When Scott Hamilton (a minor but well-respected player who's been in and out of the limelight for decades) entered to play the melody here (I've queued it up to the right point, but fyi it's 2'40"), I felt conflicting emotions. First: NICE! Like, yeah, that's the feeling! That's the craft! No bullshit, just proper thickly-spread jazz tenor saxophone butter. Nice! But then, as he kept going, it grew uncanny. I knew everything he was going to do. It was jazz butter, yes, but the pre-portioned Hotel Bar butter we've all experienced umpteen times with not one iota of surprisingness or spontaneity. Like taking the standard postcard shot of Mt. Rushmore, shamelessly gratifying expectations. Not really personal. I mean, it sounds incredibly personal, though, because the first guy who first played like this was full of personality. But Hamilton's imitating that guy (Prez, or maybe more Ben Webster). Imitating uniqueness and simulating spontaneity. Yet it feels great to me. Like a breath of…
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