•
Rating:
A climb along the river: the heat lags on my calves, the leeches scream the rhythm of the oars; a pulsation expels all the foam into the boat.
We lose weight, we lose the route that makes us climb, towards the unknown. He remains there with his screams and his flies, he terrifies us and raises the totem to guide us: his photos already show him old, but his music enchants them.
Let them build a litter, we will carry him with us when we return, back to the central camp: there where civilization has remained petrified, watching us smile from the palm of the leaves.
But these black men block our way, they have blue veins and beat the drums, like devils they interrupt each other and mimic the cry of the crocodile... if there ever was one... if a boat ever sank with two hundred pounds of gold on its hull.
I protect a woman: her arms are ringed, she sends off terrible stenches; I touch her breast but this, when pressed, distills urine that falls onto the palm of my hands and I let it drop into the deep river.
A wave assaults the oldest leaves and we head downstream, we abandon the camp inside, we leave donkey heads to rot on stakes. We abandon them for the last time. I watch my companions enjoy shooting at them, while the woman with arms ringed in gold stretches her arms towards the boat.
"Does he understand what he's saying?", and he sketches a smile and touches my hand, practically a yellowed bone, responds: "Of course... "
Later as we descend the beating and the breath become lighter: we have built a land that does not exist, we have populated it with black and fierce men; their beating kills our sight but we can no longer live without it.
Tracklist Lyrics and Samples
Loading comments slowly
Other reviews
By puntiniCAZpuntini
Until you have thoroughly heard this album several times, you will never ever understand what modern jazz is.
Miles Davis was an egocentric madman brilliantly startled by the lightning insights that would pierce his brain as often as an ordinary mortal burps and/or farts and optionally poops.
By TraumaCronico
It’s all a matter of style. How you do it. What you do doesn’t matter much, as long as you do it with style. And you’ll be the Eternal Winner.
In a Cubist world, Bitches Brew would have been the title of a masterpiece by Picasso. Unfortunately for Pablo, Miles got there first, without a brush, but with a trumpet.
