BITCHES BREW

Davis, Miles Bitches Brew Album Review Gaynor E.H. Ritchwright III

Side one 1.Pharaoh's Dance (20:06) Side two 2.Bitches Brew (27:00) Side three 3.Spanish Key (17:34) 4.John McLaughlin (4:26) Side four 5.Miles Runs the Voodoo Down (14:04) 6.Sanctuary (11:01] 7.Feio [bonus track] (11:51)

With as many varied and influential contributors appearing in this 1970 LP, coupled with the seemingly incessant discourse it has received concerning it's relevance, e.g. it's excessive, meandering, endless masturbatory noodling; it would be an all too easy assessment to chuck it in the bin with all the other incidious progress tripe such as Supertramp, and the legions of psuedo-jazz muzik virtuosos that the general public need not pay any mind to and frequently doesn't , e.g. Frank Zappa (although his compositions can become perfection personified when Frank felt the inspiration to abstain from absurdist avant-garde-lite comedy rock. However, Mr. Davis was by this time already reknowned for his mastery over the trumpet and the medium of Jazz, so we must afford his some lee-way in the department of art for art's sake and truly critique this album based on it's inspiration, goal, vision and execution only, without veering off into insignifigant fanboyism so common on an archives forum.

Mr. Davis was in my opinion truly inspired by the young performers who were graced with the opportunity to work alongside Davis, among whom, Chick Corea and Mahavishnu John McLaughlin are only a few so alumni. The playing is tight, the drumming, as is my vice of jazz drumming, plays complex fills without ever emphasizing the meter. The bass (which to my ears sounds upright) teeters in and out of the mix like a half-drunken best man at a trailer-park shotgun wedding, ala, Jamie-Lynne Spears, however when he does manage to break through the mix its some of the most inspired playing one will ever encounter, second only to the marvelous upright on Carlos Santana and Alice Coltrane's flawed-yet-brilliant Illuminations LP. The keys are adequate enough, though they too get lost in the seeming uncontrolable self-indulgant chaos these sessions seem to be absorbed in. I've read that these compositions were actually culled from severe chopping and screwing as we call it today, and from the sounds of it, they definately were. These jams are raw, loose, incoherent, sophmoric romps through pseudo-jazz if ever there were at time when Davis was sophmoric.

One cannot forget that by 1970 Davis was already deemed past his prime, and these accusations seem particularly accurate considered the level of uncontrolled chaos rampaging the ethereal beauty of these compositions/improvisations. Which is saying something indeed, for Davis was not a leader known for lazy or sloppy playing. Which brings about another critique; that is the criminal neglect guitarist John McLaughlin suffers from this mess of an album. His lines are uniform, beautiful, understated, like the stoic grace of a praying mantis in spring. Yet one would be strained to have heard his sometimes bluesy, othertimes funky, disciplined yet unemotional paradoxical playing. McLaughlin was one who never deserved the sort of acclaim he received. In truth, his claim to fame, other than his overrated Mahavishnu Orchestra albums and svengali cultic associations, was this very Brew of nosense. Again, his lines are elegant, yet unemotional, detached, as if he were someplace else, and given the psychedelic reputation these sessions have been rumored to have, it's quite probable.

Everyone plays admirably, but Davis makes it perfectly clear this is his baby, and it shows in the lack of corrordination his band emits, seeming at times to even play off-tempo (and off-key in several spots). His trumpet squeels, screeches, whistles, gurgles and spasms like the fit of a ninety-year old strokin' out, as it were. Yet there is strength in his unfocused playing. The chaos at all times throughout the LP is uncontroled, yet powerful, like the orgasmic tides of a tsunami, ushering in the change of a new era. It is true one cannot belittle the influence this album has had on nearly every jazz or jazz-influenced rock musician for the last thirty-eight years. The title track alone, with its sensual vibrations and its sexual teasings, is worth the price of admission alone, and at twenty-six minuets to maintain that level of fire is a feat unto itself. Pharoah's Dance however, suffers in some spots from the said self-indulgent tripe that later imitators would unleash upon the world soon after. The bonus track is as usual in all modern-day reissues purposeless and a complete waste of time for all but the absolute die-hard Davis-fanatic.

Ultimately, the (abundant) good outweighs the (occasionally) bad on this seventy-minuet plus double album. However, there are large patches that will awe and inspire even the most virginal ears, but alas, there are minor spots that will make even the most jaded avant-garde lunatic (myself included) say my god that sounds like an automobile accident involved drunk-driving cats. Five (flawed) but well deserved stars; Davis would never again sore to such heights. A true psychedelic post-Some Kind of Blue masterpiece.