still holds true, 56 years after last playing in the competition, is partly due to his unmatched three triumphs and the magnificent Brazilian sides he was at the heart of but, more than that, it is because the World Cup made him the first truly global footballing superstar.

It all started in Sweden in 1958, where Pele became, at the time, the youngest player to both play and score at the World Cup. The latter record still stands.

His performances that summer reached a crescendo in the knockout stage — netting against Wales in the quarter-finals, bagging a hat-trick in the last four against France and then scoring twice in the final against Sweden.

The showpiece against the hosts was the first genuinely one-sided final in the competition, with the Swedes unable to cope with Pele, Vava, Garrincha and the marauding Djalma Santos.

Pele scored Brazil’s third and fifth goals and, had his career ended then, he would still be comfortably nestled in the World Cup pantheon. As it was, he came back for three more bites at the cherry — with the last of those, in Mexico 12 years later, even more celebrated than this. More on that later.

Pele, arms aloft, celebrates scoring for Brazil in the 1958 World Cup finalGetty Images

5. The hosts humiliated

2014 semi-finals: Brazil 1-7 Germany

Perhaps the most shocking scoreline in World Cup history, Germany’s demolition of Brazil in Belo Horizonte was as much a triumph for the tournament’s eventual winners as it was cataclysmic for the host nation.

Lost in the Brazilian tears, anguish and confusion was just how clinical the Germans had been. The winners had four fewer shots, but were a supremely well-balanced side who scored with 70 per cent of their efforts on target.

Injury to poster boy Neymar and captain Thiago Silva’s suspension for the match, while weakening their team on the pitch, had done nothing to temper the expectations of 200 million football-obsessed Brazilians who demanded nothing less than a sixth World Cup triumph.

That those hopes were extinguished so ruthlessly only added to the shock of both those supporting and playing.

The match is also notable for Germany’s Miroslav Klose becoming the tournament’s all-time top scorer. His goal — the second of the night — was his 16th in World Cup matches.

This is actually the closest Brazil have got to the final since last winning the competition in 2002, but given their status as hosts and the almighty expectation that came with it — coupled with the humiliating nature of their exit — the defeat must be seen as the country’s most traumatic at the World Cup since losing to Uruguay in the deciding match in Rio de Janeiro in 1950.

The period of mourning was profound and continued long after Germany’s Philipp Lahm had hoisted the World Cup aloft in the Maracana five days later.


Brazil defender Marcelo’s reaction captured the emotions of a nation in 2014Mike Egerton/PA Images via Getty Images

4. The magic and mischief of Maradona

1986 quarter-finals: Argentina 2-1 England

The quality of Diego Maradona’s overall performance at the 1986 World Cup remains without parallel in the competition’s history.

Glanville wrote in The Story of the World Cup: “It will always be remembered as Maradona’s World Cup. In an era when individual talent was at a premium, defensive football more prevalent than ever, Maradona — squat, muscular, explosive, endlessly adroit — showed that a footballer of genius could still prevail.”

Maradona and Argentina played seven games at that tournament in Mexico and it is the fifth of those, the quarter-final against England, which is the most notable.

This would perhaps still be true even if Maradona hadn’t scored arguably the two most famous goals in the tournament’s history in the game, because the off-field background to the match was the bloody, 74-day Falklands War between Argentina and the United Kingdom that had taken place in 1982.

As Paul Hayward wrote in his book England Football: The Biography, 1872-2022: “The graphic nature of the fighting, broadcast in gory detail on television, left a trail of acrimony. It invaded the consciousness of each side.”

Years later, in his autobiography, Maradona remarked: “Before the match, we said that football had nothing to do with the Malvinas War. But we knew a lot of Argentinian kids had died there.”

However, the game — which was played on a dreadful pitch in front of almost 115,000 people at the Azteca Stadium in Mexico City — will forever be remembered for Maradona’s two goals that perfectly encapsulated the split-screen feel to his career. He was a player who scaled previously unprecedented footballing heights but was never far from controversy, including heavy cocaine use, mafia links and on-field violence.

The first goal, in the 51st minute, is still widely considered one of the most controversial moments in the World Cup’s history and the second, just four minutes later, one of the best ever scored.

Punching the ball over England goalkeeper Peter Shilton to make it 1-0, an act immortalised as The Hand of God, was, depending on who you listen to, either an egregious act of cheating or a cunning ploy that should be applauded for its ingenuity.

Maradona’s Hand of God goal is one of the iconic moments in the sport’s historyAllsport/Getty Images

The second goal, meanwhile, epitomised the astonishing levels of natural ability Maradona possessed; with the ball seemingly superglued to his feet during his wondrous, breathtaking run from inside the Argentina half that ended with him scoring from a few yards out.

It is best summed up by Bryon Butler’s live commentary for BBC radio: “Maradona turns like a little eel and comes away from trouble. Little squat man, comes inside Butcher, leaves him for dead, outside Fenwick, leaves him for dead… and puts the ball away. And that is why Maradona is the greatest player in the world! He buried the England defence!”

Gary Lineker got one back for England but it wasn’t enough and Argentina went on to beat Belgium in the semi-finals (with Maradona again magisterial) and then West Germany in the final, where the 25-year-old was subdued due to heavy marking but still laid on the winner for Jorge Burruchaga.

The final word should come from England’s manager at that tournament, Sir Bobby Robson, who commented: “Let’s just say that without Maradona, Argentina would have no chance of winning the World Cup. That’s how great he is.”

3. Messi’s crowning glory

2022 final: Argentina 3-3 France (Argentina won 4-2 on penalties)

Lionel Messi would not have been any less a footballer if Argentina had been defeated by France in the penalty shootout that decided the 2022 World Cup final. Nor would he have been if his team hadn’t even got close to winning that tournament in Qatar.

Yet the hold the World Cup has over the footballing public’s imagination is such that Messi’s already pinch-yourself career would have been seen as incomplete if he hadn’t won the game’s biggest prize. That he was Maradona’s heir, and that his illustrious predecessor won the competition almost single-handedly, only added to the sense that it would be a case of destiny unfulfilled if he was not able to lift the trophy.

