From Publishers Weekly
Davis was regarded by many as, in the words of one journalist, the wickedest, canniest, deepest, slickest, baddest musician of the last century, and Maher (
Kerouac: His Life and Work) and Dorr, a poet and literary agent, have put together a collection of interviews covering the full spectrum of his career, from publicity materials linked to one of his earliest recordings for Columbia Records in the 1950s to a conversation two years before his death. Davis wasn't always the easiest person to talk to—if you're going to shut up, man, I'll tell you was his impatient response in one frustrating conversation—but when approached by the right person, someone with the perceptiveness of Nat Hentoff or Art Taylor, he could produce dazzling insights (in one 1987 interview, he spins intricate technical details on getting the right sound out of synthesizers). It's the little scenes that are most memorable: Davis at a birthday party for Louis Armstrong, or trying to persuade his errand boy biographer Eric Nisenson to make a late-night drug delivery. In some unfortunate cases, the interview is more about the self-important journalist celebrating his proximity to a jazz legend than about Davis himself, but even then it's impossible for anybody but Davis to hold the spotlight for long.
(Nov.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Miles Davis turned his back to the audience and made music that moved continents. As legendary for his sharp tongue and toughness as for his searching, bunker-busting music, he was a fearless man of strong feelings and megatalent. Unusually frank in his statements about racism, Davis made journalists cower, and his iciness, magnetism, spiky humor, rage, and genius are all palpable in the 28 interviews Maher and Dorr have rescued from near oblivion. Nat Hentoff listens to music with Davis, who offers brilliant critiques. Lionel Olay reports on a poolside conversation more suited for a boxing ring. Davis tells Les Tompkins, “Jazz is an Uncle Tom word,” then lets his guard down with Cheryl McCall and tells the story of his kicking drugs cold turkey and his five-year retreat from music and the limelight. Moving forward from 1957 to the end of his life, in 1991, these sparring sessions and profound exchanges trace Davis’ dynamic artistic evolution, from poetic ballads to molten fusion, and his endless quest for liberation. --Donna Seaman
