1

l

by  Michael  E. Veal avia

AZZ IN  TRANSITION,  1968  - 19711
In  the  evolution  of  modern  jazz,  Miles
Davis  is  central  but  controversial.  From
his arrival in New York City in 1 945, Davis|
participated  in  the  bebop  movemen
alongside  Charlie  Parker,  helped  initiatel
the  'cool'  jazz  movement  in  the  mid-
1 950s, hebed pioneer 'modal' jazz in the

p  -•

late  1950s  with  John  Coltrane  and  the
'First  Great  Miles  Davis  Quintet7,  and
stretched  the  boundaries  of  jazz compo-
sition and improvisation in the  1 960s with
he 'Second  Great  Miles  Davis  Quintet7.
[But when  he  began  to  integrate  electric

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instruments  and  el-
ments  of  popular
iongs into his music
round  1 968, Davis
(initiated a bitter de-
pate  among  musi-
:ians, scholars, crit-
|ics,  and  audiences
bout  the  relation-
hip  between  jazz
nd  popular  music.
Davis  pander-
ling  to  commercial
rends,  or  was  he
Imerely  updating
|jazz's long-standing
of
radition 
Irefashioning  popu-
lar songs as vehicles
"or  improvisation?

Even though the era of "jazz-rock fusion" had effectively

ended  by the early  1980s, the debate  has persisted to the I
present. Fusion intensified the conflict generated by Ornettel
Coleman, Cecil Taylor, and other creators of 'free-jazz' in the
1960s. Jazz has arguably never recovered from the schism
produced  by the fusion and free movements. Both innova-
tions combined to lay waste to what might be thought of as
the 'linear historical narrative' of jazz, which in most accounts
stretches from New Orleans around  1 900, through Kansas
City in the 1930s, to New York in the 1950s.

The stereotypical  narrative of fusion  music  holds that
when Davis began to change the sound of his music during
1968 and 1 969, all of his former bandmembers in the 'Sec-
ond Great Quintet' (with the exception of bassist Ron Carter)
followed suit, and went on to form  commercially-motivated
fusion bands to great economic success and tragic aesthetic
consequences. In this narrative, the success of former Davis
pianist Herbie Hancock's 'Chameleon' (1974) and Weather
Report's 1975 'Birdland' (the group was co-founded by two
former Davis sidemen, Wayne Shorter and Josef Zawinul) came
to epitomize the commercial highs and aesthetic lows to which
the jazz tradition had been dragged by the mid-1970s. This
same line of reasoning can be applied to Davis himself; al-
though he fell short of the commercial successes of his former
sidemen while avoiding their artistic compromises, his ges-
tures became  progressively  less subtle  by the time  he went
into semi-retirement in 1975. The music and ensemble play-
ing on albums  like Agharta  and Pangaea (both  1 975)  re-
mained brilliantly  inventive for those willing to follow Davis
into  his dark, foreboding  soundscapes of  heavily  distorted
Afro-funk, but Davis's own playing seemed spent of energy
— devoid of much of the grace and understatement that lis-
teners had long associated with him.

This narrative places fusion music and acoustic jazz in
direct opposition. On one side stands an ideal of aesthetic
purity revolving around a constellation of canonized African-
American aesthetic traits, and on the other stands a degener-
ate  hybrid, based  upon  marketplace  calculations  and the
ephemeral  fashion trends  of American  youth  culture. This
dualistic view of the relations connecting jazz, popular song,
and electronic instrumentation has prevailed for years, ignor-
ing the subtleties and gradations of what was in reality a fluid
process. A more illuminating perspective might articulate these
connections as a complex interplay between the two styles,
resulting in various fusions from the most commercial types of
easy-listening jazz, to the most rarefied types of experimental,
improvisational pop music.

