HE LOVED HIM MADLY: MILES DAVIS, MY FATHER AND ME

Dedicated to my Father, Mr. Powhatan Collins

Believe it or not dear readers, I have actually met Miles Davis. Yes, it is true and the impact of that very brief moment has only reverberated over time as it was more than little lost on me when it actually happened. But first, I feel the need to hit the "rewind" button...

As I have expressed to you in the past, my personal musical "Holy Trinity" consists of The Beatles, Todd Rundgren and Prince as they have each spoken to my soul in ways that surpass all other musical artists that I have ever listened to, no matter their relative levels of greatness. For my ears, all three are artists who have taken everything that has come before them and existed around them and have somehow, almost through a sense of alchemy that is magical to the point of being either spiritual or cosmic, invented their own musical language.

The Beatles have been with me since birth although I never fully latched onto them until later in my childhood. Prince took hold of me during my high school years as his constantly shifting and evolving musical vision truly seemed to be the closest thing I could have to experiencing what hearing The Beatles' latest musical adventures for the first time could have possibly been like. As for Todd Rundgren, I tentatively began listening to him late in high school but his musical odyssey took complete hold of me once I arrived at college, and without hyperbole, I do not know what my first two years of college would or could have been like without having his vision to follow alongside me, to guide me, to help me flesh out my growing world view as well as my view of myself.

For my Father, and for all of his vast musical loves, especially through his chosen beloved genre of jazz, his musical 'King of Kings" is none other than Miles Davis, whose music he was introduced during his own Freshman year of college and whose musical vision, style and performance served the exact same purpose for him as Todd Rundgren served for me during that exact same station in life.

In contrast to the realm of athletics and sports, what I assume would be the most typical bonding connections between Fathers and sons, my Father (the sports enthusiast) and I (the arts enthusiast), connected over film and music...although where he embraced jazz, I was drawn to rock and roll. I have heard of the musical majesty of Miles Davis throughout the entirety of my life. Even as a very small child, the name of Miles Davis was invoked by my Father with the purest of reverence and unabashed amazement and it seemed as if he made it his mission for me to eventually know and understand exactly who this musical giant happened to be. It's not as if he forced me to listen to Davis' music and it is also not as if he tried to introduce it to me over the years (although he would occasionally listen to it himself), Simply stated, the presence of Miles Davis was everywhere as symbols of his iconography were fixtures within my household.

I remember my Father being more than excited about receiving a portrait of Miles Davis, painted (I believe) by one of his friends. And there is also a large framed photograph (pictured above) of the man, which hangs proudly in my parents' house. But most importantly, there was, of course, the music.

As I began listening to albums on my own as a young child, I would often dig through the vinyl stacks of music that belonged to both of my parents. I have to say that beyond the albums of show tunes, Barbara Streisand classics, soul music, Motown icons and a variety of jazz artists, I can vividly remember the covers of Miles Davis' albums being the most striking to me as well as some of the most memorable. Although those images never convinced me to try and experience the music myself, I can say that those album jackets served to be works of art in and of themselves, weaving an inexplicable spell that made me want to re-visit them over and again.    

 

The album covers of Davis' "Sorcerer" (released December 1967), "On The Corner" (released October 11, 1972) and "Water Babies" (released November 2, 1976) were seductive in their transfixing attraction whereas the cover to the double album "Live-Evil" (released November 17, 1971) was profoundly foreboding as well as forbidding.

Even more foreboding and forbidding was the moment I first saw the man in action. I was 12 years old and the date was late in the evening on October 17, 1981. The venue was an episode of "Saturday Night Live," a program still crawling upwards from the wreckage after the departure of the program's original cast and producer Lorne Michaels. On this particular episode, none other than Miles Davis was featured as the show's musical guest, truly a coup as Davis' television appearances were of the utmost rarity, especially as he had just emerged from a self-imposed five year hiatus from music. Certainly for my Father, this was indeed "Must See TV" of the tallest order and for myself, not ever wanting to miss an episode no matter how terrible, stayed up late to watch, completely filled with curiosity as to what I might see.

The song that I remember being performed was one entitled "Jean-Pierre," a slow funk selection suggesting a late night Parisian stroll taken by the song's titular character. And yet, the song itself seemed to be almost besides the point for there he was, this elusive and mysterious figure, right on my television in the flesh. Upon first sight, the image of Miles Davis confused me. He cut an almost sinister appearance as he looked seemingly wraith-like and moved around the stage at such a deliberate pace that it was just shy of menacing, despite the welcoming nature of the music being performed. I wish that I could fully remember my Father's reaction (perhaps I should ask him) but as for me, I remained completely confused...yet still profoundly intrigued.

