Hall moves in a whisper; you listen close and are hit by his warmth. "Cold Peanut Butter" sticks to your ears: a sly step, joined by a creeping organ. A meek entrance, then tempestuous flutters and a rugged bass - tasty. "Moments" yawns to a lonely room: an airy mood, stirred by the brushes. A one-man waltz, Scott gets stronger, turning Spanish as the drums prod him on. "For Eyes" comes later, a fireside embrace stoked by Montzka's chords. The horn is golden and the feeling, if anything, is more precious.
"Scott's Samba" is busy but Scott isn't; he moves leisurely through a busy background. On "One-Bar" he's mute, charming as he hums next to the subtle organ. (I love Montzka; he's light on effects and says much with a few notes.) The ending comes in a storm: "Do Not Wet" sprays the Tyner piano; Scott shouts while staying in control. This might have his best solo: high roaming clusters, running fierce. Montzka is strong, and Dana Hall never quits. Neither does Scott: there's a gentility you rarely find these days, plus a modern power. And strength - no question about it.