Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: miles davis (page 2 of 6)

To The Dead, We Owe Only Truth

If those two men were alive to read the papers today, they’d be sweating their asses off. Because–and let’s not let their talent cloud our eyes–both of them were worse in every way than almost all of the men that have gotten in trouble the past few weeks. No one’s masculinity was more toxic than these two fuckheads. Ah, well. Better dead than in the Problem Attic.

(It’s tough to secure a berth in the Problem Attic posthumously. Ty Cobb did, due to that hack sportswriter’s pack of lies about him; Jimmy Saville, too, but there were plenty of rumors about him before he kicked off.)

AND

That guy on the right is fucking killing it.

Cold, Sweat

You look terrible.

“It’s fucking tough being a genius.”

Tell me about it.

“It’s that third set. Billy Eckstine taught me about that. You probably don’t even know who the fuck Billy Eckstine was, you uncultured fucking cracker. Goddamn, I’m tired of explaining shit to white people. Africans built the fucking pyramids while you dummies was getting eaten by bears and shit.”

I’m Jewish. We built the pyramids.

“The historicity of that claim is dubious at fucking best.”

True.

“Billy Eckstine was clean, man. Motherfucker got his socks tailored. He was a pretty man, and all the black bitches loved him. The white bitches, too. When we’d go to Los Angeles, there would be Oriental bitches, and they would love him. We called him B. Taught me how to get the right dimple in my tie, how to sniff cocaine, proper way to slap a bitch. Motherfucker taught me everything.”

You were talking about a third set?

“Motherfucker, don’t do so much. Just lay the fuck back while I’m telling a story. No one’s reading this shit for you.”

Ow.

“Truth fucking hurts. So, B used to talk about playing the third set. Go to the club at night and play two there. Then, after that, there’s that third set. Maybe you fucking. Maybe you getting high. Maybe you getting high and fucking. Whatever. Third set. Can’t play three sets every fucking night. Ain’t no one got the constitution for that.”

That’s pretty good advice. Did you take it?

“Fuck, no. I’m Miles fucking Davis. I do seven, eight sets a night if I fucking want.”

Sure. Aren’t you worried about burning yourself out?

“Nah. I’m a physical man. I take my exercise. Do all sorts of shit. Ride my horses, swim, lift weights.”

Yeah, we’ve seen.

“Always like trying new exercise shit. I’m into that.”

“Have you ever considered taking up hockey, Mr. Davis?”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Hi, Mr. Davis. I’m David Lemieux.”

“Goddamn, you a white motherfucker.”

“Hockey is some of the best cardiovascular exercise you can get. It would increase your wind.”

“This is some sort of fucking white person trick. I ain’t getting out on that ice.”

“It’s no trick, Mr. Davis.”

“You ever see a black man play hockey before?”

“When you are or when I am? Because in 2017, several of the game’s most talented players–”

BANG!

“Oh, no! American gun violence!”

ARCHIVIST SKATING AWAY NOISE

“Get the fuck back here and let me shoot you, motherfucker!”

TRUMPETER TRYING TO RUN ON ICE NOISE

“Mr. Davis, can’t we–”

“No!”

BANG!

“I’m sorry, Mr. Davis. I love your music. Wish I didn’t have to.”

“Have to what?”

SLAP

THONK

flump

Dave, I think you killed Miles Davis.

“David. And, no, I can see him breathing.”

Got him right in the forehead.

“Yeah, but I was aiming for his dick.”

I won’t tell.

“Nice of you.”

Miles On Democracy

What is this?

“Decided to try out being one of you hillbilly motherfuckers. It’s nice. I see why you’re all so fucking happy all the time. Listen to some bullshit song about your fucking truck. Eat some spaghetti with fucking ketchup on it. String up a n—-r.”

Please stop saying that word.

“I’m allowed to say n—-r. I’m a racist white motherfucker.”

Wow, does that not make any sense.

“C’mon, let’s say the fucking Pledge of Allegiance.”

No. It was Election Day today, Mr. Davis. You a regular voter?

“Fuck that. I ain’t down with democracy.”

You’re not down with democracy? Why not?

“All men are created equal. That’s the foundation of that shit, right?”

Yes.

“I ain’t fucking equal. I’m better than everybody. I should get a couple hundred votes. Any system gives Miles Davis and Steve Miller the same amount of votes is bullshit.”

