Miles: The Autobiography

The nature of autobiographical writing usually guarantees an aspect of egotism on the part of the author. However, in Davis' writing, simple stories that would be unremarkable in the average person's life take on a greater value. The succession of these events did facilitate an exceptional outcome: his unwarranted success; yet, Davis amplifies the meaning of each ostensible allegory. In the first pages of the book, Davis recounts his earliest childhood memory:
The very first thing I remember is a blue flame jumping off a gas stove [...] I remember it also like some kind of adventure, some kind of weird joy, too [...] that experience took me someplace [...] to some frontier, the edge, maybe, of everything possible [...] that's where my personal philosophy of life and my commitment to everything I believe in started, in that moment. (Davis, 11)

The reader initially accepts this passage merely as the manifestation of Davis' budding creativity, or perhaps even an original encounter with jazz: a journey to the fringe in adventurous ecstasy. Although commitment to a personal philosophy at such a young age is unusual, Davis embodies the exceptional. However, intentionally or not, Davis refutes his own analysis. In response to his passage he remarks, "Who knows? What the fuck did I know about anything back then? [%u2026] I've never tried to analyze it before" (Davis, 11). In a way, Davis confesses that his interpretation of this experience may go too far. Initially, he conveys the belief that he was set apart from the beginning; that even in early childhood, he was able to ascribe definitive meaning to and interpret his experiences. Subsequently, Davis realizes that this event only revealed its true meaning when he discovered his passion for jazz. Through this transparent thought process, Davis conveys an egotistical expectation of personal perfection. He assumes that, while the normal human struggles with personal identity through childhood, he, as a perfected individual, must have been firm in his goals and personal beliefs.

While Davis' childhood allegories hold a metaphorical meaning, Davis also provides more tangible evidence of his personal worth. He seems to take mere autobiographical reflection and use it as a foundation for establishing his personal credibility. Davis' most powerful reflective statement appears in first line of the book, "Listen. The greatest feeling I ever had in my life - with my clothes on - was when I first heard Diz and Bird together in St. Louis, Missouri, back in 1944" (Davis, 7). Even this reflection, however, begins with a certain egotism. By beginning his statement with "Listen" Davis' diction seems to bring up an innocent musical idea, as in, "listen to the music," but in another light it marks the beginning of a lecture, a call for attention from a king to his court. Yet, Miles' remarks turn more overtly egotistical, "Man, that shit [the music of Diz and Bird's band] was so terrible it was scary. I mean, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie "Yardbird" Parker, Buddy Anderson, Gene Ammons, Lucky Thompson, and Art Blakey [...] and me up there playing with them" (Davis, 7). Just 8 lines into the book Miles' begins listing the names of famous people he played with when he was just 18. This credibility by association provides Davis with a tangible form of validation and sense of self worth. What is most interesting, however, is the format with which he does it. First, he remarks how amazing the band sounds and then continues to list several easily recognizable jazz greats. This collection of great players amazes the reader, but only now does Miles remember to remark "and me up there playing with them," as if to say, "Here is this amazing band, and oh, by the way, at the age of eighteen I was good enough to play with them" (Davis, 7).

Even in the first few paragraphs a reader can begin to build a picture of Miles' character. The elements of ambition, egotism, obsession, and reflection give us great insight into his thought process; they also begin to reveal the equation that lead to his success. Yet Davis' narcissism constantly accompanies his accomplishments. While this truth may shock the reader, it more likely adds to the excitement of reading the text. Davis' cutting edge confidence is almost pleasurable, like the confident cowboy that swaggers into a saloon and shoots down his nemesis without a thought. Davis remembers, "I had a fight with bird before the show about money he owed me [...] I just walked off the bandstand in the middle of a set. I was too good for that shit" (Davis, 87). Even Davis' crude vernacular becomes an object of awe. In fact, the reader acknowledges his words as a quintessential part of the Jazz movement. It's exciting to think that people say things like "Man, that shit was so terrible it was scary" because of people like Davis (Davis, 7). Subsequently, while Davis' narcissistic infection grows to be the defining overtone of the text, it also leads to an exciting readability that becomes the reader's guilty pleasure. Much like the title of his time-honored album suggests: the birth of Miles Davis was the Birth of the Cool.

