My Father the King of Cool
Miles Davis
Born in Alton, Illinois, in 1926, trumpeter and composer Miles Davis is widely considered the most influential jazz musician of the twentieth century. Davis’s mercurial brilliance was reflected in his creative output, which was as prodigious as it was varied, ranging from his jazz masterpiece Kind of Blue to the experimental Bitches Brew. He had four children, Gregory, Miles IV, Erin, and Cheryl. He died in 1991, at age sixty-five.
Erin (age fourteen) and Miles on tour in Europe, 1985
people think of my dad as the prince of darkness (the name of his 1967 album), a moody performer who turned his back on the audience out of disregard for them. That wasn’t him at all. But this wasn’t something even I truly realized until I stood onstage with him as part of his legendary band: Dad wasn’t turning away from the audience; he was turning toward the band. It wasn’t a sign of disrespect for those there to hear him; it was a sign of respect for those there to play. And I was lucky enough to be there to play.
My parents separated before I was born, and for most of the school year, my father was out on tour. When I did see him, it tended to be at his studio. I knew he was a famous musician but didn’t quite understand how famous. As a kid, I was always telling him I wanted to be a musician. Finally, when I was fourteen, he asked if I wanted to go on the road with him in the summer. Of course I said yes.
I learned a lot, not only about music but about my father, during those summer tours. As I stood in the wings, I saw that playing the music live was the most important thing to my dad. He had all these legendary musicians onstage. As the tour progressed, the songs would morph into different configurations, find different grooves, and get better. To accomplish that, he had to have a lot of contact with the musicians. He taught me that you can’t just go out in front and smile at the crowd. You have to turn around. You have to make eye contact with everybody in the band and make sure they are watching you.
Those summer tours were the first and longest sustained amount of time I spent with my father. What I discovered about him was how he could break down what was going on in any musical performance or composition—and find something to take away from it. I remember once watching the old Headbangers Ball on MTV, and when Slayer came on, I thought, Oh my God, Dad’s going to hate this. He watched for a bit and then said, “Huh. That drummer is really laying it down, isn’t he?” Then he just walked away.
After a few summers of watching—me watching him and him watching me—he finally asked me onstage for a tour in 1990. He was giving me a chance, and I was terrified of blowing it. I played electronic percussion, which was a genre my dad kind of invented. Instead of having traditional percussionists, he would sample them and the percussionist would play those samples through an Octapad, a sort of triggering device. I didn’t even get any rehearsals. I watched the guy who did it before me for a couple of shows, then I was just on it, in the seat. It was my gig. It was nerve-racking for me, but at the same time, it felt wonderful to have my father turn toward me, to listen to me and to play with me as an equal.