The music was as much an enigma as its maker. Moreover, the impenetrable density of some of the rhythm tracks, the often poor bass sound, and the awkwardness of some of the edits makes one wonder whether his vision had ever been done justice to in the way it was committed to vinyl. It's said that many of Davis's studio records were constructed by heavy tape editing and put together by jazz engineers and producers, which strengthens the impression that somehow, somewhere along the line, something was lost, or was never brought to fruition.
Then, earlier this year, a remarkable CD was released that sheds new light on this most obscure and misunderstood era of Miles Davis's career. Music writer Richard Williams commented in The Guardian that something "genuinely exceptional" happened in this process: "the music sounds more like itself. These are no mean compliments, and they are more than justified.
The man behind it is the New York bassist and producer Bill Laswell, himself no stranger to experimentation and breaking down the boundaries of music. The opening track of the album sees Laswell compressing the 35 minutes of the original In A Silent Way album into a suite that lasts just 15 minutes, and the improvement is remarkable.
He's brought a new, tight structure to the music, composing a totally new piece from totally familiar material. The sound of the instruments themselves, often a bit shrill and jarring on the version, is now beautifully warm, full and clear. The upright bass sounds like an electric bass and there are various new atmospheric drones and pads that add texture and atmosphere. Suddenly it all makes sense. Via transatlantic telephone Laswell comments: "It was both those things, and more.
The first thing to realise about his records from those years is that they are interpretations of original performances. What's on those records does not necessarily correspond to the way things were played. The records were the result of a day's work in the studio, of lots of tape editing and manipulation.
They weren't representing a particular performance. From onwards there was a tremendous amount of tape recording going on. The tapes were rolling, hours and hours of them were being filled, and then producer Tio Macero determined what ended up on the record and how it would sound. Macero is from a classical and jazz background, and I can't imagine someone with a background like that having a clue what to do with the kind of stuff Miles was producing.
To me, the music Miles was making at the time had nothing to do with jazz; it will therefore always be controversial from the perspective of jazz people. And I don't think they got it. It was too new for them. These were people who had been involved in making classic jazz albums like Kind Of Blue , and all of a sudden the music got a lot denser and darker and there were new and weird instruments to deal with.
How was all that supposed to sound? There was simply no reference point. Also, I talked a lot with Miles during the '80s, and I was aware that he didn't have a lot of control over the records as they came out. Tio and Columbia determined the results, and in some cases I don't even think that Miles had access to titles, artwork and so on. Tio worked as a producer for Columbia, and his work was to get the job done, get it edited and get it out quickly, because in those days records were coming out very frequently.
People were, to a large extent, controlling music for which they didn't have a fitting vision. You have to approach that kind of music with more of a rock sensibility. The name Panthalassa is a reference to the last two albums Miles made before his retirement in Agharta and Pangaea are both live double albums, and both were recorded on February 1st !
Agharta is a future Utopian spiritual centre of power, situated somewhere underneath the earth, Pangaea is the primordial continent, and Panthalassa the one primordial ocean.
Laswell explains that, despite the reference to the names of these two live albums, he didn't use any material from them, because "live albums are a whole different universe: their timeline is largely linear, and I don't think it would make sense to alter it.
Macero's editing and cut and paste methods were in some respects quite innovative and pioneering, and the remix culture caught up with them some 20 years later. But Macero's approach was also often more of a kind of shuffling process, trying to construct something that could be put out as a record. It wasn't really comparable to the way people now use recording studios and technology creatively to make new music. The studio wasn't used as an instrument. One autumn in New York, in , the most famous jazz musician in the world tried to take a right turn at 60 mph off the West Side Highway and totaled his Lamborghini Miura.
A bystander found Miles Davis with both legs broken, covered in blood and cocaine. Even after the crash, Miles had a bleeding ulcer, a bad hip, nodes in his larynx, and a heart attack while on tour in Brazil. He spat blood onstage, his legs in so much pain he had to work his wah-wah and volume pedals with his hands, and offstage, he self-medicated with Scotch and milk, Bloody Marys, Percodan, and more cocaine. His trajectory up to that point was a blur of a different hue. Like Orpheus grieving in the underworld or Marlow going up the river, Miles went to a place that forever altered his DNA.
When he finally returned to the studio, he never sounded the same. With Get Up With It , Miles began the most defiant shift of his storied career, dropping a totemic yet untidy leviathan that rebuffed jazz fans and critics alike.
Behind them sat producer and editor Teo Macero, who shepherded hours of sessions and chaos into something majestic. Still, beneath all that, another sound was stirring, one that hearkened back to his East St. Louis childhood. During these sessions, Miles began to seek an emphasis on rhythm above all else. The result was Milestones , one of his masterworks, which was soon followed by the legendary Kind of Blue. These works cemented his reputation, arguably making Davis the most admired jazz musician of the s.
Fascinated by rock, funk and soul, he added electric instruments — electric guitars, pianos and keyboards — as well as a driving beat to his music. As it did for folk artist Bob Dylan , electrification proved risky for Davis. However, beyond jazz, his reputation has steadily grown. In , Davis withdrew from the public sphere. He had long been plagued by ill-health, which was exacerbated by drug abuse. This was part of the dark side of his life. While he courted controversy in his lifetime because of his drug abuse and often moody and bad-tempered behaviour, it is his often abusive and violent treatment of women that threatens to overshadow his legacy.
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