There's a killer line-up involved here, yet this glossy album contains little to detain serious students of jazz. It's hard to isolate specific reasons for this, yet somewhere between Bob James' smooth jazz arrangements and Creed Taylor's velvet-gloved, minklined approach to studio production the jazz spirit mysteriously dissolves into a sterile and unchallenging vibe, despite the best efforts of its all-star crew. Hammond is the nominal leader and does his funky thing as well as expected. He has Jimmy Smith's organ licks and drawbar settings down pat, but his simplified and repetitive lines linger less long in the memory than the shorter and sweeter contributions of guitarist George Benson and that underrated tenorist Harold Vick. Brighter moments arise in ‘It's Impossible’, a sentimental ballad converted into a bossa-nova and taken at a comically brisk clip, but we are soon back in Yawnsville. Even the Rolling Stones' number ‘Wild Horses’ sounds tame, and somehow there's nothing even Billy Cobham and Airto Moreira can do about it.