“WHERE AM I? WHASS A LEAPING ALLIGATOR?”
“Lapin Agile. It’s French, you hillbilly motherfucker.”
“THANK YOU. THANK YOU VERY–”
“Shut the fuck up, Jethro.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: miles davis (Page 8 of 8)
Miles Davis’ electric stuff is polarizing in the way that Kind of Blue is not; disliking that record makes you objectively wrong, but hating 40-minute, three-guitar feedback freakouts is a perfectly reasonable stance to take. It’s not for everyone, and even if the amorphous, skeechy mess is your cup of tea, it’s not the kind of tea you can drink every day.
But it’s Miles’ birthday today–his 90th–and so it’s the right time. Play this one too loud.
(Fun fact: both Miles Davis’ first and last names are a pain in the ass to pluralize or make possessives out of, and that kinda fits Miles’ personality to a tee.)
Happy birthday, Miles. How old are–
“Motherfucker, I’ll put my thousand-dollar shoe up your Jew ass.”
…
Sorry.
“Sorry, what?”
Sorry, Mr. Davis.
“Better. Who you again? You the new white friend they made up for me?”
I’m a real person.
“Dumb fucking movie. I’m hanging out with fictional white people. How about a cartoon dog that talks? Long as you’re gonna start making shit up, make everything up. What about I fight off an alien invasion with a trumpet that shoots death rays?”
I’d see that.
“Shit, I might, too. Miles Davis and a talking dog saving the world with kung fu? Hell, yeah.”
There’s kung fu in it?
“Why the fuck not?”
You truly are a genius.
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssfTNCTVT5U[/embedyt]
Oh, good: Miles has a fictional white friend.
Keith Jarrett didn’t like playing electric instruments, so Miles made him play two at the same time. (Though Miles’ behavior is generally indefensible, Keith Jarret is a legendary pain-in-the-ass, so it’s understandable.) There was at least one foreign guy crawling around on the floor playing unpronounceable drums; in a beautiful musical irony, the guy on the floor (a Brazilian Mickey worshipped named Airto Moreira) and his drums–especially his rubbery Cuíca, which sounded like a balloon being rubbed by Mozart–were as important to the sound of this band as much as anyone else.
This particular iteration of Miles’ band didn’t last long: there were only a few months between Michael Henderson (formerly of Motown) replacing the more traditionally jazzy Dave Holland on bass and Jack De Johnette leaving to form his own band. Miles’ sound got louder, and much weirder; tablas became involved. But he never had a drummer like De Johnette ever again, not that there are a dozen people on the planet who can play the drums as well.
This short-lived band, best captured on the Cellar Door sessions, could have blown any rock band off the stage; they did, on several nights in a tiny club in Washington D.C. in December of 1970.
This is good music.
Hey, Miles. Whatcha doing?
…
“Motherfucker, I’ll throw you off a bridge.”
Mr. Davis.
“Better.”
Mr. Davis, where did your hatred of the white man come from?
“Paying attention.”
Well put.
“Black man who don’t know the white man is the devil is worse than the white man. And nothing’s worse than the white man.”
Your logic may be off there.
“Logic is a white man’s lie.”
And now you’re back to making sense.
“Course I make sense. I invented jazz.”
You didn’t.
“I’ll take your ofay ass to that bridge, boy.”
Fine, fine: you invented jazz.
“And being masculine.”
No. No, you didn’t. And please speak up.
JAZZSLAP!
Holy shit, did you just slap me?
“You get the back of the hand next.”
You’re a terrible man.
“Yeah. You gonna turn off my music?”
No.
“So, who wins?”
You didn’t go for subtlety in your automobiles, did you?
“A black man can’t drive a Ferrari?”
A black man can drive whatever the hell he wants! I was referring specifically to you.
“You saying I ain’t a black man?”
You have the worst interpersonal skills I’ve ever seen.
“Suck my dick, honky.”
Simmer down, Mr. Davis. Which Ferrari is this?
“1967 275 GTB/4. 3.3 liter V-12 with six carburetors. How many carburetors your car have?”
None.
“So, I win.”
I don’t think that’s how technology works.
“Shut the fuck up. This car was designed by Pininfarina and built by Scaglietti. Who designed your car?”
A guy named Richard, according to the internet.
“White motherfucker.”
Why would you assume that?
“What’s his last name?”
Andrews-Perry.
“Hyphenated white motherfucker.”
Sure, probably. Didn’t you end up crashing all of your cars?
“I bought ’em: I can do whatever I want with ’em.”
True.
…
…
…
Miles?
“Mr. Davis. We ain’t been introduced.”
Mr. Davis. What are you doing here?
“Whatever the fuck I want, you white motherfucker.”
Sure.
“Grateful Dead? That what all this shit is?”
Yeah, I guess.
“Broaden your horizons, you uneducated motherfucker. I played with the Dead. Weird-looking white boys. Could play a bit. Drummer wasn’t bad. That hairy Mexican motherfucker on guitar was a good kid. Respectful. Knew my music, and his history. I liked playing for those crowds. Freaky white kids, peaceful, they’d listen. Fuck white bitches. Bigger money. Playing with the Dead, yeah: good for me. Good for me.”
…
Mr. Davis, I’m sorry: I cannot hear a word you’re saying. Could you speak up?
“I’m gonna run you over with my Ferrari, cracker.”
You’re no fun.
VROOOOOM
I should go.
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