By Ian S. Port
By Cory Sklar
By Godofredo Vasquez
By Gil Riego Jr.
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Christopher Victorio
By Ian S. Port
Black Beauty: Live at the Fillmore West
Miles Davis at Fillmore: Live at the
Miles Davis in Concert: Live at
Dark Magus: Live at Carnegie Hall
On the surface, the reissue of five Miles Davis double albums from the early '70s -- Black Beauty: Live at the Fillmore West (recorded in 1970), Miles Davis at Fillmore: Live at the Fillmore East (1970), Live-Evil (1970), Miles Davis in Concert: Live at Philharmonic Hall (1972), and Dark Magus: Live at Carnegie Hall (1974) -- looks like a curious move. This period of Davis' work is still -- yes, more than two decades later -- a wedge issue in jazz. Close to half of jazz's core constituency thoroughly despises this phase of his work. Author and veteran jazz critic Stanley Crouch called it "trendy and dismal." Crouch has frequently voiced the disappointment of these jazz fans, who still feel that Davis betrayed jazz's best interests in 1969 when the trumpeter's ensemble changed over from upright to electric bass, piano to electric keyboards, and started making music with far more of a rock 'n' roll or funk edge than Davis' trademark, cool classic jazz had ever had. In addition, these recent releases from Columbia/Legacy are forced to compete in a jazz marketplace overflowing with reissues of much more universally loved work. Yet upon closer examination the reissues are well-timed, and show that for the first time since the current jazz revival began about 15 years ago, the people running the show in the jazz business might have a clue.
Jazz in the '90s has been slouching toward a creative crisis; put bluntly, the Wyntonclones haven't produced. Wynton and Branford Marsalis both signed to Columbia in the early '80s and became household names soon thereafter. This started a feeding frenzy among major labels, which began shoving a steady stream of soft-spoken, sharply dressed, studious young jazz performers down the collective throat of the jazz community. It was hard not to escape the anti-hip-hop implication of the young jazzmen's public image: "Look, these are nice blacks; they even play music that is artful and highbrow." The music, however, was -- for the most part -- boring. It generally takes more life experience than most 24-year-olds have amassed to competently embellish the classic American songbook. And it should be noted that most jazz greats who are known to us by a single name -- Monk, Ornette, Satchmo, Duke, Trane -- made their mark in their late 20s or even their 30s.
The public wasn't buying it either -- in the long run, in any sense of the word. For one thing, many of the established masters of jazz were still around making records, and for another, the great recordings that make up the various entries of the jazz canon were getting reissued on CD. Why buy a new Joshua Redman CD when you can get a classic Sonny Rollins recording for $3 less? But the jazz labels abused this market. Many of the classics were shoddily produced for reissue; the current edition of Davis' Kind of Blue -- perhaps the one jazz record that defines this music -- is currently in its third CD incarnation.
So with few new artists boasting real box office draw (the short-list of those who do: James Carter, Roy Hargrove, Marcus Roberts, Diana Krall, Cyrus Chestnut, and Redman), and the reissue market sullied by a glut of dubious productions, jazz aficionados had reason to worry. Even though jazz was gaining substantial ground within the institutions of official culture (like Lincoln Center and the Smithsonian), and it had become an established highbrow soundtrack (functioning as the Muzak at Barnes and Noble and Starbucks), things looked a little shaky. That's when labels started to clean up their act. Reissues became priority projects -- only appropriate, since they drive the jazz record sales. Suddenly, almost every major jazz imprint had a series boasting audiophile sound, upscale packaging, and booklets with new essays and rare photos. This sated the hard-core jazz crowd, which still yearns for long overdue respect to the jazz of the '40s, '50s, and '60s (Stan Getz never won a "genius grant"). And here's the surprising development: The majors turned their attention to the jazz that was selling. Not the awful dreck that calls itself smooth jazz, but artists like Cassandra Wilson, Medeski Martin and Wood (MMW), the Charlie Hunter Quartet, and the various artists who crouch under the horribly named umbrella of acid jazz. In each case, the edgy, unabashedly pop-influenced jazz built big audiences, beyond the somewhat narrow confines of the jazz world. Blue Note started its Rare Groove series and Verve launched its Talking Verve imprint with this audience in mind. For Columbia, which is in the process of reissuing almost 30 years' worth of Miles Davis sessions, these five double CDs are its way of representin' to this crowd.
These packages are not an authoritative overview of this reviled era in Davis' career, but they are a selection of essential live dates that contrast vividly with the more sedate, better-known studio dates like Bitches Brew and Tribute to Jack Johnson. Also, they trace Davis' development from producing a music that merely expanded on the open-ended jazz-rock sound performed by many groups -- notably, Traffic and the Allman Brothers Band -- to a raging, densely layered funk sound that prefigured what groups like Spring Heel Jack and Roni Size are doing today.
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