The persistence of the critical divide is evident in recent
appraisals of fusion music and its place within the broader
scope of  jazz history.  Prominent voices  in the debate have
included the neo-conservative  music critic Stanley Crouch,
who dismissed Davis as a 'sellout'  in and on the pro-Davis
side, the Village Voice columnist Greg Tate, who sparked the

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The Art of Miles Davis, All My Brothers  and  Sisters

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I ©Jan Persson

[revisionist appraisal of Davis's electric music in 1983 with his
(two-part  article  in Down  Beaf titled  'The  Electric  Miles'.  In
ll  995, Peter Watrous linked 'A Jazz Generation and the Miles
JDavis  Curse', arguing  in the  New  York Times that  Davis's
•electric experiments had resulted in the wasting of an entire
(generation  of  jazz talent.  The  British  jazz  historian, Stuart
(Nicholson took a less melodramatic view. He conceded that
(many of the creators of fusion had admirable aesthetic mo-
tives initially, but that the movement's  radical  promise was
(blurred by a lack of conceptual clarity, on one hand, and the
(gradual commercialization of the genre, on the other.

Conspicuously absent in much of the fusion debate has
|been much substantial discussion of the music itself. The situa-
tion gradually began to change with the publications of Tate's
(articles, Jack Chambers two-volume epic Milestones (1985),
(a host of articles and liner notes accompanying the gradual
(reissue of  Davis's  electric work, and  most significantly, the
(publication of Paul Tingen's recent Miles Beyond (2001), which
(focuses exclusively  on  Davis's  electric  music.  But develop-
ments  outside the world  of  scholarship  and  criticism  have
|also inspired the reappraisal of his 1970s work.

One such catalyst has been the emergence of a younger
I mainly African-American) generation of'neo-conserva-

tive' jazz musicians (such as the Marsalis brothers) who have
attempted - with much corporate support and spin control -
to legitimate  jazz by grounding  it in a classicized version of
African-American aesthetics. The neo-conservative triumph
has led to the increasing institutionalization of the music, to
the creation of repertory bands around the country, and has
allowed jazz to be given its proper due as 'America's classical
music'. But the original works emerging from this movement
are unlikely to be judged as historically significant. Conceived
within a narrow conceptual vacuum and largely severed from
the folk roots of the African-American community, they pale
when compared to the most innovative works of the  1960s
and 1970s (including some works produced by free and fu-
sion musicians), when African-American musicians were striv-
ing to redefine musical and cultural reference points, contrib-
ute their  music as a solution to the challenges  confronting
society, and/or even to make a buck in a particularly  novel
way. Those who criticize fusion for its commercialism fail to
note that the corporate music agenda underwrites the neo-
conservative movement  in a much more  insidious and de-
structive way. Hindsight may allow us to laugh off some of the
excesses of free and fusion, but it is doubtful whether we will
laugh at the way the music mega-corporations  have effec-

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I

y

I ©David  Redfem

tively killed jazz as an organic African-American art form by
marginalizing the innovators of the last 40 years (a process
scandalously confirmed in Ken Burns' recent PBS documen-
I tary). Yet the very stodginess of the neo-conservative revival
has galvanized the impulse towards innovation among younger
musicians. The canonization of classical jazz has stimulated
I a search for alternate reference points, including those found
in the music of the last four decades — much of which is yet
I to be integrated into the accepted language of jazz practice.
Apart from the reaction provoked by neo-conservative
I classicism, another musical trend has directly promoted the
reassessment of  Davis's music  (and other free and electric
I music of the period). In recent years, a host of popular styles
have either fused the improvisational  impulse with electric
I and/or electronic instrumentation, or used the recording stu-
I dio as a creative tool, combining improvisation with advanced
(usually digital) studio manipulation. Into this continuum fall
Ian  array  of  genres and  sub-genres as diverse as rap/hip-
hop, the types of improvisational 'post-rock' played by rock
bands that have emerged in the wake of the demise of the
[Grateful  Dead (Phish, Medeski, Martin & Wood, Aquarian
Rescue Unit, Isotope 21 7, Tortoise), so-called 'electronica'
composers (such as Squarepusher, AphexTwin, and Photek),

and various experimental rock artists (Sonic Youth, Keiji HainoJ
Elliott Sharp, among others). In combination, these styles have
mounted a substantial challenge to jazz as the cutting edge oi|
contemporary improvised music. They have also stimulated i
reappraisal of music which can be considered a stylistic pren
cursor. One of the most important is the electrified jazz of the
1970s.

