Fusion: the fine art of mixing elements to create an explosion - a very, very loud explosion. When it was released, Bitches Brew was a Big Bang that sent rhythmic and harmonic waves crashing through jazz and its related genres. - big beautiful waves that musicians are still surfing on today.
Miles Davis was born in the US state of Illinois in 1928. The family relocated to East St. Louis. St. Louis was quite segregated, but Miles lived in a mixed immigrant community. Add to this, the fact that St. Louis lay on the banks of the Missouri, and was host to a constant flow of travelling musicians, then add Miles’ young exploring mind, and we begin to understand how the creative melting pot called Miles Davis was formed.
Miles was no stranger to revolution when he released Bitches Brew in 1970. He first came to light with Charlie Parker’s band. As soon as he left Parker in 1948, he recorded Birth of the Cool with Gil Evans. The album set the tone for West Coast jazz for the next ten years. – Revolution No.1. Revolution No. 2 came in 1959 with the Kind of Blue album. This album used modes (variations on scales), rather than chords, as the launching point for improvisation.
Revolution No. 3 started brewing after the release of Nefertiti. This album (recorded in the Summer of 1967) was Miles’ last straight jazz album. Miles introduced electronics on his next album Miles in the Sky, and kept the momentum going with the avant-garde funk and blues forays, and free jazz tussles, of Filles de Kilimanjaro (recorded in the Fall of 1968). All the elements were gathered. Te reactor was switched on with the soul grooves of 1969’s In a Silent Way.
In 1968, Miles started playing rock venues – the domain of the guitar, a sound that Miles was moving towards more and more. He had been listening to Muddy Waters and B.B. King, and was totally knocked out by Jimi Hendrix. He introduced that style of melody, phrasing, and tonality into his own sound.
Another big element in Bitches Brew was free jazz. Although, Davis was derisive of the genre, the album revels in it. It could be argued the journey that Miles took between 1967 and 1970 was from the limitations of conventional jazz (or as conventional as Miles could be) to giving himself and his musicians total freedom of expression.
Imagine the music being played within the confines of a circle. With each album, more musicians were sent out of the circle where they were given musical freedom – but Miles stayed in the centre – a point of reference. On Bitches Brew, Miles joined them outside the circle, and all hell broke loose.
The album was considered to be blasphemy at the time. One critic said: “it was like finding a raised lavatory seat in a monastery”; another said: “Davis drew a line in the sand that some jazz fans have never crossed, or even forgiven Davis for drawing.” But, drummer Bobby Previte hit the nail on the head: “It was music that you had that feeling that you never heard quite before. How much groundbreaking music do you hear now?” Davis was constantly pushing the boundaries of his life, his music, and his audience’s minds.
The new elements in Davis’ music attracted new elements into his audience. The rock, R&B, and soul audiences started listening to jazz, and the more open minded jazz audience started listening to rock, R&B, and jazz. Everyone won.
The album dawns with Pharaoh’s Dance. Each instrument wakes up, and they orientate themselves to the new musical horizon. They’re cautious at first, not sure, feeling their way into the track. Chick Corea’s electric motif acts as a rallying point until Miles appears to lead the way. He is immediately brave and bold, taking chances, exploring, excited, encouraging the band to do the same. They do.
But, his tone becomes almost melancholy, disappointed. It seems to be saying, “Is that all there is?” We nearly go through the whole romantic cycle – discover, fly, crash, burn – before the album has begun.
Bennie Maupin’s bass clarinet takes the lead next. The band follows; looking here, looking there, and furtively checking out the dark corners for inspiration. The mood quietens down. There is an air of expectation.
Miles electronic trumpet plays call and response. The sax playing is sharp and jagged, then soothing. The beat becomes denser and heavier, the music cohesive and chaotic. All instruments move in the same direction in their own way, as the pianos swirl around the band, holding it all together.
The track quietens down. The pianos bubble in and out of one another. Electric bass pirouettes in the air. Miles’ blues becomes more and more frustrated by the limitations of his instrument. His notes heat the cauldron playing below him. It spills over into a funk groove that just flows.
The title track, Bitches Brew, begins with the bass calling and the band answering with a crashing crescendo: one bass note, many chords. Miles answers with a new type of call and response – trumpet treated with echo, fusing acoustic with electric. The trumpet bounces around the audio field, a streak of light leaving an afterglow.
The bass tries to anchor the music to the ground, but the rest of the band break away, smashing tonality and defying harmonic simplicity.
The pulse starts moving. Davis rises, and flexes, trying out his newfound freedom again, not quite used to it yet. He grows in confidence again, relaxing. The band relaxes with him, enjoying the freedom, and the space, going where they will. Forget chords. Let it all out. Get out of our way.
The single note bass pulse, and piano riff., answered again by a wave of chords from the band, and Miles’ own electronic call and response are deliberately placed at the end of the track to remind us of what has been explored, and that there is no going back.
Miles tries a new Sketches of Spain on Spanish Key, fusing old with new, leading the march through Spanish Harlem. We start with a rolling, bouncing rhythm. John McLaughlin’s sharp blues chords stab at the beat. They give it momentum, and keep it moving. The keyboards keep up with their own frantic blues, dueting with McLaughlin.
Davis calls the band to order, and things quieten down for Wayne Shorter’s sax solo. It spirals in and out of the rhythm, then tiptoes over it. Miles calls again letting his notes fade away before John McLaughlin duets with the keyboards again. They react with block chords and delicate scales. Davis becomes more and more contemplative, while the band becomes more and more abstract. The pace picks up and the keyboards hammer out the blues, never giving up, and never letting go. Wayne Shorter electrifies the high register again (harsh in contrast to Bennie Maupins full, smooth sound) until Miles calls a halt to the proceedings.
John McLaughlin is track title and tribute, a showcase for McLaughlin’s guitar. Imagine an army of whirlwinds comin’ t’ getcha! No one gets out of here alive. The bass – the other pretender to the throne - joins the guitar to turn the track into a string-driven thing. No gentle chords here. The blues bends lead you in, then the licks poke you in the eyes. Miles Davis and Wayne Shorter stand back, acknowledging the new pretender to the throne.
Miles Runs The Voodoo Down starts with a slow sensual funk bass. The track builds to a crescendo, working on that feeling. The trumpet gets in the mood with long riffs that end in a caress. The guitar gasps, and the band keeps on the pulse, steady, going somewhere.
The piano reacts to the rhythm it can’t control with flurries of notes, clinging tighter and tighter, the band building, basking in the rhythm, holding back., building again, give in, lose control. Sweet release. This is Miles Davis’ version of the Bolero. Miles knows how to run the voodoo down.
The album ends with Sanctuary. The horns duet in the centre of the circle again. The band dances around the circumference reminding us of new directions and things to come.
The horns call out, and the band shouts back, asserting their newfound freedom, and stamping their newfound authority on the track. The horns quieten down and the band quietens down. The two elements drink from the same pool, peacefully co-existing. Two sounds eyeing each other across the water. Then, the horns call louder and louder. The band goes rampant, like wild horses about to be saddled. They know, and we know, that they are laughing at the ropes that are trying to restrain them. The horns call the band home, but they won’t, and they never will.
A fitting ending to an album that is a beautiful mixed marriage: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
Free the spirit!
