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There was a boy . . somehow strange and enchanted, perhaps . . .
but a natural, not a nature boy. This one grew and learned, among other things,
not to whistle at the lovely lady of a cigar-smoking citizen of Mississippi.
Which made it possible for him to grow enough to read news service reports
about what happens to that kind of boy. It made possible, too, some
disenchanted wanderings, with horns often not his own; wanderings along a
series of personal precipices where nostrils may ache from the sheer agony of
breathing.
If there is dignity and artistry in such a boy, he will record
such a life with gaunt gestures, or as an anointed conscience, or as the
inveterate cynic, or, or . . . there are some few, even, who merely reflect,
neither urging nor decrying. Miles, it seems to me, is one of these latter. His
the almost fragile, though never effeminate, tracing of a story line which is
somewhat above and beyond him, of almost-blown-aside, pensive fragments which
are always persuasively coherent.
His are moods, blue ones if we can allow for a programatic
spectrum. Not the kind of blue that happens an Mondays those
lastNIGHTWASanight, now-it's-five-days-till-Friday kind of blues. More like
Sunday blue; nothing to do in the morning, no family dinner, only a movie in
the afternoon and a gig at night kind of blues. That's what Miles says to me
anyway, says it in particular and at length in the course of this LP, says it,
too, in as moving a way as it can be said.
Just about one month before these tracks were cut, Miles had
performed at The Newport Jazz Festival. Within the ranks of the professional
critics, there was not too much notice taken when he joined the group already
on stage. Professional listeners are blasé, especially when an artist is as
unpredictable as Miles; unpredictable, that is, in terms of the relationship
between what he can do and what he will do. And for many of us there is a
forgetting that the improvising soloist, with muse on the wing, so to speak, is
confronted with so many technical problems, that a statement of cohesion and
beauty is an awe-full happening. Add to this the failings and weaknesses of all
human beings, and there is no wonder left that we can hear what amounts to raw
genius in one evening, or one set, or, even, one number, and then, immediately
after, discover nearly meaningless mouthings. It's enough to drive you mad. It
has been enough to drive a number of jazz musicians mad, and to drive more to
madnesses of various sorts.
In any case, on this night at Newport, Miles was superb,
brilliantly absorbing, as if he were both the moth and the probing, savage
light on which an immolation was to take place. Perhaps that's making it seem
too dramatic, but it's my purely subjective feeling about the few
minutes during which he played. And, over-dramatic or not, whatever Miles did
was provoking enough to send one major record label executive scurrying about
in search of him after the performance was over. And dramatic enough to include
Miles in all the columns written about the Festival, as one of few soloists who
lived up to critical expectations. But when you mention it to Miles, he says,
"What're they talking about? I just played the way I always play."
He doesn't always play that way of course. Up to, and down to,
certain limits, everyone plays the way he is And Miles is no exception. Then,
too, the presence of Chet Baker on the program, and of Shorty Rogers in the
same country, these two his most successful mutants, might have produced the
kind of tension which professionals can turn into victories.
So all that happened before this record date. That, and much more,
of course, because Miles' life has resembled both the moth and the flame during
the twenty-eight years that he has lived it, especially since 1945, when he
made his first major public impression while with Bird at the Three Deuces in
New York City. Moth and flame, too, for the last few months, until just
recently, when the bother and anxiety about a growth in his throat had made the
cat-slight Miles speak and walk in such whispers that his always present,
kind-of-nosethumbing withdrawal seemed nearly complete. More moods.
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It may seem that there is altogether too much attention being paid
to feelings, to moods, in this essay. After all, like skin, all of us have
moods. But there are skins and skins. And some people make moods work for them.
Which, I suppose, could be a beginning in the definition of an artist. That,
while he is perhaps more sensitive to the synthetics of the world around him,
hence probably more tortured by them, he can fashion his turmoil into a tale
for a purpose as singular as himself.
Lo the pensive Miles. Complete with moods, he waited one hour in
front of his hotel, leaning detachedly against a fire plug, waiting to be
picked up, apparently never doubting that he would be driven to the recording
studio, which was only two blocks away, as he had been promised. Then, on the
way to the studio, his one major comment: "I hope I won't have to hit Mingus in
the mouth." This, of course, despite the fact that Mingus could carry two of
Miles around the block in a half-mile gallop. More in affirmation that he Miles
was the boss, was tough, in that curious use of the word by musicians
wherein the top men in a particular instrument are acknowledged as leaders in
other sections of life as well. (Thus, Max Roach, the toughest of drummers,
has, and will again, make pronouncements about such things as the disposition
of funds from a benefit for another musician, and his pronouncement will carry
immense weight whether or not he is any authority on the subject.)
Once in the studio, where Mingus was bothering the drummer -- all
bass players bother drummers and vice versa -- it seems part of the nature of
things -- Miles moved quietly into a corner and waited. Four other moods waited
to be served: Teddy Charles, hurriedly writing arrangements (he did all but Alone
Together), ordering himself a light lunch ("three ham and cheese and some
beer"); trombonist Britt Woodman, who taught Mingus how to box, fussed with his
slide; Elvin kept adjusting his foot pedal; and Mingus, blithe spirit,
alternately fussed and fumed like a great rooster in attendance to a hatching.
All those moods, present and to be accounted for in the music on
this LP. For example, you don't hear it here, but on one take Miles wandered so
far afield that he was completely lost. But he made no mention of it, not even
a request for another take, although, fortunately, another was made, almost as
if he really didn't care, was above caring, whether anyone had discovered the
error.
And the tunes: Nature Boy, and where was I; Alone Together,
oh there I am; There's No You, there never was; and Easy Living,
maybe, but I haven't seen it. All cut of the some cloth. Again, moods. Again,
blue.
From this, and the sensitivity of each musician to the others,
comes a clarity of expression which makes annotation superfluous, perhaps, even
presumptious. But there are these things which occured to me, which may make
this seemingly strange sales-talk more persuasive. (Sales-talk it is, too, for
I am moved enough by this poignant side of jazz to boost its circulation.)
If Duke Ellington would listen to There's No You, which
event I very much doubt, he would find some incentive for writing again.
Because here Ellington trombonist Britt Woodman plays with an eloquence which
has to preclude the further use that Duke makes of him as a Lawrence Brown
voice. Here, too, as on the other two arrangements of Teddy's, is the clever
anticipation, in written lines, of what Miles will express, as well as Teddy's
beautiful solo. AND MINGUS.
And, Mingus again on Easy Living, dig especially his
support of Miles, and, then, Miles' re-entry above the ensemble during the
final chorus. Alone Together, which Mingus arranged, is typically his --
the throbbing of collected hearts, all about a two-headed title. Here, again,
his backing is superb. Through it all none of the musicians show Miles'
finality of mood, but they do perfectly match him as if they shared the same
secret, each one adding, as is natural, his own interpretation, and, in the
case of Teddy and Mingus, his own answer to that secret. In that very special
way it is Miles' album in the some way that a wedding always belongs to the
bride no matter what entertainment is presented at the reception.
These are reflections about a life in which we are all
shareholders.
BILL COSS, Editor, Metronome
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