Argentina went into the tournament as one of the favourites, unbeaten in 36 games and fresh off the back of winning Copa America the previous year — Messi’s first international trophy. At 35, he was no longer quite the player he had been for much of the 2010s but was still a devastatingly-effective passer, finisher and dribbler.

Suggestions that he might play in the 2026 edition were then seen as fanciful, so it was Qatar or bust — with the loss to Saudi Arabia in Argentina’s first game feeling seismic.

Everything changed, though, after Messi’s sublime 25-yard strike against Mexico in the second match put his team on the path to reach the knockout stage.

Once there, a combination of Messi’s genius, goalkeeper Emiliano Martinez’s larger-than-life performances, a well-balanced team, and — it must be said — some unsavoury moments of skullduggery by several players, helped Argentina battle their way to the final against defending champions France.

It felt like the right final. They had been the two best teams at the tournament and France, in the then-23-year-old Kylian Mbappe, had the game’s young superstar in their ranks, who was bidding to win his second World Cup.

A virus plagued the French camp before the game, so Didier Deschamps’ side’s preparations for the showdown were far from ideal. Nevertheless, the outcome heading into the match was too close to call.

That changed rapidly as Argentina flew out of the traps and picked apart their jaded opponents, going 2-0 up after 36 minutes, with the first goal a Messi penalty.

Deschamps, who was bidding to become the second manager to win the World Cup twice — after Italian Vittorio Pozzo in 1934 and 1938 — acted decisively by making a first-half double substitution in which Randal Kolo Muani and Marcus Thuram replaced Ousmane Dembele and Olivier Giroud.

France recovered somewhat but were still two goals down as the clock approached 80 minutes. Then, in a flash, everything changed. Kolo Muani was brought down in the penalty area after an incisive run and Mbappe converted the spot kick.

Less than two minutes later, Messi lost the ball near the halfway line and a France move ended with a sumptuous, crushing Mbappe volley hitting the back of the net.

Given the occasion and what was at stake, extra time — and in particular the last five minutes of it — must surely be considered among the most exciting spectacles sport has ever produced.

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Messi scored again, Mbappe held his nerve from the spot again and the thrilling, end-to-end action culminated in Martinez’s astonishing one-on-one save from Kolo Muani and then Lautaro Martinez’s missed header from the resulting breakaway.

Argentina triumphed in the subsequent penalty shootout to pick up their third World Cup and, crucially, Messi’s first. The captain sank to his knees on the halfway line, mobbed by his exultant team-mates.

His status as the game’s best secure, Messi lifted the trophy in a bisht that had been placed upon him — obliged to share his greatest triumph with the geopolitical forces that had brought the World Cup to the Middle East for the first time.

Messi wears a bisht to lift the World Cup trophy in 2022Jabin Botsford/The Washington Post via Getty Images

2. The worst day in Brazil’s sporting history

1950 final round: Brazil 1-2 Uruguay

Maracanazo. It has its own name. The worst day in Brazil’s sporting history.

The chapter about the 1950 World Cup in Wilson’s history of the competition begins: “‘You players,’ the mayor of Rio de Janeiro, Angelo Mendes de Moraes, said before kick-off, ‘will be hailed as champions by millions of compatriots in a few hours!… You, who I already salute as victors! I fulfilled my promise, building this stadium. Now, do your duty and win the World Cup!’.”

This was spoken on the public address system at the Maracana in Rio de Janeiro and the occasion was the deciding match of a tournament that Brazil had hosted and, up until that point, dominated.

Uniquely, this edition did not have a final. Instead, the four group winners — Brazil, Spain, Sweden and Uruguay — progressed to a ‘final round’ which consisted of a round-robin pool.

As it transpired, the last set of games produced a de-facto final as first-placed Brazil took on second-placed Uruguay, with the host nation only needing a draw to win their first World Cup.

As can be discerned from De Moraes’ pre-match speech, confidence in Brazil was ridiculously high. The thought of failure was intolerable. Even if Uruguay did play the game of their lives, the quality of Brazil’s three main attackers, Jair, Ademir and Zizinho, would surely prove too much for them.

As Glanville wrote in his own history of the World Cup: “The mood in Brazil before the decisive match with Uruguay was one of bounding euphoria. How could they lose? How indeed, could they do anything but win?”

With around 200,000 people in attendance, Brazil dominated the start of the game and only the resolute nature of Uruguay’s defence, marshalled by the outstanding Obdulio Varela, prevented the hosts scoring before half-time.

Friaca put them 1-0 up soon after the break, though — meaning unless Uruguay could score twice, Brazil would be crowned world champions.

But the goal stirred something in Uruguay and, in the 66th minute, Juan Alberto Schiaffino equalised at the near post following a flowing move.

Schiaffino scores Uruguay’s first goal against BrazilAFP via Getty Images

It was at this point that the atmosphere in the stadium changed. The carnival-like jamboree quietened dramatically and jubilation was replaced by tension. The same happened on the pitch, Glanville commented: “It was Varela who bestrode the field, nonchalant and indomitable, masterfully breaking up and launching attacks, the old-school centre-half par excellence.”

Then, with 11 minutes to go, it happened. Alcides Ghiggia exchanged a one-two with his Uruguay team-mate Julio Perez, burst into the box and unleashed a shot that beat Brazil goalkeeper Moacir Barbosa at his near post.

Brazil did not come close to the equaliser they needed to win the tournament, with their shellshocked players unable to muster any attacks of substance.

The Maracana descended into silence at full time, as the nation struggled to comprehend what had happened. Brazilian writer Nelson Rodrigues’ remark that “everywhere has its irremediable national catastrophe, something like a Hiroshima. Our catastrophe, our Hiroshima, was the defeat by Uruguay in 1950”, is of course a gross exaggeration but highlights the depth of feeling.

Goalkeeper Barbosa was viewed in Brazil as the main culprit and, sadly and unfairly, suffered abuse for it for the rest of his life.

Uruguay, for their part, joyfully celebrated becoming the second team, after Italy, to win the World Cup twice.

