Miles Davis: The Electric Years (1969–1974)

Miles Davis had a career that touched upon six dif­fer­ent decades in the twen­ti­eth cen­tury.  However, for the causal lis­tener, the area of great­est famil­iar­ity tends to be cen­tered on the late 1950s, essen­tially around the release of that bachelor-pad peren­nial, Kind of Blue.  It is dur­ing this time that jazz reached a golden era, a place at which the mold hard­ened some­what.  Indeed, to many lis­ten­ers, the modal, post-bop music cre­ated dur­ing that time from Miles and his peers, such as John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderly, Art Blakey and so forth, defines what jazz was then, and con­tin­ues to be.

Although Miles put his dis­tinct stamp on that era, he con­tin­ued to move for­ward, form­ing his sec­ond great quin­tet with the likes of Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock.  The music from this period fur­ther eschewed jazz con­ven­tion, pre­fer­ring multi-segment arrange­ments, longer solos, and more atonal elements.

However, it was only after this group dis­banded that Miles made the most sig­nif­i­cant evo­lu­tion­ary step of his career.  For five years, almost all com­mer­cial out­put from Miles Davis con­sisted of lengthy pieces, often span­ning the entire side of an LP, con­tain­ing lit­tle in the way of repet­i­tive themes or con­ven­tional melody.  This music was culled from jam ses­sions, from which the high­lights were iden­ti­fied.  With the aid of pro­ducer Ted Macero, Miles spliced these seg­ments together into their final forms.  It was not at all uncom­mon for these edits to bring together dif­fer­ent ensem­bles from entirely dif­fer­ent record­ing ses­sions within the same album track.

Not only was this music pro­duced in a man­ner unseen in jazz at the time, but the type of music played was strik­ingly dif­fer­ent as well.  In addi­tion to Miles’ trum­pet and other horns, the rhythm sec­tions of these bands usu­ally con­sisted of elec­tric gui­tar, elec­tric bass, and elec­tric piano and organ, with Miles him­self often play­ing the lat­ter.  The music was groove-based, with an estab­lished tonal cen­ter, but dis­so­nant play­ing out­side of the key was com­mon, and tension-building far out­weighed any sense of relief.

Miles was also work­ing with lesser-established and younger play­ers who, dur­ing and after their tenure with him, became stal­warts of jazz in their own right.  In addi­tion to some holdovers from pre­vi­ous bands, such as Shorter and Hancock, Miles played with bassists Michael Henderson and David Holland, pianists Chick Corea and Keith Jarrett, drum­mers Billy Cobham and Jack DeJohnette, among many oth­ers, in ensem­bles that ranged from six to twenty people.

What fol­lows are cap­sule reviews of some of the high­lights of this era.  If con­fronted head-on, much of this music can be opaque and impen­e­tra­ble.  Many lis­ten­ers find their way to these records via psy­che­delic and impro­vi­sa­tional rock from the same era, and that is not nec­es­sar­ily the best primer or mind­set to receive max­i­mum enjoy­ment.  Nevertheless, if viewed from the right per­spec­tive, this music can be over­whelm­ing with emo­tion, often strad­dling the line between frag­ile beauty and dark, trou­bling malaise.  Upon closer lis­ten­ing, what osten­si­bly appears as clut­tered impro­vi­sa­tion can give way to nuanced lay­er­ing.  Other tracks sim­ply never make it off the ground.  Here are my opin­ions.  As with all sub­jec­tive art, your mileage may vary.

In a Silent Way – 1969

This album marks the begin­ning of this period, and also a nat­ural entry point for the lis­tener.  Right away, the record estab­lishes the ‘one song per record side’ for­mat that would be fol­lowed by later releases.  The first of these, “Shhh…/Peaceful” is more or less a stan­dard vamp with extended solo­ing.  Most of this solo­ing occurs within the key and over­all groove.  The use of clever edit­ing pro­vides con­text and tex­ture, but the piece is fairly sta­tic throughout.

