Me and Miles
by Robin Kidson
(Miles Davis: 26 May 1926 - 28 September 1991)
Had he lived, Miles Davis would have been one hundred years old this year. For more than fifty of those years, I have been collecting and listening to his albums. To my mind, he is one of the greatest ever jazz musicians and an icon of twentieth century music in whatever genre.
I first came across Miles Davis when I was an adolescent in the late 1960s. At the time, I was becoming interested in jazz not so much because of the music (which I hardly ever heard no matter how hard I searched) but because of its intriguing, slightly rebellious image. That image was reinforced when, for Christmas 1967, I was given a book called A Pictorial History of Jazz by Orrin Keepnews and Bill Grauer Jr. It was (and still is available in used copies) filled with the most marvellous photographs illustrating the development of jazz from Buddy Bolden to Ornette Coleman. It’s all there: romantically doomed Bix and his death certificate; Dizzy with existential beret and goatee; Stan Getz playing in some melancholically dark club; Duke, at his most elegant and urbane… and all in evocative black and white, the perfect palette for jazz.
But for me, the most compelling images in the book were of Miles Davis: handsome imperious Miles in dark glasses and gleaming white shirt, usually scowling and playing his horn as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He had an aura about him which I picked up not only from books but from the general culture of the time. His charisma extended well beyond the jazz audience. Miles was the ultimate modern man: sophisticated, hip and above all, cool.
I started seeking out the actual music of jazz rather than its pictures. There was plenty of Trad, of course, but at the time, I didn’t really think of this as “proper” jazz (I’ve changed my mind since, it should be noted…). But if you searched hard enough, “proper” non-trad jazz could be heard on the radio, particularly in obscure corners of BBC Radios 2 and 3. Yet I never seemed to hear any Miles Davis until, one Sunday evening in late 1968, I was listening to a Radio 2 jazz programme when they played an excerpt from Stuff, the opening track of the recently released Miles In The Sky album. Even to my jazz virgin ears, this sounded like nothing else I’d ever heard: jazz played to a rock beat. I was utterly captivated. I didn’t realise at the time but this was Miles dipping his toes into jazz rock or jazz fusion. He didn’t invent the genre but he was one of its earliest adopters and arguably its most imaginative practitioner.
I was home-taping at the time on a Philips 4-track reel-to-reel. I pressed 'record' and re-listened to the excerpt from Stuff over and over again until I knew it by heart. You can hear the whole track here:
Over time, I recorded more Miles Davis tracks I heard on the radio. I learnt that Miles had done much more before Stuff - and I loved all of it. I loved his technique, his tone, the different moods he created, and the way he kept moving, always exploring new ways of doing jazz.
In 1969, I became a student in London and began going to jazz concerts, hearing the music played live for the first time. Then, in the summer of 1970, I went to the Isle Of Wight Pop Festival with a group of friends. Miles Davis was on the bill and, as far as I was concerned, that was the main reason for going. The chance to see and hear my musical hero in the flesh was too good to miss. Also appearing at the Festival were some of the top rock stars of the era: The Who, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix… For jazz man Miles Davis to appear in such company might seem incongruous, but at the time, he was moving his music more towards the rock end of the jazz-rock spectrum. He had begun playing rock venues and attracting much larger and younger audiences. Doubtless there was the added advantage of greater monetary reward - and rock star adulation.
And so, on Saturday 29th August 1970, Miles Davis stepped on to the stage to play to his largest audience ever – estimates vary from 350,000 to upwards of 600,000, including me. I made my way to the front to get a better view. I got a good view alright but also a sonic onslaught, an undifferentiated roar which shocked my ears. This was partly down to the relatively primitive amplification technology of the time. It had to be loud to reach the far corners of the vast crowd. It’s interesting that the sound on the recordings – both audio and video – whilst still not ideal - is much clearer.
But there was another reason and this was down to the way Miles’s music had developed. Gone was the subtle, mainly acoustic jazz-rock of Stuff. Miles had embraced 'electric' in a big way, emulating the rock music to which he was increasingly drawn. Gone also was the less-is-more minimalism of his small group work in the fifties and early sixties. Now it was more-is-more. So, two pianos – or keyboards in the modern parlance – both electric and played by Keith Jarrett and Chick Corea. Also two sets of drums – or rather one drummer, Jack De Johnette, on traditional drums and Airto Moreiera, on “percussion”. The group was completed by Dave Holland on bass guitar (electric, naturally) and Gary Bartz on alto and soprano saxophones. Plus Miles, of course, on trumpet. The whole band looked like any other rock band of the era, and Miles looked every inch the modern rock star. He’d ditched that smart, understated but ultra-cool style of the fifties and sixties for an outfit of red leather jacket, studded jeans and fancy silver boots.
You can watch the whole set here:
I left the Isle of Wight disappointed and disillusioned. I wanted the old Miles back: the jazz musician not the rock star.