An interesting legacy of the game is that up until that point, Brazil’s first-choice kit had been a white top and shorts with blue trimmings but, as a result of the defeat, it was changed to the famous yellow shirt and blue shorts we know today.

Generations of players have graced the changed strip, none of them more famous than Pele. Legend has it that, as a nine-year-old in 1950, he saw his father crying after the match and vowed to avenge the loss by winning the World Cup himself. He did, three times — with the last of those triumphs the most breathtaking of them all…


1. The immortalisation of the World Cup’s greatest side

1970 final: Brazil 4-1 Italy

The Brazil team that won the World Cup in 1970 is widely considered the best in international history, with the side immortalised by a glorious style of play, the advent of colour television and their blazing yellow shirts.

Their apotheosis came in the blazing afternoon heat of Mexico City on June 21, 1970, when they blew Italy away with a performance of unmatched beauty — summed up by their fourth and final goal, which saw captain Carlos Alberto finishing off a stunning team move with a thunderous strike.

Wilson noted: “Brazil by then had come to feel as though they were about more than games or results, more even than winning the World Cup: they were about an expression of football in its most beautiful form, about pushing the boundaries of human capability.”

Naturally, a big part of this was due to the players at their disposal and their tactical setup. As Cox wrote for The Athletic last August in his article on the team: “On one hand, this was the 4-2-4 approach that Brazil had used at previous tournaments. But it was looser, more free flowing. This side featured five players who were accustomed to playing No 10 for their club — Pele, Tostao, Rivellino, Jairzinho and Gerson, all world class.”

And while a 29-year-old Pele didn’t quite peak at the tournament, Jairzinho certainly did; scoring in every game after finally being granted his wish to play on the right for his country.

The team was managed by Mario Zagallo, who had won the World Cup as a player alongside Pele in 1958 and 1962. As pointed out by Cox, Zagallo was only brought in as manager in the March of 1970 after his predecessor, Saldanha, had fallen out with Brazil’s dictatorial president Emilio Medici.

It worked, though, with a hands-off Zagallo seeing his team beat Czechoslovakia, defending champions England and Romania in the groups before dispatching Peru in the quarter-finals and Uruguay in the semi-finals.

The Italian team that awaited in the decider had just come through a remarkable semi-final against West Germany in near-unplayable temperatures, with their tournament dominated by the debate surrounding midfielders Sandro Mazzola of Inter and Gianni Rivera of Milan.

As John Foot wrote in his book Calcio: A History of Italian Football: “Neither Mazzola nor Rivera, he (manager Ferruccio Valcareggi) believed, could play 90 minutes in the Mexico heat. Neither could be left out completely. So it was to be one half each (in the knockout stage). This compromise worked well until the final, when Valcareggi broke his own rules, giving Rivera a token six minutes (and leaving Mazzola on) with Italy already 3-1 down.”

This decision, and perceived mismanagement, has gone down in Italian footballing history; but even if Valcareggi had found a way to simultaneously get the best out of these two masterful midfielders, his side would still have been no match for Brazil.

Pele, Gerson and Jairzinho all scored for the team in yellow before Carlos Alberto’s piece de resistance.

Carlos Alberto scored one of the iconic World Cup goals in the 1970 final against ItalyPeter Robinson/Empics via Getty Images

That fourth goal, which ranks alongside Maradona’s second against England in 1986 as the best in World Cup history, involved almost the entire Brazil team and included several individual moments of brilliance: Clodoaldo effortlessly beating four opponents in his own half, Jairzinho’s turn, run and then pass to Pele, the nonchalant lay-off that follows and then Carlos Alberto’s thumping finish.

It is fitting, given the standard of that Brazil team, that their victory over Italy earned them the right to keep the Jules Rimet trophy by virtue of becoming the first country to win the tournament three times.

They also won every match they played without needing extra time at any point, a feat only matched by Uruguay in 1930 and Brazil again in 2002.

Ultimately, though, no words can truly do justice to the majesty of their play. You are best served by simply watching videos of them at their very best.

THE NEW YORK TIMES 

 

 

May 31, 2026

Sonny Rollins: 12 Essential Albums


 Sonny Rollins, wearing a black shirt and black sunglasses, plays a saxophone onstage.

The towering saxophonist, who died at 95, was a master of living in the moment. Listen to some of his most compelling work, onstage and in the studio. 

 

Sonny Rollins’s contribution to jazz can be hard to sum up easily. The saxophone great, who died Monday at 95, didn’t spearhead new movements, like Charlie Parker or Miles Davis; establish a unique compositional universe, like Thelonious Monk or Wayne Shorter; or lead an iconic working band, like John Coltrane or Duke Ellington. But what Rollins unquestionably did do, across his roughly 65-year career, is commit himself to the genre’s core imperative: inventing in real time, brilliantly and indefatigably.

As the critic Stanley Crouch once put it, “Sonny actually embodies what jazz really is, because jazz is really about making the present work.”

Early on, he produced classic recordings under ad hoc circumstances — recording in the middle of the night with a one-off trio on “Way Out West,” assembling another one hours before showtime on “A Night at the ‘Village Vanguard.’” In the ’60s, returning from a self-imposed two-and-a-half-year sabbatical, he brought a startlingly radical approach to a session with his saxophone idol, Coleman Hawkins, and gamely engaged the new jazz vanguard on albums such as “East Broadway Run Down.”

Rollins wrote prolifically, building a repertoire that included future jazz standards such as “Oleo” and “Airegin.” But in his later years, he remained committed to the popular songs that defined his youth, calypsos absorbed through his St. Thomas-born mother and other treasured fare. Taking the stage in 2001, he was happy to regale the audience with what he announced as “a number that I heard a long time ago when I was growing up,” finding renewed inspiration in “Without a Song,” a childhood favorite he had first recorded nearly 40 years earlier.

These 12 albums trace Rollins’s arc from rising star to elder statesman, showing how he never flagged in his restless pursuit of his next spontaneous feat.

