Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: miles davis (Page 6 of 8)

Birth Of The Pool

October 1, 2017 / / 13 Comments

Mr. Davis, may I ask you–

“You see McLaughlin back there? Wearing his fucking dashiki? White motherfuckers should stick to khakis and fucking tuxedos. Second you venture outside that bullshit, you make fools out of yourselves. Boy looks like an usher at a theater for perverts.”

–a question?

“Yeah, fuck it. Ask away.”

Why did you always play your trumpet facing downward?

“Shit’s heavy.”

Sure.

“Ain’t no one paying me for my fucking posture. You think this is something? This ain’t shit. Look at this, motherfucker.”

Wow. It’s almost like you’re trying to fold yourself in half.

“Sometimes I like to play to my dick. Only one in the fucking room understands what I’m doing half the time. Other times, I’m looking at my shoes.”

Why?

“I got beautiful shoes, motherfucker.”

That’s true.

“And once again the white man pigeonholes the black man. Only lets him be one motherfucking thing. I got fucking multitudes in me. Check this shit out.”

The horn’s going straight up now.

“You ain’t as dumb as you look. I can do it all. Horn down, up, whatever. Besides, I play this way and I don’t got to look at that motherfucker’s sad-ass afro. Shit, that thing’s terrible. Hey, Gary. Gary.”

“Yeah, Miles?”

“Go stand behind the curtain until you ain’t ugly no more.”

Stop bullying Gary Bartz, Mr. Davis.

“Goddamn, you got me all riled up now. Motherfuckers coming into my headspace and fucking it up. I need to go the health club and take a swim.”

Okay.

I don’t understand what’s happening.

“What, a black man can’t swim?”

Well, actually, due to a myriad of socioeconomic factors–

BANG!

“Shut the fuck up, Mr. Wizard, or I’ll shove that kickboard up your ass.”

Sorry.

“I’ve shoved kickboards up motherfuckers’ asses before.”

I already apologized. Is that a shower cap?

“Yeah. Lemme show you how to put it on.”

This is a weird lesson.

“Motherfuckers wanna start from the front, but that’s the white man lying to them. Back is the place to begin. Get all your little curly shits all wrapped up tight back there. Then you cover the front.”

“Voila, motherfucker.”

Mr. Davis, why the cap?

“You think this shit I got on my head is natural, motherfucker? Can’t be dipping a fucking process in a swimming pool. Teach you peckerwoods nothing at school, I swear.”

May I ask one more question?

“Ask me while I’m fucking swimming.”

What happened to the cap?

“I got mad at a white lady and slapped her with it.”

And why the sunglasses?

“Bright as a motherfucker in here.”

You’re indoors.

“Shut the fuck up. Watch me do the breaststroke.”

Okay.

“I can frog kick like a motherfucker.”

This has gone to a place I did not expect.

“Okay, now spot me, motherfucker.”

What?

I’m leaving.

“If you find that Garcia motherfucker, tell him to come by.”

The gym? I can tell you right now he won’t come by the gym.

BANG!

I’ll send him to the house.

“Better.”

Where are you even keeping that gun?

“Worry about yourself.”

Yes, sir.

Even The Buddha Needs A Road Manager

October 1, 2017 / / 3 Comments

Why are you wearing a backstage pass?

“It is what th’ French call an accoutrement, me son. Little sumpin t’ spice up me appearance. Tells people what genre I belong to, dunnit?”

Is this your van?

“Legally or morally?”

It’s a van. There is no moral ownership of a van.

“Well, that’s where yer wrong, guv. One chooses not a van; the van chooses one. Much like a magical sword. Better ‘n a magical sword, I reckon. Sword’s not particularly useful nowadays, innit? Van’s good for all sorts of wiz. Live in it, drive the band in it. Vans can be converted into mobile dog groomeries, me son. Lucrative business, but hard on th’ knees. That’s what Going Mobile was about. That number The ‘oo did.”

Going Mobile by The Who is about the dog grooming van that comes to your house?

“God’s honest.”

I choose to believe you, but only due to how unimportant this point is.

“Bless ya, lad. You seen Miles anywhere about?

He was here before. Him and Garcia are off somewhere getting high.

“Managed several tours for him.”

You did not.

“Information you won’t find in any ‘istory book, but each word the fuzzy.”

Fuzzy?

“Cockney rhyming slang. See now, ‘fuzzy’ rhymes with ‘buzzi.’ From there, we go t’ Ruth Buzzi, and ‘Ruth’ pairs up nicely with ‘truth.’ Fuzzy means truth.”

