Miles Dewey Davis III would have turned 85 today (May 26). Despite his death in 1991, he's considered one of jazz music's greatest players. It's hard to say whether Davis would still be making music if he were still alive. The last studio album he ever recorded, 'Doo-Bop' (released posthumously in 1992), was an indicator that his best years were well behind him. But it never really mattered what Miles Davis put out, his stature in American music remains at Mount Rushmore status.
Because the music was instrumental, and so painstakingly beautiful, the Miles Davis albums I owned never needed a parental advisory sticker. As a result, my mother allowed me to listen to any of his albums. For reasons I still don't know, I wanted to be a jazz musician as a child, a rare thing growing up as a part of the hip-hop generation. Jazz's golden years were way before my time yet there was something about it that felt more right to me. I think my mother took some comfort in the fact that unlike most of my peers, I preferred to hear 'Kind Of Blue' rather than Dr. Dre's 'The Chronic.'
My love for Miles' music spawned a deeper curiosity about the man behind the horn. I was either in 8th grade or a freshman in high school when I decided to pick up 'Miles: The Autobiography' co-authored by Quincy Troupe. And though the book did not come with a parental advisory sticker, it probably should have because the things I read in it were not for kids my age. Had my mom known what I was reading during the full week I spent devouring that book, I'm sure it would have had a similar fate to the Playboy she found underneath my bed.
I had enough life lessons before I opened the book to recognize there were certain things about Miles I was never going to emulate. He was raised in an affluent home - his father was a dentist, his mother the household caretaker - but he rebelled from an early age. He attended The Juilliard School, but dropped out to play jazz with his heroes Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie.
He was a heroin and coke addict, a pimp and abuser of women. Throughout the memoir he recounts the numerous times he beat his wives Frances Taylor and Cicely Tyson. I could not relate to these parts of his character partly because I was too young to be messing with women on any level. But more importantly, I was raised to know better and do better.
By the end of the book, I found myself at odds with Miles. Here was a man whose music I adored, a man who released masterpieces like 'Birth of The Cool,' and personified cool with his signature style of playing with a Harmon mute. Yet I understood parts of his personal behavior were just plain wrong.
Eventually, I recalibrated my hero-worshipping to something more levelheaded. I've reread Davis' autobiography three times, and admittedly, still find myself having a difficult time squaring up the man with the music. Given the way artists are often crucified in today's media for drug use and domestic violence, I wonder how the media would treat Miles now and what would we do as fans of Miles' music. It might be hard to find someone who considers his personal demons before praising his music. I can't help but wonder why he gets a pass from even the most casual fans.
Perhaps it is because Miles himself was so candid about his flaws. Maybe it's because the music he played was so inoffensive - except for his jazz fusion opus 'Bitches Brew,' whose title turned off many critics and fellow musicians - and just so stunning. I still think Miles is a giant in the annals of American music. And it is his music we should focus on in celebration of his born day today.