Rollins’s mother, Valborg, would often sing calypso songs to her son. One of his favorites — a traditional tune known in many variants, including “Fire Down Below” — became “St. Thomas,” the jaunty opener to his definitive early album. A singsong melody and a shimmying Max Roach beat helped make it Rollins’s signature tune and the blueprint for the saxophonist’s many future calypso forays. The LP features the hard-driving original “Strode Rode” (which honored the trumpeter Freddie Webster, who had died at the Strode Hotel in Chicago in 1947) and an amiable take on Kurt Weill’’s “Moritat” (a.k.a. “Mack the Knife”), culminating with “Blue 7,” a lengthy blues the jazz historian Gunter Schuller would later proclaim a triumph of thematic improvisation. “The thing about the thematic approach, I guess it’s true, but I had never thought about it,” Rollins later said. “I was just playing it.”

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An avid moviegoer since childhood, Rollins particularly loved Westerns. When the producer Lester Koenig invited him out to Los Angeles in early 1957, he picked up on that theme, choosing tunes like Johnny Mercer’s “I’m an Old Cowhand (From the Rio Grande),” originally sung by Bing Crosby, Martha Raye and others in “Rhythm on the Range” from 1936. The bassist Ray Brown and the drummer Shelly Manne (who used a woodblock, adding a charming clip-clop texture) loped and cooked in turn, fueling the slyly daring style of a leader who, as he later put it, “was really living out my ‘Lone Ranger’ thing.”

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During an extended Village Vanguard engagement in the fall of 1957, Rollins couldn’t seem to find a band that suited him. Starting off the run with a quintet, he eventually sacked each of its members. (“I know that I was a pretty hard taskmaster at that time,” he later admitted.) On the day of a planned live recording for Blue Note, he made yet another swap between the afternoon and evening sets, replacing the bassist Donald Bailey and the drummer Pete La Roca with Wilbur Ware and Elvin Jones. The impromptu grouping turned out to be an inspired one, with Ware and Jones providing a foundation of finger-snapping swagger, inspiring relaxed yet marvelously fluent Rollins solos on lengthy performances of standards and originals like “Sonnymoon for Two.”

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Rollins wrote “The Freedom Suite,” this LP’s sidelong centerpiece, in 1957 after he faced racial discrimination when trying to rent a New York apartment. “It was an attempt to introduce some kind of Black pride into the conversation of the time,” he later said of the roomy four-movement work, which again found him at the helm of a trio and left plenty of space for the vital contributions of the bassist Oscar Pettiford and Roach, two years before his own “Freedom Now Suite.”

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By 1959, Rollins was one of the most celebrated saxophonists in jazz, but he wasn’t meeting his own high standards. So he decided to take more than two years off from performing and recording, famously spending much of that time practicing on the Williamsburg Bridge, near the Lower East Side apartment he shared with his wife, Lucille. The album that commemorated his return made no radical break with the past, instead showcasing a warm, intimate sound built on the plush chording of the guitarist Jim Hall. Offsetting the relaxed mood was the title track, a Rollins original where he sailed over the brisk up-tempo swing of the bassist Bob Cranshaw and the drummer Ben Riley with marvelous agility.

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Rollins vocally admired Coleman Hawkins, the master soloist who popularized the tenor in jazz. So when the chance came to record with his hero, after a live appearance at the 1963 Newport Jazz Festival, Rollins fretted over the challenge of, as he later put it, how to “still be natural and normal and myself while I still had this feeling of awe for him.” The answer, it turned out, was to cede traditionalism to Hawkins and turn in some of his most bracingly odd performances to date, such as on “Yesterdays,” where he answers his elder’s fluid musings with tense, choppy murmurs, or “Lover Man,” where he fixates on eerie upper-register squeaks.

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In the mid-60s, Rollins often dropped by a musicians’ loft at 89 East Broadway for hangouts punctuated by marathon jams. He commemorated the period on this admirably raw LP, where he teamed up with the bassist Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones, best known as the rhythm section in John Coltrane’s era-defining, then recently splintered quartet. The 20-minute-plus title track captures him in a mode of deep spontaneity, trading solos with the trumpeter Freddie Hubbard, basking in the unadorned throb of bass and drums, and eventually exploring pure free-time abstraction.

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Rollins stayed busy in the studio during the ’70s, but his most memorable releases from the period were captured live. Recorded during a multiple-night stand at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco, “Don’t Stop the Carnival” shows how Rollins adapted his sound to the fusion era, employing electric guitar, keyboard and bass. It’s a treat to hear him unleash a volcanic flow on the title track, a rousing calypso; riff on funky backbeat tunes such as “Camel”; and take flight alongside two high-profile sidemen, the trumpeter Donald Byrd and the drummer Tony Williams, on the up-tempo Byrd swinger “President Hayes.”

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While committed avant-gardists such as Anthony Braxton and Steve Lacy made a habit of unaccompanied saxophone performances, for Rollins, they were a rarity. That makes the only full solo record Rollins ever made into a fascinating outlier in his catalog. Excerpted from an hour-plus outdoor concert at the Museum of Modern Art’s Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Sculpture Garden, the fully improvised album feels almost like a Sonny Rollins brain scan, in which, for example, an unrelenting run achieved through circular breathing gives way to a cheeky quote from “Pop! Goes the Weasel.” Some reviewers cried foul, calling the album essentially a backstage warm-up disguised as a concert, but as a document of Rollins’s process — a “jukebox of the unconscious,” as his biographer Aidan Levy put it — it’s essential.

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In the ’80s, Rollins dug back into a swinging small group sound that, aside from the trusty presence of Bob Cranshaw on electric bass, made little concession to contemporary tastes. As heard on this live album, recorded at the upstate environmental sculpture Opus 40, he was every bit the powerhouse soloist he had been 30 years earlier. (He famously broke his heel mid-show.) Propelled by the snappy rhythm team of Cranshaw, the pianist Mark Soskin and the drummer Marvin Smith, known as Smitty, Rollins draws on a seemingly limitless well of energy as he ascends peak after improvisational peak on riffy tunes such as the title track and a rollicking “Don’t Stop the Carnival.”