That is absolutely not how Cockney rhyming slang works.

“No need to be all dolphin and chimney.”

Stop it. You’re just making shit up.

“Th’ Dead would take months and months off, lazy buggers that they were, but I preferred an honest day’s work. Or a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Whichever, I just couldn’t sit around. So in between Dead tours, I squired the Man With The Horn around. Complicated man.”

And no one understood him but his woman?

“Nah, they couldn’t figure th’ fucker out, either. He was a bit like Garcia. Loved ‘is fags.”

What?

“Cigarettes, you illiterate colonist. MIles loved ‘is cigarettes. ‘Ated ‘omosexuals.”

Sure.

“Accused me on the regular of bein’ a poof. Said it was th’ accent. Kept sendin’ poor Chick Corea int’ my room late at night to try an’ grab me willie.”

Yeah, he does that. Who was easier to manage, Miles or the Dead?

“You must be joking.”

No.

“There’s no comparison. 800 dodgy bastards with dope stuck in their beards or a guy who really wants his check? Tell me ‘oo you’d rather shepherd.”

“You talking shit about me, motherfucker?”

“Oh, ‘ello, MIles.”

“Who is that, Miles?”

“Shut the fuck up, you blind motherfucker. Cutler, you owe me $500.”

“Other way around, Miles.”

BANG!

“WHAT’S HAPPENING?”

“Shut the fuck up, Stevie.”

Friends

September 30, 2017 / / 2 Comments

You look happy.

“Found a teevee show I like. Too many white motherfuckers, but it’s funny. Makes me laugh.”

What show, Mr. Davis?

“Don’t know the name. About this white bitch wants to have everything. Works at some sort of comedy show. There’s a black man on the show, but he’s a buffoon. Talks like he’s got nine dicks in his mouth.”

Are you talking about 30 Rock?

“Told you I didn’t know the name, motherfucker. White motherfucker in a suit with a giant head got a voice like mine is on the show, too. Very funny. One episode I saw had a cartoon cat on it. They called him Meatcat. Used to know a trombone player named Meatcat.”

Yeah, you’re talking about 30 Rock.

“All sorts of misunderstandings and confusion going on. Leads to comedic situations. Kept my attention even though it was some racist bullshit. That white bitch who stars in it never knows what she wants. Family? Career? Bitch don’t know. Reminds me of Cicely.”

Tina Fey reminded you of Cicely Tyson?

“Yeah. When she started getting out of hand, I wanted to slap her.”

Jesus, Mr. Davis.

“One show, they did it live. Like that was some fucking big deal. I did my show live every night. White people always want you be impressed when they do some shit black folks do every day.”

I guess. But, um, I got some bad news for you.

KuhCHICK

Was that your pistol?

“You know it was.”

I did. Just checking. But 30 Rock is going off Netflix.

“When?”

Tonight.

“This is what the white man does. Gets you to enjoy something, then takes it away.”

There’s other shows.

“I ain’t watching no fucking Friends, motherfucker.”

I wasn’t going to suggest that.

“Shouldn’t be suggesting nothing to me. You a genius?”

Well, according to the New Yorker—

BANG!

I deserved that.

“One of these days, I’m not gonna miss. You lucky I’m a sweetheart.”

“That’s right, man. Miles is a prince.”

“Who said that?”

“Hey, man.”

“Garcia! Hey, motherfucker. Get your fat Mexican ass over here.”

“How you been, Miles?”

“Dead. How about you?”

“Same.”

“You holding?”

“Shit, yeah.”

“Good. I like that. Tell that chatterbox motherfucker to beat it.”

“Sure. Hey.”

Me?”

“Yeah, man. Cop a walk.”

But I–

BANG!

HOLY SHIT, Garcia! Did you just shoot at me?

“Yeah. I’ve wanted to for a while.”

“Heh heh. Shoot at him again.”

Interviewin’

September 29, 2017 / / 2 Comments

Commentator Dead_Drift hips us all to this 1962 Playboy interview with Mr. Davis in which he:

  • Says the word “negro” a million fucking times.
  • Also says the word “Oriental” quite a bit.
  • Gets mad at the insinuation that he might not be the greatest trumpet player that ever lived.
  • Complains about literally the exact same bullshit that black folks are still dealing with today.
  • Doesn’t stab his interlocutor when asked the question: “Have you always been so sensitive about being a negro?”

Freestylin’

September 28, 2017 / / 4 Comments

You don’t look happy.

“Thinking, motherfucker. Black man can’t have a neutral look on his face without getting shit?”

