Chronicle Classic
The Prince of Darkness had taken the Fillmore in his silent way on his own trip to his own special land. It was a remarkable achievement and it was remarkable music.
Miles Davis paced the stage of Fillmore West like a black panther. He was wearing a skintight, purple knitted long-sleeve shirt, a red scarf, suede bell bottom gaucho pants, boots and a belt that sparkled with intricate decorations.
The Fillmore audience gazed at him in fascination. Dave Holland, the British bassist, stood silently, his long blond hair caught behind his head in a knot, his bass in his hands. Jack DeJohnette sat at the drums, his black face serene and smiling alternately. Airto, the Brazilian percussionist, crouched on the floor, his bearded face and curly hair bobbing over the gourds and rattles and hand drums. Chick Correa, thin, almost emaciated, hair frizzled in long ringlets, sat at the electric piano, his glasses slipping down his long nose as he played. Stephen Grossman weaved as he played soprano saxophone.
Miles stalked across to the microphone and began to blow a series of long, slow, breathy single notes into the room.
A thin girl alongside me writhed in ecstasy. A black youth with a pocket kaleidoscope did an intricate dance on the side stage. A scrawny youth, blond hair hanging down in curls, gazed over the amplifiers he was leaning on watching Miles move.
It was sorcery and it worked.
To an audience that has been drilled and educated to listen only to vocals, Miles sang of beauty and the blues, of space flights and moon shots and funky living and dreams. He sang with his trumpet, which was the difference, and behind him the other men made sounds that Mississippi river boats never heard and which would have stopped the jitterbugs in the Savoy Ballroom.
“Arf!!” “arf!” the hand drums of Airto barked. Miles lifted the trumpet to the sky, straight up, and shook it. Jack DeJohnette smiled knowingly and ran his sticks from left to right across his cymbals, nodding his head to another rhythm tied to his bass drum. Chick Correa sat impassively at the piano making quick, bird-like movements with his hands. Dave Holland looked at Jack and smiled.
I thought, what the hell is he playing? I never heard anything like this. The tension increased almost geometrically, relaxed, and I heard the piano and bass figure from “In a Silent Way.” Miles strode to the side of the stage with great long steps. Shook the trumpet, smiled and snapped his head. The girl next to me had her eyes closed now, swaying with the beat. Allen Ginsberg groaned.
It went on, the tensions rising and falling, until Miles stepped to the microphone and snapped out a few bars of the theme and then floated off stage.
In the dressing room, I asked, “You gonna play another set?” He looked at me. “After THAT?” he said. Bill Graham said, “That one set was better than all four at the Fillmore East.” Miles smiled. “I know it,” he said.
The Prince of Darkness had taken the Fillmore in his silent way on his own trip to his own special land. It was a remarkable achievement and it was remarkable music. “Columbia should have taped it,” Miles said. “I taped it,” Bill Graham said. “I tape everything.” So maybe it won’t be lost.
We owe Francisco Newman of KQED an apology for the misprint of his name in Friday’s column concerning the impressive interview he did with Bobby Seale. It should also be noted that the filmmakereditor was KQED’s talented Allen Willis.