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On Sept. 11, 2001, at the time of the World Trade Center attack, Rollins was in his high-rise apartment just six blocks away from Ground Zero, where he remained stuck for more than 24 hours before being evacuated by the National Guard. He considered canceling his next planned engagement, in Boston on Sept. 15, but Lucille, who had begun managing him in 1971, urged him to honor it. Captured by the Rollins superfan and bootlegger turned collaborator Carl Smith and released four years later, the show became a late-career highlight, featuring Rollins, alongside his regular working band, blowing in heartfelt, magisterial form on old favorites such as the title tune, which had led off “The Bridge” 39 years earlier.

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In 2008, Rollins began “Road Shows,” a multivolume live series that answered the prayers of many enthusiasts who felt that his best work was done onstage. The second volume was particularly noteworthy, thanks to the inclusion of material from Rollins’s momentous 80th birthday concert at New York’s Beacon Theater in 2010, which featured several distinguished guests: his “Bridge” collaborator Hall and, on a marathon version of “Sonnymoon for Two,” the drummer Roy Haynes, who had reunited with Rollins for a 2007 Carnegie Hall concert after a nearly 50-year break; the eminent bassist Christian McBride, also returning from the Carnegie show; and Ornette Coleman, who met and practiced with Rollins in Los Angeles in 1957 but had never previously performed with him. Despite its leisurely, jam-session feel, the historic meeting lived up to its promise, Coleman’s reedy, warbling alto contrasting beautifully with Rollins’s full-bodied tenor.

THE NEW YORK TIMES 

May 29, 2026

Paul McCartney não precisa mais fazer música, ele faz apenas porque gosta: 'Se a liberdade levar a um sucesso, ótimo

Paul McCartney mostra capa de novo álbum, 'The boys of Dungeon Lane'

Jon Pareles

Para Paul McCartney, compor não é apenas um trabalho, uma arte e uma válvula de escape emocional. É uma compulsão, um desejo incontrolável. “As pessoas perguntam: ‘Mas por que você ainda escreve canções?’ Simplesmente porque eu amo fazer isso. Sou viciado”, disse ele em uma entrevista no Boulevard Carroll, um labirinto de estúdios no extremo oeste de Manhattan, onde o cantor e compositor de 83 anos acabara de encerrar uma tarde de ensaio para o episódio final da temporada do “Saturday Night Live”. “De um buraco negro surge leite e mel. É uma sensação maravilhosa.”

Por mais prolífico que tenha sido — nos Beatles, Wings e em seus álbuns solo — McCartney, de 83 anos, não segue nenhuma disciplina ou rotina para compor. “Pode ser em qualquer lugar, com algum tempo livre e meu violão ao lado, ou um piano por perto. Então a vontade me domina”, disse ele. “Sempre que acerto alguma coisa, é tipo, uau, que sensação incrível. Sabe, todo esse processo criativo é fantástico. Digo que é melhor do que trabalhar.”

Mesmo para um ensaio, McCartney estava impecavelmente vestido. Usava um paletó azul, uma camisa preta com bolinhas cor de rosa, calças pretas, sapatos de sola branca e meias com um desenho psicodélico de bolhas azuis sob uma listra amarela brilhante.

Alguns dias depois, McCartney se apresentou no “SNL”, tocando músicas antigas e novas, incluindo “Days we left behind”, de seu novo álbum, “The Boys of Dungeon Lane”. Cinco dias depois, foi o convidado surpresa do “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert”, no palco do Ed Sullivan Theater, onde os Beatles fizeram sua estreia na América do Norte em 1964. No último episódio do programa de Colbert, cantou “Hello Goodbye”, dos Beatles.

'Você não tem qualificações'

Pessoalmente, McCartney lida com suas seis décadas de fama com uma simplicidade extraordinária. Ele é afável e despretensioso. Orgulhoso, mas não arrogante, e ainda se encanta com sua vida como músico. "Hoje em dia me pergunto como acabei me tornando compositor", refletiu. "Porque, sabe, quando era um garoto na escola, conversei com o orientador vocacional e ele me disse: 'Você não tem qualificações e... não vejo um grande futuro para você.' Então eu tive que aceitar isso e pensar: 'Que se dane — eu vou fazer alguma coisa.' E isso me fez trabalhar ainda mais para alcançar o sucesso, porque eu não deveria ter sucesso. Então, compor músicas foi uma das melhores coisas da minha adolescência."

A primeira música que ele escreveu foi uma canção com influências de rockabilly, "I lost my little girl". McCartney recordou: “Alguém me disse depois: ‘Essa música é sobre você ter perdido sua mãe.’ Eu escrevi por volta dos 14 ou 15 anos, e ela tinha falecido pouco antes.” Embora os Beatles não tenham gravado a canção, McCartney a apresentaria mais tarde, na década de 1970, com o Wings. “Isso é interessante sobre as músicas”, disse ele. “Sem saber, você acaba se aprofundando em assuntos sobre os quais talvez fosse difícil falar.”

Em “The Boys of Dungeon Lane”, muitas das novas canções revisitam sua infância em Liverpool, Inglaterra, e os primeiros dias dos Beatles. Em “Down South”, ele relembra o encontro com John Lennon enquanto viajavam de carona para o sul, rumo a Londres. Ringo Starr se junta a McCartney para cantar e tocar bateria em “Home to Us”, sobre sua cidade natal sem glamour.

McCartney gravou o álbum com Andrew Watt, produtor vencedor do Grammy que já trabalhou com os Rolling Stones, Miley Cyrus, Lady Gaga, Iggy Pop e Pearl Jam. "É incrível ver o Paul trabalhando", disse Watt em uma entrevista por telefone. "As pessoas falam em 10 mil horas de experiência — ele tem milhões de horas dedicadas à produção e gravação de discos. Então, a capacidade dele de entender microfones, como arranjar, como compor, como tocar cada instrumento é incrível. E ele se diverte muito quando toca. Ele fica pulando pela sala, alternando entre os instrumentos, dançando, rindo. É uma experiência realmente prazerosa trabalhar com ele."