Just saying.

“You saying but you got nothing to say. Got nothing to say, don’t say nothing. Just shut the fuck up and be in my presence.”

It’s a dialogue-based interaction, Mr. Davis.

“So write some fucking description, you lazy motherfucker.”

You see that Hugh Hefner died?

“Fuck him. White man stays in his house having bitches bring him money and people want to build statues to him. I do it and I get arrested. Sissy-ass in his pajamas.”

Hef did a lot for civil rights, Mr. Davis.

“Ever get his head split open by some racist pig cop just ’cause he was standing on the sidewalk?”

No.

“Then he didn’t do a lot. Motherfucker did some. Besides, you ever see black bitches in that magazine of his?”

Once in a while.

“Yeah. Once in a while. Buried with a bunch of other bitches in the back of the issue. Centerfold wasn’t for n—–s. Maybe once in a while you see a brunette. Other than that, it’s like the bad guys won the war.”

I asked you to stop using that word.

“And I asked you to shut the fuck up. We are at an impasse.”

I guess.

“Hef was a pimp. People loved him for it. I did that same shit. Got locked in jail. Now tell me I can’t say n—-r, you symbol-of-fucking-systemic-oppression motherfucker.”

You have a point, but you don’t need to be such a dick about it.

“You telling me how to protest now?”

No, sir.

“Good, I’m gonna go swimming.”

“Now I’m swimming.”

You are.

“Go away.”

Okay.

In A Semi-Fictional Way

September 28, 2017 / / 1 Comment

“You ever been this cool, motherfucker?”

Nope. Not even close.

“I’m like this always.”

You are.

“Many of the problems I’ve had with white people stem from this. White man sees me, and he’s threatened. Knows he can’t walk like me, knows he can’t dress like me. This threatens him. Then he sees the white bitches wanting to fuck me, and this angers him. Plus, most white men are homosexuals, so they also want to fuck me. I fuck the white man’s head up.”

Mr. Davis, did you ever pay the National Anthem before a game?

“Why asking me that? You in the CIA?”

I am not in the–

“Most white men are homosexuals and in the CIA.”

Uh-huh. Not in the CIA.

“What the fuck you asking about the anthem for?”

There’s a kerfuffle about it when I live.

“You just say ‘kerfuffle’ to Miles fucking Davis?”

Yeah.

“You know I’m gonna shoot at you, right?”

Also yeah.

BANG!

I deserved that.

“Ain’t never played that shit. What, you mean stand on the fucking pitcher’s mound and play that dumb-ass song? Nah, fuck that shit. Mets asked once.”

You turned them down?

“Yeah. And the next time I saw Cleon Jones, I punched the motherfucker.”

You know Cleon Jones?

“Everybody knows Jonesy. Outgoing motherfucker.”

RUSSIAN PIANO NOISES

“Who the fuck is that playing that shit?”

“Is your piano player.”

“You ain’t my piano player, motherfucker! Where’s Herbie?”

“Herbie Hancock have accident. Very sad. Fell on upside-down lawnmower. Tragedy. Now I piano player.”

“Stop playing that fucking piano.”

“Putin nyet play Fender Rhodes.”

“That’s not what I meant, motherfucker!”

“Putin solo.”

DICTATORIAL SOLOING NOISE

“We’re in B-flat, motherfucker!”

“Putin play free.”

“Not on my fucking stage.”

“Kiss ass, Miles David.”

“What the fuck did you say to me?”

“HEY! Gentlemen!”

“Not okay, boys! We are NOT going to fight here”

“Who the fuck are these motherfuckers?”

“Putin know skinny man. Owns restaurant I invade several time.”

“Eyes up here, fellows.”

“Look how disappointed Phil and I are in you.”

“VERY!”

“If you’re not gonna play nice, then we’ll separate you.”

…

“Who the fuck are these motherfuckers?”

“Maybe they vill have accident.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“Putin make call.”

Miles In The Sky With Diamonds

September 27, 2017 / / 6 Comments

“What’s that boy’s name who doesn’t know how to play drums? He was in your band.”

“Ringo?”

“That’s it. Lemme ask you: he simple?”

“I don’t understand.”

“A retard. Ringo a retard? No one who ain’t retarded could play drums that bad.”

“Ringo wasn’t retarded. I don’t think.”

“Trust me. Retard. Gotta have a smart drummer. Tony Williams could hold down a groove while filling out the Times crossword puzzle. And not that easy-ass Monday shit, neither. He’d do Thursday in pen. Never drop a beat. He was like you. Dug Chinese bitches.”