You’re still mad about Steve Miller.

“Motherfucker, I’m still mad about everything I was ever mad about.”

Sure.

“But especially that no-playing motherfucker. I shared stages with the greatest fucking musicians on the planet and I gotta open for this teenybopper motherfucker? Yelling about ‘Somebody get me a cheeseburger.’ I’ll shove a cheeseburger up your fucking ass, motherfucker. Take some fucking music lessons.”

“Oh, great. You’re still here.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Mr Davis? I’m Amir Bar-Lev and this is my daughter Hamentashen.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“We’re big fans.”

“Course you are. I’m a fucking genius.”

“And it’s such an honor to meet you. Just such an honor.”

“Hey, the other Jewish asshole.”

Me?

“Yeah. You see how your cousin treats me?”

He’s not my cousin. We’re not all related.

“He’s respectful. Doesn’t bitch about my language and ask me stupid fucking questions and make me talk to Russian dictators.”

And he’s a great director. You should let him do a movie about you.

“They already did one. It was fucking bullshit. Only good thing about it was they didn’t cast no light-skinned motherfucker to play me. Other than that, nothing good about it. Motherfucker wants to make a movie about me, he gotta make a pornographic film. Show off my fucking.”

You do see his kid standing there, right?

“Gotta shoot that shit in 70mm. I stroke long.”

Can we be done here?

“Go get me another Seven & Seven.”

Yes, sir.

Suit, Coat

You look like you’re in Mummenschanz.

“Suck my Mummenschanz.”

But you sound like you’re you.

“I pushed Wynton Marsalis down the stairs four times. Spaced that shit out, too. Didn’t do it all in one month. Took years. I might push that motherfucker down the stairs tomorrow. His brother, too. And his father aint shit. Whole family makes me angry.”

Why is this, Mr. Davis?

“No respect. Man says nasty things.”

About you?

“Me. Bird. All the motherfuckers he stole all his licks from. Rude young man. Headbutted Art Blakey.”

I haven’t heard that story.

“No story. Little motherfucker walked up to Art and headbutted him.”

Where was this?

“Well, Wynton was there, so it was probably some white thing. White people love that smiling motherfucker. Doesn’t scare them. Talks real nice. I don’t understand that shit. Most the time, the only fun you get as a black man in America is scaring white people. Pushing motherfuckers down stairs is fun, too.”

I guess. Can we switch topics?

“Fuck you.”

Mr. Davis, do you have any dating advice for the Enthusiasts?

“You’re looking for my moves?”

Sure.

“Yeah, okay. First, you find you a bitch.”

Right.

“Then, you tell that bitch ‘I’m Miles Davis.'”

Uh-huh.

“Then, you ask her, ‘Bitch, you wash your pussy today?'”

Um.

“If she says no, then you only allow to her to suck on you.”

Wow.

“And then, she gives you money.”

Do you have any dating tips for a normal human being?

“Fuck, no.”

“Hey, Miles. We got an extra seat, man.”

“Fuck kinda hat is that? You lose a bet, motherfucker?”

“It’s my vacation hat, man. You wanna come or not?”

“Where you going?”

“Hawaii.”

“Lemme get my bathing suit.”

Hey, Garcia.

“What, man? I’m on vacation.”

Quick question.

“Real quick.”

Do you have any dating tips for the Enthusiasts?

“Sure, man. First, you find a chick.”

Right.

“Then, you have Parish make sure she knows you’re a rock star.”

No more advice.

“Hey, Miles! You coming!?”

“Don’t hurry me, you fat Mexican motherfucker.”

You two have fun.

When The Swag Met The Benj

Benjy, you be nice to Swaggie Maggie.

“I’m the nicest guy in the world.”

She’s a sweet young woman who is just starting out in this world. Do not instigate foolishness.

“Dude, you’re talking to the wrong person. Watched her lift three wallets and pull a chick’s hair extensions out for eyeballing her.”

Swaggie Maggie?

“I’m pretty sure she’s carrying a knife.”

I’m ignoring you. What have you been up to?

“Talking to lawyers. I, too, am a victim of sexual harassment. I am a brave survivor.”

Benjy, Billy did not sexually harass you.

“It started small. I believe he was grooming me. Comments about my appearance. Waking me up with his sack on my face. He liked when I watched him brush his teeth. He would, like, tongue the toothbrush while making eye contact with me in the mirror.”