These recent trends suggest that the 'fusion' label may
be ultimately little more than a marketing tag which is inad-
equate to describe a complex process of stylistic interplay. Con-|
temporary musicians realize that, in fact, there is much to I
learned from at least some of this frequently scorned music
and, most importantly, much that can be profitably reconcile
with the jazz tradition. But why has this realization taken sc
long?

The destruction of the linear jazz narrative and its rela-
tively stable reference points made it difficult for audiences]
scholars, and critics to appraise fusion music, even in retro-]
spect. The languages of bebop, cool  jazz, modal  jazz, anc
post-bop did not provide critics with the necessary conceptual
tools to decode the complex chain of references in the music]
Further, the appraisal of jazz in the fusion era - and of music
of that period in general - is not a purely aesthetic issue; the

Those  who  criticise
fusion  for  its  com-
mercialism  fail  to
note  that  the  cor-
porate music
agenda  underwrites
the  neo-conserva-
tive  movement  \n a
much  more <fttsidiuos
and  destru2|pr
way.

lusical  innovations  of  the
sriod were intimately tied to
volatile  social  and  political
currents. Consider three mu-
sicians of the 1 960s who in-
fluenced Davis: Jimi Hendrix,
John  Coltrane,  and  James
iBrown. One cannot separate
rhe guitar virtuosity of Hendrix
rrom  the  spectacle  of  his
feigning  sexual  intercourse
vith his guitar before destroy-
ing it by fire at the Monterey
Festival in 1967, a ritual suf-
fused  with  race,  rage,  and
sexuality. One cannot appre-
ciate Coltrane's position as
|the reigning jazz virtuoso of
lis generation without con-
fronting  his  later  work,  in
vhich he deconstructed every
conceivable norm of the jazz
|tradition  through  the  influ-
ences  of  world  music,  an
ecstatic, pan-religious  spir-
ituality,  hallucinogens,  and
ie politicized free-jazz inno-
vations of the younger gen-
eration. One cannot appre-
ciate Brown's innovative syn-
thesis of funk music elements
af African, Afro-Cuban, gospel, and jazz, without also con-
sidering the furor raised by his embrace of politicians such as
Richard Nixon, or the extortion  he allegedly  suffered at the
lands of the Black Panthers.

lematic  relationships  with!
women, drugs, crime, andl
blackness, it is also true thatl
this was a gradual process.!
Between  1968  and  1971,1
Davis was, by all accounts,!
healthier than he had been!
in years - largely abstaining!
from meat, drugs and alco-l
hoi,  travelling  with  a  per-j
sonal  trainer  and  health!
food  cook,  and  arguably!
playing the strongest trum-1
pet  and  most  provocative!
music of his career.

Still,  Davis's  electric!
legacy  raises a fundamen-l
tal musicological question:!
Is  it  possible  to  take  the!
small-band jazz conception!
as it existed in 1 968, recon-l
cile it with the influences  ofl
musicians  such  as  James!
Brown,  Jimi  Hendrix,  Slyl
Stone,  Ravi  Shankar,  and!
Karlheinz Stockhausen, andl
arrive at a result which can!
still be considered part of the!
jazz tradition?  The  answer!
requires a preliminary set ofl
distinctions  between  per-l

The music of the 1 960s and  1 970s reflected a period,
an era when Americans grappled with several extremely vola-
tile internal crises, a historical moment which has subsequently
3n caricatured in public discourses as right-wing ideologues
sek to exorcise the demons of counter-cultural  politics. Re-
suscitating the music involves the partial re-opening of social
Dunds which have never completely healed, and which many
lericans are reluctant to revisit. This is one probable reason

|for the dearth of scholarship on the fusion era.