“Yoko is Japanese, Miles.”

“Japanese people are just Island Chinamen. Not sneaky. The white propaganda during the war said they was sneaky, but this isn’t true. Straightforward motherfuckers, just weird. Chinese bitches got different kind of pussies than white bitches or black bitches. This is true. You know this. Chinese bitches got double-jointed pussies. Used to have one could open up a Heineken bottle. Then she’d drink the whole thing. All with her pussy. Amazing pussy.”

“It’s something else.”

“Got me to wondering. Maybe it’s all the Chinese. Not just bitches. Maybe the men had magic dicks or some shit. I had to know, but I ain’t no sissy.”

“What did you do, Miles?”

“I made Chick Corea fuck a whole bunch of Chinamen. He wasn’t queer or nothing, but it’s my fucking band so he did it.”

“And?”

“And what, motherfucker?”

“Do they have magic dicks?”

“Chick didn’t think so. I think that experience was what led him to that Scientology bullshit he does.”

“Yoko knows some Scientologists. Don’t you, Yoko?”

“My dear friends the Cannonbaums are–”

JAZZSLAP!

“What the fuck, Miles? Why’d you hit Yoko?”

“I felt she was disrespecting me.”

“Don’t beat up my wife. That’s my job, okay? I beat up my wives; you beat up your wives.”

“I don’t beat them up. I beat them, but I don’t beat them up.”

“I’m not seeing the distinction.”

“It’s subtle, motherfucker.”

“Miles, I forgive you for striking–”

BEATLESLAP!

“You’re doing it all wrong. That was sad. Power comes from your hips. You just swinging your arm like a fairy. Gotta get your torque going.”

“I think I know how to hit my wife, Miles.”

“Boy, I was slapping wives before you were born. Don’t give me your bullshit.”

“Could both of you please stop hitting–”

JAZZSLAP!

“See the hips? Were you watching?”

“I’ll try it. I’ll try it once, but I like my way.”

“One of my teeth is loose. You hit me really–”

BEATLESLAP!

“See?”

“That felt good, actually.”

“There are numerous bystanders. I don’t know why no one’s calling the po–”

JAZZSLAP!

“What was that one for, Miles?”

“Bitch was gonna snitch.”

OKAY. That’s enough. No more of whatever this is. Everyone stop beating his wife.

“I’m not beating my wife. I’m beating his wife, motherfucker.”

We’re done. I wish this hadn’t happened.

Dark Magus

September 25, 2017 / / 2 Comments

I had a watch like that.

“Mine cost $800, motherfucker.”

Mine didn’t.

“Checkmate. You ever stay in your house for five years having freaky sex and doing cocaine?”

No.

“It’s worth trying. I had a good time. White women would bring me money. I liked that. They would do things on one another, and that interested me. Taking a lot of pills at the time. Think I killed a maid.”

You think you killed a maid?

“I told you, motherfucker: I was taking a lot of pills.”

You did tell me that.

“Place got messy, but I didn’t care. A Jewish fellow bought me a piano to try to get me to play again.”

That was nice of him.

“I think I killed him, too.”

You really did have a dark period.

“Couldn’t handle the music business no more. Too many people using their Jewishness on me.”

Uh-huh.

“Exhausting. That’s all the music business is: Jew magic.”

Please stop.

“Black man and the Jew are natural allies, but Jews don’t see it that way. Look in the mirror and think they’re white. This makes them side with their oppressor. Changing their names and shit. Had an accountant try to introduce himself to me as Mr. Adams. I said, ‘Motherfucker, your middle name’s Adam. Your last name’s Boogershmitz or some bullshit. I see your hair, motherfucker.’ That angers me. Even if I could pass for a white man, I fucking wouldn’t. I would feel dirty inside.”

You’re a man of principle, Mr. Davis.

“I got principle like a motherfucker, yeah.”

“Now you have new rhythm section, Miles David.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Is Putin. Am jazzbo.”

“You can’t be in my band, motherfucker.”

“Da. Putin is in Third Great Quintet.”

“Go fuck yourself, Boris. And what the fuck is that thing with the bass?”

“Is Crazy Ivan. Is so funky.”

“Fuck him, too.”

“WAAAAAAAH!”

“Vhy you make Crazy Ivan cry?”

“Because fuck him, that’s why.”

“Stop being ungrateful, Miles David.”

“Fuck this. I’m going back in my house for another five years.”

“You can nyet go to house. Ve have gig at Plugged Nickel.”

“Take that ugly motherfucker and play it yourfuckingself.”

