RickBaldinotti
yesterday 20:48
DeRank ™: 12,00
Miles Davis - The Doo-Bop Song (Official Music Video)
Let’s be honest, the main problem for Miles Dewey Davis III was always that he had to make people forget he was born into a well-off African American family; basically, he was privileged, while other black men went off to war to get killed in Europe, he landed in New York in September 1944 with his father’s money, to attend the “Juilliard School of Music”—in short, one of the leading Art and Music schools in the whole world.
He had no trouble getting into the right circles within a few months and, fascinated by a world totally unknown to him, made up of skid rows, addicts, and desperate jazz virtuosos, he dove in headfirst, laying the foundation for what would one day be known by everyone as “The Prince of Darkness”—and from then on, he never missed out on any kind of darkness, descending, never satisfied, each step of hell, throwing into that hell everything that came his way.
He was born in Alton, Illinois on May 26, 1926, and died in Santa Monica, California on September 28, 1991. “There are no wrong notes!” said Miles Davis.
By everyone’s account, aside from being a genius, Miles was also, in equal measure, “a real bastard.” In order, Miles was: a pimp, a womanizer, a heroin addict, a porn addict, a cocaine addict, dependent on psychotropic drugs, an alcoholic, a petty misogynist, an overbearing husband, a degenerate father, a thief of other people’s music, a quick-tempered boss, and a vindictive dictator. Ehm, incidentally, as someone once wrote, he was also “the greatest trumpeter of all time,” and I don’t even feel like looking for more words to describe him; it’s enough to recall some of his episodes and what he himself recounted, holed up at home, high on coke from morning to night, surrounded by cockroaches, delirious. The trumpet? He wouldn’t even look at it:
“I was driving my Ferrari up West End Avenue and I passed two cops sitting in their car.
Everyone knew me, everyone knew me around there, so they said something to me.
When I was about two blocks ahead I went into a paranoid fit and thought there was some sort of plan to bust me for drugs…
I panicked.
I slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street and ran into a building on West End Avenue, looked for the doorman but he wasn’t there.
I ran to the elevator and took it—there was a woman inside the elevator, and I thought I was still in my Ferrari, so I said to her: ‘Bitch, what the fuck are you doing in my fucking car?’ and then I slapped her and ran out of the building.
She called the police, who arrested me and put me for a few days in the psych ward at Roosevelt Hospital.”
That, then, was Miles, and that was his distinguishing “mark,” and if music and life are just a question of style, there’s no doubt he was unique in both, extreme in every way; he wanted to be the greatest, and he became it, despite all the harm he managed to do. un: guardava: dissi:
Let’s be honest, the main problem for Miles Dewey Davis III was always that he had to make people forget he was born into a well-off African American family; basically, he was privileged, while other black men went off to war to get killed in Europe, he landed in New York in September 1944 with his father’s money, to attend the “Juilliard School of Music”—in short, one of the leading Art and Music schools in the whole world.
He had no trouble getting into the right circles within a few months and, fascinated by a world totally unknown to him, made up of skid rows, addicts, and desperate jazz virtuosos, he dove in headfirst, laying the foundation for what would one day be known by everyone as “The Prince of Darkness”—and from then on, he never missed out on any kind of darkness, descending, never satisfied, each step of hell, throwing into that hell everything that came his way.
He was born in Alton, Illinois on May 26, 1926, and died in Santa Monica, California on September 28, 1991. “There are no wrong notes!” said Miles Davis.
By everyone’s account, aside from being a genius, Miles was also, in equal measure, “a real bastard.” In order, Miles was: a pimp, a womanizer, a heroin addict, a porn addict, a cocaine addict, dependent on psychotropic drugs, an alcoholic, a petty misogynist, an overbearing husband, a degenerate father, a thief of other people’s music, a quick-tempered boss, and a vindictive dictator. Ehm, incidentally, as someone once wrote, he was also “the greatest trumpeter of all time,” and I don’t even feel like looking for more words to describe him; it’s enough to recall some of his episodes and what he himself recounted, holed up at home, high on coke from morning to night, surrounded by cockroaches, delirious. The trumpet? He wouldn’t even look at it:
“I was driving my Ferrari up West End Avenue and I passed two cops sitting in their car.
Everyone knew me, everyone knew me around there, so they said something to me.
When I was about two blocks ahead I went into a paranoid fit and thought there was some sort of plan to bust me for drugs…
I panicked.
I slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street and ran into a building on West End Avenue, looked for the doorman but he wasn’t there.
I ran to the elevator and took it—there was a woman inside the elevator, and I thought I was still in my Ferrari, so I said to her: ‘Bitch, what the fuck are you doing in my fucking car?’ and then I slapped her and ran out of the building.
She called the police, who arrested me and put me for a few days in the psych ward at Roosevelt Hospital.”
That, then, was Miles, and that was his distinguishing “mark,” and if music and life are just a question of style, there’s no doubt he was unique in both, extreme in every way; he wanted to be the greatest, and he became it, despite all the harm he managed to do. un: guardava: dissi:
DeBaser says
right now