With respect to Davis's music in particular, another ob-
stacle to serious reflection is the weight of his legend. Map-
Ding Davis and his work onto the cultural conflicts of the 1960s
and 1970s, one might argue that his remaking of his music
aralleled his remaking of his personal image in accordance
vith the flamboyant models suggested by Hendrix, Brown, and
ily Stone. But if it is true that Davis's musical transformation
gradually provided the soundtrack for his notorious and prob-

formances which  use the technical virtuosity of jazz to  pro-I
duce a'technically-sophisticated  popular  music  ('jazz-rockl
fusion'), jazz-based performances which aspire to compete!
with pop songs in the commercial marketplace  ("instrumen-l
tal pop"), and performances which utilize electric instruments!
and integrate popular elements according to the established!
procedures of modern jazz ('electric jazz'). This idea of elec-l
trie jazz also centers around the practice of collective (rhythml
section) improvisation, an important distinction between seri-|
ous jazz and its more commercial variants. .

This last category is most effective in the evaluation  ofl
Davis's music of 1968 -1971, a period of astonishing, com-l
pressed activity for him. The 'electric jazz' appellation is ad-l
mittedly arbitrary and amorphous but for my purposes, it helps!
to  underscore  a crucial  point. While  electric  jazz relies on!
electric instrumentation, it retains the traditional  small-bandl
emphasis on improvised interaction among the members ofl
an ensemble. This practice can be traced all the.way back to|
the roots of jazz in turn-of-the-century New Orleans.

Although the approaches  Davis took on F/l/es de K///-I
manjaro  were  prefigured  by earlier  quintet  trdeks  such  asj

|Eighty-One',  'Fun'  and
"Stuff," the recording was
i clear point of departure.
|Both Davis's band and his
iusic  were  in  a  state  of
transition, clearly working
poward  the  integration  of
Dop  song  materials  and
electric instruments by com-
Ibining the elastic interpre-
tation of the second quin-
ket with the repetitive struc-
tures  of  rock  and  rhythm
3nd blues. The first half of
[the recording ('Felon Brun',
[Tout  de  Suite',  'Petits
Aachins') continued the el-
liptical approach of the sec-
ond quintet, but the second
side was  a  clear  point  of
departure. 'Mademoiselle
fabry'  is Davis's (and an
jncredited  Gil  Evans')
reharmonization  of  Jimi
IHendrix's  'Wind  Cries
fary'.  The track is at once
pluesy  and  abstract,  a
somewhat  more  cerebral
version of the music Can-
|nonball  Adderley  was re-
cording at about the same

lese  recent  trends
suggest that  the  'fu-
sion'  label  may  be  ulti-
mately  little  more  thai
a  marketing tag  which
is inadequate  to  de-
scribe  a  complex  proc-
ess  of  stylistic  inter-
play.  Contemporary
musicians  realize  that
in fact,  there  is much
to  be  learned1 rom  at
least  some o1
frequently  sco!
music...

stasis; both  of  the  side-longl
pieces are built on one-chordl
vamps  in  which  a  droning!
tonal center (played mainly byl
electric pianos) is emphasized!
over the more standard cycle!
of moving chords. More than!
anything else, this probably re-l
fleets  the  subtle  (and  then-j
popular)  influence  of  Indian!
music. The second important!
change is the foregrounding!
of the electric  guitar, played!
here by British guitarist John!
McLaughlin.  McLaughlinl
plays in a style completely un-l
related to the standards of jazzl
guitar in the 60s (players such!
as Wes Montgomery, Jim Hall,I
and  Joe  Pass would  be  the!
foremost exponents), garnish-l
ing  the  music  with  finger-l
picked melodies which recall!
the most traditional forms ofl
blues and folk music, as well]
as the  Indian  influence. The!
third  departure 
is  Tony|
Williams's  drumming;  un-
characteristically, he propels!
the music with his cymbal workl
alone,  eschewing  his  usual!
combative,  interruptive  ap-l
proach.  Although  Williams'!
restraint was later attributed tol
a  dispute with  Davis  in the studio, the cymbal-heavy  work!
provides a suspended, atmospheric element that is unlike most!
jazz of its time, and more akin to the reflective tendencies of]
some psychedelic music. Finally, the overall mood of the music!
is more pastoral than anything else — emotionally and exis-l
tentially, a clear departure from the "blues impulse" at the|
roots of much jazz music.