None of this occurred.

“At least once a week, he would tell me that I looked sick and take my temperature.”

“Not in my mouth.”

“Rect–”

We all get it, Benj.

“–ally. Okay. And, honestly? I don’t think it was a thermometer some of the times.”

It’s not right that you’re saying these things.

“We were out by the pool once, and he made me bounce my junk on the diving board.”

No.

“He called it Cannonballing.”

You are not telling the truth.

“On numerous occasions, Billy sicced the skank on me.”

You can’t sic skank.

“Tell that to the skank and my nipples. They were puffed out like cherries for a week.”

What did the skank do to your nipples, Benjy?

“I don’t want to talk about it. Hurts too much.”

You feel emotional pain over the incident, I understand.

“No, my nipples still hurt.”

Ah. Benjy, everything you’re saying is fake news.

“Da. Is fake news. Hello, Svaggie Maggie.”

Oh, no.

“Putin get svole for young chickiedoodle. Come to Putin, Svaggie Maggie.”

NO! You stay the hell away from Swaggie Maggie!

“Need new vife.”

Current one gonna have an accident soon?

“Da.”

You’re a monster.

“Monster vith pecs of steel. Putin vork chest and tris today, back and bis tomorrow.”

When’s leg day?

“I do leg day next veek.”

Typical.

“Svaggie Maggie vill be Putin’s new vife. She travel around vorld. Ve vill hunt, ve vill, dance, ve vill vrestle.”

Vrestle?

“You cant just change W’s to V’s across board. Must look at usage vithin vord.”

Sorry.

“Typical. Deliver me Svaggie Maggie for purposes of matrimony. She vill make good vife.”

I dunno about that. She’s kind of a pain in the ass.

“Putin vill train.”

OH, HELL NO. Get out of here.

“Excuse me? Can I interject here? Vladimir, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Benjy Eisen. We’ve been in a couple of storylines togeth–”

thwip

FLUMP

“Da. I remember you.”

Goddammit, stop blowdarting people.

“Nyet. Now bring Putin Svaggie Maggie.”

“Hey, motherfucker. You think you’re a man with those little-ass fucking weights?”

“You on the little girl machine. Trying to build up your titties.”

“Are nyet called titties, Miles David. Are pecs.”

“Big fat white titties. Rub on them titties while I lift weights.”

“Putin have chest like Perun. Pecs made of thunder.”

“God of thunder’s name is Thor, you Trotsky-stabbing motherfucker.”

Guys? Would you mind knocking it off?

BANG!

thwip

Yeah, okay, neither of you can actually kill me. Listen: Swaggie Maggie has left, so there’s nothing to argue about any more.

“The fuck there isn’t. Bench press time, motherfucker.”

“Da. Putin get belt.”

I’ll leave you two to it.

Uncontrollable Pianist

I didn’t know you played the piano, Mr. Davis.

“You a dumb motherfucker, motherfucker.”

I know.

“I’m a trained fucking musician. Not one of those little pop stars learned how to play guitar from the fucking radio. I went to fucking Julliard. Course I know how to play the fucking piano. I can play just about everything.”

Why didn’t you ever make a record where you played all the instruments? Like Prince used to do?

“Too much fucking work.”

Sure. Who were some of your favorite piano players?

“Ahmad Jamal could play some shit. Make your dick stand up. Monk. I liked listening to Monk more than playing with him. You’d be soloing and he’d comp under you with those weird fucking chords God gave him. Monk thought that shit was funny. It was. I laughed when he did it to other people. Not when he did it to me. Bill Evans. Quiet little motherfucker. I liked that about him. Most piano players got fucking opinions. Bill shut the fuck up. Made his playing better in my opinion.”

Did you ever play with James Booker?

“What, you think all black people know each other?”

No, I think all musical geniuses know each other.

“Well fucking played.”

Thank you, sir.

“Yeah, I knew him. I hired that crazy n—-r.”

I am begging you not to use that word.

“You want me to talk about James fucking Booker without saying ‘crazy n—-r?’ That’s what the motherfucker was. If James Booker wasn’t a crazy n—-r, then there ain’t no such thing.”

I would be fine with that. Wait. You hired him?

