Review: Miles Davis' Kind of Blue
“Three microphones. Six dudes. Four of them only have vague instructions”
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I’m going to make a bold, yet not so bold proclamation.
If you only ever buy one jazz album, it should be Miles Davis’ Kind Of Blue. You were expecting something unpredictable? You were expecting me to cavalierly contraindicate the prescriptions of the ghosts of jazz historians with honorary doctorates in smack and modality? I am not so hip as all that.
You might think you do not like jazz. You might be wrong.
Let me tell you why.
Kind of Blue is widely regarded as the best jazz album of all time. But, you don’t give a fuck about “widely regarded” or “all time,” do you?
And, nor should you. These dusty utterances are for those who, entrenched in their own venerated and hoary archives, refuse to adjust to not being able to see the future.
Put aside your aversion to such sweeping proclamations and simply listen to this record.
Not casually, now. Pay attention.
It’s 1959.
207 East 30th Street. New York City.
Six of the future greatest jazz musicians in history are gathered in a re-purposed church that would later become one of the most legendary recording studios ever.
But that hasn’t happened yet.
Miles Davis. John Coltrane. Cannonball Adderley. Paul Chambers. Bill Evans. Jimmy Cobb. Masters of an esoteric craft, every one.
All gathered in the vast sanctuary around a 3-track tape recorder to make the devil’s music.
A motherfucking 3-track. When you hear Dude A getting a little bit louder, that’s him stepping up to the mic for a solo. Fader automation? Non-linear editing? Pshaw! No such contrivances have yet been invented.
Three microphones. Six dudes. Four of them only have vague instructions about what scales and melody lines are to be used. No previous rehearsals. No overdubs. Recorded in two days.
Listening to it, it’s really hard to believe that the whole record was basically improv. Because it’s fucking brilliant.
“So What,” the opening track, if this is the enviable first time you’ve ever heard this album, should be enough to convince you.
The piano and bass intro is perfect. I mean, how could it even be any better? It couldn’t. That’s how. It just couldn’t.
And then, the cymbals skip on in. The saxophones sing in close harmonies, spittle dancing in their brass larynges.
A brief modulation in key.
The snare drum takes off its jacket.
The ride cymbal slices into cool water
hot with momentum, radiating sizzle
and here comes Miles.
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