Ben Webster: At The Renaissance

When tenor saxophonist Scott Hamilton first came up in the 1980s, his style was so, well, unusual, that a live audience would sometimes tentatively ask "Ben Webster?" Whether Hamilton regarded that as a compliment—it was—or the musicological equivalent of "Play Melancholy Baby for me" only Hamilton could have said. But the comment also acknowledged that the saxophone had gone through a convulsive period in which honks, shrieks, fragments and semitones had become the norm. Yes, there were melodic players, like Stan Getz, but hard boppers typically regarded him as old-fashioned or some sort of popularizer. Say what you want, Hamilton was a throwback.

The surprising reemergence of vinyl as a thing, with remastering and audiophile finishes, leaves some listeners bemused. Recording technology has come a long way since the late 1940s. And with it, the vinyl recording for those with ears to hear (and dollars to buy). The late and widely admired Ben Weber, tenor of choice for many, is now a legacy beneficiary. Some only got to hear a part of his work reissued in CD, which was a treat enough. But to get the full Webster, stepping back to a club around 1960 and hearing his sometimes breathy, sometimes growling, but inevitably inventive horn in all its pre-bop glory is the real thing. Surrounded by a band of brothers like this one is the icing on the cake.

The Renaissance Club in Los Angeles is, like Webster, long gone. But Craft Recordings in its Acoustic Sounds Series reminds listeners that just as political radicals in the 1860s may have still had Victor Hugo, the purists among us still have Ben Webster. Up close, yearning, hard swinging, sometimes mean, but always personal. As he was meant to be heard. With no embellishments and mixed live at the club.

Talk about a time capsule: "Georgia on My Mind" spills out of Webster's horn with the understated but lovely accompaniment of pianist Jimmy Rowles, whose touch, timbre, and voicings are a perfect complement to Webster's sometimes implied harmonies. Rowles was a thinking person's pianist, modestly brilliant in stark contrast to our contemporary divas. His solo on "What Is This Thing" is as good as it gets, and "Stardust" is not far behind. "Stardust" is another striking reinterpretation, deeply meditative, and not likely to recall other versions. Add guitarist Jim Hall and bassist Red Mitchell to the mix and the support for Webster goes up another notch. Mitchell's arco playing is lovely, no argument here. Bear in mind this was 1960; Mitchell had yet to begin experimenting in tuning the bass in fifths, but, like Rowles, he still found subtle harmonies to fill out Webster's impressionistic solos. The only odd choice, stylistically, would seem to be drummer Frank Butler, who is insanely musical, but at times a bit busy behind Webster. These, of course, are all matters of taste and sensibilities, not really matters for complaint.

The liner notes by Lester Koening and Ed Michel are a reflection on how much the musical world had changed by the 1970s and 1980s. Listening in 2024 is a reminder that it sometimes requires only a few notes by a few brilliant players to remember a world that has been lost.

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