Miles arrives in Malad
My collector’s box set containing all Columbia albums of Miles Davis arrived on Thursday.
And I just finished listening to The Miles Davis/Tadd Dameron Quintet. These were the May 1949 recordings from the ‘Paris Festival International de Jazz’.
Throughout, I was reminded of Miles’ romance with France. How lovingly he wrote about Paris in his biography; about his friendship with Jean-Paul Sartre and Pablo Picasso; about his affair with Juliette Gréco.
This music is from the time when Miles first stopped thinking of himself as a ‘black entertainer’. With Sartre and Picasso at his side, he was an ‘artist’ among artists. With Juliette, he was neither black nor white. Existentialism ruled among the intellectuals of Paris then. And at 23, Miles had found himself.
No wonder, on his eventual return to racist America, he underwent a huge depression. He stopped snorting and began shooting himself in the veins. For the next four years, a genius was wasted; looking for the next fix in the alleys of Harlem.
The first time I paid serious attention to bebop was a decade ago when I started listening systematically to the complete recordings of Charlie Parker on Verve. An investment well made.
It was then that I noticed a really intense trumpet improvising on Charlie’s lead. I got curious. The liner notes confirmed my suspicion. It indeed was Miles Davis!
I am not gifted with an ear that can pick out individuals in a jam session. But somehow, I have mostly been able to spot Miles; however economical his blowing might be.
Here is the trick: Whether it was 1949 or 1991, Miles has never been heard to play without meaning every note he blew. He just cannot go through the motions without throwing himself bodily into the music he makes. Ask any professional musician and he will tell you how difficult it is to stay fresh with a song that he has played a hundred times to imperfection. Yet, Miles always played without a wrinkle of weariness.
Once again, this Sunday morning, I felt the nobility of that breath. That breath over golden brass.
And I just finished listening to The Miles Davis/Tadd Dameron Quintet. These were the May 1949 recordings from the ‘Paris Festival International de Jazz’.
Throughout, I was reminded of Miles’ romance with France. How lovingly he wrote about Paris in his biography; about his friendship with Jean-Paul Sartre and Pablo Picasso; about his affair with Juliette Gréco.
This music is from the time when Miles first stopped thinking of himself as a ‘black entertainer’. With Sartre and Picasso at his side, he was an ‘artist’ among artists. With Juliette, he was neither black nor white. Existentialism ruled among the intellectuals of Paris then. And at 23, Miles had found himself.
No wonder, on his eventual return to racist America, he underwent a huge depression. He stopped snorting and began shooting himself in the veins. For the next four years, a genius was wasted; looking for the next fix in the alleys of Harlem.
The first time I paid serious attention to bebop was a decade ago when I started listening systematically to the complete recordings of Charlie Parker on Verve. An investment well made.
It was then that I noticed a really intense trumpet improvising on Charlie’s lead. I got curious. The liner notes confirmed my suspicion. It indeed was Miles Davis!
I am not gifted with an ear that can pick out individuals in a jam session. But somehow, I have mostly been able to spot Miles; however economical his blowing might be.
Here is the trick: Whether it was 1949 or 1991, Miles has never been heard to play without meaning every note he blew. He just cannot go through the motions without throwing himself bodily into the music he makes. Ask any professional musician and he will tell you how difficult it is to stay fresh with a song that he has played a hundred times to imperfection. Yet, Miles always played without a wrinkle of weariness.
Once again, this Sunday morning, I felt the nobility of that breath. That breath over golden brass.
posted by Zaki at 12:16 pm
2 Comments:
The man and his muse. :) It's come to the right place in Malad.
Truer words were never spoken. Do check out Wayne Krantz at Blue Frog on Feb 27 if you can. He is an artiste, in the true sense of the word
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