Let a local jazz DJ lay a Miles Davis sound on the airwaves – which is at least twice a day and I remember the many dimensions of the man few people ever saw. Davis, who died Sept. 28, 1991, lived a meteoric career that defined him as taciturn, humorless, anti-social and totally immersed in his music. Never speaking to his audience, no song title announcements, and no acknowledgements of sidemen (though there was always respect and admiration and he always hired the best).
When not playing – and often when playing – during a set, Davis would simply walk away turning his back on the audience. These and many others, idiosyncrasies kept the myths and legends of Davis growing and enlarging.
His autobiography, which came out just after his death, did nothing to deny or soften this perception. Filled with an inordinate sense of self, larded with hubris and anger, it was an unfortunate last word from a man that changed the world of music.
Such, I discovered, was not always the case – earlier on – in off-stage relationships, long before his debilitating illnesses, the fateful marriage to Cicely Tyson and his unfortunate experiments with fusion and the avant garde. This man of so much perceived darkness, was also a human being with corners of light and humor that surfaced, if only now and then, with a wry sense of the child.
Back in the early 1960’s, Davis was playing a week at the now defunct Blackhawk Club in San Francisco. At the time I was writing motorsports columns for Bay Area newspapers and I remembered that Davis was a certified Ferrari buff, owning two at the time. I called the manager of the club requesting an interview, explaining my angle.
“Well,” he chuckled, “you know his personality. But, if you want to come by, I’ll tell his manager you’re coming and you can always hope.”
That night found me sitting at the bar as Davis closed out his first set, my palms a bit damp and mouth dry; will he, or won’t he? The stage lights dimmed and, wow, here he comes. “Whatta you want talk about, man,” that voice of gravel and sandpaper intoned. “Ferraris,” I said, and Davis was off on a 20-minute one-sided conversation about his cars, driving the backcountry of Connecticut, finding release and escape from the tensions of touring on long drives with his son. How the great Louis Chinetti, “‘Mr. Ferrari of New York” tried to talk him into racing. “The man was crazy!” Davis said with mock indignation.
Listening to Davis and the lowering of the ever-present wall he seemed to keep between himself and others, it became clear how deep was his passion for the prancing stallion of Maranello. Ferraris, like musical instruments, were fine tuned instruments of another sort. They had the prerequisite four wheels, steering wheels, engine, brakes, etc. But, how one could play a Ferrari compared to a Chevrolet or Ford! Ferraris sang to Davis in a voice found only in those bright red Italian chargers.
Finally, Davis looked at me and said he had to get back to the bandstand. “One more question, quick. If you had all the money in the world to buy any car you wanted, what would it be?” Davis looked at me with those half-lidded spotlight eyes, smiled softly and said “A Lotus Formula One.” But that is strictly a racecar for the Grand Prix circuits, I argued. “You couldn’t drive it.”
“Yeah, right, but I could go down and just…look at it.” And with a slight upturn of the lips that resembled a smile, he sauntered off into the darkness.
A couple of years later, the Monterey Jazz Festival was holding a trumpet summit with Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Harry James, Clark Terry, Roy Eldridge and Harry “Sweets” Edison. Backstage, the musicians were waiting to go on; standing around, talking shop when Davis grabbed Gillespie’s signature uptilted horn and threw it to James saying, “Hey, Harry, have you ever seen such a weird looking horn in your life?”
And, with a horrified Gillespie looking on, a game of “keep-away” began. One can only imagine what was going on in Gillespie’s mind as he watched his expensive trumpet being tossed back and forth. He was saved by the stage manager calling “5 minutes, Diz.”
As the press filed out for Gillespie’s set, all were shaking their heads over what had just occurred. Davis joking around? Having fun with his friends? Incredible!
We settled in the photo boxes at the sides of the stage as the curtain opened. Gillespie stepped forward, took a big breath and blew – nothing. Again, the cheeks bulged, again, he blew – only squeaks and a big laugh as he stared straight in our direction.
Looking behind us, we found Davis standing on a box above our heads sucking on a large lemon. It was a night of non-musical greatness from a highly unexpected source.
In the following years, there was the well known sabbatical, followed by a series of concerts that, while the faithful continued to fill the seats, were but mere whims of the former giant. And then, somehow, the magic caught again and Miles Davis was once again pulling new and exciting sounds from his horn. And it seemed only right the final concert of his life at Montreux be a return to the greatness of his collaboration with Gil Evans. But for me, those few non-musical and human moments at the Blackhawk and Monterey are even stronger memories of Miles Davis.
Al Auger is a veteran journalist with umpty-umph years as a staffer and now a freelancer specializing in travel, skiing, automotive, and jazz and blues. He writes a weekly automotive column in The Reporter of Vacaville and a monthly travel article in Siliconeer Magazine.