Chad Smith, baterista do Red Hot Chili Peppers que substituiu um músico de última hora na apresentação do "SNL", também foi muito entusiasmado. "Não tenho adjetivos para descrever o quão incrível foi", disse Smith em uma entrevista por telefone. “Ele ficava dizendo: ‘Só façam com que seja divertido.’ Sabe, ele não precisa mais tocar se não quiser, e não precisa gravar discos. É muito inspirador ver essa energia. Ele realmente ama isso.”

Para McCartney, colaborar com Watt despertou memórias. “Trabalhar com um produtor mais jovem me incentiva a revisitar todas as minhas histórias”, disse McCartney. “Principalmente as dos Beatles, porque foi a primeira coisa quando éramos crianças. E esse tipo de memória, eu acho, para a maioria das pessoas, é o mais precioso.”

“The Boys of Dungeon Lane” também exalta a irreverência musical que acompanhou McCartney por toda a vida. A faixa de abertura, “As you lie there”, vai de uma lembrança aconchegante para um grito de McCartney imitando Little Richard. “Never know” assume um tom psicodélico, com vocais em contraponto compostos por sílabas sem sentido e uma majestosa construção final. “Salesman Saint”, uma canção sobre os pais de McCartney que sobreviveram à Segunda Guerra Mundial em Liverpool com “risos e uma canção”, transita por compassos variáveis ​​e, de repente, explode com metais vibrantes de big band.

Ultimamente, as memórias de McCartney têm ressurgido. O Rock & Roll Hall of Fame em Cleveland acaba de inaugurar uma exposição dedicada ao Wings, a banda de sucesso de McCartney na década de 1970. Ele forneceu alguns figurinos e objetos — mas não seu baixo Höfner em formato de violino. “Não posso dar meu baixo para eles, porque ainda uso ele”, disse.

Em Londres, o antigo prédio da sede da Apple, no número 3 da Savile Row, será reaberto como museu. Os fãs poderão visitar o estúdio reconstruído no porão, onde os Beatles gravaram “Let It Be”, e o terraço onde a banda fez sua última e breve apresentação. “Museu implica em poeira”, disse McCartney. “Não acho que será assim. Acho que será bem animado.”

Dungeon Lane, mencionada em “Days we feft behind”, é uma rua em Liverpool que leva à margem do rio Mersey, onde McCartney gostava de observar pássaros. Era também onde valentões locais rondavam, e um dia roubaram seu relógio.

“Quando você compõe, o que escreve se torna uma metáfora para algo maior do que você está expressando”, disse, citando a letra da música. “‘Alguns sentirão a dor, mas alguns foram feitos para mais.’ ‘Alguns foram feitos para mais’ somos nós — os caras que escaparam.”

McCartney revisitou seus antigos métodos de estúdio durante a produção do novo álbum. Durante uma reorganização corporativa da EMI, a gravadora dos Beatles por muitos anos, seus contadores decidiram vender os equipamentos do estúdio Abbey Road. McCartney comprou muitos dos instrumentos, entre eles o Mellotron que usou em "Strawberry Fields", o piano vertical que tocou em "Because" e um gravador de fita Studer de quatro canais, que pode ter sido usado para gravar "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band", embora McCartney não tenha conseguido comprovar se é exatamente o mesmo aparelho.

Ele ainda usa os equipamentos antigos. Uma nova faixa, "We two" — uma canção carinhosa sobre amor, parceria, apoio e respeito mútuos — foi inteiramente gravada em fita no Studer. A tecnologia atual oferece um número infinito de faixas que podem ser ajustadas a qualquer momento. Mas, ao produzir "Sgt. Pepper", os Beatles tiveram que mixar vários instrumentos em uma única faixa imutável, repetidas vezes. “Usamos exatamente o mesmo processo que ele usava nos Beatles, tipo, 100%”, disse Watt — até mesmo na edição final, cortando a fita com uma lâmina de barbear.

“We two” termina com o som de uma fita rebobinando — um som que desapareceu na era digital. “A gente só colocou isso porque ninguém ouve mais”, disse McCartney. “Antes dava para ouvir, em todos os discos que a gente gravava.”

McCartney não se preocupa mais em fazer sucessos. "Ao tentar ser criativo, é bom se muita gente gostar", disse ele. "Mas não é tudo. Não é nem de longe tão importante para mim quanto é para algumas pessoas. Eu gosto de liberdade. E se a liberdade levar a um sucesso, ótimo. Se a liberdade me levar apenas a curtir o processo, provavelmente melhor ainda."

O que importa para ele agora é simplesmente fazer música. "É um mundo mágico, a música", disse McCartney. "Cientificamente falando, é apenas um conjunto de frequências. Então, como essas frequências podem afetar o seu coração? Eu entendo, se tem letra, às vezes você pensa, 'ah, sim'. Mas se for só uma melodia — como isso pode te fazer chorar? Isso é mágico. Eu adoro."

Ao final da entrevista, McCartney ficou parado na porta, observando dois funcionários do estúdio se movimentarem em direções opostas. Ele sorriu. "Hello, goodbye", disse.

THE NEW YORK TIMES

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Sonny Rollins, Giant of the Jazz Saxophone, Is Dead at 95

Even by the standards of a music that prizes individuality, he stood out, as both a musician and a personality

A man with a halo of gray hair and a gray beard wears a black shirt and holds a saxophone in front of a painted screen.

 

Sonny Rollins, whose forceful and imaginative approach to the tenor saxophone made him one of the dominant jazz musicians of the post-World War II era, died at his home in Woodstock, N.Y., on Monday. He was 95.

His death was announced in a statement from his publicist, Terri Hinte.

Even by the standards of a music that prizes individuality, Mr. Rollins stood out, as both a musician and a personality.

In the late 1940s, when most young jazz saxophonists favored a light tone with minimal vibrato, he developed a fat, full-bodied sound that was a throwback to the older style of Coleman Hawkins, the first great tenor saxophonist in jazz. In the late 1950s, when his career as a bandleader was just getting off the ground, Mr. Rollins abruptly began a hiatus that lasted more than two years — mostly, he explained later, because he was not satisfied with the quality of his playing.