By 1973, I was in my first job with a little bit of spare cash with which I bought a stereo record player. The first ever record I bought was Miles’s Filles de Kilimanjaro at a market stall in Croydon. I listened to it over and over again – and loved it. I still do. It was originally released in early 1969, just a few months after Miles In The Sky. It continued and developed Miles’s journey into jazz rock but is still recognisably jazz albeit of a most original character. Much of it is acoustic, but Herbie Hancock plays electric piano on three of the five tracks giving a very distinctive sound to the music. Ron Carter plays electric bass guitar, again on three tracks. On the remaining two tracks, Chick Corea replaces Hancock and uses both electric and acoustic pianos; and Dave Holland takes over on acoustic double bass. As with Stuff, the music is driven forward by the emphatic drumming of Tony Williams who finds all sorts of innovative rhythms whilst still keeping a remorseless rock flavoured beat. Against that beat, Miles and Wayne Shorter on tenor sax play superb post-bop jazz. They are in absolute command of their instruments on both the intricate themes and in their imaginative improvisations. You can listen to the title track here:
The jazz critic, Stanley Crouch, called Filles de Kilimanjaro Miles’s “last important jazz record”. It’s an opinion with which, after years of listening to the whole range of Miles’s oeuvre, I am inclined to agree…
In late 1973, I got another job. As a leaving present, my colleagues, knowing I was a Miles Davis fan, bought me a double LP. This became the second Miles Davis record I owned. It was a reissue of two albums originally released in 1957/58: Cookin’ and Relaxin’. This was 1950s Miles leading his so-called “First Great Quintet” – John Coltrane (tenor sax), Red Garland (piano), Paul Chambers (bass), and Philly Joe Jones (drums). The music is a mix of old standards, hard bop numbers including Dizzy Gillespie's Woody n’ You, and a couple of Miles’s own numbers such as Blues by Five.
Miles makes extensive (and effective) use of the Harmon mute throughout. Many of the tracks are played at a very fast tempo indeed. The Quintet played together so often that they are the proverbial well-oiled machine showing off their technical brilliance and impressive group cohesion particularly when they tackle intricate themes.
However, I came to prefer the ballads on the double LP rather than the flashier hard bop numbers. If I had to nominate a favourite, it would be the Richard Rogers standard, My Funny Valentine. Using the Harmon mute, Miles gives a master class on how to render a ballad using the minimum of notes to achieve the maximum effect. The playing is deceptively languid interspersed with thrilling little flurries up and down the scales. A word too for a perfectly realised solo from Red Garland.
After Filles de Kilimanjaro and Cookin’/Relaxin’, my collection of Miles Davis albums on vinyl steadily grew. Later, I switched to buying CDs; my first was a Miles Davis Greatest Hits compilation. After more than fifty years of gradual accumulation, I now have a pretty comprehensive collection of Miles’s recorded output over the whole of his career. Hardly a week goes by when I don’t listen to at least one of his albums. My fandom also extends to books on (and, in the case of his autobiography, by) Miles. I have become a little more discerning over the years. For example, though I have tried hard, I cannot really get to grips with the music Miles made after around 1970. That Isle of Wight appearance gave me a taste of what was to come with Miles continuing to move throughout the 1970s and 1980s away from jazz towards heavily electric rock. It’s not that I actively hate this music, it’s just that it doesn’t move me as much as pre-1970 acoustic Miles.
As to my favourite Miles Davis album, this has varied over the years. For a long time, it was Sketches Of Spain, the orchestral album he made with long time collaborator, Gil Evans, in 1959/60. Miles Ahead and Porgy and Bess, the other main Davis-Evans collaborations also figure highly on my list of favourites. But, currently, the album which appears most in my CD player is Ascenseur Pour L’Échafaud, (Lift To The Scaffold), the soundtrack which Miles composed for the film of the same name directed by Louis Malle.
Miles conceived and recorded the soundtrack during a three week stay in France in December 1957. The main purpose of the visit was to fulfil concert and club dates with a group of French musicians: Barney Wilen (tenor sax), René Urtreger (piano), and Pierre Michelot (bass) plus American expat, Kenny Clarke (drums). He also used this group to record the Ascenseur Pour L’Échafaud soundtrack in one, four hour session on the night of 5th December 1957. The musicians played whilst watching scenes from the film, improvising around sketches that Miles had written beforehand.
The result was a triumph. The music captures the film’s often dark textures but also works on its own without the accompanying images. To my mind, it’s the epitome of what jazz should be: bluesy and improvised, creating compelling, resonant moods. Here’s a clip from the film showing its star, Jeanne Moreau, walking down a city street at night to the accompaniment of one of the main themes of the soundtrack
In his later years, Miles’s aura began to lose much of its polish. The music he was playing had some commercial success but did not find favour with many jazz critics. However, the greater damage was done when his personality and personal life came under scrutiny. Matters weren’t helped by the publication of his autobiography in 1989. Perhaps the kindest thing that can be said is that it’s honest – sometimes brutally so. In an account punctuated extensively by expletives, Miles does not flinch from revealing his considerable darker side. His treatment of women, including physical violence, has rightly appalled many. His arrogance and vanity also come through as well as an anger always ready to break out, and an ugly anti-white prejudice which, however understandable given the racism which he encountered throughout his life, has an irrationality all its own. Miles Davis was not a nice man.
But then history is full of not nice people who, nevertheless, made great art. And Miles unquestionably made great art which will last as long as music is played.
“Listen”, instructed Miles Davis in the opening lines of his autobiography, “the greatest feeling I ever had in my life – with my clothes on – was when I first heard Diz and Bird together in St. Louis, Missouri, back in 1944”. Well, some of the greatest musical pleasures in my life – with or without clothes – have come when listening to the albums of Miles Davis particularly those recorded in his glory years from around 1949 to 1970. And I hope to continue enjoying his music (though not now Miles the man) for many more years to come.
© Sandy Brown Jazz 2026.5