The record’s sec­ond side expands things some­what.  “In a Silent way/It’s About that Time” starts with slow, moody play­ing, even­tu­ally giv­ing way to a groove sec­tion that effort­lessly gives way to cas­cad­ing chords before end­ing in the under­stated way it began.  This is not the most chal­leng­ing music of this period, but it is easy on the ears and suit­able for all kinds of lis­ten­ing.  Without hes­i­ta­tion, I would rec­om­mend this album to any­one who has their inter­est piqued by this posting.

Bitches Brew – 1969

Buoyed by the response to the In a Silent Way, Miles restrained noth­ing in putting forth this mam­moth dou­ble album.  This time, the band had grown larger and added a few more horn play­ers.  While this addi­tion cer­tainly expanded the range of sounds and tex­tures, it also makes the music over­bear­ingly dis­so­nant in parts, and it loses some of the tight­ness that makes In a Silent Way so enjoyable.

Partly due to its provoca­tive title and lyser­gic album cover, this album seems to be the entry point for many crossover fans.  I picked this up in col­lege, and hav­ing heard it referred to as ‘psy­che­delic jazz’ by a friend, I was expect­ing some­thing in terms of early Pink Floyd or some­thing sim­i­lar.  The shear chaos of some of this music took me aback, and it was only after a few years that I could really enjoy it, if only once a year or so even at the present time.

Where this album works, it is truly great.  The sprawl­ing title track alter­nates between stutter-stop organ crashes, Miles’ matador-esque trum­pet calls, and a tight bass groove that deftly sup­ports the weight of the dis­so­nance piled onto it.  Elsewhere, “Spanish Key” and “Miles Runs the Voodoo Down” really per­co­late as they charge ahead, pro­pelled by John McLaughlin’s punc­tu­at­ing gui­tar.  Even after mul­ti­ple lis­tens, there is some­thing very unset­tling and almost creepy about this music, and that works to both its ben­e­fit and detriment.

A Tribute to Jack Johnson — 1970

As if it needed to be said, the tit­u­lar char­ac­ter of this album is the boxer, not the frat party sta­ple.  Rather than dive in with Bitches Brew, I sug­gest that fans of psy­che­delic rock start with this one.  Rock and jazz meet on Johnson in a way that enhances the best of each genre. Davis’ play­ing style closely approx­i­mates elec­tric gui­tar riff­ing, and the over­all dis­tor­tion lev­els exceed those of ear­lier work.

Side A of the record con­tains “Right Off,” which blazes ahead with a rock back­beat on drums, and a sparse arrange­ment of gui­tar, bass and trum­pet.  Only later in the piece are sax and organ intro­duced.  “Right Off” suc­ceeds as a min­i­mal­ist jam that keeps up the inten­sity through­out its 26 minutes.

Side B is where the record really earns its wings.  “Yesternow” starts with a plod­ding beat and seem­ingly reck­less stabs of gui­tar.  However, it is in this song that Macero’s edit­ing process really pays off.  Midway through, a snaky bassline kicks in, and the piece picks up con­sid­er­ably.  A sec­ond tape splice intro­duces a stac­cato gui­tar riff that kicks the song into full gear.  Truly psy­che­delic effects are intro­duced via an echo-box, and in many ways, this piece truly ful­fills the mind-bending promise made on Bitches Brew.  Not only would I heart­edly rec­om­mend A Tribute to Jack Johnson to fans of trippy rock and roll; it is a wel­come addi­tion to any music col­lec­tion, and to me, rep­re­sents the high water mark of Miles’ elec­tric period.

On the Corner — 1972

On the Corner is relent­less and uncom­pro­mis­ing.  I’m sure that the ques­tion, “Is this really jazz?” sur­faces a good deal upon lis­ten­ing to this album.  Miles stated after­ward in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy that he wanted to put out a record that would appeal to young black lis­ten­ers, as well as the new, mostly white, young audi­ence he had attracted with Bitches Brew.  He was far less con­cerned with pleas­ing the jazz estab­lish­ment.  The result in this instance is an album anchored by steady bass and drums, while every other instru­ment makes an effort to exist some­what out­side of the basic groove and key.