pirne, on albums such as Country Preacher. Kilimanjaro's title
pack combines a proto-rock backbeat with a modular, free-
rime  melody that floats  above the  rhythm and  provides  an
abstract interpretation  of the folk  material  underneath.  On
Ithis LP and the other studio tracks recorded during 1 968, the
Focus  shifted from composing horn themes on top of chord
structures, to composing rhythm section patterns with melo-
dies assuming an almost secondary role at times.

The promise  here was that the repetitive structures of
pock, and rhythm and blues could simultaneously provide new
Durce material forthe abstractions of the quintet, while ground-
ling it in the earthier, vernacular idioms of the street. Kiliman-
jaro  and the other transitional studio pieces of  1 968  (found
3n albums such as Water Babies) reflect the promise of the
3rly experiments in electrified jazz, had they not become mis-
guided by unrealistic market expectations and dreams of pop
[stardom.

Several months later, Davis produced In A Silent Way.
The album  jacket proclaimed "Directions  in Music  by Miles
Davis" and the music contained within certainly represented
i clear change in direction. There are four significant stylistic
departures on In A Silent Way. First is the sense of harmonic

More than Silent Way, Bitches Brew (1970)  is a  land-l
mark, not because it was the highest-selling jazz album of its!
time, but because it successfully transmuted the influence ofl
world music traditions, and the more general mood of 1960sl
psychedelia, into jazz via the influences of modal  jazz and!
rhythm-and-blues.  Forthe most part, the album adopts the!
same atmospheric approach that characterized Silent Way.t
The songs themselves are mostly built from the same types ofl
modal vamps as the earlier LP, but these structures are elabo-l
rated here by the increased chromaticism of the playing and!
the more active drumming of Jack DeJohnette, who replaces!
Tony WiHiams. The album's visionary but irreverent qualities!
were reflected in the way the post-production deconstructed!
the illusion of the recorded jazz performance as a real-time|
performance document, in the way Abdul Mati Klarwein's cover

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• illustration offered a post-modern vision of tribal Africa re-
Ifracted through the lens of Afro-inflected psychedelia, and in
| Davis's resolutely secular take on the brand of jazz mysticism
[that  had been associated with John Coltrane —  hence the
lalbum's title.

Essentially sonic collages, both Bitches Brew and Silent

I Way are notable as works of studio post-composition in which
[the role of the studio is foregrounded through audible splices
[and tape loops. In this sense, the works prefigure electronica
I in the use of the recording studio as a creative tool and an
[audible component of the creative process. Crafted by pro-
ducer Teo Macero from hours of studio jams, these albums
[partially  reflect the producer's training  in the tape-splicing
I procedures of experimental classical music. Maceros's work
[essentially fuses the best moments of these jams into a new
[composition and as recent, expanded editions of these LPs
[abundantly illustrate, little of the newly-issued (and unedited)
[raw material can compare with the previously-available mu-
|sic.

The  recently  issued  It's About  That Time (Live at the
|F//lmore Easf, March  7,  1970) presents the famed (and un-
| der-recorded) 'lost quintet' (saxophonist Wayne Shorter, electric
[pianist  Chick Corea, bassist David  Holland, and drummer
[jack  DeJohnette,  augmented  here  by  percussionist  Airto
[Moreira). This group is considered by some critics to be Davis's
['third great quintet', though others have criticized the 'third
[...'  tag, arguing that unlike the first and second great quin-
tets, the third quintet band created no original repertoire of
[their own to stake their place in the canon of recorded jazz
| works. But this is not entirely true, since this group was actu-
ally a paired-down version of the studio ensemble that Davis
I had used for the recording oi Bitches Brew. In concert, they
[played music previously recorded and performed by the first
[and  second  quintets, as well  as music that was unique to
|their configuration.