“WAAAAAAAH!”

“Nyet cry, Ivan. He lie. You beautiful.”

“No, you ain’t.”

“WAAAAAAAH!”

“Ve are now enemy, Miles David.”

“Suck my dick, bitch.”

Don’t Bop

September 24, 2017 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Mister–

“Shut the fuck up. Listen.”

…

What am I listening to?

“A bass player about to be fired.”

Which one this time?

“Dave Holland. Had to fire his limey ass. Played the notes wrong.”

Dave Holland was playing wrong notes?

“I didn’t say that, you simple motherfucker. He played the right notes, but he played ’em wrong.”

You have a unique way of leading a band.

“I tried to tell him. I said, ‘Dave, play like a cowboy in the supermarket.’ And he couldn’t. He’d play one thing, and it’d be a cowboy but not in the supermarket. Maybe in the post office or something. Played another, and now he’s in the supermarket, but he sure ain’t no fucking cowboy. Boy just couldn’t understand basic fucking instructions”

Okay.

“Besides, I couldn’t stand that accent. Sounded like a queer. Wife sounded like a queer, too.”

I’m just gonna say “okay” again because I have no response to that.

“When I was doing Bitches Brew, John McLaughlin made the date. Came in here with his guitar. Motherfucker could play, man. So I told him, ‘John, play like a genius just punched you in the eye,’ and I punched him in the eye. That track became Miles Runs The Voodoo Down. That was a man who could take direction.”

You did like hitting people.

“Motherfuckers became punched. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Miles, what do you want on your tofu dog?”

“Don’t bring that white bullshit near me. Put your tofu up your ass.”

“They’re delicious, Miles. And good for the earth!”

“Fuck the earth, fuck you, and fuck tofu. Don’t I know you?”

“We shared a bill three years ago, when I was 29.”

“Been a rough three years, motherfucker.”

“Three years your time. Like, forever ago in the reality of my photograph.”

“This all some white people bullshit I’ve gotten involved with.”

“Oh, yeah. White as hell and bullshit as all get out.”

“Don’t make no fucking sense whatsoever.”

“Nope. You want ketchup on your tofu dog?”

BANG!

“You shot the tofu!”

“Probably tastes better now, motherfucker.”

Signin’

September 23, 2017 / / 12 Comments

“What’s your name, boy?”

“My name is Timmy, Mr. Davis.”

“Fuck you, Timmy. I’m gonna make this out to Opie, cause you’re an Opie-looking motherfucker.”

Please be nice to children.

“Fuck children. They don’t buy records and you can’t fuck them. No use at all.”

They’re not supposed to be useful.

“Me and Brando used to hang out.”

You never actually listen to me, do you?

“Knew him for a while. Back when he wasn’t so fucking fat. Always a slob, though. Used to go over his apartment. Pizza boxes and shit all over the place. Be wearing that white tee-shirt from the movies. Think he stole it off the set cause he’s the cheapest motherfucker you ever met. Got his tee-shirt on and no drawers. Dick hanging out. Then he’d start trying to make me eggs. Motherfucker’s cracking eggs and his dick’s flopping into the fucking pan.”

Did you have the eggs?

“I ain’t eating dick eggs, motherfucker.”

Figured.

“Always been very particular about my food. Like it a certain way. Frances knew how to make my food.”

Your first wife.

“Yeah. Cooked real good. Not too heavy on the spices. Gotta have a little bit. Can’t be eating that bland white shit. You know white people just boil a chicken and eat that shit?”

I do, yes.

“Fuck is wrong with you people?”

A lot.

“Gotta have some flavor, but just a bit. Can’t be playing trumpet with a heavy stomach. Burping into your horn and shit. Not right. I fired Steve Grossman for that shit.”

Could Cecily Tyson cook the way you liked?

“She could order the shit I liked from room service. That’s about it.”

“Mr. Davis, may I have your autograph, please?”

“That’s nice. Respectful. What’s your name, white boy?”

“Bobby, sir.”

“You look familiar.”

“Yeah, uh, we shared a bill two years ago when I was 22.”

“What the fuck is happening?”

“Well, it’s sort of a floating timeline around here. Are you, uh, familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”

BANG!

“Next motherfucker that asks me that stupid bullshit is getting shot!”

Please don’t shoot the children, Mr. Davis.

“I shoot whoever the fuck I want.”

Bobby, just run.

“I want my autograph.”

« Older posts Newer posts »

The Stacks

Follow Us

Google Verification

Follow Us

Follow me on Twitter

© 2021 Thoughts On The Dead

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