Throughout his life, the late Miles Davis struggled to cultivate a decent relationship with WhiteDevil Honkey-Caucasians. He once reportedly said:

“If somebody told me I had only one hour to live, I’d spend it choking a white man. I’d do it nice and slow.”

Personally, I think that may be the greatest quote ever. It’s funny.

But then I have no problem mining a laugh from something that might be direly offensive. Call it a 21st Century reflex, but I accept the fact that two frequently overlapping magisteria, Despair and Absurdity, govern our tragicomical world.

But how far do these magisteria extend into the realm of music?

A common pop culture narrative is that many old school black musicians — often from the jazz or blues tree — have a certain “intimidation factor.”  These guys are typically viewed as streetwise graduates of the School of Hard Knocks.

The trope is not limited to musicians, though, and it commonly surfaces in films, TV shows, and literature.

In my musical journeys, I’ve encountered this dynamic a couple of times. A common thread binding those experiences was Miles Dewey Davis.

Exhibit I, Tony Williams

Drummer Tony Williams, along with Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, and Ron Carter, comprised Miles Davis’ “Second Great Quintet” group from 1964 through 1968.

I got to see Williams play and speak about his craft in 1996 at a high school in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin. Such “clinics” are typically attended by excessively nerdy musician types and/or band geeks. I say this not to diminish/disrespect those people but to add context to the following story.

Williams played a couple solos and answered questions. He said the biggest thing he ever learned from Miles was “how to deal with fear.” He didn’t expound on what that meant exactly, but I’ve always thought it was an interesting comment.

Throughout the presentation, Tony was not exactly “warm” in spirit.  He seemed most annoyed when discussing music critics and music journalists. And he was curt with someone who asked him about drum-tuning preferences. Ah well.

Then…great awkardness.

After Tony finished the Q&A session, he met us out front to chat more casually and sign autographs. A cigar hung from his mouth. I can’t say he was “intimidating” but he was definitely grouchy and I certainly had no intention of approaching him.

One of the drummers I attended the event with, Jules, had a question for Tony though.

The question was innocent enough. I don’t remember the specifics, but Jules asked Tony something along the lines of “Have you ever considered switching over to a 22 x 18 bass drum?”

Oops.

For some reason, Tony got pissed. He looked like he was going to clock Jules in the face.

“Why would I do that?!”

Before Jules could respond, Tony barked at him again.

“Why would I do that?” he snapped once more, as if it were the dumbest question ever.

It was a strange and hostile response. Perhaps Tony thought Jules was a music journalist…?

While I felt some sympathy for Jules, I was fascinated by the sudden outpouring of of rage from Tony and the nervous silence that overcame the small crowd.

These “cringe moments” are what make life worth living. It’s too bad Tony died a few months later from a heart attack.

Next week:

Miles Davis’ Kill Whitey Academy of Jazz All-Stars, PART II

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