Miles Davis

I was listening to the latest addition my Miles Davis Catalog, Miles Smiles, and appreciated the textures and tones, but have yet to fall in love with it, as I did with Kind of Blue.

Kind of Blue was once in a lifetime. It was a sound I had searched all of my life to find. I was playing guitar for two years at the time, and was crown deep in the Delta Blues of Robert Johnson. Those scratchy tracks resurrected from an old Mississippi hotel room where he sat with the greatest librarian of all time, Alan Lomax, were all I had to cling to as my own discovery.

Then on a whim, I saw a Miles Davis disc on sale. There were plenty of Hendrix, Clapton, and Pearl Jam bootlegs I could scarf up, but something told me to buy this one. The cover in its dark hues called me to it. I had no choice but to take it home.

I went into my room, put in my discman (about three years pre-iPod), and the distant piano on the track "Say What" echoed from a distant corner of the recording studio. The upright bass stings the leit motif, and then finally the gentle dance of Miles' trumpet sliding in and out of the accompaniment. I had discovered Jazz. That Jazz beyond the Swing and Hot Jazz I had grown up with. This was Cool Jazz.

This was before I found Kerouac, a man who shares my date of birth two generations earlier. This was when I had no idea the poetry I had written and loved was eventually married to Jazz with the likes of Charlie Parker, and Dave Amram whom I eventually met. Dave is a nice guy who will sit and chat with any random fellow who might admire song and verse. I cherish the couple of times I had to chat with him so far, and I hope for more.

But, Miles, man. This disc scratched that itch I could never reach. As I bought more of his discs, I fell in love with nearly everyone, but that magic was never duplicated. One of the first CDs put on my iPod was Kind of Blue.

Miles Smiles is a tough nut to crack. As I listen further, I hope to find deeper layers to it. Unlike his collaborations with Gil Evans, there is still a good rhythm. Evans tends to add so much melody that Davis' trumpet work loses that Jazzy pop he likely acquired from his tenure playing Bop. Kind of Blue and Miles Smiles has some good stomps.

Then halfway through Freddy Freeloader, I discovered the Sax was none other than Coltrane. A man I only knew by legend at that point. Giant Steps was great, Blue Train murdered me! His only perfect performance was in Kind of Blue, in my mind. It was the crowning achievment of American Music.