Mr. Rollins came of age when a new kind of jazz known as bebop was in ascendance, and from the start his playing was suffused with bebop’s harmonic sophistication and rhythmic daring. To classify him as a bebopper, however, would be an oversimplification.

Over the years he flirted with the avant-garde, jazz-rock fusion and other styles. But with his ferocious energy, his penchant for playing the unexpected note at the unexpected moment, and his unusual sound — sometimes harsh and mocking, sometimes lush and romantic — he was ultimately unclassifiable.

ImageA man with a wild gray hair and beard wears a long white shirt while bending over and playing the saxophone.
Mr. Rollins performing at the Detroit Jazz Festival in 2012. He played his last concert that year; two years later, he stopped playing altogether.Credit...Jack Vartoogian/Getty Images

“The music I play is too big to be put into any one style,” he told an interviewer in 2002. “Every time I pick up the horn, I want to hear something fresh.”

That commitment to freshness was the key to Mr. Rollins’s approach, and to his appeal. The jazz critic Francis Davis wrote in 2000 that Mr. Rollins “is the greatest living jazz improviser, and if we redefine virtuosity to include improvisational cunning as well as instrumental finesse (as we probably should when discussing this music), he may be the greatest virtuoso ever produced by jazz.”

Mr. Rollins was rarely satisfied with his own playing; he often came away from a performance or a recording session proclaiming that he was sure he could have done better. He unquestionably did have his off nights, perhaps more than any other jazz musician of his stature, but some fans saw this as a positive sign: The occasional bad night, they argued, was a small price to pay for his willingness to take chances and his refusal to constantly play the same things the same way.

“The real playing happens on a subconscious level, and at that point the clichés don’t happen,” Mr. Rollins told The New York Times in 1989. “When I’m really playing, my mind is completely blank.”

Walter Theodore Rollins was born in Harlem on Sept. 7, 1930, the youngest of three children of Valborg (Solomon) and Walter William Rollins, who were from the Virgin Islands. His father was a naval steward.

Sonny Rollins reversed his first and middle names shortly after becoming a professional musician because problems with the law had made it hard for him to get working papers under his real name.

He began studying music at an early age, and although he also studied art and showed some interest in becoming a painter, he was playing saxophone professionally before he was out of his teens. He made his first recordings in 1949, with the singer Babs Gonzales, and he was soon in demand on the New York jazz scene, working with major figures like Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk and Bud Powell.

Mr. Rollins’s career was briefly derailed in the early 1950s when, like many other jazz musicians of his generation, he became addicted to heroin. But by 1955 he had overcome his addiction and achieved national prominence as a member of the popular quintet led by the drummer Max Roach and the trumpeter Clifford Brown.

Through his work with that group, and on a series of albums he recorded as a leader between 1956 and 1958, Mr. Rollins established himself as one of the most inventive jazz musicians of his generation.

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In this black and white photo, a young man wears a light-colored jacket and plays the saxophone.
Mr. Rollins in 1956, the year he released the critically acclaimed albums “Saxophone Colossus” and “Tenor Madness.”Credit...Bob Parent/Getty Images

In 1956 alone, he recorded two albums that came to be regarded as classics: “Tenor Madness,” which included his only recorded meeting with his fellow saxophonist John Coltrane, and “Saxophone Colossus” (the title referred both to his physical stature and to his rapidly growing artistic one). Two tracks on “Saxophone Colossus” drew particular praise from critics: “Blue 7,” an ingenious blues improvisation, which was the subject of a much-quoted essay by the composer and historian Gunther Schuller, “Sonny Rollins and the Challenge of Thematic Improvisation”; and “St. Thomas,” an adaptation of a traditional West Indian song that was the first and most famous of the many jazz-calypso fusions Mr. Rollins would record over the years.

A year later, frustrated by what he saw as the harmonic limits imposed by having a pianist play chords behind his improvisations, he began performing and recording accompanied only by a bassist and drummer, an unusual (though not unprecedented) approach at the time. (Pianists “got in the way,” he said at the time. “They play too much.”) He recorded several memorable albums without piano, one of which, “The Freedom Suite” (1958), was noteworthy not just for its spare instrumentation but also for its 19-minute title track, a composition in four movements written by Mr. Rollins as a musical commentary on racial inequality — a bold move in the early days of the civil rights movement.

By 1959, Mr. Rollins was receiving consistently glowing reviews and was widely regarded as one of jazz’s new stars. Nonetheless, that year he suddenly stopped performing and recording and virtually disappeared from the public eye.

Over the next two years, convinced that his playing was not up to his own standards, Mr. Rollins devoted much of his time to practicing, often late at night on the Williamsburg Bridge, not far from his apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where the acoustics appealed to him and there were no neighbors to complain. His absence from the scene, and reports of his bridge sessions, added to his growing mystique, and to his growing reputation as a perfectionist.

“A lot of people couldn’t comprehend why I would stop playing,” he told DownBeat magazine in 2001. “But I learned something. It was necessary for me to do to have the kind of confidence I need to play music like this.”

Mr. Rollins’s return to action in 1961, complete with a contract from RCA Victor Records that was unusually lucrative for a jazz musician, was treated as major news by the jazz press. (In an attempt to cash in on the publicity he had generated during his long absence, the company called his comeback album “The Bridge,” which was also the title of one of the tracks.)

Over the next several years, his profile remained high: He performed in nightclubs, in concert and at festivals all over the world, and he wrote and recorded music for the hit 1966 British film “Alfie.” And his music remained consistently surprising.

He surrounded himself with an ever-shifting cast of talented musicians, ranging from young experimentalists (he alienated many old fans and won some new ones by enthusiastically, if briefly, working with avant-gardists like the trumpeter Don Cherry) to the venerable Coleman Hawkins, the saxophonist he called his idol, with whom he recorded an album in 1963.

The 1960s were a busy and productive time for Mr. Rollins. But before the decade was over, he had vanished again.