The Fillmore recording demonstrates that the strength
[of this band lay not merely in their original compositions, but
[in their powers of interpretation. The radically deconstructive
[treatments of previously recorded works belong to a process
[which Davis and his second quintet had gradually redefined
[since their famed sets recorded at Chicago's Plugged Nickel
[in  1965. The difference is that if the second quintet stretched
[song form to its breaking point, the third quintet pushed the
[same material past that point. Shorter offers the elliptical the-
| matic and improvisational statements traceable to the same
[Plugged Nickel dates, on which he stretched himself far be-
[yond the boundaries of the quintet's studio dates. Corea of-
fers an overwhelming density of ideas, made articulate through
[his astonishing technical virtuosity. Holland (alternating be-
[tween upright and electric bass) infused the music with a sense
[of  rock  and  r&b,  his  funky  bass  ostinati  abstracted  into
[minimalist gestures, while drummer Jack DeJohnette shows
[why  he was Davis's ideal drummer in the early  1970s. He
[alternately  provides a soundstream of abstracted rhythm in
[the manner of Tony Williams, or holds down the groove with
[the Buddy Miles approach that had so captivated Davis upon

hearing Hendrix's Band of Gypsys set. Meanwhile, Moreiraj
provides an eclectic range of coloration in a style that prefig-l
ures the broader integration  of world  percussion traditions!
into American music.

Then there is the electric element. On the same Fillmorel
stage where Hendrixand his Band of Gypsys had completely!
redefined the possiblities of the electric guitar three months|
earlier (for example, in 'Machine Gun'), the group matchedj
Hendrix's intensity with a fierce set of abstracted, electrified)
jazz. Whereas the  studio  Bitches Brew set was as much al
creation  of the studio  as  it was  a  document  of  an actual
performance, the band used the  Fillmore  gigs to showthe|
way this music could  be handled  live. A  more  explicit en-|
gagement with the language of free-jazz than Davis had pre-1
viously  allowed  in  his  groups,  the  free  element  is filtered)
through electronic experimentation to produce some of the!
most  provocative  live  jazz  ever  recorded.  Unedited and!
untampered by the post-production, the Fillmore recording is|
by far the best set of live Miles from the 1 970s.

After this period, Davis would field one last great band!
drawn  primarily from the  ranks of  jazz  players, with saxo-l
phonist Gary Bartz, pianist Keith Jarrett (making a one-timel
appearance on electric keyboards), and a rhythm section an-|
chored by DeJohnette, ex-Motown bassist Michael Henderson!
and  percussionists  Mtume  and  Don  Alias.  Their work can|
currently be found on Davis's 1 971  recording Live Evil (Co-I
lumbia C2K 65135) but a comprehensive, multi-disc over-|
view of their live work is said to be in production.

The use of electric instruments and pop song structures!
facilitated the integration of new textures and a new generaj
tion of folk materials into jazz. This, of course, is what mod-|
ern jazz had historically done - subjected materials from the|
folk and popular traditions to the improvisational processes)
of high art abstraction. But the split that fusion created among I
jazz musicians damaged this long-standing interpretive pat-l
tern. Since the fusion era, jazz musicians attempting to strad-j
die these divisions have produced heavy-handed efforts whichl
themselves only reflect the hardening of commercial, sociall
generic, and ideological borders. The precarious equation ofj
modern jazz, free-jazz, experimental music, world music, and!
popular music that prevailed in the 1970s was effectively lost!
without the detailed manipulations of form, texture, and dyf
namics which were central to jazz's refashioning of the pop!
song. And those textures were  themselves  reflections of al
broader social texture, the texture of a society willing to ques-f
tion some of its fundamental premises, and to fashion novel
responses in art. Still, we can  hope that a  revisiting of this!
music will allow musicians, critics, scholars, and audiencesL
to ponder the relevance of the procedures Davis set into mo-P
tion to the long-term evolution  of the jazz tradition, and tol
open  a space for  a  body  of  musical  strategies  that couldj
prove crucial to a stagnant art form.GR

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