Yet, while the reader is mesmerized by Davis' almost ethereal persona and egotistical confidence, his seemingly innocent swagger may be the underlying force of his artistic creation. Relating a similar idea in his book, The African American Century, Henry Gates suggests, "[Davis'] genius may have been both fed and undone by his arrogance and lifestyle. In the end, it was perhaps these tensions that helped create his enduring body of work" (Gates 201). Davis himself agrees that with jazz, "you need to be on top, prove your confident and in control" (Davis 219). Yet, in regards to lifestyle Davis remarks that, "to a point my struggles helped my playing [but] eventually sex and drugs took the place that music had occupied in my life" (Davis 336). Davis rejects Gates' idea that his lifestyle, one of sexual and chemical addiction, had any positive effect on his music. In fact, it was the very thing that drove him into seclusion, away from his true love of music. As a mainstream intellectual, Gates' expedition for positivism in the shady immorality of Miles' self-inflicted adversity is transparent. The title of Gates' book, The African American Century, speaks clearly enough: with political ends in mind, Gates' props each African American example up on a pedestal of grossly upbeat sensationalism. While Gates makes a valid point that adversity and trial added greatly to Davis' inspiration as a mainstream author Gates disregards the contentious social circumstance of Davis' life. In doing this he mistakes Miles' purely negative addictions for the true inspirational adversity: the battle of segregation.

Thus, Davis' egotistical actions may be influenced not just by his fame but also by historical context. His contributions to the proliferation of Jazz as the one truly American music form make him a key constituent in the inspiration of a new, multiracial generation of musicians. Yet, before the dust of the battle against segregation settled, Jazz became a point of great contention. On the one hand, it became a symbol of a common language among races, while in another light it's fervor seemed to defy whites in fierce rebellion. Jazzmen, caught in the middle, were scrutinized by an ever-wary audience; their actions on stage signaled either defiance or compromise, even if the intent of the artist was passivity in respect of this new pure art form. While it is difficult to establish a direct casual relationship, it would be impossible for such a contentious societal schism to not influence Davis' behavior in some way. In this light, Davis' brand of egoism may in fact be a tool, either in defense or aggression, against racism.

Many see jazz as an almost cult-like fraternity of brothers; some even interpret this brotherhood as a defense mechanism, a safety in numbers approach to white suppression. In his essay, The Great Next, Michael Dyson conveys such an interpretation saying, "Black folk had to create a culture of significance among each other as a survival strategy in an oppressive culture" (Dyson 184). Davis exemplifies this idea in his text through conveying the sharing of jazz knowledge throughout the black community. Davis begins remarking that at Julliard they were, "so prejudiced against all black music. And that's what I wanted to learn [...] Dizzy, Roy Eldridge, and Joe guy were some people I could listen to and learn something from" (Davis 60). Davis continuously lists black musicians that helped him learn, and later in the book he recalls mentoring other young black musicians. However, as time passed, Davis was the jazzman who ventured the furthest to extend a hand to white players. Interestingly, Dyson has a fitting answer to this change, as his argument evolves, he writes, "when the jazzers were ready [...] jazz was the front line of breaking down barriers" (Dyson 176). While Dyson's arguments seem to apply perfectly to Davis, he provides no direct evidence to substantiate his claim. Dyson's lack of testimony from a black musician prevents him from clinching his argument. In fact, it is possible that Davis was merely being tossed by fate: he seemed to want to learn from whites, but they pushed him away, making it their choice, not his.

While Dyson argues that Jazzmen's actions during the era were a defensive ploy, he doesn't account for the emotion of anger. How could jazzmen take such a passive role against a population that so brutally stripped them of their basic human rights? Fortunately, Monique Guillory provides a much needed contrast to Dyson's ideas in her essay Black Bodies Swingin.' In fact, Guillory portrays jazz as an explosion of suppressed black masculinity in rebellion against racism and, to an extent, whites in general. Even an etymological study of the word jazz reveals its inherent black masculinity, as Guillory reminds us, "the name jazz itself most likely evolved from jizz and jism, creolized forms of the Kikngo (an African ethnicity) word dinza (ejaculation)" (Guillory, 201). To further prove her claim, Guillory analyzes the behavior of jazz musicians on and off the stage, as their actions come to define the persona of jazz. Yet, while Guillory would emphasize Davis' actions as evidence of his black masculinity and its challenge to whiteness, Davis' autobiography reveals a socially conscious yet single-minded individual: aware of the racial divide yet mainly concerned with himself, his music.

