“Cool Miles. Randy brought some
Perrier water and fruit juices to make
homemade spritzers,” I added.
18
“No shit? Man that sounds good, I
wanna taste one of them!”
Judy, Miles’ attractive young housekeeper
(who obviously doubled as his occasional
concubine) assisted us in putting
our beverages into the refrigerator.
Once we finally got set up and started
working on music, Miles pretty much
followed our lead as we jammed on
the repertoire of our Chicago based
group. This consisted mostly of music
composed by myself or by Randy Hall,
or by he and I together. I can’t say that
there was very much innovation or new
creation initially. However, the infusion
of polychords by Miles on the organ
felt intrusive at first then strangely
inventive, pushing the compositions—
and our ears— into new places that
fostered many musical aha moments.
His dissonant chordal approach altered
our soundscapes with new harmonic
tension and release. This fueled the
frenzy of our patting feet and bobbing1979-Jheri curled, heads. I noticed that
Miles’ organ playing sounded vastly less
sophisticated than his complex acoustic
piano technique I had observed on
our first day alone together. But I
knew that the sound of the organ
itself dictated a more limited approach
without a sustain pedal and due to
the absence of natural overtones
indigenous to the piano. Still, I could
tell that he played with high sensitivity;
listening and interactively responding
to everything he heard. Of course, I
knew his “outside chords” were related
to what he had shown me on the piano,
but I felt a sense of reticence when it
came to integrating his technique into
my own playing within this particular
context. I felt obligated to stick to
the script and maintain the stylistic
nuances we’d established in Chicago.
I feared that the others would think
I was just imitating Miles. Besides,
Miles was already playing the role of
himself. So, his private instruction
would remain my personal treasure to
unpack in the months to come… and
to eventually make my own.
BRN-FALL-2013.indb 18
For eight to ten hours a day, rivers of
sound streamed throughout that room
with complete freedom of musical
expression. Randy slid in with flying
guitar phrases punctuated by dynamic
decibels driven by the solid drum
rhythms of Vince (Miles’ nephew).
I contributed harmonies and ascending
and descending keyboard licks playing
off the confident angular bass lines
laid down by Felton Crews. All this
coalesced with Miles’ stabbing chord
clusters and seemingly formless
forays into other worlds. His organ
splashes acted like a vivid over-painting
that redefined the point of focus
on top of our more homogeneous
background colors of Chicago-styled
funk-fusion. We began to establish an
enthusiastic work ethic, ending each
long day feeling more productive and
anticipating what else was possible
tomorrow. We were completely hyped
to be playing with the greatest jazz
trumpet innovator to ever live. Yet,
somehow we didn’t think it was so odd
that he never picked up his horn. In
fact, his trumpet never even emerged
from the case. No one thought to ask,
“Miles, when are we gonna hear your
trumpet?” Almost two months went
by before I finally, at the insistence
of his producer Teo Macero, asked
Miles that question. (He and Teo had
a famous love hate relationship that
prevented Teo from asking Miles the
question himself without being told to
“Go fuck off!”)
Miles, looking a little stunned hearing
the question from me, said:
“What? You want to hear me play
trumpet? What is it? You guys don’t
like my organ playing?”
“No,” I said, a little apprehensive,
“your organ playing sounds great!” I
reassured him. “But we’re just missing
the sound of your horn, you know
what I mean?”
“Ok,” Miles said, “I’ll play something
next week.”
When he said this he looked a little
dubious, his eyes just staring off in
space. He played the next week but it
wasn’t enough time to get his chops
back up to where he needed them to be
after a 7 year hiatus from not playing
the horn. In truth, he sounded like a
beginner and we were both shocked
and disappointed.
After the first five-day workweek,
Miles gave us the weekend off. Maybe,
in retrospect, he was actually giving
himself the weekend off. In any case,
he invited Randy and I to come by the
following evening for a special fish dish
to be prepared by his neighbor Jack,
who was a schoolteacher. Miles knew
that Randy and I were fellow food
prep enthusiasts and Jack had a unique
recipe to share. Besides this, Randy
and I were the principle collaborators
and Miles indicated that he wanted to
talk shop about our compositional and
arranging methodologies. Since the
weather was so nice on that Saturday
evening, Randy and I decided to walk
over from the Sheraton Center hotel.
We decided to take the route from
52nd an
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