As for the music of jazz, and most specifically the music of Miles Davis itself, absolutely none of it made sense upon first listen, but it would have been impossible to disregard the obvious joy that music gave to my Father when he listened or when he shared his arsenal of stories about all of the many times he had the pleasure to witness jazz musicians and Miles Davis perform live in concert over the years. I have to admit that even as a child, there was an inexplicably seductive pull to the tales my Father told me about this extremely idiosyncratic man who sometimes played with his back to the audience and who sometimes didn't even arrive for his own concerts! Miles Davis was and remains a figure so inimitable, indomitable and seemingly impenetrable, and additionally, so astonishingly ahead of the curve. Without even hearing the music, Miles Davis seemed to be unlike anyone else walking the planet and it would be years before I would even have any sense of perception as how to begin to approach the musician so many referred to as a musical genius.

By my teenage years, and as my musical palate began to slowly widen, the musical divide between my Father and I began to inch towards each other. He would offer his praise of bands like The Who (he particularly was impressed by the songwriting mastery of Pete Townshend and truly loved the track "Eminence Front" which featured the bass guitar heroics of the late John Entwistle). And once in a while, my Father would remark with palpable enjoyment over a rock song that somehow touched him (for instance, his reaction to The Pretenders' "Back On The Chain Gang" sticks firmly in my memory as he said to me, "Now that's a great song!" after we heard it on the radio during one of our many Chicagoland car journeys together).

I, in turn, tried to reach out towards my Father with music that perhaps possessed a jazz influence. The most notable one was Sting's "The Dream Of The Blue Turtles" (released June 1, 1985), which featured the musical skills of legendary jazz musicians Branford Marsalis (saxophone), Omar Hakim (drums), Daryl "The Munch" Jones (bass guitar), and the late Kenny Kirkland (keyboards) as his full band.

During that same period, I was deeply immersed with progressive rock bands like Yes, King Crimson, Rush and my favorite, Genesis. I think that for my Father, this avenue was quite possibly his way into fully leading me to his musical hero. Through my Father, he introduced me to the concepts, styles and genre of fusion music and within his own record collection, he introduced me to the music of Jeff Beck, drummer Billy Cobham and even the Mahavishnu Orchestra led by the blistering guitar work of John McLaughin. Ingeniously, what my Father achieved in his tutelage was to firmly lay the groundwork where all of those musical roads led straight to Miles Davis and most specifically, his quintessential double album opus "Bitches Brew" (released April 1970), a seismically revered work, widely regarded as the first fusion album.

And you know, I never saw it coming.

While my initial reactions to the murky and even apocalyptic sounding "Bitches Brew" were confused and confounded to the point that I just did not know what to think about it or even how to listen to it, I did soon find myself taken in by then current Miles Davis releases including, "Decoy" (released June 1984), and "You're Under Arrest" (released September 9, 1985), an album which even featured the voice of Sting screaming Miranda rights in French.

 

Most certainly, there was the landmark album "Tutu" (released September 1986), Davis' moody, atmospheric collaboration with bassist/multi-instrumentalist//composer Marcus Miller.

It was also during this time when I actually began to accept my parents' invitation to witness Miles Davis live in concert, a ritual my parents embarked upon each time Davis' concert tours arrived in Chicago. I have seen Miles Davis perform on three occasions, all at the beautiful Chicago Theater, and honestly, while I did indeed enjoy myself each time, the majesty of Miles was still more than lost on me, as was my backstage meeting with him as I mentioned and teased at the outset of this remembrance. 

One thing about the relationship between my Father and the musical world of Miles Davis is that whenever we went to go to a concert, I was able to witness my Father in a state that I had never seen him in any other context. I saw my Father as a fan, much as I was a fan of The Beatles, Prince, Todd Rundgren or better yet, the late Chicago writer/filmmaker John Hughes during those same years. My parents still laugh about the time when after a performance, they actually tailed Miles Davis' limousine throughout Chicago, just hoping to see where in the city he would end up. On the occasions when I joined them for a concert, we habitually stood behind the theater near the limo with the hopes of finally being able to meet and greet my Father's musical hero. Twice, all of the waiting was to no avail. The third time definitely was the charm.  

I was 17 years old and once again, there we stood behind the Chicago theater near the limo waiting and waiting and I grudgingly endured the experience, annoyed that I was a captive audience as I didn't know how to drive and could not be left to my own devices. I was also more than convinced that even if we did see Miles Davis, my Father would become starstruck and not even make a move towards him in the first place, making the whole escapade pointless, I reasoned to myself. After what felt like eons, my Father was surprised to witness a colleague of his quickly waking past us and wearing a Warner Brothers Records jacket, Miles Davis' recording label at that time. My Father caught his attention and after a quick discussion where he learned that his friend performed some PR duties for Warner Brothers as supplemental income, his friend asked if we wanted to go backstage to meet the man himself. It is a "no brainer" to know what we ended up doing.

