He looked at me kind of funny, with
those penetrating eyes, then he said:
“I don’t take no chances Bobby, I like
breathing too much.”
“Haha… ok then.” I felt somewhat
reassured, but not completely convinced
of his safety. (Later that fall he would
shoot the tv screen dead after the New
York Giants lost a big football game.)
Miles laid the revolver down onto
the coffee table in front of the sofa.
When he did this I felt a sense of relief,
now becoming aware of the tension
his handling of the firearm created.
“So where is your family from Bobby?”
He asked, looking at me intensely.
“Well, my dad’s family is from Belzoni,
Mississippi and my mother’s family is
from North Carolina. In fact, I spent
about eight-years there after she passed
away in 1967. You know—the last
two years of high school and a couple
years of college. We were about 45
minutes west of Greensboro near
the Virginia border in a town called
Eden; like the garden. It’s located
along the Dan River that runs down
from Danville, Virginia. A good water
source, so Miller Brewing Company
opened a large bottling plant there.”
BRN-FALL-2013.indb 9
“That’s right Nicky Neal… man, he’s a
hell of a drummer… I mean, all those
guys can play, but he’s a motherfucker!
What are they doing now?”
“Your ex-wife?”
“As far as I know,” I said, “they’re still
playing, but maybe not as the same
group.”
“Yeah… and, you know, Trane and
Monk came from down there too.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Your ex-wife’s band,
Funk House and my group, Yamama
were two of the top bands in the region
at the time.”
“No shit Bobby?”
“Yeah we were friendly rivals you know.
I remember they were always flying out
to work with the ‘great Betty Davis’ in
the mid to late ‘70s.”
The thought occurred to me that, even
from that time, only one degree of
separation had partitioned Miles and me.
Today I marveled at the strangeness
of this destiny as one I didn’t ask
for, nor could have imagined. My
limited knowledge of the vast scope of
Miles’ career didn’t allow me to fully
appreciate the privilege of being in the
presence of jazz royalty. This actually
gave me the advantage of not being
star-struck by his iconic stature.
“I remember the drummer from Betty’s
group,” Miles recalled. “Uh, what was
his name?”
“Nicky Neal,” I said.
“So Bobby,” he said, looking at me real
serious. “How’d you learn to play and
compose the way you do?”
“It’s kind of a long story… but um, I’ll
try to give you the short version.”
“Its ok Bobby, take your time… I
cancelled my appointment with the
President.”
“Haha,” I laughed, “well, in 1965 when
I was about 12-years-old, we had to
move out of the big house that my dad
rented in Hyde Park. The house and
land got sold and we moved into the
Robert Taylor Homes. A nice name for
the projects, but actually they weren’t
so bad then. Anyhow, what seemed
to be a negative move was fortunate
for me. My new school, Beethoven
Elementary School, had a glee club
that also did some theater productions.
It’s funny, but the school song was
based on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
So the song became my first formal
exposure to a classical music composer.”
BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE
“That sounds dangerous Miles… you
gotta be careful with that… I mean,
you get distracted and forget, you don’t
get another chance.”
“Hmm… near Greensboro? Yeah,
now that’s a town I know about.
Betty Mabry’s back-up band was from
down there.”
9
“Sometimes I like to fuck with people,”
he said, looking a little mischievous.
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