Today’s post continues last week’s meditation on Miles Davis, Tony Williams, and incontinence among jazz musicians.

A quick recap:  Recall that Absurdity and Despair govern our world. Recall further that these overlapping magisteria often surface in the realm of jazz music, particularly whenever someone conjures the words “Miles” and “Davis.”

Last week I discussed this phenomenon in the context of a performance by the late, great Tony Williams. This week, we move from a surly drummer to a no-nonsense bass player.

Enter Richard...

…THE PROFESSOR…

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For many years, bass guru Richard Davis has taught music at the University of Wisconsin. Many mainstream rock fans are familiar with his (quite stunning and avant-garde) work on Van Morrison‘s Astral Weeks LP. Jazzheads are keen on his work with Miles, Eric Dolphy, Freddie Hubbard, Milt Jackson, etcetera. Richard has also contributed some scintillating bass to various Bruce Springsteen recordings.

My first Richard Davis story isn’t all that unique or funny, except perhaps to me.

The skinny: In 1991, my bass-playing pal Aaron and I were wandering the UW campus. We were hungry patrons at UW’s trough of knowledge and culture.

On a whim, we decided to “drop in” at Richard Davis’ office. Why not? We were right there in the Humanities building, we had absolutely nothing better to do, and Richard was jazz royalty. How fun.

Pal Aaron, who has a Ferris Bueller-like charm that usually gives him the upper hand in social dynamics, suggested that we “network” with Professor Davis.

“Cool,” I said, tagging along like Cameron to Aaron’s Ferris.

We arrived at the professor’s office. We knocked, entered and met Richard, who was finishing with a lesson. He invited us in.

Aaron coolly explained that he was there to talk with Richard about the local music scene.

Then…great awkwardness.

Richard paused. He said nothing. Maybe he thought a protracted and uncomfortable silence might enhance the dialogue.

A look of panic flashed across Aaron’s face.

Davis wasn’t buying into Aaron’s Bueller-esque persona. Rather, Richard reminded me of James Earl Jones‘ character in the underrated 80s film Soul Man.

Or so it seemed in the anguish of the moment.

I watched with surprise as Aaron stammered away. Growing up, he had a retort for every scenario, every dickhead. This stonewalling by Davis was something new, unforeseen.

“Um, maybe we should come back at some other time,” Aaron mumbled, anxious to leap out of his own skin.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to come in if I hadn’t intended to answer your question,” Davis said in an insidiously direct manner.

I recognized this tension. I had experienced it before, though I’m not sure Aaron had.

A brief aside.

The previous summer, I auditioned to become a student of Davis’ colleague at the university, percussionist James Lattimer. I played some rudiments for the professor, and it went no further than that.

“Very nice, Michael. Very nice,” Lattimer said as a look of pain and boredom consumed him.

Then silence.

Followed by awkwardness. Then…

…a question I had no answer for.

“Michael, “ he said. “What do you want?“

Eighteen years old, I had yet to master the art of bullshitting. I had no verbal dexterity at all. But I did have a fairly thick skin and experience dealing with asshole music teachers.

So the question annoyed me. I wanted to say what I was thinking: ”Professor, isn’t it obvious? I’m a drummer, and you’re the school’s big-shot drum teacher. I’d like to start taking lessons with you. Do I have to spell it out?”

Instead, I blurted some nervous gibberish about “wanting to play in a blues-rock band.”

Stupid. Awkwardness.

Back on Planet Davis, Aaron continued to squirm. He eventually stumbled back to the topic of networking in the local music scene.

Davis gave an anti-climactic answer, something like “Well I’d suggest visiting one of the local music stores and talking with the people there.”

OK. Great.

That was that.

We said good-bye and left.

Distressed, Aaron lit a cigarette and compared himself to Ralph Macchio in Crossroads.

In hindsight, Davis’ answer — which seemed like a non-answer at the time — was probably good advice. Networking was likely never an issue in his career. I’m sure he thought it was simply an excuse to procrastinate instead of getting on stage and playing.

So be it.

I hate networking too.

Next week: The Final Chapter in Miles Davis’ Kill Whitey Academy of Jazz All-Stars.

P.S. Please check out my pal Mike‘s pop music. Sweet bliss is a tiger’s kiss.

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