I went
from reading a biography about Thelonious Monk to reading this autobiography by
Miles Davis, and I have to say, you would be hard pressed to find two more
diametrically different books about jazz artists. Where the Monk book was
carefully researched, cross checked, and objectively constructed, the Davis
book is filled with suppositions, vague recollections, and biased, one-sided
editorial comments. Of course, Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk were also two
completely different kinds of people, one rich, outspoken and philandering, the
other poor, quiet, and dedicated to his family. Really, the only thing these
two jazz greats share is their love of, and their impact on, jazz music.
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| Not your average autobiography |
One thing that drove me crazy about the Miles Davis book is
his (and his writer’s) insistence on not checking anything. There are pages of
anecdotes that begin or end with comments like, “At least that’s what I think
happened,” or “…during that year, or maybe the year after, or the year before,
I don’t remember.” Really? You can’t call someone and ask them when they came
and bailed you out of jail (or whatever)? Then there’s the “I don’t want to say
who it was, because they are still alive, but …” and he then proceeds to
lambaste this person were supposed to guess about, but later in the book, he’ll
write pages about how much he hates Wynton Marsalis, or how Dizzy Gillespie is
pandering to white people and businessmen, or how some (evil and white) record
producer screwed him over. I guess it’s okay for him to draw random lines with
his hatred, but it doesn’t make for the best reading.
Also telling for me was how he glossed over the fact that
his was a privileged upbringing. With a well-respected dentist father and a
musically inclined mother, Miles and his family owned, land, stocks, buildings,
cars, all the trappings. Just being aware of that makes his railings against
white-dominated society sound hollow and contrived. And I don’t want to start
or continue a big racial argument, but it seems to me that Miles only played
the race card when it was to his real or perceived benefit. All the rest of the
time, he was perfectly content to take white people’s money and bask in their
adulation.
There are no two ways about it: Miles Davis was a
polarizing character in the world of music who neither invited controversy nor
did anything to avoid it. As a result, it is hard to take anything he says at
face value, even when he is talking about his own life. I found it oddly
curious, too, how after reading about Monk, I wanted to explore his music and
learn more about it, get deeper into it, but while reading Miles’ book, I
didn’t have any curiosity or desire about his work fanned inside me. Probably
the fact that I am already well familiar with Miles’ music and the fact that it
played a role in setting me on the path toward learning and playing jazz in the
first place have something to do with it. But I would have thought I would feel
at least a small spark of passion to explore something, anything, of Miles’
work based on what I read about it. But when I finished reading, I was maybe
not disinterested, just not willing to expend any extra effort to experience
his music. (While reading Monk’s biography, I bought 6 CD’s and two books of
sheet music of Thelonious Monk – quite a different reaction.)
I’m still glad I read this book, and I feel like I learned
something. I just feel like the time spent didn’t have quite the payoff I
hoped. At least that much is completely unlike his music, which pays off every
time I listen to it, so I suppose I am simply more grateful for the music
itself than for its history. That’s just as well.