He did no recording and almost no performing between 1966 and 1972, spending much of his time in Japan and India on what he later said was a spiritual quest. He returned to the studio in 1972 to record “Sonny Rollins’ Next Album” for the small Milestone label, for which he would continue to record for more than 30 years, and he was soon back at the forefront of the jazz world.

Critics were often unkind to Mr. Rollins in the years following his comeback, especially when, like many of his fellow jazz musicians in the 1970s and ’80s, he embraced electric instruments and rock rhythms. He even collaborated with the Rolling Stones, overdubbing saxophone parts to three tracks on their album “Tattoo You” (1981), although he turned down an offer to tour with them. In performance, he began emphasizing the more obviously crowd-pleasing elements of his music, notably his penchant for calypsos.

“I’m often criticized about the ’70s and ’80s because I used a backbeat and guitars and all, but I don’t understand a lot of it,” he said in 2001. “I was trying to find different ways to make my music relevant. I’ve never thought of myself as being on some pinnacle where I can’t play a calypso or a backbeat.”

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A man wearing sunglasses and a pale jacket is seen from below playing the saxophone.
Mr. Rollins onstage in the Netherlands in 1987. He was rarely satisfied with his work and he often came away from a performance or recording session proclaiming that he was sure he could have done better.Credit...Frans Schellekens/Redferns, via Getty Images

The criticism he received — which continued beyond the 1980s — was often marked by an unusual mixture of admiration and regret. Reviewing a concert in 1993, Peter Watrous of The Times praised Mr. Rollins as “one of the greatest improvisers walking this earth,” but also called him “a man bent on misspending the capital of genius” who “plays music that rarely challenges his own historical achievements, and that in its simplicity seems to pander to his audience.” Mr. Rollins, he wrote, “seems unable, or unwilling, to present himself in a context that would give dignity to his great ability, or even just acknowledge it.”

Regardless of the reviews, Mr. Rollins in those years achieved the greatest success of his career. Although the audience for jazz ebbed and flowed, he was consistently one of the music’s most popular concert attractions. He gave much of the credit for his success to his wife, Lucille (Pearson) Rollins, who was also his manager and his co-producer on many albums.

Ms. Rollins died in 2004. An earlier marriage, to the actress and model Dawn Finney, ended in divorce. No immediate family members survive.

Mr. Rollins for many years had homes both in Lower Manhattan and in upstate Germantown, N.Y. He abandoned his Manhattan apartment in the wake of the 2001 terrorist attacks. He moved from Germantown to Woodstock, N.Y., in 2013.

Although he worked primarily with small groups, Mr. Rollins sometimes experimented with other configurations. In 1985 he gave a solo concert at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, improvising for two hours without accompaniment. That same year he performed his “Concerto for Tenor Saxophone and Orchestra” in Tokyo with the Yomiuri Nippon Symphony Orchestra. (“I was trying to synthesize two elements by remaining true to the symphonic form and also to the way I play,” he explained.)

Mr. Rollins continued to tour and record well into the 21st century. He also did his best to weather the changes in the music business.

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A blonde woman wears a pale blue suit with embroidered gold plants and sits next to an older man with a beard wearing a tuxedo and a rainbow fabric necklace.
Hillary Clinton, then the secretary of state, sat with Mr. Rollins when he received a Kennedy Center Honor from President Barack Obama in 2011.Credit...Pool photo by Ron Sachs

In 2005 he started his own record company, Doxy, named after one of his best-known compositions, which released a well-received series of live albums. In 2006, Mr. Rollins — who told The Times in an interview that year, “I hate technology myself” — began offering free audio and video clips on a newly created website, sonnyrollins.com.

In Mr. Rollins’s later years, the honors piled up. A two-time Grammy Award winner, he received a lifetime achievement Grammy in 2004. In 2010 he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and became the first jazz musician to receive the prestigious Edward MacDowell Medal for achievement in the arts. In 2011 he received both a National Medal of Arts and a Kennedy Center Honor. (The encomiums had begun much earlier: He was named a Jazz Master by the National Endowment for the Arts in 1983.)

Despite the honors, he continued to explore — to search for, as he put it in an interview with The Times in 1984, “the ultimate sound.”

“That’s why I keep practicing,” he said. “I’ll know when I find the ultimate sound, because I’ll be completely fulfilled just by the sound of it and by what I’m able to do with it instrumentally.”

Mr. Rollins’s archives, including hundreds of recordings from rehearsals and practice sessions, were acquired in 2017 by the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in Harlem. That same year, a bill was introduced in the New York City Council to rename the Williamsburg Bridge in his honor. (The bill did not pass, but the campaign to have the bridge renamed has continued.)

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A man in a pale shirt wears sunglasses and plays the saxophone outside in front of a dark blue barn.
Mr. Rollins in 2005. Throughout his career, he continued to search for “the ultimate sound.” “I’ll be completely fulfilled,” he once said, “just by the sound of it and by what I’m able to do with it instrumentally.”Credit...Eric Johnson for The New York Times

In 2022, he was the subject of an acclaimed biography, “Saxophone Colossus,” by Aidan Levy.

With the death of his fellow saxophonist Benny Golson in 2024, Mr. Rollins became the last survivor of the nearly 60 musicians captured by the photographer Art Kane in his celebrated Esquire magazine group portrait “Harlem 1958.”

“I was a fan,” Mr. Rollins told The Times in recalling the photo shoot in 2024. “I was in the picture, but it wasn’t so much as a musician — although I happened to be there as a musician — but I had been following jazz all my short life up to that time, so I knew a great deal about the guys.” He added that he was particularly proud to have been photographed alongside “my particular idols, Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young.”

In his later years Mr. Rollins experienced respiratory problems. He never formally announced his retirement, but in 2012, after being diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, he gave his last public performance. Two years later, he also stopped playing at home.

“The reason my retirement happened quietly was because my health problems were gradual,” he told The New York Times Magazine in 2020. “It took me a while to realize, hey, that’s gone now.”

“When I had to stop playing,” he said, “it was quite traumatic. But I realized that instead of lamenting and crying, I should be grateful for the fact that I was able to do music all of my life.”

 THE NEW YORK TIMES