This cre­ates a lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ence that pro­vides a rhyth­mic over­load, but very lit­tle in the way of melody or other struc­ture.  Miles was exper­i­ment­ing with play­ing his horn through gui­tar effects, most notably a wah-wah pedal.  This not only makes the music sur­real, but also over-saturates it to some degree.  The track “Black Satin” pro­vides ethe­real har­monies that drift in and out, cre­at­ing an uneasy dis­ori­en­ta­tion, and one of the more mem­o­rable moments on the album.

However, On the Corner is much less an album that one hears, and more of an album that one feels.  From that stand­point, it’s a suc­cess, just some­thing that doesn’t need to be heard very often to have an impact.  Up until this point, this period of Davis’ career fea­tured music in which at least some ele­ment could be hummed.  That doesn’t hold true in the prickly ball of con­fronta­tion that is On the Corner.

Get Up With It — 1974

This album marked not only the end of Davis’ elec­tric period, but also the begin­ning of a five-year tem­po­rary retire­ment, after which the grounds of 1969–1974 were not revis­ited.  While prior albums had already con­sisted of hodge-podges of dif­fer­ent ensem­bles and record­ing ses­sions, Get Up With It was assem­bled from record­ings that spanned 1970 to 1974.  Perhaps for this rea­son, every track is engag­ing and wor­thy of stand­ing on its own.  Because it is a sprawl­ing two-disc album, it is not the most con­cisely bril­liant of these record­ings, but it is uni­formly excellent.

Both discs of this set begin with a vinyl side-spanning track.  On the first record, “He Loved Him Madly” sits in this posi­tion.  Dedicated to Duke Ellington, who had died shortly before, this 32-minute dirge is per­haps the most restrained and under­stated of any piece from this era.  Although almost wholly impro­vised, the musi­cians stay almost entirely within the key, avoid­ing what had become almost trade­mark dis­so­nance.  Even at its high­est point, the energy level is at a low sim­mer, but with a con­stant drive.  Although per­haps not truly rep­re­sen­ta­tive of this era for Davis, it nev­er­the­less is a remark­able achievement.

The sec­ond disc kicks of with the equally-long “Calypso Frelimo,” which, in sim­i­lar fash­ion to Bitches Brew’stitle track, cuts between record­ing ses­sions cre­at­ing wel­come con­trast.  This track really cooks before drop­ping into a recur­rent bass line not unlike the under­world music in the orig­i­nal Super Mario Brothers.  This is by no means a slight.

Elsewhere on Get Up With It, “Honky Tonk” slith­ers along with an acid-drenched muta­tion of its name­sake while Miles blows long, fluid riffs.  “Rated X” con­tains tense and sus­tained organ tones over an appro­pri­ately porno­graphic beat, and the track “Billy Preston” is full of laid-back funk, recall­ing, but oddly not fea­tur­ing the organ­ist for which it is named.  In con­trast, “Red China Blues” is almost shock­ing in its adher­ence to tra­di­tional blues struc­tures, even fea­tur­ing a com­posed horn chart.  Get Up With It is not easy to take in on one con­tin­u­ous lis­ten, but the strength of its indi­vid­ual tracks deserve one’s attention.

***

In the years since these releases, entire uncut ses­sions from the albums have been released, as have com­plete con­certs from this era.  There is not room to dis­cuss them here, but they are reward­ing for any­one to whom the above albums appeal.

Unlike much of the other artists mak­ing music called “fusion” dur­ing this time, Miles Davis did not mas­sage rock and jazz to blend eas­ily together.  Genres as dif­fer­ent and dis­tinct as these instead came into vio­lent col­li­sion, giv­ing way to only an unset­tling truce at best.  Miles never stood still artis­ti­cally, for bet­ter or worse, and dur­ing this five-year period he blazed a future for jazz that few would follow.

Kind of Blue, along with the other land­marks of that ear­lier era of jazz, will always cast a long shadow on the genre, one from which it will never be free, which is not nec­es­sar­ily a bad thing.  But for a sound that is some­times as fresh as the day it was cre­ated, one would do well to check out these albums, full of beauty, ugli­ness, calamity and balance.

Ryan Harrell. HighStreet. Cleveland