Album Reviews

In his annotation, jazz critic/social commentator Nat Hentoff writes about this 1959 meeting between tenor sax legend Ben Webster and baritone sax smooth talker Gerry Mulligan: “It seems to me that even the most rash liner note writer has to pause before predicting the longevity of the session he’s assigned to introduce, but it requires neither courage nor obtuseness to underline the obvious likelihood that this one will be listened to as long as anyone cares about jazz.”

So here we are more than fifty years later proving Hentoff correct about the listening, but who would have guessed we’d have the opportunity to listen on new double 45rpm vinyl featuring far superior sonics to the original 33 1/3 release?

Interestingly, the reissue producer has not used the original cover art, a sepia-toned black and white William Claxton photo, choosing instead a semi-generic second issue cover that was used for a run of “meets” albums issued later. Not a big deal, but the original cover art was superior.

Backed by a sympathetic rhythm section of Leroy Vinnegar on bass, Mel Lewis on drums and Jimmy Rowles on piano, the duo open with Billy Strayhorn’s melancholic “Chelsea Bridge.”

Webster’s solo is reminiscent of the one he played with Duke Ellington, while Mulligan backs the juicy, breathy gestures with a fluttering backdrop. The opener alone is worth the price of admission.

Next up is “The Cat Walk,” a jaunty Mulligan composition echoing the Basie big band sound, but of course pared down to a small group. Vinnegar, Lewis and Rowles slink their way through the backdrop providing ideal support for the two soloists playing at the extremes of each channel.

The familiar “Sunday” opens with a Rowles barrelhouse piano solo that sounds downright old fashioned, but the tune then swings into a modern mood with the two sax men trading amiable solos over Rowles’ comping. Rowles is rewarded for his supportive backdrop with a playful solo turn during which he throws in a Monk quote.

Rowles apparently idolized Monk. I came across this online transcript of an Buddy Colette interview that chronicles Rowles’ first encounter with Monk in Japan back in 1966. I reproduce it without permission but I think it will be okay.

“It was 1966. But anyway, after Duke came to the concert, there were after-hours spots to go to, and we all went to one— I wish I could think of the name now. Roppongi or something like that, and that was the hangout for the musicians. And Monk was there, Thelonius Monk, and Jimmy Rowles, who played piano with Percy Faith at the time, Joe Mondragon, a bunch of guys. We all hung out there. Jimmy had never met Thelonious Monk at the time. So he said, "Man, there's Monk over there. I'd sure like to meet him." I said, "Well, I'll introduce you," because I knew him much better. Because we had done Monterey probably a year before that—in '64, '65, I can't remember, but enough to know that I knew him—and Monk had acknowledged me, but he didn't talk very much. So I called Jimmy over, "Let's go and talk to Monk," rather than call Monk. That wouldn't have worked.

So we went over there, and Monk had his hat on and was kind of bouncing around a little bit. And so I said, "Monk, this is Jimmy Rowles. He's a fine piano player from L.A. He knows of your work, and he enjoys you and wanted to meet you." He said, "Oh, yeah, I'm really happy to see you, Monk." And Monk said, "Yeah." So Monk spun around with his hat on without looking, and he looked up and said, "Do you have any kids?" And Jimmy said, "Yes." So he spun around again. Jimmy was kind of befuddled, but you know how, if you're talking with somebody— He still was idolizing the guy, so a little line is better than no line at all. So then he spun around again. "How old?" That was the second time he came around. And Jimmy said, "Twenty-four." And he still didn't react. So he spun around again. He said, "Too old." That was the conversation between Jimmy Rowles and Monk. Too old at twenty-four! [laughter] So I never forgot that, because it was kind of cute. And I'm standing there just seeing how these guys are going to talk, because Monk, he didn't talk too much anyway, see. So Jimmy was trying to get a little conversation. "Nice meeting you. I'll see you." But somehow he reacted and asked him that question.

Then on another site I found Rowles’ recollection of the same encounter:

"I went into this restaurant in Tokyo six or seven years ago, when I was on a tour, and there was Monk standing at the bar. He was wearing one of his funny hats, and the whole time he revolved slowly, his hands raised and fluttering like moths around his head. When he came face to face with the bar, he'd stop, take a drink, then start spinning again. I'd seen him before, of course, but I'd never talked to him, so I introduced myself. I made a couple of attempts at conversation. Silence. Then he said, "You got any kids?" I told him I had a son who was twenty-four, and I was about to mention Stacy and Zip when he said, 'He's too old. Get rid of him.' And he never said another word." (From "American Musicians II: Seventy-Two Portraits in Jazz," by Whitney Balliett).

Sorry for the sidetrack, but I thought you’d find it interesting.

“Who’s Got Rhythm” is another catchy, upbeat Mulligan composition in the vein of “The Cat Walk,” while “Tell Me When,” is an introspective, moody, rainy day Mulligan ballad that gives both men a chance to stretch out and harmonize sympathetically.

The two collaborate on the closer, “Go Home,” a slow mover propelled by Vinnegar’s loping bass line. Both sax players have plenty of space to maneuver and both take advantage of the opportunities with some of the best solos on the set.

If you don’t come away from this refreshed and relaxed, check your overhang and VTA!

The Radio Recorder recording is warm and inviting yet pleasingly extended though the staging is unnatural, with drums in the right channel and bass mostly there, and piano in the left channel. The two saxes are panned hard right and left leaving not much happening in the center.

(According to a Radio Recorder website, in 1959, studio time there cost $32.50 in studio B. Radio Recorders was where Louis Armstrong cut the famous ..King Oliver... Audio Fidelity album.)

This double 45 is sonically superior to both the original and the half speed mastered Mobile Fidelity reissue cut by Stan Ricker back in the 1990s, though that reissue is quite good. It’s just that you can’t beat 45rpm for opening up those high frequencies, particularly in the inner grooves.

This is an exceptional reissue of a really worthwhile encounter between two greats that should play happily in your collection for as long as you care about jazz.