Once we were granted entrance into the inner sanctum, I have to admit that I was stunned to see this man who presence had filled my Father's life and the home and family he built with my Mother, standing mere inches from us. My Father nervously introduced himself and us to Miles Davis and with a smile (!), he reached forwards, shook my hand and croaked a salutation in his unmistakable scratchy, hoarse voice and moments later, we exited. That was indeed the meeting and as I stated, while exciting, it was completely lost on me.

What I clearly did not understand in that spectacular moment did not arrive to me until many years later when I began listening to Miles Davis on my own and completely unprompted by my Father. I cannot even begin to tell you how it happened or why other than when music is ready to find you, it will indeed make its presence known.  

Since my twenties, my immersion in the music of Miles Davis, as well as the genre of jazz, has been slow going but the more I explore and expand my musical horizons and education, the more I realize exactly what extraordinary contributions all jazz musicians have made to the world through their boundless creativity, endless imagination, timeless compositional skills and a performing virtuosity that is nothing less than spiritual. As I have listened to more and more artists like Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, John Coltrane, Herbie Hancock, Grant Green, Thelonious Monk and others, it has been truly sobering to realize how much I just did not know about these musicians, the musicians they played with and the collective mark they all made upon African-American, and let's be honest, American culture in its entirety. In fact, I initially began to feel anger and some resentment at not knowing who these people actually were. I mean--if the entire world knows who Paul McCartney is (and should), then the whole world should know about these people without question. I began to wonder why the culture of jazz is not appreciated in America or at least with the same reverence it is loved and cherished abroad. And further more, I wonder why my own race has not nurtured and cultivated the very art that we created.       

When I really began to listen to these musical virtuosos, Miles Davis completely found his way to the very pinnacle for my personal tastes as well and precisely for the very same reasons that The Beatles, Prince and Todd Rundgren are heroes to me. Miles Davis was the true individual, an artist of the highest order. One who was willing to alienate his biggest fans in order to keep to the musical path of his own making and following it wherever it guided him. His musical journey existed regardless of musical genres, trends and fan expectations and in doing so, he invented his own musical language and demanded that we re-learn how to listen and experience the art of music. 

Currently, I have been listening to "Miles At The Fillmore-Miles Davis 1970: The Bootleg Series Volume 3" (released March 25, 2014), a boxed set that flies completely right up my alley in regards to Miles Davis' musical evolution. While my Father will always cherish the era that produced works like the iconic "Kind Of Blue" (released August 17, 1959)  the most, I have found that Miles Davis during the 1970's speaks the loudest to me, even when the music still forces me to scratch my head in confusion and amazement. 

Within this particular set of music, which captures four nights at the legendary Fillmore theater, what struck me is how Davis and his band quickly adapted themselves to the elements of rock music but accomplished this feat completely on their own terms. Instead of the slow burn of classic jazz, Davis and his band attack the material with voluminous speed, power and force but the selections are completely malleable. Songs can sometimes feel as if they will disintegrate due to their unpredictable cacophonous nature. And miraculously, all of the musicians will magically re-connect in a glory that is unstoppable. There are so many passages where I have found myself open mouthed and slack jawed at the proficiency and fury at which Davis plays, unbelievably eliciting sounds from his trumpet unlike any other human being who has ever played the instrument  It is as if we are hearing Miles Davis' true voice when his trumpet blows.

And like musical figures like Prince and Frank Zappa, I wish I could understand just how Miles Davis knew that the musicians he picked to play with him would be individuals who possessed the mental and physical dexterity to keep pace with him. How is it that Miles Davis knew exactly when to ride a groove and then extinguish it, nearly evaporating the musical time signatures in the process? In doing so, Miles Davis created a band and music that performed and operated outside of time itself, essentially inventing its own time signature for us to decipher. That is absolute genius!!!    

There is a joke about jazz music that I heard not that long ago where the complaint is from a listener who is just confounded as to why jazz musicians simply don't just play the right notes. While that is funny, in all honesty, I am now discovering that in order to find those elusive "right notes," a journey must be taken, a process must be explored. For whatever reasons, and how inscrutable and even impossible the music often became and what a mercurial figure he happened to be, Miles Davis was so purely open with his audience as he allowed everyone to live within his headspace, that unique journey, that extraordinary process.

And through all of the discoveries I will continue to make about jazz and Miles Davis, I will forever return to my Father and all that he taught to me. He wasn't just teaching me about music. He was giving me a window into himself. His process of forging bonds and connections with me through the bonds and connections he made with the music of Miles Davis is unquestionable as he also provided me with beginning to make bonds and connections with my musical and cultural heritage. He achieved all of this through patience, perseverance and powerful love and it just goes to show how music is just never solely "music." It is a life force, a gossamer that connects us to each other in the past, the future and so beautifully in the present.  

I have written so much at this time because I wish for my Father to know that I was indeed listening the entire time. Not just to Miles Davis, but to every single word he shared with me.