Miles: The Autobiography

For a year I lived with a bunch of musicians. Coming into the house, I thought I knew music, only to find out, what I knew was rudimentary at best. My year turned into an initiation into the world of music, being forced to learn at least one chord on a bass, guitar, andshort lived rigorous drumming exercises. Although I doubt I remember any of those chords, something I did get out of it, were some incredible reads, including Miles: The Autobiography of Miles Davis as told to Quincy Troupe.

Upon reading the first pages, Miles undoubtedly comes off as the misogynistic asshole, with an affinity for cursing. One could even be tempted to close the book, but once you accept Miles for Miles, the book begins to unfold as a comprehensive history of Jazz in America, citing stories with legends like Charlie “Bird” Parker, Thelonius Monk, John Coltrane, Dizze Gillespie, Billy Holiday, and I’m not even beginning to scratch the surface.

Miles Davis was a cocky dude, who pioneered several movements in jazz, beat an addiction that many at the time fell prisoner to, and when it came to playing the trumpet, many would agree, was a baaadd motherfucker.

So far I’ve listened to Birth of the Cool, and Sketches of Spain, and I’m not mad at what I’m hearing.


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