The Master Of Jazz Has Been Dead Five Years--Isn't It Time To Reissue His Work? By Dave McElfresh MILES DAVIS HAS been dead for five years as of September 28. There remains a where-were-you-when-Miles-died air of reverence about the man, who is arguably the most significant jazz musician in the history of the music. Davis either had a hand in, or was primarily responsible for, developing an entire string of jazz styles, beginning in the early '40s when he, Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie created bebop. Two or three style changes and a quarter of a century later, he was playing at the Fillmore auditoriums, introducing his extremely abrasive jazz-rock to the love generation and dwarfing the intensity of the psychedelic bands he opened for. He may be heralded now for his trailblazing, but at the time Miles Davis pissed off each style's fans by completely abandoning their favored approach for a new one. Many beboppers dismissed the simplicity of the modal music he played with John Coltrane. Fans of that style so detested his foray into the percussion-heavy fusion of On The Corner and Big Fun that they received the lowest possible ratings in jazz magazines. Not even the fusion fans remained true to his subsequent changes, many of them abhorring his willingness to play Cindy Lauper's "Time After Time" and Michael Jackson's "Human Nature" in the years prior to his death. Obviously, Davis was not driven by a need to please all the people all of the time. In fact, as influential as his musical input was, Davis' fuck-you attitude is as responsible for making him a household name as was Duke Ellington's classiness and Louis Armstrong's showmanship. Even my saintly Baptist mother knows that Mr. Davis had a reputation for not being very nice--and without having heard the specifics, like his spitting on the stage of concert halls while playing with his back to the audience, which was hardly acceptable behavior in the '50s. Or the time Wynton Marsalis brazenly walked onstage to join Davis midsong, resulting in Davis immediately halting the band and staring at the unwanted guest until he sheepishly returned to the wings. Or his blatantly sexist treatment of female interviewers. Or his willingness to fire bandmembers onstage, midconcert. Even in his final days he mercilessly antagonized co-biographer Quincy Troupe with rude comments about his appearance--a fearless move considering how Troupe could have retaliated in his interpretation of the trumpeter's life. While such abrasiveness is barely tolerated in lesser figures, coming from Miles it was always amusing. He regularly tested his image by insulting admirers. Miles responded to percussionist Airto's introductory speech of praise with a "So what?" before slamming the door in his face. No one messed with Miles and his image, including his string of wives. His primary complaint about ex-wife Cicely Tyson was that when she physically attacked him out of rage she pulled out his hair weaves. His intimidating comments were made considerably less threatening by the fact that he spoke in a gravely whisper, having permanently ruined his voice screaming at his attorney shortly after a throat operation. Literally everyone who relates his or her favorite Miles story imitates his raspy sound, which softens even his rudest comments into laughable tales of his unpredictable behavior. Unquestionably, there was much about Davis that was either unpredictable or unusual for a jazz musician. Certainly none of his peers ever matched his ability to radically, repeatedly shift the direction of jazz. And while many jazz figures rose up from poverty, Davis was the son of a wealthy dentist from Alton, Illinois. Many jazz musicians paid their dues for years before making their mark; Davis, on the other hand, was working with jazz gods Charlie Parker and Dizzie Gillespie when barely out of high school. Not content to live strictly for the music, Davis toyed with boxing, became a gourmet cook, and took up painting during his final years. And while countless jazz legends died from their addictions, Davis beat his heroin habit by locking himself in the summer house on his parents' farm and going cold turkey. Obviously, his reputation for being tough was not just a fabricated image. Davis retired in 1975 due to a variety of health problems. He was talked into a comeback in 1980 and made a rare, bizarre television appearance on an episode of Saturday Night Live. The 55-year-old trumpeter seemed as though he might die before the show was over, shuffling across the stage like a nursing home resident, and looking as weak as he played. It was a horrifying sight for those who had mistakenly associated his forever youthful music with an image of Davis remaining perpetually young. But over the course of the years that followed it appeared he really did grow young again, becoming just as handsome and incisive as before. His peers and band members were now half his age and not necessarily born of the jazz world. Sting was a guest on his You're Under Arrest album, and a 60-something Miles recorded with Prince, Cameo and other rock/R&B figures. (When asked why he was suddenly agreeing to guest on the recordings of others, some of the artists hardly worthy of his presence, his response was, "No one's asked me before.") By 1991, Davis had long been touring and recording frequently, looking healthy and playing well. By September he was dead of pneumonia, respiratory failure and a stroke. Although it could be taken as his final, ultimate unpredictable move, one wonders if Davis might not have known his demise was forthcoming: Having always refused to return to the music of his previous incarnations, he allowed Quincy Jones to arrange a tribute to his '50s collaborations with arranger Gil Evans, and moved on to Paris for another tribute where he revisited his three decades of jazz-rock changes with former band employees like Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter and John McLaughlin. Both occurred two months before his death Death, of course, means reissue time for the record labels. Though he had a 30-year relationship with Columbia Records, he'd long felt neglected and disrespected by the label and dumped them for Warner Brothers in 1986. During his life, Columbia (now Sony) was notoriously lax in reissuing on CD even his most common catalog items. In 1988, a dreadfully thin four-CD Miles Davis boxed set poorly attempted to cover his five-decade career. Finally, though, the reissue situation appears to be improving. The Live At The Plugged Nickel sessions, previously available only in a double album, is now in boxed set form, featuring all the sets during the band's famous appearance at the club. And only weeks ago the six CD set Miles Davis and Gil Evans: The Complete Columbia Studio Recordings made it to the shelves after nearly a year of retracted release dates by the label. Unheard music from mid-'60s studio sessions by Davis' famous quintet, a band some believe might be the best jazz ensemble ever, will be the next Miles Davis boxed set to see the light. No doubt the vaults hold plenty of hot stuff from his fusion days as well. May that handful of record executives at Sony show the dead a little respect and reissue his musical advancements at a slightly faster pace than it took Davis to create them.

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