Davis' behavior on stage is somewhat infamous. In his autobiography, Davis relates grievances from his critics who cite his lack of stage etiquette. Davis would turn his back to audiences, walk off stage, and refrain from announcing numbers. Guillory claims that this "attitude coming off the bandstand - self confident, aggressive [...was part of] a black masculine that not only challenged whiteness but exiled it to the (cultural) margins of blackness" (Guillory, 200). She sees Davis' actions on stage as conveying strength, a masculine social tool for change. This assumption seems to fit Davis' character, since his actions on stage appear to send a harsh message to the audience. Yet, in addressing his critic's assumptions regarding stage behavior Davis says,
Look, man, all I am is a trumpet player. The reason I don't announce numbers is because it's not until the last instant I decide what's maybe the best thing to play next. [...]Why I sometimes walk off the stand is because when it's somebody else's turn to solo, I ain't going to just stand up there and be detracting from him. [...]Then they claim I ignore the audience while I'm playing. Man, when I'm working, I know the people are out there. But when I'm playing, I'm worrying about making my horn sound right. (Davis, 413)

Here, Davis completely rejects the idea that his behavior intends to send a message, much less to comment on social circumstances. In fact, he provides counterevidence. By saying, "when I'm playing, I'm worrying about making my horn sound right," Davis relates his lifelong commitment to perfection. Guillory sees this as a commitment to battle against whites, as a man of passion would commit to a revenge plot. She writes, "The power of Miles Davis was that he always seemed to be waving back from the post-liberated side of blackness" (Guillory 212). Here Guillory portrays Davis as an almost glorified war hero, showing the troops the way to freedom. However, Davis' true commitment to perfection, as his main focus, leaves no room for social bickering. Davis says, "Man, all I want to do is play man" (Davis, 68). In addition, Davis conveys Jazz's foundations in improvisation, saying "I don't announce numbers because it's not until the last instant I decide what's maybe the best thing to play next" (Davis 413). If Davis has no agenda in terms of the music he plays it is hard to believe he would pre-conceive his actions on stage to have some measured social effect. In fact, defining jazz itself as having any concrete policy is to go against its inherent nature of ever-evolving improvisation. Davis sums up his thinking well, saying, "I'll play it first and figure out what it means later" (Davis 83). Subsequently, Davis' behavior and brand of Jazz seem to have no underlying agenda for social change.

While Davis is passionate about racism, and in many instances a victim of it, he sees jazz as art alone, pursuing it to near perfection. In light of Guillory's argument, perhaps Davis is merely an aberration from the normal jazzman. Yet it seems that jazz, the music itself, doesn't always fit Guillory's mold. In many ways jazz evolved to its current state because of its cultural context. Although the 1960s were a time of extreme racial tension, the passion on both sides, for better or worse, added to the richness, meaning, and passion of the music. Yet, this same context that provided jazz with many of its distinctive positive attributes also branded it in a way that often constrains and automatically directs the thoughts of intellectuals and researchers. Both Guillory and Dyson fall victim to this habit. While they disagree on the ideological foundations of the jazz movement, they agree that it was a response to white oppression and that the ability of black jazzmen to fashion such great art was largely a result of this shared defiance. In making this claim, they both limit jazz itself. Both authors fail to portray jazz as a finally tuned technique, a new dimension of tonal framework that allows for limitless yet contained creation. Miles Davis realizes "players are all kinds, man" (Davis, 340). In this realization, he provides a foundation for the idea that the players change, and while they may have some influence on Jazz the music largely stays the same. This last reflection truly shows Davis' brilliance, and while his egotism is unwavering it can be easily marginalized by the realization that it is perhaps merely a result of his intense commitment to his music. Through a different lens, we can see Davis' autobiography as a record of multiplicity. Jazzmen are a diverse population; some are men of passion, others of rage; they come in all measures of stature, and more recently in all distinctions of race. Jazz is malleable and like most music it can be shaped to inspire a range of measured effects, fitting any agenda. Thus, there is an important and intrinsic distinction between the language and its voice. The player's change, the music stays the same.

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