“Yeah. ’72. Got rid of Herbie and Keith. Needed a new piano player. Heard this cat and his sound. I was interested. Booked him for a weekend to try him out. Club up in Boston, nice place, treat me with respect. Motherfucker misses six planes in a row. Anybody can miss a plane. Takes a special motherfucker to miss six. Finally gets here. Calls from the airport. I send someone to get him. He ain’t there. Motherfucker took a bus hostage.”

How do you take a bus hostage?

“How the fuck should I know? Maybe like in that movie with the motherfucker and the bitch and the bus.”

Speed?

“You starting to understand me. That’s good. I like that.”

What happened next?

“I go down to pick him up at the police station. He accuses me of being CIA.”

What did you do?

“Slapped him like a bitch.”

Not a shock.

“Police was cheering me on. I throw his wig on him, put him in the car, get him loaded, and we make the date on time.”

How’d it go?

“He lasted twenty minutes.”

Sure.

“I call off Honky Tonk. Band starts to play, but this motherfucker goes into Goodnight Irene. Starts singing. I don’t know where the fuck he got a mic. I got two guitar players, a bass player, a drummer, a percussion man, and two horns in my band. This motherfucker’s playing more than all of us put together. No room for anything else.”

James tended to do that.

“Then he took his dick out and put it on the conga drum.”

Oh no.

“Goes back to the piano and plays some more. He ain’t listening to me. I was getting angry. Then he starts making homosexual advances at a waiter. Asking to see the waiter’s butthole.”

“Aw, man, you hired that crazy bastard, too?”

“Too? Why didn’t you warn me, you Mexican motherfucker?”

“You hired him three years before I did.”

“Motherfucker, we both got time machines.”

“Oh, yeah. Oops.”

It’s Always Taco Tuesday Somewhere

Hey, Croz. Whatcha thinking about?

“A beach where the sand is all cocaine.”

Nice. What about you, Phil?

“I’d like tacos.”

“Oh, I could go for tacos.”

“Couple of beers?”

“You’re speaking my language.”

“Let’s hit it.”

“I’ll drive.”

ROCK STARS LEAVING THE ROOM NOISE

Guys?

Guys?

Did they just leave?

Yeah. They went to get tacos.

Oh, I could go for tacos.

ITALIC-AMERICAN LEAVING THE ROOM NOISE

Hello?

Anybody?

“Hey, motherfucker.”

Hi, Mr. Davis.

“Get the fuck in. We’re getting tacos.”

Yay!

“You’re paying.”

Boo.

My First Time Machine

“Baby Levon! What are you doing here? It’s 1991!”

“I got Time Sheath, Gampa!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“I bwing Mongol Horde into pwesent, Gampa.”

“No, Baby Levon! Not the Mongols!”

CONQUERING ASIA NOISE

“I okay, Gampa!”

“Good, good.”

“Gampa, I kill Baby Hitler!”

“No, Baby Levon!”

“Yes. I be hero.”

“No! Something worse always happens!”

BABY HITLER KILLING NOISE

“Yay!”

“Oh, no.”

DINOSAURS POPPING INTO EXISTENCE NOISE

“Yay! Dinosaurs!”

“Stop messing around the timestream, Baby Levon!”

“What the fuck is that little motherfucker doing?”

“Who is that? And could you not curse around my grandson, please?”

“Fuck you. I curse in front of everyone.”

“I’m a little busy right now, Miles.”

“Me, too. There’s a fucking ankylosaur in my living room. He’s fucking up my shit. I got expensive shit.”

“Well, there’s not a lot I can do about that.”

“I know, motherfucker. Useless as a fucking donkey in a horse race. I gotta take care of everything.”

“Miles, this is a Time Sheath technology-related situation.”

“I know, motherfucker. Why you think I’m wearing my Time Trenchcoat?”

“Y’know, you’ve really eased yourself right into this universe.”

“I been in groups before.”

Some Girls I Give All My Bread To

Were you drinking in the car?

“Snorting cocaine, too, motherfucker. Shut the fuck up.”

Where you coming from?

“Gig. Fucking Canada. Weird little motherfuckers up here. Chipper. I don’t like Canada. Too much like America.”

A lot of people like Canada for that very reason.

“Fuck ’em. I gotta cross a border, I wanna see some foreign shit. Japan. Those Chinamen in Japan are some foreign-ass motherfuckers. Don’t do nothing right.”

Wow.

“The women are fine. Quiet. I like that. Small feet. I ain’t got a foot thing, but they got small fucking feet. Good for dancing with so you don’t step on ’em. Italian bitches got big feet. And they ain’t quiet. Italian bitch knows how to cook. Food you recognize, too. None of that weird Japan food. Japanese bitch liable to just throw a live squid at your face.”

I don’t think they would.

“German bitches cost too much to feed. Always fucking hungry. Like wolverines with big titties.”

This is like the worst cover of Some Girls I’ve ever heard.

“South American women got that something. See, there was a lot of mixing going on down there. Conquistadors and Indians and shit. Plus it’s real hot, so everybody’s half-naked all the fucking time. The South American respects the ass. White man fears fat asses. The white man thinks he isn’t man enough to make that ass do what he says. This is why all your movie star bitches got no asses. The white man teaches his white children to fear the ass.”

How much cocaine did you have?

“English bitches all like getting pissed on.”

Can we talk about literally anything else?

“Vhat about Russian vomen?”

“Ah, not this motherfucker again.”

“Russian voman is best voman. She cut down tree in morning, plow field in afternoon, ride on boner at night. Is best woman.”

“Russian bitches got fat ankles.”

“Da. Is sexy.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“Da. Fat ankles good for standing in line for radishes. Provide sturdy base. Hot.”

“You motherfuckers ought to burn your whole country down and start the fuck over.”

“Nyet. Ve are awesome. Okay. Ve play My Funny Valentine.”

“Fuck you.”

“In C.”

“Figures you only like the white keys.”

“Putin is nyet racist. Have had many negros assassinated.”

Guys, guys. Let’s keep it down.

“You got a fucking ending for this shit?”

“He nyet have punchline. Vas going to let us bicker pointlessly.”

Putin’s right, Mr. Davis.

“Motherfucker. Typical.”

“Da. Is typical.”

I know.

Miles Breaks The Bullshit Down

Who are you–

“Hey! Motherfucker! I see you over there, motherfucking up a storm. Stop that shit.”

–pointing at?

“One of my guitar players. Don’t know what happened. Went my whole career without any, now I got nine or ten of ’em. Bunch of confused motherfuckers, guitarists. Never know what time they supposed to be anywhere. McLaughlin used to wander around without no shoes on. Figured it was some sort of hippie white person shit. Nah. Motherfucker lost his shoes. How you gonna lose your shoes? Fucking guitarists.”

It can’t be all guitar players, Mr. Davis.

“Can and is. Don’t doubt me. You anger me when you doubt me. I been around this business. Motherfuckers choose instruments for a fucking reason. Like, it’s subconscious. Guitar players are all airheads. Drummers are all out of their goddamned minds. The bass player is duplicitous. Piano players are all secret homosexuals. Trombonists are all scared of spiders.”

Sax players?

“Anti-Semites. Fucked up thing. I hire a sax player and it ain’t ten minutes before the motherfucker starts in with the Protocols of fucking Zion.”

Even Steve Grossman?

“Especially Steve fucking Grossman. Never seen anything like it. Motherfucker would goosestep around playing Hava Negila on his fucking horn.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

“I laughed my ass off.”

Of course you did. Mr. Davis, what do you think about the news lately?

“I read the International Herald Tribune and Jet.”

The sexual harassment and all that.

“The what?”

Sexual harassment.

“What the fuck is that?”

Bothering women at work.

“I never did that.”

God for you, Mr. Davis.

“I never hired any women.”

I should have waited before complimenting you.

“I had some girls used to make me shirts and shit.”

That’s better, I guess.

“Fucked ’em.”

Jesus.

“I didn’t fucking bother ’em, though. They said nice things about me, and got freaky on themselves while I was trying on shirts. I enjoyed the shirts and the freakiness. Went home stinking like fashion pussy. Cicely got pissed. Wouldn’t shut the fuck up, so I made her quiet down.”

I am not going to ask–

“Left hook.”

–how you…wow.

“I told you. She wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Had nothing else to do.”

You had a million other options.

“Hey, I didn’t sexually harass her. Better than that fat Jewish fuck.”

I don’t think you are. I really don’t think you are.

“You gonna stop listening to my music?”

Probably not.

“Uh-huh. And, hey. Lemme ask you. You gonna stop watching the movies that fat fuck made?’

Probably not.

“So shove your judgement up your white ass, motherfucker. Don’t make me point at you.”

Always enlightening, Mr. Davis.

“I know.”

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